"No secrets on a damned ship," she grumbled under her breath.

Cate prayed-vowed-not to go bright red at the first person met, and then worried as to who it might be.

When she came around the curtain, Nathan stood at the table, leaned over a chart. He nimbly walked the brass dividers, his fingers tapping the parchment in calculation, reminding her so much of her first day aboard, and innumerable times since. His charts were his pride, and justifiably so. Detailed and finely scripted in his florid handwriting, they were works of art. She had spent many an hour watching him work on them, embellishing with further details and descriptions.

He looked up, brightening at seeing her.

"We're to meet Thomas at Cogburn's Island," Nathan explained at her inquiry as to their destination.

A ringed finger indicated their current position, and then the aforementioned island. His rag-bound hand reminded her of the cut he had suffered from Thomas' sword. Earlier attempts on her part to attend it had failed; hopefully he would yield this time.

"Allow me to-" she said, reaching to examine it.

"It's fine. Observe." Jerking free of her grasp, he worked his hand to illustrate. His checked wince-slight, but unmistakable-robbed the desired effect. His hands were near the color of mahogany, but she could see bright red peeking from under the binding.

"It needs to be-" she said more determinedly "I'm fine," he said in a tone that would brook no further discussion.

Conceding, she peered over his shoulder and pressed against him, still thrilled at being able to do so. "How far?"

"Two days." Nathan shifted his hips in acknowledgement of her nearness. His fingers sought hers where they rested on the parchment and stroked her knuckles.

"Sometimes three, if the winds are in our favor. Doesn't appear, however, as though Calypso is going to bless us today," he added with a grudging sigh.

"How bad is it going to blow?" She had endured storms on the Constancy, but had yet to experience a bad one on the Morganse. Her apprehension stemmed only from not knowing what to expect. Her faith in Nathan's seamanship was unquestioned. With Pryce and the crew, it became an impossible sum to add up the total number of years of experience represented on these decks.

"Not sure." Straightening, Nathan cast a dubious eye over his shoulder, toward the glass. It was an inconspicuous, odd-looking instrument: a long tube with a bulb at its bottom. Gimbaled on a rosewood board on the bulkhead, it was consulted with a devotion and reverence normally paid to a religious icon.

"Weather glass says bad, right nasty. The wind is steady, but I don't like the looks of that swell," he said, swiveling a speculative gaze out the windows.

Cate had been vaguely aware of an increase in the action of the ship. The sea was kicking up rough. A dark and tumultuous-looking bank of clouds hung low on the east horizon.

"We're required to see what comes," he went on, looking to the chart once more. "We might scud before it, if it will answer, and be taken leagues off course. If it overtakes us, then we'll take the worst of it on the stern."

It was spoken as if there was something positive to be found in that outcome.

He gave her an encouraging grin and squeezed her arm. "Not going lily-livered on us, are you?"

Cate straightened and pasted on a smile. "Of course not! Don't you dare get hurt."

She had waited for what seemed a lifetime to have him; to lose him to storm or injury would be too cruel. And yet, life had proven to be exactly that. Yes, she was afraid...for both of them.

Nathan bent to kiss her, brief but meaningful.

"Now there's the motivation what a man needs," he said, grinning with devilment. Grabbing his coat from the chair, he sauntered to the door and stopped. "Stay under hatches. Don't come out, no matter what you hear."

And then, he was gone.

That a storm was brewing was no great surprise: cloud formations, bird sightings, coffee grounds, and aching bones had all been read, the omens conflicting only with regards to severity. The glass had dipped its lowest according to many, and yet Millbridge's hip said nothing so severe. Hermione retreated to her manger below, while His Lordship and the geckos were nowhere to be seen.

The swell grew to more precipitous heights, while relieving tackles on the rudder and masts were rigged, topmasts lowered and storm canvas bent. The air turned sultry and still, the world taking on a bilious green cast that rendered sky and sea inseparable. Guns were bowsed up and double secured; a half ton of iron careening across a deck could smash a man, or worse yet, pierce the hull, taking everyone to Davy Jones' depths. Hatches were bonneted, bulkheads secured. Pitch stoves sent up sharp-smelling curls of smoke as the caulking irons were put to their fullest application to seal every gunport and port, including the gallery windows and skylight.

As the wind stiffened, the Great Cabin was swept clear. Rugs were rolled, furniture and trunks lashed, and oil lamps tucked safe away; many a ship had burned to the waterline from an oil slick gone unnoticed. It was in that process that Cate encountered her first member of the crew, since her and Nathan's...er, tryst: Millbridge. She willed herself to put on a strong front, but her cheeks heated, nonetheless. She expected severity, at the least the old codger's customary churlishness, but was met only with benign benevolence. It was more disquieting than if he had openly pointed and laughed.

Having failed the first test, she passed the second, barely. Her blush had paled in comparison to Kirkland's. For that matter, Nathan had left with a levity in his step heretofore unseen, and she could have sworn she heard humming.

The galley fires were doused after the dog watches, allowing the men their last hot meal. As if waiting for that last meal to be finished, the blow arrived in full fury. The wind pressed a stiff arm at the Morganse's masts, heeling her over and holding her there.

Cate stood in the middle of the cabin as great doors were slammed shut. Hearing the resounding clunk! of the crosspiece dropped into its brackets, she was seized by a sense of being entombed. She wasn't completely sealed in: the galley steps stood open-she could come and go as she pleased, Nathan's final orders notwithstanding-but the feeling was undeniable. So empty, so quiet, in spite of the full gale outside.

With all the furniture stowed, Cate stood wondering what to do next. She shied from the gallery, the wind and rain lashing at the thick panes. Flashes of lightning illuminated the mountainous waves of greenish-grey water just the other side of the glass, the foam at their crests hanging like snarling great teeth, seeking to devour anything in its path. The deck now at a violent pitch, she half-crawled to a locker. It was against a lee bulkhead, which meant she could sit atop and lean back against the wall with a modicum of comfort.

Beset by a chill reminiscent of the more sour days in the Highlands, she hunched on the trunk, listening to the gale tear at the windows and doors, clawing to violate her solitary bastion. The ship lurched to dizzying heights, and then sickeningly pitched downward, disorienting one to the point of doubting which way was up. The rain a hammering drone, the wind screaming through every crevice, and the grind of planking combined into a din that battered one to numbness.

The gunmetal sky had given way to a Stygian night, lightning the only illumination, when Millbridge appeared at the galley companionway, reporting over the storm's clamor of men injured. Cate stirred from her torpid state and her corner. She skated helplessly on a skim of water over the slanted deck and slammed into Merdering Mary's carriage. Rising shakily, she crabbed across the room to follow Millbridge down the steps, the elder carrying her blood box under one arm, as well as a watch lamp. They wove through the swaying cocoon-like hammocks, filled with sodden, sleeping men, to the gunroom to where the injured waited.

A near senseless Mr. Seymour was met with first, reported to have been knocked in the head by a swinging block. Blood and rainwater glistening on his face and chest, he sat oblivious, even when spoken to directly. Afraid to appear "lily-livered," but in desperate need to know, she inquired after Nathan as she strapped Ogden, his ribs having taken the brunt of a battle with the ship's wheel.

"A fiend he is during a blow." Bald head gleaming with wetness, Ogden rolled his eyes upward with something between fear and awe. "He's up there now, a-darin' Calypso to take 'im."

Mr. Harrier appeared, cradling his arm. "Bo'lun snapped it like a dry twig." A nasty rope burn entwining the forearm gave credit to his testimony.

A table suspended over a gun her surgery, a steady trickle of injured continued. Fractures and dislocations became the mode of the day: ribs, shoulders, arms, and collarbones. Millbridge stoically held the lamp while she groped in her box for salve, splints, and bandages, ignoring the water that dripped down her neck and sloshed at her feet, soddening her skirts. Her station was nearly at the ship's waist, much nearer the ship's heart than in the Great Cabin, rendering the storm that much more immediate.

"How bad is it?" she asked of Millbridge, straining for all the nonchalance she could manage.

"None so bad," he said judiciously. The seamed face was immobile and of little guidance. "Water's only knee-deep at the waist and the spars are still standing."

She looked upward at the deck overhead, uneasy at the thought of such waves washing just on the other side of those planks.

"We ain't been pooped...waves overtaking the stern," he explained semi-patiently to her puzzled look. "And I heard the Cap'n laugh a bit ago."

"Daft he is," put in Harrier, with significance.

"Charmed," Millbridge countered solemnly. "And we'll all have the benefit for it."

As the injured filed in, she was kept abreast of Nathan's well-being through their reports. "Cross-braced...," "double-rigged...," "relief-tackled...," "spliced and knotted...": she had no idea as to the meaning. The wonderment mixed with the graveness with which the deeds were reported were indicative of the import.

The clang of the watch bell was barely discernible over the howl of the storm, and yet sufficient to stir the men from their sleep and to "show a leg." No one desired Hodder to come looking, nor be seen as a slacker. The relieved watch came down, half-drowned and exhausted. Some headed straight away for their hammocks, collapsing with an audible groan. The remainder perched on the guns or wherever they might. Rain and seawater dripping from their clothes, they huddled over the cups of half-warm coffee, tea, or tepid portable soup and ship's biscuit, served by Kirkland and Millbridge. Hollow-eyed, their spirits were high, not a worried face among them.

And the noise...always, the noise!

At one point, Cate thought the storm to be easing, and said as much to Hallchurch-Mr. Mole, she had first christened him-as she strapped his broken collarbone, thinking it to be a good sign.

"Not if it backth on ye." Hallchurch's ominous warning came through horrifically bucked teeth and a severe lisp. "Just as bad, if not worsth, but from the opposhite direction. The seath all ahoo..." Shuddering, the rest was left to her imagination.

A galvanic crack of thunder made everyone jump. A marrow-penetrating charge, like a massive frisson, shot through her, while simultaneous explosions came from directly overhead. All eyes were fixed upward, wondering what the hell had happened, why the rush of feet and cries of alarm. Every downward tilt of the capering ship filled Cate with a rising panic that they were sinking, every lee lurch feeling like it was about to bowl over. Everyone was still deep in wonderment when three more men stumbled in. All larbolin forecastlemen, they were severely shaken and their hands burned.

Mr. Heap sat round-eyed and stunned, responding in vague monosyllables, and only if spoken to. At one point he turned his head into the light. Like most f'c'stlemen, his pride was his pigtail, long and tarred, but it was no more. He was singed bald.

"Sparked and went up like a goddamned torch, beggin' yer pardon, sir," reported Fouts, one of his mates. "The sod woulda been naught but glowin' cinder had the Cap'n not doused 'im."

Heap's freshly denuded skull was livid red in the semi-dim, the sharp tang of burned hair, and a lesser of urine, stirring at his every move.

"Glowin' like a babe's bum," snickered Fouts.

"Might never grow back, neither," said Hughes, one eye closed in speculation.

"What happened?" Cate asked as she examined Heap.

"Lightning bolt hit the larboard kedge," said Hughes in restrained awe. "Set off Lucifer and Beelzebub to boot."

"Damn near blew Bloody Bess clean off her carriage," Fouts added.

Cate smiled faintly at the affection for a cannon, so tenderly named.

"Thought the Almighty was sendin' me a signal," said Heap. His blistered hand shook violently as he reached for a cup proffered by Millbridge.

"After all the drinkin' and blasphemin', ain't the Lord gonna be comin' after you," said Hallchurch.

"Ain't nothin' that damned ugly allowed in Heaven," added Seymour. His senses finally had congealed enough to follow the conversation.

"Tossed Cheeves over," Owens announced over his cup, as flat-voiced as if asking for someone to pass the bread barge. His shoulder moved in a half-shrug at Cate's aghast. "T'weren't enough o' him left for services."

All the men fell quiet. Those manning the forecastle tended to be most seasoned seamen aboard, and were a tight-knit, proud group, and severely felt the loss of a mate. Cheeves was given his moment of silence then, with an unspoken pledge that a more official memorial would be held at a more opportune time. Cheeves was sure to be remembered fondly at the next dispensing of grog, and for many months to come.

With rum liberally applied to all patients, and patients resting as comfortably as could be expected, Cate judged it a good time to resupply her blood box. Nearly all the bandages and splints were gone, the carron oil, too. The burn dressing could be mixed up readily enough-half limewater and half sweet oil, shaken well-but the middle of a storm was no time to attempt it. Honey, vinegar, or just fresh lard would serve well-sometimes better. All of which could be found in the galley. Kirkland would either have what she needed, or as keeper of the keys to the stores, could get it for her. And so she struck off.

Groping through the lightless 'tween deck was like finding one's way through an underground cave. Cate knew the ship well enough, but navigation was rendered nigh impossible by the total darkness and wildly pitching floor. Any landmarks she might have relied upon had either been moved for the storm, or blocked by hammocks. The lamp she carried had long died, either guttered out or doused by the steady drip of water from overhead. With no flint, she clutched it anyway, if for no other reason than security, and the slim hope of light sometime in the future.

After colliding with several hammocks, eliciting rude remarks from the occupants, bumping into two guns, and tripping on the training tackle of a third, she found what she hoped was the aft bulkhead. The ship took a violent lurch and she had the sense of flying through the air. Landing hard, she lay in a crumpled heap, gasping for the wind knocked out of her. The ship tilted anew and she began to slide, discovering then that she had been lying on the bulkhead. Cate lay with a spinning head, not only from the collision, but the pain of still trying to draw a breath. She groped with one hand, and thought she might be on the floor. Unable to trust her battered senses, she considered remaining there until the storm passed, in spite of the risk of being trampled in the dark.

"Cate!"

A bobbing light broke the darkness and came steadily toward her.

"Cate! Cate!"

Nathan's gruff voice rose over the racket of the storm. Each cry grew more urgent, verging on panic, as he cast about with the lamp. It was a prayer answered, proof Providence, or whatever deity, watched over her.

"Cate!"

"Here," she called in a thin wheeze.

He sped to her. Lifting the lantern over her, he slumped with relief.

"Goddammit to bloody hell! You weren't there. What the hell are you doing here?"

"They were hurt," was all she could manage.

"Tachh!"

Rainwater dripping from every aspect, it was unclear if he understood or even gave a damn as to her excuse. Her muddled head allowed her to vaguely wonder if he was more annoyed at having to search for her, or that she had disobeyed orders. Swearing and mouthing very unflattering references, he hauled her, floundering, up from the floor and propelled her toward the companionway. Nathan bolstered her when she staggered or slid as they climbed, flashes of lightning from the cabin above and Nathan's lantern lighted the way topside.

"Stay here or I'll lash you to that mizzenmast," he said, once they were in the cabin.

Given his mood, it was a credible threat.

Nathan saw her concern and smiled. He patted the mast, and then clapped a startlingly warm hand on her shoulder with considerably less affection. "No worries, luv! Neither I or this ol' girl are ready to wait upon Jones and his Locker anytime soon."

Wet to the marrow, bright red-rimmed eyes, braced against the sickening pitch, half-hoarse from shouting over wind and water, and she believed him. He brushed her cheek with a kiss, his lips hot against her chilled skin.

The lamp's small flicker faded as Nathan trundled down the stairs, and she was alone again.

Standing in the middle of the room, Cate avoided looking toward the sweep of the gallery windows. In the darting flashes of lightning, it was necessary to look up to see the wave crests. It was too easy to imagine them bursting through-the dreaded "pooped," as represented by Millbridge. Merdering Mary and Widower strained at their lashings. If they were to break loose, it would mean a near half-ton of iron careening about. Lingering anywhere in the salon was less than appealing.

Cate made a halting path to the sleeping quarters and her bunk. There she lay, braced by both feet and hands to keep from being tossed out. In spite of those precautions, a violent lee lurch pitched her out. She landed in a rib-jarring heap where bulkhead and floor met, and there she remained. Fine sheets of water sloshed back and forth across the planks, soaking her clothing and the quilt in which she was cocooned.

Thirst and hunger gnawed. Exhaustion being an unfailing sleep potion, at last she slept.

Cate was jerked awake by a commotion at the cabin door. Its loudness and air of urgency brought her upright from the floor. Through the howl of the storm, she heard the heavy scrape of the cabin door being unbolted. As she sped into the salon, it crashed open. A burst of seawater broke over the coaming, carrying Towers, lantern on high. Bazzi and Squidge were directly behind him, staggering under the weight of Nathan, slung by the shoulders between them. Pryce came tight on their heels, more grim than stern. All were grim, for that matter, alarmingly so.

"Avast! Away, you! Get your goddamned bloody hands off me, you cod-faced, motherless bastards. I'll have every one of you sons o' bitches hocked and heaved before the night's out! I'm fine. Off, I say! I'm fine...!" Nathan growled as the small, sodden parade half-dragged him toward the sleeping berth.

Shivering from the blast of cold air, Cate followed. At the bedside, Nathan was to his feet. He batted the two men away as one would an annoying insect. A puddle of water growing at his feet, he swayed precariously, while struggling to focus on her. Once her face was found, he broke into a beatific smile.

"'ello, luv!"

His eyes rolled back and he toppled backwards onto the bed. He landed with a cry one would have expected from someone landing on the deck, not a mattress. She thought him to be drunk-an extreme curiosity, for he never drank while on watch-until she touched him.

"He's burning up!"

"Aye." Pryce glared with the irritability of someone who had just suffered a severe scare. "A wave damn near carried 'im away. Found 'im tangled in the mizzen chains, we did. If it hadn't been fer them..."

He allowed her to mind finished the unspoken: overboard, lost at sea. At night, in such savage seas, there would be no finding him.

It was a shock and a puzzle. Nathan was like a cat on deck; never a wrong foot set, nor even caught by an abrupt lee lurch that sent others scrabbling for a handhold. He seemed to possess a second sense regarding oncoming waves, never taking one unprepared. She had seen him walk the rails and yards like most would stroll the Sunday church aisle.

"But what...?" Cate looked at Nathan as she set to pulling off his water-logged boots, trying to comprehend what malady could have struck him with such sudden force. He flailed in a feeble attempt to rise, and cried out again, cursing and clutching his right hand.

The light caught the pinprick brightness in Nathan's eyes that only came with fever, the very brightness she had seen just a few hours before, when he had come to check on her. She had thought it to be excitement of the storm, the heat of his touch due to the coldness of the room.

Damned fool!

Squidge, Bazzi, and Towers filed out. Millbridge hung at the door, while Cate undressed Nathan the rest of the way. The sensation spurred him into sudden amorousness. Murmuring severely slurred street slang and vulgarities, groped at her cleavage, crying out in pain every time his hand was jostled.