With nothing of any further interest pending, the small crowd dispersed and returned to their revelry. Thomas excused himself with a "Don't you dare touch that board," to Nathan.

When they were finally alone, Cate came up beside Nathan. "How many duels have you been in?" she asked in a low voice.

One side of Nathan's mustache lifted in an odd quirk. "Not. A. One."

His attention shifted to Biggins' direction. "Barely has hair on his balls. Tonight, I let him live, so he can curse me for it when he's old and decrepit."

"Hell's fury. A fine kettle o' fish," Nathan steamed at length. "These upstarts nowadays can't be trusted. No upbringing. I blame Thomas for this. He's had the lad under his wing for a time. Certainly long enough to have taught him a man's responsibilities."

With a sweep of his hand, the matter was dismissed. Nathan returned to the chess game. Studying the board with renewed interest, he glanced to see where Thomas might be, and then hunched with intensity.

"Let me see...this knight would be ever so much more advantageous over here..." he said under his breath, reaching delicately for the game piece.

Several unkind thoughts surged to the surface at the sight of Prudence some time later standing at the edge of the light, drooping with weariness, first and foremost being Nathan's suggestion to turn her skirts and spank her as her parents apparently never did. In her less generous moments, Cate considered that the manipulative little busy-body and Creswicke deserved each other.

Cate felt Nathan stiffen beside her. Seeing the muscles in his jaws go white, visible even in the dim light, brought her to think perhaps it would be best to allow cooler heads to prevail. Berating Prudence would only serve to stir a pot that had barely ceased to boil. There had been enough excitement on for one night.

A more generous side prevailing, Cate rose; a desisting hand to Nathan bid him to stay. Under his glower from where he sat, and a series of incensed huffs and sputtering, Cate retrieved Prudence, scooped out a spot in the sand, spread the quilt and guided her to bed. The child was asleep, before Cate rose to her feet.

Cate almost collided with Nathan when she turned around.

"Where the hell are you to sleep now? Couldn't the little-?"

"Shh." Cate pressed her fingers to her lips and pushed him several steps away. "Just allow her to sleep. I'll manage."

"That's the trouble." Nathan's shoulders jerked under his shirt. "You're always the one to manage."

Muttering, he disappeared into the darkness. He returned shortly, a piece of canvas in tow. Moving nearer to where he and Thomas sat, he scooped a depression in the sand, and then spread the canvas over it. Straightening, he swept an inviting hand. Too tired to object, she did as she was bid.

"Sleep well, luv," Nathan murmured as he knelt and spread his coat over Cate. His eyes gone to near black in the fire's shadows, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering on her neck. "You're safe tonight."

Lying only a few feet away, Cate could see Nathan and Thomas, knee to knee, hunched over the game board. The flames gilded them in gold and flickered on their profiles as they sat dark head against light. If she was to look through one eye, with pistol and cutlass at their sides, they were like two Teutonic war gods. Looking at them through the other, they could have easily been sitting in a library before the hearth.

She closed both eyes and listened, not necessarily to the words, but their voices. Thomas' was a deep rumble, so very familiar, but Nathan's provided more warmth and comfort than his coat over her shoulders. At one point, Nathan launched into a lengthy dialogue. She drifted to sleep to his throaty gravel detailing the pros and cons of the Lucen position versus the Greco counter gambit.

Sometime in the night, Cate woke. She wriggled to get more comfortable. Sand could be insufferably hard. The fire had burned down, the embers a red-orange glow under their cape of white ash. Hushed voices and muffled laughter drifted from down the beach, Artemis' plaintive whistle coming from nearby. Cate raised her head enough to could see where Prudence slept some distance behind her, the moonlight outlining her shapeless hump.

A shape in the opposite direction caught her eye. It was Nathan, barely an arm's length away. He lay on his back, sprawled like a broken rag doll, on arm flung toward her. His braids fanned in black fingers on the sand about his head and shoulders. She listened carefully. Through the distant sounds of surf and merriment came the throaty rhythmic rasp of his breathing.

She snuggled deeper under the coat that was redolent of him, and went to sleep.

Chapter 17: Desperate Measures.

Cate woke to a pair of worn suede boot toes staring her in the face. She blinked away sleep, the canvas beneath her rough against her cheek. The boots bent and Nathan's face came into focus bare inches from hers.

"Joy o' the morning, luv!" he declared brightly. Wide-eyed with enthusiasm, he held forth a steaming cup. "Kirkland was already in a snit, worried you might be going without. I swear, the bloody cove fancies you drink this in your sleep."

Groaning with stiffness, Cate sat up. Clutching his coat around her shoulders against the morning chill, she reached for the cup, only to have it taken beyond her grasp.

"Have a care. 'Tis extra hot this morning," Nathan warned. "I think the man has discovered a new temperature for boiling water. Pray, allow me to hold."

Face contorted with concentration, he guided the cup for her first sip. Nathan was correct: the liquid was viciously hot. She jerked back, touching her tongue to her scalded lip.

Nathan clucked his tongue, scolding. "Let me blow on it for a bit."

Balancing the cup well to the side, he lowered onto his buttocks on the sand and industriously applied to the task.

Yawning, Cate shook out her hair. She finger-combed the larger snarls, and then set to working one of the tortoise-shell combs through it. Nathan cocked a scornful eye, dubious of the likelihood of her success, but oddly said nothing.

"How long have you been up?" she said.

Nathan stopped blowing long enough to say, "Ages," and then resumed.

"Where's Prudence?" she asked, craning her neck.

"Huh?" Nathan paused in mid-blow to look disinterestedly about. Finally, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Over there, still abed."

Surrendering to the reality that there was little more to be done with the mess, Cate twisted up the sides of her hair and shoved the combs in place. Settling more comfortably, she hunched the coat higher about her shoulders and scanned the beach, taking in the new day.

The scene before her appeared more a battleground, the casualties of war strewn where they had fallen to the artillery of revelry and rum. Some of the sea rogues still rode the momentum of drunkenness: staggering and stumbling over the still bodies of their fallen comrades. Cup, mug, or tankard in hand, the survivors milled about the cook fires, their lazy curls of smoke melding with the bluer ones of tobacco to spiral into the azure sky. Towering flat-bottomed, anvil-headed clouds, dark and heavy with moisture, hung threateningly far on the horizon.

"Enjoy land while you might," Nathan said between blows. "We'll be leaving on the morrow tide."

"I thought the terms were four days. It's been barely three."

"Aye, but the first what arrives is the best positioned."

"You expect foul play?" Cate asked, growing uneasy.

"Duplicity is a common middle name," Nathan said sagely.

"Including you?"

"Jonathan Edward," he said at length, and then added at her puzzled look. "Me middle name, or names, as it 'tis."

A brow arched expectantly under the edge of the faded blue headscarf.

"Maureen," she finally said. "Family name, from my father's side."

Nathan nodded interestedly and stopped blowing enough to say, "Then you are Scots."

"Not that they would admit to," she said smiling faintly. "Nathanael Jonathan Edward Blackthorne."

"A bit grand for a tyke what wasn't expected to live."

"You?" she asked, canting her head. Any morsel of his past she eagerly devoured.

"Aye. Small I was. Mum claimed it was because I came early, but it was a full moon," he added importantly. "The midwife claimed I was black when I came out-had a headful of black hair, for one thing. She announced me cursed and the Devil's spawn. Mum had to do everything she could to keep them from killing me straight away. She put charms all about me basket and named me Nevan."

"Nevan?"

He shrugged indifferently. "'Tis Celt for 'little saint' or some such. As I grew up, everyone kept getting it wrong, calling me Nathan. She knew well how burdensome a Celt name might be, so she changed it...for everyone but her, that is. She called me Nevan until her dying day." The corner of his mouth drew up on a crooked smile of such tenderness it seemed a violation of his privacy to say anything further.

Nathan gave the cup a final puff, and then tested it. "Aye, 'tis ready."

"Thank you for sacrificing your safety for my pleasures, Captain," she said teasingly, and batted her eyelashes.

She sipped cautiously, then closed her eyes as she blissfully moaned. "Oh, that's good."

"Is there anything else what causes you to make those noises?" he asked with a suggestive waggle of his brows.

Cate posed careful consideration. "Come to think on it, there are a few other things which cause me to groan."

A devilment sparked Nathan's eyes, but his response was cut short by Mr. Hodder's hail. With a crooked smile and a playful roll of the eyes, he sauntered away, scarf tails wafting in the breeze behind him.

Daylight and time having resuscitated the most of the stricken, the scene on the beach was much the same as the night before, although in the glare of daylight, the festive mood gave way to something appearing more in the way of drunken revelry, occasionally breaking into an outright brawl when tempers flared. There was a portion of the men whose only purpose seemed to be to achieve the same level of drunkenness as the night before. A goodly number, however, could not suffer the idleness of drinking and found other pastimes.

There were chess games, although cards and dice were more common. Betting was prohibited aboard, but ashore the pirates were free to lose or win their money at will, with ensuing arguments and fights breaking out regularly. Competitions, however, were what the men did best, and there were a number of them, from arm wrestling, to story-telling-a panel of judges in place-to spitting.

At one end of the beach, an impromptu play reenacting a mutiny trial was presented. Something akin to talent shows were at opposite ends of the beach: singing, magic tricks, juggling, mime, and dancing a few skills on exhibit. From one of those erupted a knife-throwing contest. Distances were paced off, and a cask top, with concentric circles drawn with a charred stick, was set up as a target.

The spectators were unabashedly partisan, Ciara Morganse vs. Griselle. The best from each was pressed forward, odds shouted, and coins collected at every toss of the knife. Through a process of eliminations, it came down to Pryce against the best Griseller. To no surprise to any Morganser, Pryce handily won. The third place winner was a huge surprise: Mr. Stubbs, missing fingers and all.

Cate was called away to tend the third sliced limb of the day, a nasty-looking slash running from the inside of the man's arm to nearly his wrist. Not deep enough to require stitches, by the time she finished binding it, the knife throwing had evolved into sword fighting.

The rules were roughly the same as practices on board: a circle heeled in the sand; the first to knock the other over was the winner. Again, the best from each ship was pressed forward. Cate watched in fascination as the men lunged and parried back and forth. The sun flashing off the steel blades, and the metallic clash and grind of the metal stirred primeval blood. The carnage that could be wrought by those razor edges was a fearsome thing. But today was all in fun. At least, that is what she privately chanted.

"No worries, luv!" she growled under her breath in a graveled imitation of Nathan.

On a fervent cloud of one-upmanship, the Morgansers set to bragging that they possessed something unique to any other ship on the Caribbean, hell, the world: a sword-fighting woman. Under Nathan's watchful eye, a reluctant Cate was dragged into the ring. His dark-framed eyes scanned the Grisellers, and then glanced to Thomas, who barely lifted one shoulder in consent.

The Grisellers eyed her speculatively. They knew her only as the Captain's guest. A woman pirate would have been a novelty; that she could manage a sword expected. On the surface, however, she bore the aspects of neither, and they placed their bets accordingly.

So consumed by her apprehensions, Cate was only vaguely aware of Pryce coming up at her elbow. Grey eyes bright with the excitement of combat, he pointed with his chin toward her first opponent sidling into the ring.

"Mind what ye've lernt, lass. Keep yer elbows down and yer wrist firm. Watch them eyes; 'tis the window to his soul. Ahh, look at 'im! Scairt of ye already, he is. Two-thirds of the battle 'tis won already. But mind, he's more afraid of embarrassin' hisself. Take 'im quick, else ye won't be takin' him a-tall."

Pryce was correct. If Biggins had been the ship's baby, then this one was but a month older. He'd most likely been chosen on a wave of skepticism and reckless male pride, which meant they thought her a joke. To be dismissed so out-of-hand stirred her determination to prove them wrong. Dark of hair and eye, sweat rolled down the lad's olive skin: he was as nervous as she. It was a good sign.

The sword shoved into Cate's hand wasn't a familiar one. This one had a thicker grip and was rough against her palm. The blade was heavier, a weapon built for labor, not finesse. She worked it in her hand, gripping and re-gripping, trying to gain familiarity. She struck her stance, feeling grossly disadvantaged as she touched her blade in salute.

Nervous and nearly frozen with self-consciousness, the startling swiftness of her foe's-Rafa, according to his supporters-first move took her by surprise. Within seconds, she had been driven back, until her hem brushed the line in the sand. Irked by his temerity, and determined not to be embarrassed, she counter-attacked. Rafa's eyes widened, caught unawares. She countered harder, pushing him further back. A twisting slash on her part, and his weapon fell to cheering approval.

An enthusiastic slap on the shoulder broke Cate from the astonishment of winning.

"I knew ye could do it," Pryce exclaimed, vigorously rubbing her arm and shoulder. Tucking her sword under his arm, he massaged her hand. "Well, done, sir. Yer the pride o' the Morganse, to be sure."

Exhilarated by the flush of battle and success, Cate dabbed the sweat from her face. She saw Nathan at the circle's margin, hip cocked and arms crossed, displaying a gold-bedecked smile of approval.

"Watch 'im," Pryce said, pulling her attention to her next opponent: a grizzled but wiry one. "Arabie, he is. He be a crafty cove. Mind his eyes; the sneakin' scug is a-tryin' to intimidate ye already."

Pryce was correct. Her new opponent's ferret-like eyes were stonily fixed on her.

Pryce nodded in affirmation as he massaged her upper arm. "I've seen his sort a'fore. He'll be desirin' to go high 'n bring ye up, so's he can cut you low."

Her abdomen knotted at the word "cut." "I thought this was supposed to be in fun."

"Aye! It 'tis! And don't be a-worryin' about the difference in swords."

Cate blinked, only then noticing the weapon: a vicious-looking instrument, with a sweeping curved edge similar to the scythes used in the hayfields.

"They fight just the same," Pryce assured, judiciously. "The curve's the better to slit yer gut in tight quarters." He patted her in a confident dismissal. "You'll do fine."

As she took up her position, the onlookers grew feverish, the hunger for battle etched on every straining face. These were pirates, blood and mayhem their bread and butter. The blood drawn in earlier exchanges had only piqued their hunger, and anticipation was a heady nectar.

Again, the Griseller took the early advantage. As predicted, he slashed high, the tip of his blade whirring past her ear. Angered at being played, she parried back. Her height was an advantage, providing a longer reach. Her opponent tried several more ploys, mostly intended to break her concentration, but to no avail. The spectators' shouts merged into a unified, multi-lingual din. Pryce's bass rang the loudest, with pointers and encouragements. At length, she drove her rival backward and over the line to win again.

As the cheers went up and winnings were collected, Nathan stepped forward and gently took the sword from Cate. Good-naturedly taking the jibes, shooting back a few of his own, he took her out of the circle and sat her down under a tree. Thomas was there, leaned against a cask, arms loosely crossed over his weapons.

"Watch her," Nathan said to Thomas, and then to Cate, "Oh, and here."

He fumbled in his pocket to extract a small leather pouch and dropped it in Cate's hand with a metallic clink.

"What's this?" she asked, still gasping for air.

Nathan sighed at her thick-wittedness. "Your share of the wagers."

"I didn't bet, especially on myself," she said as Nathan artfully dodged her attempts to give it back.

"Aye, well, 'tis a good thing at least one of us-two, actually," he qualified, with an acknowledging nod to Thomas, "have the savvy and good sense to know a sure thing when they see it. One is obliged to answer the door when Opportunity knocks, for she rarely returns."

Cate gaped at Thomas. "You bet on me against your own men?"

The lake-blue eyes narrowed to knowing slits. "No man shall ever get the best of you."

Nathan made a rueful snort as he pivoted and swaggered back to the circle.

"You're not bad. Nathan's been teaching you, hasn't he?" Thomas asked after Nathan was out of earshot.