Now, he was consumed by chills with teeth-chattering violence. Sweat formed a dark circle on the canvas mattress, his braids leaving dark trails of moisture on the pillow as he tossed and churned. In between changing the poultice, Cate wiped his face and strove to keep the quilt about him, which he fought with the determination of the possessed.

During the brief interludes when he quieted, Cate rested a hand on his shoulder, rested her head on the raised edge of the bunk and closed her eyes. She had been dozing thusly when she woke to a deafening silence.

The storm was gone, blown itself out. Sunlight streamed under the curtain, illuminating the room in a warm flood of eye-squinting brilliance.

Joyous in the absence of one noise, she was alarmed by the absence of another.

Like the storm, Nathan had gone still, deathly still. Heart in her throat, she checked for the rise and fall of his chest, leaned her ear next to his mouth, and then sagged with relief. He still breathed, but barely so: shallow and quick, but not labored, no wetness, no death rattle. It wasn't the deep sleep of restoration, but more like his body no longer possessed the strength to fight.

Cate pressed her hand to his cheek, the bristle of his several-day beard a soft plush against her palm. Compared to the raging fever, he was almost cold to the touch.

"How does he do?" came Millbridge's voice from the door.

"Not sure," she said frowning. Exhaustion was making it so blessedly impossible to think. "The fever's broke, but...I'm not sure."

Kirkland brushed past Millbridge bearing a bowl of now steaming milk and linseed oil. Heartened by having a fresh and proper poultice, Cate squeezed out the already soaking bread. She undid the binding and lifted away the old.

"It might have been wasted effort, Mr. Kirkland," she said. Nathan's hand shimmered in the wetness that filled her eyes.

The gash was still there, widened by corruption. Clear fluid, faintly tinged with blood, welled from the raw flesh, but the angry brilliance of inflammation gone. Nathan's hand was healthy and pink...relatively.

He would be both whole and alive.

With the storm past, the Morganse exhaled, a long expulsion of air pressing up from her bowels. It was over.

The hatches were beaten open. Bands of sunlight stabbed through the below decks' gloom to illuminate the damage wrought, and the process of recovery was begun.

Seeing that Nathan rested comfortably, with pledges from both Kirkland and Millbridge that she would be woken at the slightest change, Cate was drawn like a compass needle to north to the stern sill. Now blazing with sunlight and warmth, she stretched out there in on in glorious comfort and collapsed into a deep sleep.

Cate's reprieve was brief. The storm had been violent, the injuries many: splinters-some almost as long as her hand-gashes, contusions, smashed digits, burns, and battered ribs were only a sampling of what awaited. Two men had been stricken with inexplicable fevers, and two more were confined to their hammocks with busted guts.

As for the ship, before the mast was a snarled mess, her jibs and forestays a cat's-cradle of jury-rigging. The forecastle jacks and carpenters worked in ant-like fury to set their world aright. The stricken anchor was barely recognizable and quite the spectacle. Flung from its cathead by the lightning bolt, it had landed prong-down, and stuck in the forecastle planking like the sea bottom itself. The opposing hook, higher than a man's head, was contorted, as if a gargantuan had made a rude attempt at a bowline knot. The nearby kevels, nearly shoulder-wide wooden cleats mounted on the rail, had been shattered; its splinters Cate had removed from the flesh of several of the men. The tar and varnish that coated everything had been sparked by the lightning, leaving parts of the bowsprit, forepeak, and forecastle charred. It made one thankful for the storm's deluge, which had doused the fire before the ship was consumed.

The carpenters and smith, and their respective mates, hammered out new blocks, eyes and fittings, nails, pins, bolts, and pegs. Amid the flurry of splicing, knotting, reeving, and fair weather sails bent, the teeming decks were a virtual snowbank of drying hammocks, clothing, and sails. A constant vigil was maintained on the rigging, lest the masts be wrung. In spite of its covering of pitch, wind-driven rain could saturate a rope, causing it to stretch. Drying rope shrank, damaging her sticks and yards. The smell of tar stoves returned, as the hands furiously toiled to fill the seams loosened by the ship's working, the rap of caulking mallets a backdrop to every conversation.

"Two feet in the well, sir," was the carpenter mate's report to Pryce, "but holding," came with a sigh of relief.

"At least the scuttlebutts are full," said Millbridge in his aged pragmatism, as he scanned the ruin. Fresh drinking water was the least of their concerns.

The seas calmed, the wind freshened and steadied, and the mizzen, jury-rigged staysails and royals bellied out. A tops'l breeze, to be sure. The topmasts, however, remained on deck.

"She can't bear it just now," Pryce said, casting a concerned but loving eye upward.

A battered queen, the Morganse sailed, her dignity broken, but still regal.

Between mending the ill and injured, and fraying oakum-vast amounts now being in desperate need-Cate was busy. As promised, Kirkland and Millbridge kept her regularly informed of Nathan's condition, but she was still compelled to see for herself. She found him the same: sleeping as peacefully as a babe, recouping and repairing, just as his ship.

It was after the second dog watch-notable because during that the hands had their first warm meal served in days-that Cate went to check on Nathan, once more. She pushed the curtain aside, careful so as not to rattle the curtain rings. A watch lamp hung, so that he might be readily observed but not disturbed. Careful not to trip on the stool, she crept closer, pressing her skirt to her legs, lest the rustle of the cloth might wake him. A reflexive, useless gesture, for it would have been lost amid the babel from outside.

There was a stillness about the room, the odd tranquility that shrouded the ill when they slept. The riot of noise outside somehow muffled and distant, the most prominent sound was the somnolent rhythm of his breathing, a slight rattle in his throat echoing the ragged of his voice. Looking up at the port, she made note of the need to pass the word for a carpenter's mate to unseal it, so that the room might be rid of the smell of sickness. The thought was immediately dismissed, until after Nathan had his rest.

Nathan was inherently so animated, it was disquieting to see him so still. Stranger was to see him lying in his own bed, a rarer thing to see him sleep-she still had no idea where he had slept these weeks past. An internal voice demanded that he should drink; another, he should eat. "He should rest" won out. The rictus of pain and delirium gone, his was a peaceful face. His hand, almost mahogany against the blue and yellow quilt, rested on his stomach, a sticking-plaster in place. No swelling. No redness. No smell. He would be whole. She closed her eyes in thankfulness once more.

Cate resisted the urge to straighten the quilt or brush the braid from his chest, and the even stronger ones to clasp his hand or kiss his cheek. Seeing Nathan now, almost angelic, she regretted her earlier indignation and anger. The hurt she suffered at being called Hattie was less readily put aside, but not indispensably entrenched. She shouldn't like to be held responsible for what she might utter in fever or dreams; neither should anyone else. After all, the unconsciousness wasn't the realm of reality.

God help me, I love him.

She sat heavily on the stool with the impact. Love: an elixir, which could erase and ease more ills and hurts than any potion or palliative. Either by his charm, the Fates, or whatever controlling powers might be, she had been drawn. She had seen the pit looming and had fallen in; there was now no escape.

She lingered for some while to watch him sleep, memorizing every curve and line, odd hair and blemish. What the light didn't allow, her mind filled in. His headscarf was gone, but its ghost remained as a pale line across the high forehead, just above the sweep of sable brows. A thread-like scar ran from his temple up into his hairline. The thick copper-tipped lashes had an almost girlish curve. The color was repeated in the three bright copper hairs at one corner of his beard. The somberness caused by the downward curve of his mouth from the sharp peak in the center was softened by the hooks of his mustache lifting it in a half-smile, his cheeks rounding with it.

Sleep could be highly contagious, mere observation sufficient for one to be stricken. With a body suddenly filled with sand, Cate rose and trudged out. The cabin's furniture was yet to be released from its storm-lashings, and so she went to the sill once again. She pulled the combs and shook out her hair, then stretched until her joints popped, expelling a groan of relief like she had heard her grandmother emit.

The stern window was open. The breeze brushed her cheek as she lay with her head pillowed on her arm. It was a soft night, as were most in the Caribbean. With the light of a lop-sided moon glittering on the water and outlining scallop-edged clouds, she watched phosphorescent wake of the ship reach back into eternity. She thought of all the things she should do, and all the reasons why she shouldn't: no one was seriously ill, the injured had been tended, a great mound of oakum stood before those charged with rolling it for the caulkers, and Nathan was within earshot, if he was to stir or call out.

The pounding of adzes, mallets, and hammers her lullaby, she slept.

Chapter 22: Trouble in Paradise.

Mr. Hodder's bellow echoed up the galley companionway with sufficient force to yank Cate from a profound sleep.

"Show a leg, you pimpish, misbegotten bunch o' sluggards! Haul yer asses, ladies! Goddamned, spindle-shanked swag-bellies, the lot o' yous!"

She bounded to her feet, before realizing it was only meant for the men in their hammocks.

In spite of her unscheduled awakening, a pot of hot coffee sat steaming on the table. How Kirkland did it was a mystery for the ages. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she shuffled over, poured a cup, and sipped, aware Kirkland's brew was always capable of scalding the unsuspecting. Once braced up, she went to see how Nathan did.

It was a mild but pleasant surprise to find him lying on his back, staring at the beams overhead.

"Get me clothes," he said without preamble, pulling the quilt closer about him.

"I give you joy of the morning as well," she said tartly. It wasn't quite the start of the day she had imagined. Nathan could be curt in the morning, but there was a particularly unpleasant edge about him.

"It's too soon for you to be abroad," she said, with reserved concern.

"I've shirked long enough." He frowned, uncertain as to how long that had been.

She reached to inspect his hand. He successfully jerked it from her grasp, but failed at concealing the pursuing wince. Crossing her arms, she stood over him, feet planted squarely. Her intention was to block him from rising, but the position also provided a fair view of his hand. It looked better, no longer inflamed and angry-looking. The swelling had gone down to where his fingers were near normal-sized, and his knuckles were once again visible.

He fixed a defiant eye up at her and bellowed, "Mr. Millbridge!" Nathan's glare held through Millbridge's arrival and, "Me clothes, if you please,"

Millbridge darted a rheumy eye at her, and then knuckled his forehead in salute, a rare and a bit mocking gesture.

"At least linger here the day," Cate pleaded after Millbridge's departure. A relapse of the fever wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

"Indolence 'tis not a virtue," Nathan said doggedly.

Clutching the quilt about him, he lurched to his feet. All color instantly drained from his face, and an odd greenish tinge set in about his nose and mouth. He looked sure to either vomit or fall out, but determination saw him through. He stood defiantly before her, weaving and catching the edge of the bed. A high-chinned glare suggested she was expected to not notice.

The clothing arrived directly. Nathan snatched, missed, and snatched again at his shirt lying on the bunk. He drew himself to full height and growled, "A bit o' privacy, if you please."

"You should rest."

"Pray, mind the oars in your own boat," Nathan said censoriously. Only the most generous could have called his showing of teeth a smile.

Fine tremors coursed through her as his image was blurred by several shades of red. She hadn't expected effusive thanks to be lauded upon her, but a little acknowledgement would have been appreciated. Ingratitude seemed no more Nathan's nature than the dreaded "indolence."

Still deep in that same tinted haze, she didn't remember going to the curtain, but did hear the clatter of the rings when she snatched it aside.

"Then by your leave, m'lord!" She hoped he didn't hear the quaver in her voice. Amid another jangle of rings, the curtain was yanked shut behind her.

Once alone, she sagged against the bulkhead, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Voices rose from the galley companionway, and she ran to the corner of the salon and locked herself in the convenience. There she sobbed into the folds of her skirt.

The day failed to improve.

Several days' bed rest would be normally prescribed after what Nathan had just suffered, but a ship wasn't a normal place, especially one staggering under such storm damage. Nathan was still pale and drawn, the glow of health yet to return. There were dark smudges under his eyes and an uncommon sag to his shoulders. He flared at delicate suggestions, not only from Cate, but Pryce and Millbridge, that he should rest. Seeing Nathan periodically cradle his hand in the crook of his other arm caused everyone to make allowances. That sympathy, however, was quickly dissolved by uncharitable thoughts in the face of his ill-tempered bursts.

Cate tried to shake it off, crediting Nathan's contrary behavior to his concern for his ship. Keenly aware of the toll the last few days had taken on everyone aboard, she scolded herself for being thin-skinned and testy.

Cate thought it her imagination at first, but she gradually came to realize Nathan was making a point of being where she was not. Over a hundred feet of ship suddenly wasn't large enough. Twice, while she mounted the windward steps, she saw him exit the quarterdeck by the leeward. When she came into the cabin, he rose abruptly and brushed past her without a word. She was left standing in his wake, confused and feeling as cold and empty as the coffee cup he had left on the table.

That night, Cate glumly picked at the plate Kirkland had left. For the third time that day, Nathan had come to the cabin, saw her, pivoted, and left. The report was that he now sat on the masthead-God knew how he got up there, one-handed-threatening bodily harm to anyone who ventured near. Beatrice grew quarrelsome-more so than was her usual-and Hermione declined her evening tobacco quid.

The memories of the fervor of his kiss and the warmth of his arms, his body pressing against hers, responding so readily to her touch, had faded incrementally under his cold glares and icy shoulder. It was quite clear it had all been an anomaly. It was unsettling how one could be so passionate one point, and so distant and surly the next.

She braced her head in her hands. "This is Nathan. What the hell else did you expect?"

The thing that weighed most was the one she could barely admit: Hattie.

Hattie.

The name loomed over her like a mythical being. It was like being the second wife after the untimely death of the beloved first: living in the shadows, always measured, always seen through a tinted lens.

You remind him of her.

No more chilling or damning words had ever been uttered.

It was clear that Cate was but a substitute. A fascination and wonder it was, as to how Nathan could continue to love the very one who had so cold-bloodedly betrayed him, but there it was. Cate stood at the curtain looking at the bunk, and wondered what pleasures he and Hattie had enjoyed there. She couldn't help but wonder if a few days earlier, when Nathan had closed his eyes, had it been his precious Hattie he made love to? It had been his precious Hattie he had called for when fevered. His disappointment at finding Cate standing there instead was evident. The whole situation was so much like a drunk after a binge, during which ugly things had been said. Now sober, the drunk didn't recall anything, and assumed everyone around him to do the same, any hurt to be forgotten. The difference here was that Nathan had been the drunk. And yet, he was the one acting hurt. Worse was a strong edge of resentment about him, as well, as if Cate had somehow sought to deceive him.

A part of her wanted to tell Nathan, "Have the bitch and be damned!" Except her heart told her what she already knew: there was no leaving him. The question was how much more wretched she would become, in her desperation to be with him? How long would she allow him his illusions? Sadly, the question was more how long before he was done with her?

Neither did the second day improve.

The ship cracked on with an uncommon press of sail. Looking nearly as haggard as their Captain, many of the crew cast an eye skyward at the show of canvas, and surreptitiously crossed their fingers or touched their charms.

"The Cap'n knows 'is ship better than any pigtail-swingin' tar aboard, but this..." she heard Hodder mutter.

The rare times Nathan spoke to Cate-and blessedly rare they were-he was churlish and distant, often curt to the point of cutting. His most loyal, including Pryce and Millbridge, scowled in his path, as puzzled as she. Nathan's growing moodiness brought her to almost regret having nursed him to health. "Health" however, was barely applicable. He was even more slumped and hollow-eyed, the dark circles there deepening.

As Cate swung from confusion to fury, she sank deeper and deeper into misery, all the while smiling in desperate hope that it was all her imagination. When the smile failed, she locked herself in the convenience and sobbed into the towel, now kept in the corner for just such moments.

That night Nathan came up missing. Cate was seized by panic, envisioning him laying somewhere, fevered and helpless. He was at last found sprawled on the bowsprit. Arm hanging limp, a rum bottle suspended between two fingers, he stared at the night sky.

The next day, the Morganse finally cleared a point on Blue Goat Island, Cogburn's Island, her destination, could be seen ahead. The bay, where they were to rendezvous with the Griselle, was to its north, but so was the wind, or nearly so. It meant a long tack: angling out as close to the wind as the Morganse would bear, until far enough out when she came about-wear around, that is, bringing the wind more or less behind her-it would be in a direct line back into the bay.

Cate had hoped the prospect of joining up with Thomas might sweeten Nathan's mood.

It didn't.

Nathan flew into a black rage at Mute Maori, at the helm, for turning too soon. It was now a decision made by the helmsman, but that was a minor point. Doing so had caused them course to fall short of the targeted point of land. It meant they would have to tack again.

"Goddamned current is what it is," muttered someone from behind Cate, standing at the waist. "Any blighter worth 'is salt could see it."

Cate stood at the lee rail as the Morganse drew nearer and near to the Cogburn , a trio of masts poked their heads above the treeline, indicating a ship sitting on the island's far side.

"Is that the Griselle?" she asked against the backdrop of Hodder's bellow of "Ready about!" and the pounding of feet as the hands raced to their stations.

Busy with the ship, Pryce only glanced. "Aye, ' tis her."

"How did they get here ahead of us?" If two ships departed from the same point at the same time, one would expect the fastest to arrive first, and that was the Morganse, hands down.

Pryce shrugged. "Better winds. Shorter course. Probably wasn't obliged to scud so far afore the storm."

The outward leg of the tack required two flips of the glass out, during which Nathan bawled out two of the ship's most seasoned topsmen for being laggardly aloft, brought the Morganse into position. In the long rays of the late afternoon sun, she pirouetted as prettily as a ship might and angled toward the bay. It was four more turns of the glass, however, before the reef was cleared and she slipped into Cogburn Bay. A unified sigh of relief from all her people seemed to give an extra push on the sails.

They hailed the Griselle as they passed, Thomas at the taffrail, shouting back. The Griselle couldn't have been long arrived, for her boats were clustered at her side like chicks around a hen, and the beach stood empty.

Even with his ship settled on her mooring, Nathan's snappish mood didn't improve. He flew into tirades at minor oversights and nonexistent mistakes: the yards were crooked, reeving too sloppy, lifting tackle too high, and sheets improperly stowed. At the end of one such berating, he reeled off into the cabin.

Cate stood at the capstan, when she realized every eye aboard was turned on her. From the f'c'stle to the quarterdeck, from the tops to the waist, she saw expressions in varying degrees from imploring to warning, pleading to accusation. Nearly ten score of innocent bystanders were taking the brunt of what was clearly something between her and Nathan, no matter how desperately she wished otherwise. With a nod of vague acknowledgement, she trudged into the cabin, with no clear idea of what she meant to do.

Nathan sat at the table, snatching through the charts, grumbling about a missing divider. Cate took it as a small victory that he hadn't sped from the room when she entered.

"Problems finding something?" she asked lamely.

Nathan didn't look up, but his mouth took an ugly curl. "Problems seem to be me specialty lately."

Cate was in the process of steeling her nerve when she discovered she couldn't breathe. The condition was not entirely the fault of the closed windows, a rare oddity. She moved to open them, if for no other reason than to stall further.