" 'Salba'."  Harry trudged up the beach, rubbing his hands together to warm them.  "I have sunk the body."

"You weighted it sufficiently?"  Isalba scooted around, facing him.  It had been a long night and she was too weary to move more than necessary.  She was chilled to the bone, and drew the coat she wore more tightly about herself. 

"Aye. Found a piece of rusted out iron in the woods.  Tied that to his feet and a boulder to his hands.  Sunk as if he were a barrel of nails."  Harry made a motion with one hand, as if it were diving to the bottom of the ocean.

"Very good."  Isalba stood from tying off old rags to the limbs of a long branch, feeling the wind as if it were icy knives cutting through her.  She clenched her jaw lest her teeth begin to chatter.  "I judge that was no easy task."

"Hauling the blasted iron and boulder out to the rocks was a challenge," the large man admitted, flexing one arm and rubbing his biceps.  "Even for the likes of me and Andrew."

"My two strongest men," Isalba complimented him. "Harry."  She drew closer, bending toward him conspiratorially, glad for his sizeable body blocking the breeze.  "I will be needing to name a first mate.  'Tis not the best of places, but these are not the best of times, no?"

"No." Harry stood up a bit taller, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.  "You have done a splendid job, 'Salba.  These men would be like sheep without a shepherd, if not for you."

"I cannot do it alone," she answered gravely.  "Will you honor me by being my first mate?"

"Yes, but I must correct you."  His smile grew wide, tugging his beard up.  " 'Tis I who am honored."  Harry stood up smartly and drew his sword from its sheath, holding it out before her across open palms in a symbolic gesture and dropping to one knee.  "My sword is your sword."

"Rise, Harry." Isalba held out one hand and he took it, standing and brushing the sand from his trousers leg.  "I have a task for you."

"I am at your service, Captain Cortez."  He bowed slightly, then relaxed.

The title sounded strange to her ears, more official somehow than the offhand 'Cap'ain' many of the men had taken to using over the past twenty-four hours.  So much had happened, it felt more like twenty-four months.  "Most of the men have moved farther up the island and made camp in the woods, away from plain sight of the beach.  We must remove all sign that we were here."

"Bradon and his crew have burned the ship scrap that has washed ashore – all that the men didna take with them when they packed out before sunrise. And they have filled the fire pit with sand."  Harry gestured toward the space where the men had camped on the beach overnight.

"We must remove our footprints."  Isalba bent down, lifting the branch she'd been working with.  "I wish for you to walk ahead of me to the remaining skiff.  I shall start out where we made landing and work my way up to you with this, to sweep away the final traces."

"The sun is rising," Harry warned her.  "The eastern sky, she is red with the coming dawn. You know what they say."

"Pahh. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning."  Isalba made a face. "This should not take long.  It is an extra precaution.  Some of the men have already scoured most of the sand farther up from here."  She stopped speaking for a moment, her chest feeling tight, then coughed, bending over until the spasm passed.

Harry frowned and reached out, touching her forehead.  "You are burning with the fever."

"And you will not speak of it to anyone."  Isalba stood.  " 'Tis only a cough. I have withstood much worse."

"You have had no sleep."  Harry gently pried the branch from her fist.  "As first mate, I insist on performing this task.  The captain should be the one waiting with the boat.  Go." He gave her a small nudge.  "I am sure you will think of more that must be done to ensure our safety by the time I am finished.  That is your job, now."

"Thank you, Harry." Isalba was grateful for the excuse to bow out without appearing weak.  Weak was what she felt, though, as she lifted one heavy foot after the other, sticking close to the harder-packed sand near the water, which would soon wash away her shallow prints.

Reaching the skiff, she looked around and seeing no visible sign that a band of pirates had camped there only hours before, she simply stepped into the skiff and sat down, hunkering over, head to the wind.  Mentally, she began to replay the night's events.  They had used one of the pilfered skiffs to remove Silas' body from the scene of his death.  Once all the supplies had been loaded in one of the other skiffs, Matthew and Louis had gone back and cleaned the path they had used while carting their booty from behind the church to the beach. 

Upon arrival back at Assateague, she had assembled a small scouting party to find a suitable camping spot in the woods, farther away from the village, while those who remained behind were roused to pack up camp.  The hardest part had been disposing of the debris from the shipwreck, bits of it continually washing ashore since it had sunk.  But the men had done well, a finely-honed team accustomed to moving at a moment's notice, if need be.  The skiffs had been put to good use, transporting men and goods in shifts to the new campsite, where she suspected temporary shelters were already under construction.  Now, as the slight warmth of the morning's first light dusted her head, she dared hope they would escape before any of the villagers came looking for pirates.

Footsteps drew her out of her musings, and she looked up to see Harry approaching, dragging the branch behind him.  "That will cover the last of my tracks. Ready to shove off?"

"Aye," she answered wearily. The worry lining Harry's brow was unmistakable, and she knew it was on her behalf.  Gathering her strength, she sat up and smiled.  "It will be good to eat of the corn cakes and ham Cooks is no doubt preparing."

"That it will."  Harry appeared relieved.  "Only a minute more, Cap'ain."

He trotted a few steps away and pulled the small anchor in from the shallow waves. Isalba covered her mouth with her coat sleeve, muffling a cough as it wracked her body.  If she could only get to the warmth of the fire, she would feel so much better.  Drifting off in a chilled haze, she was dimly aware of Harry, stepping into the skiff and shoving off, and she lifted an oar, before he took it from her.  " 'Tis a small boat.  One man can do the rowing."  Placing himself between Isalba and the wind, he set oars and dipped them into the lapping waves.

"I am not a babe at my mother's tit," Isalba chastised him.  "None of this in front of the men." She smiled to remove the sting of her words. "Though you shall be rewarded for looking after me.  That much I promise you."

"I have my reward."  His shoulders worked, moving the skiff almost effortlessly through the water.  "And while it is your job now to look after the men, 'tis my job to look after you.  Insofar as you allow it.  But you need not fear.  I shall not fuss after you in front of the men."

Satisfied, Isalba acknowledged him with a nod, then closed her eyes, soaking up the rays of the sun.  It wasn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, but the light alone was cheering, and she felt her body let go of some of the tension she had been carrying.  Soon she could wrap a blanket about herself and be still.  Once they were settled, all the men would be given permission to rest and make up for the sleep they had lost moving camp.  She longed to join them.

When had she slept last?  The storm had battered the ship for two days, during which she had been constantly on duty, either top deck manning the wheel or below decks settling cargo and crew.  Just as the storm ended, its one last act of defiance had been the wreck of the Langley, followed by a day of re-grouping.  Their evening of piracy had led to a night of upheaval.  So.  She was going into her fourth day without sleep, and every bone in her body felt it.

" 'Salba, we have arrived."  Harry shook her arm and she looked up, impressed at the lack of signs of human occupancy just beyond the trees.  "Go on.  Get you some hot tea.  I will drag the skiff into the high grasses, out of sight."

"Aye." Isalba stood and stepped out of the boat, landing on legs that felt like wood.  Wearily, she followed a thin trail through the marsh grass, the scent of roasting meat settling uneasily across her senses.  Tea, however, sounded wonderful.

As she entered the clearing she stopped, proud of her men.  Neat lean-tos were set-up in a circle, the center of which bore a deep, wide fire pit.  Supplies were cached in the shelter nearest the fire, and over the warm flames was a spit bearing a pig she had not realized they had stolen.  "Captain."  Cooks approached her and pressed a mug of tea between her hands.

"Thank you, Cooks."  As she walked toward the fire, the men parted before her and she found herself seated on the log nearest its heat.  At that moment it felt as heavenly as the hot springs of Iceland, and she leaned forward, soaking it up while sipping her tea.  It soothed her itchy throat and warmed her belly, and she hoped fervently that whatever had a grip on her would quickly pass.  She had no time for illness, and this was certainly no place for it.

"The skiffs are all secure, Captain."  Harry joined them, taking a seat on a log across the fire from her.  "The beach is clear."

"Good work."  With an internal groan, Isalba stood.  "All you men, gather around."  Most of the crew was already seated around the fire, but she waited until the last stragglers joined them.  Final count had revealed twenty-four survivors.  Half the crew she needed to run the enterprise she envisioned.  Mentally, she acknowledged that until she had a ship, extra crew would only be a burden.

"You have all done most excellent work," she addressed the exhausted men.  "Captain Covington would have been proud."  At the mention of his name, several men removed their hats and bowed their heads, and she joined them in a brief moment of silence.  Slowly, she looked up and around at expectant faces.  "There is much yet to be done, and winter will soon be upon us.  It is my hope to be in Port Royal for the celebration of the Yule."

At this, half-hearted, hopeful cheers welled up, and she smiled.  "I know this place.  Ships stop here on the way to lands down south.  If one should happen by, it is ours." More cheers rose and she waited until they subsided.  "If no ship comes to us in a reasonable amount of time, we shall go by foot to Yorktown settlement, where there will be ships for the taking."

"Cap-i-tan," Louis spoke up.  "How far is it to this Yorktown?"

"At least a week of hard travel," she responded.  "Should it come to that," she added.  The men seemed to accept the knowledge with resignation.  "Until we secure a ship, we shall take turns going out in groups to obtain supplies.  There are other small villages across on the mainland.  There is no need to plunder the same small town over and over again.  We shall rest here a few days and gather our strength.  Then we shall move on, before Chincoteague discovers us here and arms itself to come after us.  I do not fear what they might do to us; we could easily defeat them.  But I have not the heart to harm them if we can avoid it."

"Captain.  We have no guns," Bradon pointed out.

"Very true," she acknowledged.  "In good time, we shall obtain proper weapons, but for now, we lay low.  We are all skilled swordsmen, should we need to defend ourselves.  Understood?"  She looked around as the men agreed, some verbally and some with a nod of their heads. 

"One thing more.  Harry, will you please join me?"  She held out a hand as Harry stepped around the fire and over a log, stopping beside her, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back.  "I have named Harry my first mate.  I expect you to accord him the same respect that you did me as I served Captain Covington."

A few cheers rose, only to be drowned out by the roar of one deep, male voice.  "You presume your title, Isalba!  You presume to lord it over these men."  Robert stepped forward, stopping a body's length from her, his chest rising and falling, the agitation rolling off him in waves.  "No one made you captain of this crew. You are but a woman. It is not fitting."

Harry's head snapped up, looking from Robert back to Isalba.  "We have no way of knowing if this was Covington's desire,"  Robert continued.

"True," Isalba responded wearily.  "You have only my word, which I give to you.  It was discussed. It was his wish."

Robert spat on the ground before her.  "Covington is presumed dead.  He was a fool, growing fat and old, cowing to the whims of a mere girl." Robert's eyes traveled leisurely up and down her body.  "I wager there was more than talk between the two of you."

Her anger sufficiently roused, Isalba removed her coat, tossing it across a nearby log, then drew her sword, draping the flat of the blade lazily across her shoulder.  "You have a point to make, Robert?"  She began circling him, men falling back to give them space.  "If you do, make it."

" 'Salba." Harry stood, drawing his own sword.  "You should not –"

"Sit!" she roared, glaring at Harry until he sat back down.  She made mental note to deal with him later.  "Robert?"  She kept circling, watching as Robert placed one hand upon his own sword.  "You have spit upon my honor, and that of Captain Covington.  For that alone, I would take you down.  Is there more you wish to fight over?  As long as we are fighting, let us get the terms clear before we cross blades."

"You know what we fight for."  He drew his sword.  "I watched while he made you a cabin boy.  When it was discovered you had a girl's pussy, surely, I thought he would flog you and be rid of you at next landfall.  Me –"  He grinned wickedly.  "I would have passed you around for the pleasure of the men, but Covington – no – he placed a sword in your hand.  Tied to his belt, you were, following him around like a bitch in season.  First mate," he snorted.  "I would guess first bed mate to be the more proper title."

He slashed the sword through the air once.  "This will be mine!"  Slashing again, he lunged forward.  "God has seen fit to take Covington. Now I shall be taking my crew!"

Isalba deflected him easily, crossing swords and pushing him back a few steps.  Her body protested and she set herself over her feet, ignoring the exhaustion, the tightness in her chest, and the fever.  Willing aside the fog that had slowly descended upon her brain, she shook her head, clearing it, and stalked Robert, sword ready and waiting.  "Is that all you have?" she taunted him.  "I had more satisfying fights with my little brother when we were toddling about the palace in our nappies."

"Arrrggghhhh!" Robert attacked again, his saber slashing across and then down, attempting to wrest Isalba's weapon from her firm grip.

With a twist of her wrist she flicked her blade out, lifting a stained piece of sash from his shoulder and removing it, tossing it aside as she turned her body hard, coming back and meeting a defensive blow that rattled her bones.  Swords meeting in an arc, she pushed back with a hop, re-settling herself just as Robert came at her again.  Faking a parry, he twisted from left to right at the last minute, slicing across her upper left arm before she rotated her elbow, hacking across his blade and forcing him backward.

Looking down at the blood soaking her sleeve, her eyes widened in outrage and she went on the offensive, going all-out in a furious blur, their swords meeting in loud metallic clangs that echoed off the trees enclosing the clearing. The men were circled around, now, all but one voice cheering on Isalba, as far as she could tell.  She tilted her head, concentrating on the babbling, singling out strings of words as they reached her ears, then re-focused on the fight at hand.

The parrying continued for what seemed an eternity, before both of them stepped back, chests heaving, sweat pouring down their faces.  With narrowed eyes, Isalba took her sword in both hands, walking cat-like around Robert, her eyes flicking back and forth from his face to his weapon.  Finally, his hand moved and she moved with it, planting one foot and swinging the other leg up and around in a round-house kick, her foot connecting solidly with the back of his sword hand.

She heard the crack of bones breaking, and the yelp of pain as Robert dropped the saber.  With another kick, Isalba flipped his sword up from the ground, caught it, and tossed it at him, watching until he caught it with his uninjured hand.  "Fight me, damn you!" She came at him, and he reacted, trying to adjust to using an arm unaccustomed to sword play.

Isalba snorted.  "Now you know why I have said the men should learn to fight equally well with both hands."

Landing one blow after another, she went after him relentlessly, pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the fire pit.  Finally he was trapped, the fire behind him, blue eyes gone violet with battle lust in front of him.  With one final blow he came at her, meeting not her sword, but her foot as she shoved it firmly against his chest, breaking ribs that punctured a lung.  He wheezed and coughed up blood.

As he looked up, Isalba drew back her sword, meeting his eyes.  "My crew," she hissed, plunging the saber into his gut.  Blood spilled out, soaking the sandy-dirt ground and she freed her sword, looking around. Robert fell, shrieking as one hand landed in the fire, but his cries quickly subsided, his lifeless body crumpled at an awkward angle across a log.

Without missing a beat, Isalba bent over, retrieving a dagger from her boot. Spinning around, she let it fly, plunging it into Matthew's chest.  He staggered, grabbing at it as she approached him.  "Traitor!"  She pulled the knife free, the blood washing over her hand.  "I heard you, cheering him on.  Did you think to get close enough to me to kill me?"  Drawing the dagger back, she sunk it into his throat, twisting it fiercely as he fell to the ground and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Isalba stepped back, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, both dripping with blood.  Her hair was wild, her eyes ablaze, her upper left arm stained crimson.  Slowly, she turned in a circle, looking each man in the eye in turn.  "Anyone else?"  She held out her sword in invitation. "If so, be a man now and let us be done with it.  I have a crew to re-build and I have not the time nor the patience for insolence."

One by one, men dropped to their knees, planting the tips of their swords into the ground, bowing before her.  When no one was left standing, she re-sheathed her sword and walked away into the woods to catch her breath.  A heavy pair of footsteps sounded behind her and she kept going, away from the crowd, away from the trees, and for a moment, away from a responsibility that was almost too great to bear.  Matthew's cries against her had been shocking, and she held no regret for her actions. He knew of the buried treasure chest. She could take no chances.

" 'Salba."  Harry called after her and she turned, grateful when she saw he had her coat in hand.  The heat of battle was quickly fading, leaving her sweat-soaked body even more chilled than it was before.  Exhaustion slammed into her like a battering ram, and her knees grew rubbery.  "Let me tend to your arm."

" 'This but a scratch," she answered weakly.  Stumbling, she righted herself and held onto her balance, then stumbled again as the world spun out of control, her vision blurred.  As her head hit the ground, the world ceased spinning, and all she knew was darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Megan stopped running and bent over, placing both hands on her knees while she rested.  Her chest heaved and she could feel sweat trickling down her spine beneath her heavy petticoats.  "Fool," she chastised herself.  What, exactly, did she plan to do when she reached the channel?  Swim across to Assateague in the freezing cold weather?  Perhaps the smoke she had seen had been merely fishermen stopping off to get warm on a chilled autumn morning.

Still, she wanted to go see for herself, and if she were to do that, she needed a boat.  Beibhinn.  With a slight shake of her head, Megan altered course and cut through the woods toward the small cottage Beibhinn and her husband, Liam, had built.  It was on a secluded cove with a dock where Liam kept his fishing boat and a rowboat. 

Ducking under branches and lifting her skirts to avoid tangling in the brambles, she made her way to the cove, approaching it so she had a clear view of the dock.  Liam's fishing boat was out and she breathed a sigh of relief, and crossed the open space between the edge of the woods and the cottage.  She could smell the wood fire burning and was glad she would soon be out of the cold for a spell.  Lifting a gloved hand, she knocked on the door, ducking her head until she heard the latch open.

"Megan."  Beibhinn held out a hand and drew her in.  "What brings you out here on this cold morning, little sister?"

Megan entered the cottage and shrugged out of her coat, which Beibhinn took and hung on a hook near the door.  "Patrick has chores all day, so we willna be going for our usual walk."

"Silly.  'Tis a bitter morning to be exposed to the weather."  Beibhinn smiled nonetheless and bid Megan to take a seat beside the fire.  "Ma would no doubt 'ave plenty to keep you busy at home.  Would you care for some tea?  I just brewed a fresh pot and baked tea cakes." She patted her belly. "This little one keeps me famished night and day.  I should be the size of the barn, as much as I have been eating."

"Tea would be wonderful.  And you look lovely," Megan responded truthfully.  Beibhinn glowed.  In her sixth month, she had a slight bulge below her waistline, barely noticeable under her thick winter clothing.

"Thank you." Beibhinn blushed.  "You must say that, though, you are my sister.  So — "  She crossed the room and loaded a tray with cakes and two full teacups.  "I hear you will be moving up the wedding."

"Is our family nothing but gossip-mongers?" Megan groused. "Pappa discussed this with you?"

"No, Ma told me of it yesterday. I saw her at the sundry shop when I went to trade my eggs. The last of this season, more than likely."  Beibhinn's face lit up.  "Are you not excited?  To be in your own house by Christmas?  Patrick is such a fine man."

"He is."  Megan looked down, studying the mint leaf floating in her tea.  "Beibhinn, I was hoping to borrow the row boat for a few hours."  She looked up.

Beibhinn's chest visibly rose and fell, as she sighed, her eyes meeting Megan's.  "Megan, you must stop this. It is foolishness."

"Yesterday morning when Patrick and I went walking, I saw smoke over on Assateague."  Megan could feel her cheeks heat with shame, but she pressed on.  "It was probably nothing."

"Stop it!" Beibhinn stood and began to pace back and forth in front of the fire.  "How many times have you done this now, Megan? Gone running off to Assateague each time there was smoke, or a boat, or rumors of smoke and boats?  I canna cover for you any longer."  Beibhinn spanned both hands across her stomach.  "Soon I will be a mother.  I have to grow up."  She knelt down, touching Megan's knee.  "And so must you.  Before Christmas, you will be Patrick's wife.  What will you be doing then?  What shall you tell him when you go running over to the island?  It isna right, Megan."

"I have done the ritual for four years, Beibhinn.  Every year, she comes to me."  She pleaded with Beibhinn, "you know this.  I have told you of it each year.  I do not know why I see her.  I know I am supposed to see my husband in the vision, but I have yet to see any man.  Certainly not Patrick."

"Not everyone sees their future husband during the ritual."  Beibhinn patted Megan's cheek.  "Patrick loves you."

"I do not love him." Megan blinked, forcing back tears that threatened to spill over.  "I do not know what it means, this woman in my vision.  Perhaps she is to be my friend.  Perhaps she needs my help.  What I feel is this —" She placed a fist over her heart.  "I shall not be at peace until I understand what it means."

"Megan!"  Beibhinn stood abruptly as her voice rose sharply.  "The love for Patrick, it will come.  You must put this insanity away and you must not speak of it anymore.  There is no pirate woman with long dark hair and sparkling blue eyes."

"But there is," Megan whispered.

"What?" Beibhinn sat back down and leaned forward. "Megan, you have been fantasizing.  This has gone too far."

"No, I met her."  This time the tears did fall and Megan wiped her hand across her eyes.  "Four years ago, the first night I did the ritual, do you remember the pirate girl they captured and put in the stocks?"

"I recall something about that, yes."  Beibhinn tilted her head, her eyes hard as she searched Megan's face.  "She had escaped by the morning.  We never did get to see her."

"I did."  Megan swallowed.  "Beibhinn, if I tell you something, you must swear as my older sister to keep my confidence.  You must not tell anyone what I am about to tell you.  Can I trust you?  They would surely flog me in the village square, were they to know what I have done."

"Megan, I would never let anyone flog you, if it were in my means to stop it.  Of course you can trust me." Beibhinn's voice was sorrowful.  "What 'ave you done?"

"I was awake when they came to tell Pappa about the pirate girl.  The girl they described, it was the woman in my vision.  I had to go see her, so I stole away and went into the village that night.  It was her, Beibhinn, exactly as I had seen her in the vision, only younger.  But I know it was her." Megan stood and moved to the window, looking out at the wind rippling the surface of the cove.  "We talked a while and then I released her from the stocks.  She was only fourteen years old, and they had whipped her bare back until it bled.  It wasna right.  She was only trying to help a friend.  She had done nothing wrong.  But before she left, she said she would never forget me.  I felt that someday, she would come back to visit."

"I am not believing what I am hearing."  Beibhinn joined her, wrapping her shawl more tightly about her shoulders.  "Why did you not tell me this before now?  All these trips to Assateague, at least I would have been more understanding.  Though it is still insane."

"I was afraid you would think me even more crazy than you already did." Megan laughed bitterly.  "Only now, it doesna matter.  I feel crazed.  I am not joyful about this wedding; rather I feel as if I am drowning, as if I shall never dream or be free again.  Beibhinn."  Megan turned, facing her sister, squeezing her arm in supplication.  "I have never dreamed of a home and children. You know this about me."

"What else are you to do?"  Beibhinn shook her head sadly.  "It is what girls do.  We grow up, get married, have babies, and keep house.  Surely you are not now fancying yourself a fisherman or a trader?"

"I do not know what I fancy myself as," Megan almost wailed.  "What I do know is that I do not love Patrick and I could not, in good conscience, ever obey anyone, even my husband, if I thought it went against my own principles and judgment.  I will not be happy when I am married.  Sometimes I feel that death would be the better path."

"Megan!"  Beibhinn held up a hand as if to slap her, then dropped it, her body visibly shaking.  "You must not say such things.  You risk hell and damnation.  It is upsetting.  I do not want to hear it.  Put this aside, Megan.  Marry Patrick. What you are doing, it isna safe.  What if you go over there someday and you do find pirates?"

"I did, once," Megan confided.  "They didna see me.  She was not with them and I came back home."

Beibhinn's eyes narrowed.  "What if she were? Would you have come back home then?"

"I do not know," Megan answered unhappily.  "I only wish to see her again, Beibhinn.  I canna explain it.  There is a reason for those visions.  Maybe if I could discuss it with her, I could finally be at peace."

"Is there any stopping you if I do not give you the boat?"  Beibhinn crossed her arms over her chest.

"No."  Green eyes met a pair of matching ones.  "I would find another boat."

Beibhinn released a heavy sigh. "Go.  Take it.  At least this way I shall know when you return.  If Ma or Pappa or even Liam wonder where you are or where the boat went, I shall be forced to lie and tell them you took it without my permission. Let that be on your conscience."

"Oh!" Megan flung her arms around Beibhinn's shoulders. "Thank you!  I shall bring it back in good order, I promise.  I must go."  She put her coat on and Beibhinn saw her to the door.  "I will come up to the house and let you know when I return."

"You had best keep your word on that."  Beibhinn hugged her again. "I almost hope you find her, so you can put this all behind you."

"I hope that as well." Megan all but ran across the yard and down to the dock.

Beibhinn watched her until she was rowing across the cove, then reluctantly shut the door against the harsh wind.  "Be safe, little sister," she whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"The Cap-i-tan, she has lost a lot of blood, no?"  Louis stood next to the lean-to while Harry laid Isalba out beneath it, covering her with two of the horse blankets they had taken from the smithy's shop.

"No, she has not." Harry fussed with the blankets and folded up a grain sack, using it to pillow Isalba's head.  "However –" He carefully peeled away the section of tattered sleeve covering her wounded arm, studying the cut just below her shoulder.  "She will require stitching.  I was not to say anything, but under the circumstances, I feel I must.  'Salba is consumed with the fever.  The grip, perhaps.  Please bring me the herbs you took from the sundry shop in the village."

"Herbs?"  Louis' complexion paled.  "I did not see herbs.  I fear I noticed tobacco and did not search further after that.  We were to hurry."

"Fool!" Harry bellowed.  "We have nothing to treat her with?  Please to tell me you at least had the brains to pilfer needles and thread to stitch her cut?  We are constantly in need of such things."

"I –" Louis looked down.  "I did not.  I am sorry, Harry. I will take one of the skiffs and return to correct my mistakes."

"Idiot," Harry muttered.  "What do you propose to do? Waltz into the village square in broad daylight and approach the sundry counter to purchase them?  Look at yourself – all of us.  Our clothing is in rags.  We are filthy and in need of a wash tub.  'Tis obvious who we are.  Do you wish to bring the entire village down upon us?"

"What shall we do, then?"  Louis fretted.

"I shall ask Bradon to watch over the Captain and we shall go to the village together.  It must be done right this time," Harry answered angrily.  "But we will surely have to wait until nightfall.  Let us hope the Captain's condition does not worsen before then."

At that moment, Isalba moaned, one arm thrashing about until it was free of the covers.  "Mama?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, her eyes closed.

"That is no good."  Harry shook his head. "No mama for her for eight long years.  We cannot keep her warm enough here, even with fire and blankets.  She should be inside, away from the wind."  He looked up at the sky, which was beginning to grow cloudy.  "And the rain."

"I will go ready the skiff."  Louis shuffled away, mindful of Harry's powerful fists. 

" 'Tis a pity the sea took the ones worth their salt and left the ones that should be fish food."  Harry watched him leave, then waved Bradon over.  "You are to guard her with your life.  She is defenseless and ill."

"Am never defenseless," a weak voice responded.

" 'Salba?"  Harry knelt down, holding her head up and tipping a cup of water against her lips.  "Drink. You should rest and wait until we return with herbs."

Pale blue eyes blinked open, and Isalba looked around.  "Why am I lying on the ground?"

"You are ill," Harry advised her.

"My sword?" she rasped.

"I cleaned it.  It is next to your right arm."  Harry lifted the weapon so she could see it, then placed it back down again.  "Do not be afraid, Captain Cortez.  You have defeated your enemies.  All who are left in this camp would serve you until their dying breath."

"Very few are quite so loyal.  Do not assume they are all as you are, Harry."  Isalba laughed lightly, then coughed deeply from her chest.  "Damnation.  I cannot be ill.  There is no time for it."

"We shall make time for your recovery."  Harry smiled and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a damp rag.  "We are in no hurry."

"Winter," Isalba argued.  "I do not wish to wait for spring in this place."

"Do not worry yourself."  Harry stood.  "Think on getting well.  I am going to the village for herbs, but Bradon is here should you need anything."

"Harry."  Isalba tugged at his trouser leg.  "Thank you.  I made a good choice for first mate."  She closed her eyes and her hand dropped down against the blanket covering her.

Harry made his way to the inner cove where they had stored two of the skiffs.  Louis was sitting in one of them, oars at the read.  "Aye, he should bloody well be doing the work.  At least he realizes that much."  He closed the distance and shoved off, hopping into the skiff as it cleared the sand.

"We should stop before we reach the village, no?"  Louis steered the small craft toward the far shoreline, keeping to the cover of marsh grass and overhanging tree branches as much as possible.

"That much should be obvious."  Harry glared at him. "I will tell you when to stop."

They drifted on in silence, save the slight swish and plop each time Louis dipped the oars into the water.  The channel seemed desolate; not even birds were singing in the trees, and the wind blew steadily at their backs from the north, silent and cold.  Peering through breaks in the trees, they could see clouds piling up to the northeast, their edges tinged in dark gray.

"Rain," Harry groused.  " 'Tis all we need with the meager shelter we have built.  If 'Salba were well we might be attacking this village so as to take come of its houses."

"Perhaps we will find a large boat," Louis suggested.  "The Cap-i-tan and some of the weaker men could take cover in its hold."

"Perhaps," Harry replied thoughtfully, squinting way down the channel.  "What is that?"

"What is what?"  Louis followed his gaze.  "Is it a boat?"

"Aye." Harry watched as the boat drew closer. "We are having no luck."

"It is a woman!"  Louis exclaimed.  "And she travels alone."

"Or perhaps lady luck is with us."  Harry grinned.  "Paddle faster."  He took up a spare pair of oars to assist Louis in his efforts.  "If she sees us and turns around or goes ashore, we must not let her get away."

"What are we going to do with a woman?"  Louis frowned.  "You know Cap-i-tain Covington's rules.  Isalba, she will no doubt feel the same, if not more strongly.  Is it worth keel-hauling, Harry?"

"I am not going to ravish her, you idiot."  Harry worked his oars as he talked, putting his entire body into the rowing motion.  "We are going to use her to get the supplies we need."

"How are we to get one frightened woman to co-operate with us and not tell of our presence?" Louis fretted.

"You leave that to me." Harry looked past Louis toward the approaching boat.  There was no way the woman had not seen them, and just as he had thought, the boat slowed and the woman appeared to be making an effort to turn around.  "Stop!"  He shouted out. "We will give chase and we will catch up with you!"

Megan paddled faster, her heart beating double time.  Why, oh why did she not listen to her mother and her sister? 

"We have a gun!" Harry shouted after her.

She hesitated and looked back, seeing only oars in their hands.  "Show it to me!" she yelled back.

"Blast!" Harry put his entire strength into his oars, pushing the skiff faster and faster, practically skimming over the water's surface.

Satisfied there was no gun, Megan turned and ran her boat aground, leaping out and dashing across the beach as fast as she could, taking to the woods on Chincoteague.  Her skirts caught on a branch and she jerked it free, ripping part of her petticoat lace away, leaving it behind as she ran farther into the trees.  Footsteps pounded behind her and the men continued to yell at her to stop.  She could feel the blood pounding in her ears, her chest heavy with the effort of breathing the cold air.

"Catch her!"  Harry gave Louis a push and the shorter man ducked his head and left Harry behind. He could see the woman ahead of him, her navy blue dress contrasting with the browns and reds of the Virginia colony autumn foliage.  She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes terrified, and at that moment she tripped over a tree root and went sprawling across the leaf-covered forest floor.  Louis sprinted toward her, landing on her before she could get up and holding her down.

"Get off me!" she yelled, feet kicking and her body twisting until she had rolled from her stomach to her back.  Once she was facing him she began pounding his chest and face with her fists.  "You brute!  Off me.  My father will have you hanged!"

"Harry!" Louis cried out.  "I cannot hold this crazy woman alone.  Hurry!"

Megan managed to get one leg bent up and drove her knee between his legs.  Once when she had seen two schoolboys fighting, one of them had made just such a move on the other, with very effective result.  Sure enough, her captor squawked with pain and grabbed himself, rolling off her and into a ball as he continued to groan.

Seeing her opening, Megan got to her feet, but she had lost her shoe when she tripped.  Harry was fast approaching and she took off again, one shoe on and one shoe off, feeling the cold loam beneath her feet as its dampness soaked her stocking.  Just as she began to make headway, her un-shod foot came down hard on a sharp rock and she yelled, stumbling around and grabbing at it.  Harry got to her and pinned her against a tree, holding a dagger at her throat.

"Now, listen to me, lass."  He attempted a reassuring smile, but Megan's eyes were firmly cast downward, trying to see the cold, sharp metal pressing against her skin.  "Look at me."  He prodded her chin up and she was forced to look him in the eye.  "I do not want to hurt you, but I will if you do not do exactly as we ask."

"I am listening," Megan replied, her voice shaking.

"We have need of herbs for the fever and the grip, a packet of needles, and some sturdy thread for stitching up cuts."  He continued to smile, attempting to put her at ease.

"Canna you buy them as a decent person would?" Megan pressed more firmly against the tree, trying to relieve some of the pressure at her throat. In addition to the knife, Harry had one hand wrapped around her throat, slightly constricting her windpipe.

"You know we canna do that without your village coming after us."  He pressed his thumb against her jugular.  "Now.  You are to go into the village and purchase what we need, and you are to bring it to us.  If you tell so much as a soul, even a squirrel in the tree that we are here, we will follow you to your house and we will kill your family.  Do you understand me?"

"How do you know you can trust me?"  Megan answered, her voice slightly annoyed.

"I do not know that.  Your family is my assurance.  We will be hiding out on the edge of the village.  If we see anyone coming by foot or by boat to where we are, we will assume you have told and we will find you."  He withdrew the knife, but not his huge hand.

"Very well."  Megan swallowed.  "I shall do what you ask.  May I ask a question?"

"What?"  Harry pocketed his knife, as Louis approached, his expression fairly fuming.  "Let it go, Louis," he advised the smaller man. "The lady was merely defending herself.  What is your question? Miss —?"

"Megan," she answered.  "What will happen to me after I bring you the supplies?"

"You will help us find shelter for our Captain, who is ill and in need of care.  Your fate is for the captain to decide, but do not fear for your life, lass.  No harm will come to you as long as you get us what we need and do not tell anyone you have seen us." Harry placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back toward the beach.

"Then what fate is there to decide?"  Megan's voice shook, betraying her internal fear.

"We do not like for people to see us.  It may be that the Captain decides you must stay with us until we leave this place."  They reached the boats and Harry gestured for Megan to get into the skiff, rather than Liam's boat.  "But eventually, you shall regain your freedom."

"I canna stay with you," Megan practically wailed.  "I will be missed.  As for freedom, I should be ever so grateful if that were true, for it is not true now, and was not true before you happened upon me.  I am by no means a free woman."

"What makes you say this?"  Harry tilted his head in question.

Megan glanced down at the slight bulge of her engagement ring beneath her glove, and sighed.  "Never mind.  Some shackles canna be seen."  As she looked up, the skiff floated past a small, lone cabin sitting on a rise above the beach.  "There." She pointed.  " 'Tis abandoned, the family gone back to England this past spring.  'Tis at least three miles to the next house from here.  You can shelter your captain there."

"Louis."  Harry lifted his oars from the water and slowed the skiff until it was bobbing up and down in place.  "Go back to the other boat and go get the Captain. Get Bradon to help you.  We shall rejoin you here after we get the supplies."

"You can count on me." Louis jumped out of the boat as they rowed into the shallows, then took off, trotting north away from them.

"Take care with my boat!"  Megan shouted after him. "It is not mine," she continued, more softly.  "If I survive this, I am going to marry Patrick," she muttered.  "I have learned my lesson."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and kept quiet.  Whoever Megan was, she was no ordinary girl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 3

Megan slipped out of the store and behind the church, taking to the woods to avoid running into anyone she knew.  In her arms, she cradled a parcel containing the medicine and other supplies for which Harry had supplied the coin.   She stopped long enough to sit down and pull off one of her shoes, which had been hastily put back on in the boat.  Her stocking had become bunched up around the heel, making walking painful.  Once it was straightened back out and having no shoe-hook, with some difficulty she re-buttoned it and then sat there, forearms on her knees, thinking about how to get out of her situation.

Harry was not far away, waiting for her, and had made her show him where she lived.  She had dared not mislead him by taking him to someone else's house, and the only vacant home that she knew of, she had already told him of.  As afraid as she was, she did not want anyone else to be harmed because of her.  So from behind a tree at a fair distance, she had pointed out the small home her father had built for them when they arrived in the New World, wishing with all her heart she had never left it that morning.

It was growing colder and cloudier, and finally she stood, trudging slowly back to where Harry was hidden away. "Here is what you asked me to purchase."  She handed over the packet.  "Would you please give me leave to go home now?  I promise you I willna tell a soul of your presence here.  If I had a Bible, I would lay my hand on it."

"My apologies, lass, but I cannot let you go unless the Captain says you may.  Come along now."  He led her back along a faint path that angled toward a small cove where he had hidden the boat in the tall marsh grass.  After helping her back into the small craft, he took up oars and rowed in silence.  Megan could feel his eyes on her and she looked down, studying the laces on her gloves.

She had felt hopeless upon her betrothal to Patrick, but it didn't come close to touching the utter terror she was close to sinking into.  If she escaped, they would hurt her family.  If they kept her, what would become of her?  Would they kill her?  Make her travel with them for the rest of her life?  Use her for things she dared not think of?  Nibbling her lower lip, she weighed her options.  If the captain didn't let her go, she decided she would have to kill herself at the first opportunity.  Death would be better than to be made the forced bedmate of a filthy, stinking strange man.

They reached the once-vacant house to find a steady stream of men carrying supplies up from some small boats, to the barn out back of the house.  Megan's heart sunk when she saw how many there were.  There were enough of them to easily take turns watching her all the time.  "Hey!"  Harry hauled the boat up on the beach and stormed toward the barn, cursing as he went.  "Why are all of these men here?"  He found Louis and gave him a slight shove.

"The Cap-i-tan said to break camp and that most of us could sleep in the barn, away from the cold and the rain."  He shrugged and smiled in an attempt to disarm the larger man.

"You are certain of this?"  Harry frowned, turning toward the house.  Forgetting Megan in the boat, he stormed across the small front porch of the house and flung the door open, stepping inside.

The front room was still furnished, and contained a rectangular wooden table with a long bench on each side, and three rocking chairs pulled up near the fireplace.  One of the men knelt beside the fire, feeding it a few logs and poking it to re-arrange them.  "Oh, hello, Harry."  He rose, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"The Captain?" Harry looked toward the only other door besides the one he had come in by.

"In there.  They left a nice plump feather bed behind."

"Very well."  Harry pushed the door open and peered around it.  Isalba was in the bed, her eyes closed and her head propped up against a few pillows.   On the table next to her, a candle burned, and beside it sat a mug.  " 'Salba," he spoke softly, and two blue eyes fluttered open.

"Harry?"  She sat up, then doubled over, coughing violently.

"Lay down."  He entered the room and sat in a chair next to the bed, opening the packet Megan had purchased.  "I have some medicine to put in your mug. You need to drink it up.  It will ease your coughing and your fever."

"I shall need more water," Isalba rasped.  "There is a well behind the house."

"I will go get you some." Harry left the room and she lay back down, closing her eyes.  Sitting up had made her dizzy.  Her head throbbed and even her eyes felt weak and feverish.  It felt good to be inside, though, out of the wind and the coming rain she could smell on the breeze.  She could also smell the fire in the fireplace and decided once Harry returned she would ask him to move the bed into the front room where she could be warmer.  The house was a pleasant surprise, with room enough between it and the barn for all the men to have a place to sleep under cover and to protect their supplies from the elements.

A commotion outside disturbed her and she opened her eyes, cocking her head to listen.  A few male voices rose and fell, and mixed in she heard one voice of decidedly female timbre.  "Harry?"  She sat up and could see him out the window, but the well was fairly far from the house, near the barn.  "Harry?" Calling him was useless, and the noise out front grew louder.  "Blast," she muttered, and tossed the covers off, shivering as she stood and shrugged into her coat, then grabbed her sword.

Her head spinning, she stumbled out of the bedroom and past the surprised man beside the fire.  "Captain?"  He stood.

"Jonathon." She frowned.  "What is happening out there?"

"I do not know.  I thought perhaps the men were playing a game."

"In this cold?"  She snorted and kept walking on unsteady feet.  She pushed the front door open, banging it against the outside wall, and made her way over to where several men were crowded around a tree, jostling each other and shouting.  Lewd comments reached her ears and she frowned as a female voice answered them, its tone at once defiant and fearful.  Raucous laughter arose and one man whom she could not clearly see held up a bit of material and twirled it around, then tossed it away. 

"What in the name of the goddess is going on here!"  Isalba drew her sword and shoved men right and left out of her way, knocking them aside with her free hand.  "Who brought a woman into this camp?"  As she cleared the last man away, she finally reached the woman in question, her back pressed against the tree trunk and her head down, framed by long blonde hair.  On the ground was a bonnet that had been trampled.  Slowly the woman looked up, her green eyes meeting Isalba's in terror, and then surprise.  "Isalba?"  The woman gasped.  "Is — is it really you?"

Isalba stepped closer, reaching out and tilting the woman's chin up to get a better look at her face.  Her skin was petal-soft, her chin trembling at Isalba's touch.  "I know you," Isalba answered in wonder.  "How —?"

"Captain!"  Harry came running from behind the house.  "I am sorry.  I forgot and left her out here.  Let me please explain.  It is not what you think."

"No," Isalba waved him off.  "Wait until we have some privacy."  She looked around, waving her sword in an arc.  "Who removed her bonnet?"  No one answered, and Isalba took a step forward, still brandishing her sword.  "Who!?" she roared, coughing afterward and wiping her free hand across her lips.

"I did, Captain," Giles timidly replied. "No harm intended.  The men and I, we were just having a bit of fun."

"At the expense of a helpless woman?" Isalba asked, her voice low and dangerous.  "Did not Captain Covington have rules?  What led you to believe they were no longer in place?  Angus." Isalba spun around, facing a large, muscular man.  "We have no ship for a proper keel-hauling.  Take him out behind the barn and flog him. If you cannot find a whip, use a switch from a tree."

"But, Captain," Giles begged, his voice shocked.  "I would not have hurt her."

"How was she to know that?"  Isalba closed the space between them and snatched a hairpin from his clutched fist, then smacked him across the face with her sword hilt.  His nose gushed blood and he dropped to his knees, holding his hands up to his face.  "Take him," she looked to Angus, who quickly complied, dragging the groaning man away.

"Let us be clear."  Isalba turned in a slow circle, looking each man in the eye in turn.  "The rules have not changed.  The only change is that I am now the Captain of this crew.  If anyone should dare to touch so much as a hair on her head —" She pointed at a shaking Megan.  "You will pay with your life the next time."

"Harry, take her and let us go back inside the house."  Isalba could feel her insides quivering, her legs unstable.  "I must rest," she spoke to the men.  "But I shall send Harry back out shortly.  When he comes out, I expect him to find the rest of her hairpins on the front windowsill of the house.  This is your one and only chance.  Should I find any of you in possession of a hairpin afterward, you shall suffer the same fate that Giles will soon suffer."

Harry was already leading a stunned Megan toward the small cottage, and Isalba turned, following them.  "Megan," she whispered under her breath, watching the woman's skirts swish back and forth as she walked.  It was even colder than it had been earlier, and Isalba drew her coat more closely around herself.  A droplet of rain hit her hand and as she looked down at it, she felt several more splatter against her face.

Reaching the house, she stumbled inside and leaned against the wall, shivering and coughing.  " 'Salba."  Harry came to her and helped her back into the bedroom, where Megan was sitting on the chair.  "She is very ill," he advised Megan.

"I am not a baby."  Isalba pushed past him and moved forward, dropping to one knee in front of Megan, reaching out and touching her face.  "I thought I would never see you again."  She smiled in wonder.  "How did you come to be here?  Harry?"

"Captain, I do not understand."  Harry leaned back against the closed door, his hands clasped behind him.

"You are the Captain now?"  Megan finally found her voice again.  "I should have known."

"Yes, I am the Captain."  Isalba stood and shrugged out of her coat, which Harry took from her.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she grabbed up covers and wrapped them around herself.  "Harry, did you bring the water inside?"

"Oh, no."  He shook his head. "I dropped it when I heard you outside.  I shall go get more."

"Good.  Leave us for a bit."  She watched him go, shaking her own head.  "He shall drive me mad with his mothering," she muttered, then coughed again, bending over and covering her mouth.  When she looked at her palm, she saw blood-tinged spittle and quickly wiped it on her trousers leg.

"It is in your lungs."  Megan observed.  "You should be lying down."

"Tell me how you came to be here." Isalba ignored her.  "Harry brought you here?"

"Yes." Megan was in a daze, and unsure how much she should tell.  "We crossed paths and he needed some items from the store in the village.  I purchased them for him."

"Ah."  Isalba nodded in understanding.  "He brought you here as a prisoner."

"Yes. I take it you do not plan to kill me, then?"  Megan laughed nervously.

"Kill you?  No.  I —"  Isalba stopped, looking down.  Of course the girl would be fearful for her life.  She had been captured by pirates.  "Do you mind if I go ahead and lie down while we talk?  My head, it is spinning as the windmills of Holland."

"No." Megan stood, helping her ease back under the covers. "I should thank you for rescuing me from that crowd."

"You are welcome." Isalba smiled.  "I do not think they would have harmed you.  But there are rules.  We are not savages."

"So much time has passed," Megan responded.  "There is much I would like to ask you.  To say to you.  But you do not look well at all."

"My eyes — they burn," Isalba admitted, closing them.  "If I sleep for a while, will you stay until I wake?"

"You mean to let me go?" Megan almost squeaked in surprise.

"Why should I not?"  Isalba laughed lightly, opening her eyes momentarily.  "You let me go, once upon a time."

"Then I shall be here when you wake."  Megan reached over and impulsively touched her forehead.  "You are burning with fever.  When Harry returns with water, we shall get some medicine into you, then you must sleep."

"My arm."  Isalba mumbled sleepily.  "Harry said it needs stitching. It has been many hours now, since I cut it.  Crusted over by now —" she trailed off.

"After you sleep, I shall look at it," Megan assured her.  "My father is a fisherman. I have removed a few hooks from him in my time."

"Always an angel of mercy, are you not?"  Isalba smiled, then closed her eyes, drifting off on a feverish wave.

"If that is what you need," Megan whispered, so softly she was not heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was so cold.  Isalba tossed and turned, tugging at the blankets covering her, groaning as one slid to the floor.  Before she could bend over the edge of the bed, a puff of air brushed across her, as Megan rose from her chair and retrieved it, then placed it back over her.  "Th - thank you." Isalba's teeth chattered.

Megan frowned and touched her forehead.  "You are a sight warmer.  'Tis not good."  She dipped up some water from the bucket Harry had left and poured it into a mug, then picked up a packet of powder and tipped it into the water, stirring it with her index finger.  It smelled bitter and she wished she had some sugar or honey to make it more palatable.  "Here.  You need to drink some more of this."

A gentle arm slid beneath Isalba's shoulders and she hitched up enough to quickly gulp down the nasty concoction, making a face and shuddering as it hit her mostly-empty belly.  "Ugh.  'Tis horrid."

"I know." Megan set the cup aside.  "I only wish it were working."  She hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap.  "You slept for almost two hours.  It is past the noon hour.  My sister, she will be wondering where I have gone with her husband's boat.  And my mother —"

"You must go," Isalba regretfully interrupted her.  "I trust you will not tell of our presence here?"

"Not after that man with the red beard said he would kill my family, no," Megan replied, her voice sharp.

"I am sorry for that."  Isalba looked down.  "He was looking out for my interests. He is my first mate.  But I will not allow him or anyone else to harm you or your family.  This is twice that I am in your debt."

"Once," Megan corrected her.  "You cast away that crowd of brutes, what was bothering me earlier."

"If not for me, they would not have been bothering you in the first place," Isalba reminded her.

"I suppose." Megan tilted her head, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "You need to be resting and I really must go, but I must ask at least one question before I do."

"What is that?" Blue eyes searched Megan's face and unaccountably, she blushed.

"Why are you here?"  Megan reached across, laying one hand on Isalba's leg over the blanket that covered it.  "If you only knew —" she shook her head.  "Never mind my silly question.  I should go."

"No.  'Tis alright."  Isalba smiled.  "Our ship sunk off Assateague Island.  'Twas a big storm that battered it and tossed us up against the rocks.  Our Captain drowned.  At least that is what we assume.  I was the first mate.  Now I am the captain."  She shrugged a little.

"Oh." Megan turned a little bit, facing her better. "So you have not been the captain for long."

Isalba nodded in answer.

"But you have no ship." Megan laughed lightly.

"That will change." Isalba paused to cough, covering her mouth with her hand.  "The first ship to come sailing near here, it will be mine."

"That would be stealing!" Megan's green eyes grew round with shock.  "It is a sin."

"My dear."  Isalba chuckled.  "Four years ago when we first met, you knew I was a pirate.  Taking things is what we do to make our living. Though I prefer to think of it as re-distribution of goods. As for sinning, I know not what lies beyond this life.  I live for today and will let the 'morrow care for itself."

"I see," Megan answered thoughtfully.  "Well." She stood and retrieved her gloves, only to find one arm captured by Isalba.

"What is this?" She studied the ring adorning Megan's left hand.  It was a simple gold band set with one pale pearl bracketed by two small ruby chips.

" 'Tis my engagement ring."  Megan looked down, twisting the ring around her finger once before she pulled a glove over it.  "I am to be married soon."

"Is he a good man?" Isalba released her arm.  "Does he treat you well?"

"Yes," Megan answered honestly.  "On both counts."

"How is it that he would let you out in dangerous territory alone?" Isalba frowned.

"He does not own me."  Megan pulled on her other glove. "At least not yet," she added softly.

Isalba sought out her eyes, recognizing a profound sadness in their depths.  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, deciding it was not her place to meddle. Megan was a girl she had met once a long time ago and by chance had come across again.   "I am glad to have seen you again," she finally spoke, her voice low, her Spanish accent rolling off her tongue and sounding almost musical to Megan's ears.

"I am glad to have seen you again, too." Megan smiled and touched her forehead, her leather glove soft and smooth against Isalba's skin.  "I do hope you are well soon.  I suppose you will be here a few days?"

"Yes."  Isalba's eyes narrowed, trying to read Megan's thoughts.  "It is a long way to your village, no?"

"Three miles," Megan answered lightly. "Not so long a distance to walk.  Or to row," she added.  "My fiancé, he shall be going to the mainland to work on our house.  Perhaps I could —" she trailed off, shaking her head.  Slowly, her eyes lifted and met Isalba's.  "I hope you find a nice ship."

"I hope you have a fine wedding." Isalba held her gaze.  "Thank you again for helping us with the supplies.  I know you were forced, but it is appreciated, nonetheless."

"Oh."  Megan started to tug her gloves off. "Your arm."

"Do not worry."  Isalba waved her off.  "I will have Harry sew me up."

"You are sure?"

"It would not be the first time," Isalba answered.  "Go now, before you are missed and someone comes looking for you and finds my crew."

"Good-bye, Isalba." Megan smiled sadly.

"Farewell to you, lovely lady."  Isalba's eyes twinkled.

Slowly, Megan turned and left the room.  She slipped out of the cabin and found herself with an escort, as Harry saw her down to her boat.  "I am sorry to have frightened you, lass.  Had I known you were a friend of Captain Cortez, I would have done things in a different way."

"Apology accepted."  Megan stopped and whirled to face him head on, placing one hand on her hip and poking him in the chest with a finger on the other.  "If you ever hurt my family, I will find you, even if I have to sail to the ends of the earth."  She gave him another poke for emphasis.  "And you owe me a length of French lace for my ruined skirt hem."  With a flounce of said skirt, she stepped into the boat and sat down, taking up oars as a chuckling Harry gave the small vessel a shove with his foot.

"I am sorry we will not be spending more time with you, Miss Megan."  He touched a finger to the brim of his hat, ducking his head in a respectful gesture.

Megan smiled in acknowledgment and began to row, feeling the slight bobbing of the boat as she moved out into the current in the middle of the channel.  A light mist was falling and she pulled up her coat collar against her neck with one hand, then resumed rowing.  "I am sorry as well," she whispered. 

In no time at all, she was pulling up next to the dock at Beibhinn's house.  Despite the cold, the front door flew open and Beibhinn stepped out on the porch, her arms crossed.  "Where have you been, Megan?  I have been worried sick over you."  From all the way across the long yard, Megan could see the deep frown lining her face.

"I am sorry."  She made her way up and ushered her sister back inside beside the warm fire.  "I did not realize how late it was.  I must ask a favor."

"You are running short of favors, baby sister."  Beibhinn tapped an impatient toe.

"If Ma were to ask, I was visiting you today.  Please?"  She lifted a blonde eyebrow beseechingly.

"You worry me half to death and then ask me to lie?"  Beibhinn threw up both hands.  "I am great with child.  I do not need to be carrying this as well."

"Please, Beibhinn." Megan moved to her side and took her arm, giving it a tug. "She is going to ask me to explain myself  as it is. I will be in trouble enough for visiting you without telling her I had changed my plans.  If she knew I went out in the boat alone when there are pirates about —"

"What!?"  Beibhinn sat down weakly.  "You saw them?"

"I —" Megan looked down, then sat down across from her.  "Yes.  I found her, Beibhinn.  She was there."

"Megan!"  Beibhinn was visibly shaking.  "I do not know what to say.  'Tis a dangerous game you are playing.  Did you tell her of your visions?"

"No. She is ill.  I sat with her a while."  Megan drew in a deep breath and released it slowly.  "We were not able to talk at length.  She burns with the fever.  I am afraid —"

"But you came back," Beibhinn pointed out with relief.  "Is this the last of this nonsense?"

" 'Tis not nonsense!"  Megan stood angrily and stalked toward the window.  "It does not feel complete, this thing between us.  I wish to talk to her again when she is well."

"I wish you would speak of it no more," Beibhinn replied fiercely.  "You endanger all of us, cavorting with a pirate woman."

"She will not let harm come to us."  Megan turned to face her.  "She promised me as much."

"Oh, and you believe the promises of a murderer and a thief!"  Beibhinn rose and shoved another log onto the fire, working it with agitated stabs of the poker.

"She is not a murderer!"  Megan yelled.

"How do you know that, little sister?" Beibhinn moved to her side, touching Megan's face and smoothing a few loose tendrils of hair back. 

"I —" It hit her then, how little Megan knew of the mystery that was Isalba Cortez.  "She has a good heart. I can feel it."

"She is a pirate," Beibhinn retorted.  "You have more than yourself to think about, Megan.  What if they had harmed you?  Patrick, Ma, Pappa, me — what would we do without our sweet Megan?  I should not have let you take the boat.  It was foolish."

"I need the boat again tomorrow," Megan replied earnestly.

"No," Beibhinn answered firmly.  "You go home now.  This is the end of this."

Megan felt disconnected, as if the day had not been real.  Her head was full of noise and she was exhausted.  Suddenly, all she wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep until dawn.  "You are right," she responded, not meeting Beibhinn's gaze.  "I am going home now to face Ma's wrath."

"That is my girl. The sooner you face her, the sooner it shall be over."  Beibhinn smiled and patted her arm.

Megan stepped back out into the mist, walking home without really seeing where she was going, following a path she had taken so often she need not pay attention.  The mist turned to rain, dampening her coat and bonnet, but she wore so many layers that her body remained dry.  Her shoes were ruined but at least she had a viable excuse for the dirt and tears in her clothing — walking in mud was slippery business.

As she reached the house she stopped short, looking up as the rain beat down upon her face.  It felt good, despite the cold, and she closed her eyes.  She could see Isalba's face so clearly in her mind's eye — her dark features and those striking blue eyes.  "Who are you?"  Shaking her head, she quit postponing the inevitable, and continued on inside the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry walked back up to the house, hearing thunder rumble in the distance.  He turned, facing the darkening sky.  Across the water on the horizon, sheets of gray rain were falling, and the current in the channel was growing swifter.  Louis joined him, puffing on a pipe.  "Smoke?"  Louis lifted a small pouch from his pocket.

"Aye."  Harry fished his own pipe from inside his coat and took the proffered tobacco, tapping the edge of the pouch and filling the pipe, then tamping it down.  It smelled sweet and spicy.  " 'Tis good tobacco country, Virginia Colony."

"Yes," Louis agreed.  "I am very glad to have taken enough to last the men for a fortnight or more if we are careful in our rationing.  Harry? How are we to trust that woman?"

" 'Salba trusts her," Harry responded.  "The Captain told me we need not worry.  She says this Megan is the woman who saved her life when she was captured here a long while back. I remember that night."

"I was not a part of Captain Covington's crew then."  Louis drew deeply from the pipe, holding the smoke before he released it with a rush through his nostrils.

"How do you Frenchman tolerate the strong smoke?"  Harry's cheeks puffed as he sucked in smoke without inhaling it.

Louis laughed.  "What is the point of smoking if you do not actually smoke?"  He drew in another lungful.  "The Cap-i-tan, what was it like when you were here last?"

"If I recall —"  Harry moved to the end of the porch and leaned against the rail, staring out toward Assateague.  "We had come up from Port Royal.  'Twas 'Salba's first trip there, in more ways than one."  He cocked an eyebrow.

Louis frowned.  "Oh."  A broad grin crossed his face.  "Ohhhhh."

"Aye," Harry continued.  "Our Captain had her fill of all the fineness the Port has to offer.  She was a lass of fourteen, but 'Salba, she is an old soul.  She came strutting back to the ship after taking her leave, full of liquor and mischief.  Most of the men had done the same.  A skeleton crew stayed near the ship, and I was among them, as was our cook back then.  'Cookie' we all called him. I no longer remember his real name, but he was the cook when 'Salba first joined the crew as our cabin boy."

"I have heard that story."  Louis chuckled.

"Covington, he may have taught 'Salba how to sail and fight, but he was a busy man.  Cookie — he taught her how to cook and sew and most importantly, how to read."  Harry leaned against a porch roof support and crossed his arms, his pipe dangling between two fingers.  "Opened up the world to her, he did.  Every book she could get her hands on, she read from cover to cover and Cookie she came to adore.  Covington was like a father to her, but Cookie was more of an older brother."

"Where is he now?"

"He died, here on Chincoteague."  Harry shook his head sadly.  "A great fever swept through Port Royal as we were leaving back then.  We lost six men to it, Cookie one of them.  'Salba had taken a shine to a Voodoo queen in the Port and had learned some of her ways.  She took Cookie ashore when we landed here to perform some ritual to try to save him.  She was captured and would have been hanged as a witch, but for Miss Megan breaking her out of the stocks.  'Salba has mentioned her from time to time."

"Even so —" Louis' eyes narrowed.  "How do you know she is trustworthy?"

"Me?"  Harry pointed at his own chest.  "I do not.  But I trust the Captain's judgement.  She is wholly unconcerned of betrayal by Megan."

"Still.  I do not like it."  Louis's nostrils flared and he chewed on his pipe stem.  "I would be more comfortable were we to have someone follow her."

"At your own peril, my friend."  Harry stood and walked back across the porch, clapping Louis on the shoulder.  "The Captain would not like it.  I do believe anyone who harms Miss Megan has a death wish."  He paused at the door, glancing at the windowsill.  With a laugh, he scooped up a handful of hairpins.  "I see most of the men agree with me."  He held up the pins for Louis to see.

"She did not take them with her."  Louis followed after him.

"She will be back," Harry replied.  "I would place a large wager on it."

Once inside, Louis pulled a chair up beside the fire, joining two other men who had come inside to warm up.   "The barn is air tight but this is by far warmer," he commented, shrugging out of his coat.

"I am going to check on the Captain."  Harry ducked inside Isalba's room and moved to the window, opening one shutter to let in the feeble light.  Isalba was on her side, eyes closed, one arm curled under her head.  The horse blankets barely covered her and he wished they had something more serviceable available.

"Harry," a scratchy voice croaked, and Isalba opened her eyes.

" 'Salba."  He sat down in the chair beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I have consumed a great amount of rum, although I have not," she groaned.

"That is not good."  Harry leaned forward, his forearms resting across his thighs.  "We should move you in the front room where it is warmer."

"Yes. I was going to ask you to do that very thing, but I forgot." Isalba sighed deeply and flung her arm across her face.  "My head, it is pounding." Coughing violently, she was forced to sit up.  "Aaaggghhh.  The coughing, it only makes my head worse."  She wiped her mouth with a rag, then coughed into it some more, studying a slight pink-tinged stain on the material.  " 'Tis in my lungs."

"That is it."  Harry stood.  "I am moving this bed to the front room and then we shall make you a bucket of hot water so you can breathe the steam."  Flexing his muscles, he grasped the railing at the foot of the bed and began to drag it across the floor.

"I should get up," Isalba protested.

"No."  Harry continued to give her a ride across the worn wooden floor.  "You are fine as you are.  This way I move you and the bed together.  You do not have to get out from beneath the blankets that way."

"You are a good man, Harry." Isalba made sure to stay in the center of the mattress, watching as the bed just squeezed through the doorway.

"You swabbies clear out."  Harry stopped to catch his breath.  "The Captain needs to be beside the fire."

Isalba thought at first to tell the men to stay, but with head swimming and stomach churning, she felt vulnerable and wished for privacy.  She closed her eyes as Harry finished moving the bed in place, vaguely aware of chairs scraping the floor as the men go out of the way.  "Hold on."  She mustered her strength enough to sit up halfway.  "As many men as can fit, they may drag blankets inside and sleep in the bedroom."

"Thank you, Captain," a few of the men replied.

With that, she sank back into the mattress and closed her eyes, hearing Harry fuss about as he placed a bucket of water on a hook hanging from a chain over the fire.  The flames roared pleasantly and popped occasionally, the fragrant pine scent just penetrating her stuffy nose.  It felt much better and the knot in her midsection began to relax, as she no longer shivered.

A flash of light lit up the window, followed by a rolling great thunder that shook the walls.  Soon afterward they heard rain pattering on the roof, its hypnotic staccato tapping lulling Isalba in and out of sleep.  Her eyes burned when she opened them and so she kept them closed, feeling at times as if she were floating, while odd, faceless shapes drifted through her uneasy dreams.  She felt heavy, as if she couldn't move.  From time to time she was aware of a damp rag at her forehead, a tug at a blanket, or a vapor of steam brushing across her face.  "Megan —" she whispered, tossing fitfully.

Beside her, Harry shook his head as he mixed up another mug of the bitter fever powders. "Captain. Night has fallen and your medicine has long worn off." He got an arm beneath her and pressed the mug to her lips.  "Drink."

"Meg —" Isalba coughed, her eyes fluttering open for only a moment.  Everything was blurry and she moaned softly, smelling the sharp scent of the liquid as she mindlessly gulped it down.  "Meg?"

"She has gone home, 'Salba," Harry reminded her, and she frowned, closing her eyes against light that was too bright for her fevered head.

"Home," Isalba muttered quietly.  "I have no home.  Covington —" She whimpered, as emotions kept carefully in check surfaced.  She no longer had the strength to fight them and so a few tears seeped out from behind closed lids.  Turning to her side, she covered her face with one hand. "Meg —"

"Besotted, you are," Harry answered, knowing she either wouldn't hear him or wouldn't remember if she did.  " 'Salba, she is not here."

Isalba released a quick, short breath, her body heaving with the effort.  A teardrop on her eyelashes glittered in the firelight, and as he listened carefully, Harry could hear her wheezing slightly as she breathed.  Touching her forehead, he drew back in alarm.  "You are on fire," he commented quietly. 

As if in answer, a shiver worked its way through Isalba's body and she curled up tightly into a ball.  In desperation, Harry retrieved both her coat and his own and placed those over the two blankets already covering her.  "We need some blasted woolen underthings and quilts," he muttered angrily.  She seemed to settle down a little and he retrieved his pipe, lighting it and moving to the window to peer out into the stormy night.   Dawn seemed a lifetime away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How many times am I to ask you, Megan?" Her father spun around from his pacing to face her, and she shrunk back closer to the warmth of the fire.  "Lying to your mother is a grave thing. If you were not engaged to be married, I would be taking you behind the woodshed to pick out a switch, you do know that, do you not?"

"Yes, Pappa."  Megan looked down at the tin cup of hot tea she held between both hands.  Her clothes were hanging beside the fire to dry and she was dressed in her woolen nightgown and wrapped in a heavy quilt. 

"I was by Silas' place today.  Goody Matthews did not mention you had come to visit.  We know 'tis a difficult day for her.  Did it slip her mind?"  Peadar looked her in the eye and she shook her head.

"No, Pappa," she almost whispered.

"And you did not talk to Patrick — he was by the sundry shop for a smoke late this afternoon.  You knew there was danger about.  Come the 'morrow a band of townsmen will go to the mainland to hunt down the savages that robbed us. Yet you, Megan, lie to your mother, disappear for several hours, and return with your clothing ruined and soaked."  Peadar ran one hand back through thick, graying hair.  "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"No, Pappa."  Megan gazed at him over the rim of her mug and took a sip.

"Then you will tell me —"  He closed the distance and slapped the mug from her grasp, sending it clattering loudly against the far wall, the tea splattering across the floor.  "Where did you go today!?"

Standing defiantly, Megan drew the quilt about herself. "Have I no life of my own? I am no longer a little girl!"  As loudly as she could stomp in her stocking feet, she left the room taking refuge behind the curtain that hung between her bedroom door and the front room.  Curling up in a ball in the middle of her bed, she hugged her pillow tightly to herself and closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the rising voices in the other room.

"I canna abide this!" Peadar roared, retrieving a pair of leather suspenders from a peg just inside the doorway of the other bedroom.

"Peadar, no."  Firinne stepped away from the corner where she had been wordlessly listening, observing her daughter.

"She still lives under my roof and she will not behave this way with us." Peadar started for Megan's room, only to be held back by Firinne's strong grasp on his shirt sleeve.

"And soon she will live under another," she gently reminded him.

"I will not give another man the problem I should be solving," Peadar fretted.  "She is the youngest and we have spoiled her.  It is time she learned the meaning of discipline."

"She has been a good girl," Firinne objected.  "Peadar, please.  You have not whipped her since she was a little girl.  Now 'tis not the time.  She has been restless of late.  Ever since —"

"Ever since what?" Peadar barked impatiently, his hand twitching as he held the suspenders.

"Since she was engaged to Patrick," Firinne responded quietly.  "She isna happy, Peadar."

"And who else is she to wed?"  Peadar frowned deeply.  "Chincoteague is but a small village.  Patrick is a fine man and he cares for her a great deal.  We make the best of the life we are given.  Megan must learn to be satisfied with what she has."

"I agree."  Firinne let go of his arm and touched his face, smoothing her fingertips over his well-tanned skin. "But do not beat her, Peadar.  She is so full of life. Do not break the spirit inside her, I beg of you.  'Twould be shameful at her age."

"Very well." Peadar returned the suspenders to their peg.  "But I hope we are not making a mistake.  'Twould be all the more shameful if one day Patrick must do what we have not."

Feeling every bit of his forty years, Peadar sat down in the chair Megan had vacated and poked the fire, then added a log to it. " 'Tis a very serious matter.  She lied to you."  He looked up at Firinne, searching her face.  "How can we let that go?"

"Oh, my love."  Firinne moved closer and held out a hand, waiting until he took it, drawing her onto his lap.  "In the same way we shall let her go to another home in a very short time."

"She is my daughter," Peadar objected. "I shall never be able to let her go completely."

"I know."  Firinne stroked his hair and then his bearded cheek.  "She is troubled.  Give her the night to sleep and perhaps tomorrow we shall get a proper answer from her."

"Very well."  Peadar lifted her hand and kissed it tenderly.  "I defer to your wisdom."  He smiled upon her warmly and then he touched her face, drawing her closer for a kiss.

In her room, Megan re-played the events of the day in her head, but it felt more and more as if it had been only a dream.  After four years of watching and wondering if she would ever see Isalba again, it had been all too simple, really.  And the time had passed much too quickly.  They had spoken very few words.  More time had been spent dozing, in between observing Isalba while she slept.  True, she was a pirate, as Beibhinn so readily pointed out.  But there was a warmth to Isalba, her eyes sparkling, her wisdom obvious even in her fevered state.

What a life Isalba must have led!  Sailing the seas, seeing far lands, commanding a ship.  They were adventures Megan could only imagine, places she could only read about.  For read she could now, having snuck to the window of the schoolhouse in the afternoons, listening to the lessons the schoolmaster taught.  Her self-education had been aided by a discarded reader, found in the rubbish heap behind the smithy's. It had no cover and a few pages missing, but for Megan it had opened up the world.

A world she would never see, she sadly realized.  Memories of the Irish farm she was born on were fading, as was the time spent on the tossing ship that brought them to the colonies when she was younger.  No, her entire universe centered around Chincoteague Island, with occasional journeys to Assateague and once or twice over to the mainland where she would eventually live with Patrick.

Patrick's world was not much bigger and there was little chance he wished it to be.  His hands gripped a plow, his back bent as he pushed it, his eyes no more than a few feet in front of him as he turned over the soil directly beneath his feet.  Patrick had already put down roots and by extension she would be planted beside him, to live and die beneath one solitary roof.

She remembered as a child, climbing to the top of the tallest tree she could find.  With great anticipation she held on from her perch, looking all around her, only to see nothing but more trees.  As she had sat there, the branch swaying beneath her, a bird had risen up before her eyes, spreading its wings and flying high overhead, away toward the sea.  How she had longed to be that bird.

Rising to her feet, she shed the quilt and drew on a house robe over her nightgown, before she padded out into the main room.  Her father sat beside the fire mending a fishing net, while across from him her mother rocked and darned stockings. "Pappa, Ma, I am sorry for my behavior and beg your forgiveness."

Peadar looked up and then at Firinne, who shook her head slightly.  Peadar sighed, obviously wanting to question her further. Instead, he mustered up a smile.  "I could never stay angry at you for long, Megan.  You are forgiven."

"Thank you, Pappa."  Megan picked up a mop from the corner and took her time, cleaning up the tea that still sat in a puddle on the floor beside the far wall. 

"Oh." Firinne watched her.  "I had forgotten about the spill."

"It is my fault," Megan answered her.  "I should be the one to clean it up."

"Do you want me to put the kettle on for more tea?" Firinne rested her sewing in her lap.

"No thank you, Ma."  Megan finished her task and returned the mop to the corner, setting it next to a sturdy broom.  "I am full from the fine dinner you cooked, and should like nothing more than to go to bed."

"Very well."  Peadar looked up from the net that was draped across the chair arm and along the floor next to him.  "Good night, Megan."

"Good night, Pappa."  Megan came forward and bent over, kissing him on the forehead.  "Good night, Ma."  She turned, pecking her mother on the cheek.

Returning to her room with a candle in hand, Megan sat it on the small table next to the bed and knelt down next to the window, watching the rain fall in the gathering darkness.  It was near the time of year for the ritual, but it would be no more, now that all the O'Brien girls were married or soon to be.  She could see Isalba's face so clearly.  For all those years, it had been the same, never changing, never giving anything farther away.  It was maddening to not understand what it meant.

Perhaps she wasn't meant to understand it.  She sighed and blew out the candle, then curled up in bed once more, pulling the covers over herself against the creeping chill of night.  With eyes closed, she forced herself to remember what it felt like to stand on the deck of a sailing ship.  It had been a cold journey, but she had spent as much time top deck as allowed, feeling the chill spray in her face and the rolling motion of the deck as she clung to the railing.  Beyond that, she remembered little else, but vaguely recollected the hold of the ship had been a rather unpleasant place.

Isalba, she knew, had been to the islands.  She remembered their talk of forbidden magic, back on that night when they had met.  What must it be like in such wonderful, wild places?  How did it feel to be free to sail away to wherever you wanted to go, with no one telling you what to do?  Maybe if she thought about it hard enough, she would dream about it.

Dream she did, but not of the islands, or adventures.  Images of farm life invaded her sleep, the dry soil on her hands as she pulled up potatoes in the cold, damp air, and the sweat running down her face as she hoed the garden.  At her feet were a dozen nameless, faceless children, all of them clutching at her skirts until she fell down, clawing at the ground to push herself up and regain her footing.

Instead, she fell, spiraling down into the darkness as the cold Virginia dirt tumbled down upon her.  She slid and tossed, unable to breathe, until she came awake with a jerk of her body so violent it lifted her off the mattress.  Sitting up, she panted, gasping for air, her nightgown soaked in sweat despite the cold air in the room.  "Blast," she muttered the forbidden word softly.  Her throat was dry and she wondered if she had been screaming in her sleep, but as she cocked her head, the house was quiet, save for her father's light snoring.

Quietly, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the main room for a dipperful of water.  As she sipped at the cold liquid, she moved to the front window and looked out.  It was dark gray, signaling the coming dawn.  Dark silhouettes of tree limbs jutted up against the blank sky, a light wind stirring them with a clicking noise she could barely hear through the sturdy walls of the house her father had built.

She placed a hand against the wall, feeling the rough log against her fingertips.  It was the only home she fully-remembered, but now the space between those walls seemed very narrow.  The dream was still fresh, so fresh she could almost smell the dirt she had been working.  She was sixteen and about to be married.  How long before the first baby came along?  And the next?  How many after that?

Megan shivered.

She knew what she had to do.

Dropping the dipper into the bucket, she crept back into her room and pulled a small carpet bag from beneath the bed.  What few possessions she owned soon filled it, her clothing neatly folded on top of them.  Donning her coat, she looked around the room, then opened the bedroom window, crawling out and taking off into the coming light of a new day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4

Megan made a stop at the barn, slipping inside and letting the hood on her cloak fall back.  It wasn't nearly as cold as it had been the day before and for that, she was grateful.  It would be five long miles to the house where Isalba and the pirates were staying.  Stepping through clean, springy hay, she made her way to a corner where her mother's herbal storage bins were nailed to the wall below several hooks that held lengths of rope and tools for various purposes.  Sifting through the bins, she selected a small jar and tucked it into her bag.

Once the jar was nestled safely among her clothing, she removed a small velvet bag from among her things and untied two satin cords.  She studied the ring on her finger for a long moment, then with a twist, removed it and dropped it into the bag and shoved it into one of the bins behind all the jars and packets there.  Her mother would eventually find it and return it to Patrick. Megan only hoped she was long gone by the time it was discovered.  "I'm sorry," she whispered to her absent fiancé.  "But you deserve much better than what I have to offer you.  I hope you find your happiness with another, Patrick."

After dropping the bin lid closed, she then opened the barn door a crack, looked around, and satisfied no one was up yet, ran for the tree line.  The sky was clear now, and she looked up at the few remaining stars, which twinkled down on her in a friendly manner.  It was comforting somehow, in a moment when she was feeling mostly friendless.  Trying hard not to think about the past or the future, she ducked her head down and put purpose into her steps, concentrating on the moment at hand and getting as far away from home as quickly as she could.

She had debated leaving a note but two things had stopped her: the knowledge that if they had any clue where she was going, they would come after her and mostly likely burn Isalba at the stake if they could catch her; and, her race with daylight to get away before her parents woke up.  A part of her felt guilty, knowing her mother would worry and likely cry, and that her father would be heart-broken. 

Patrick, she tried to put out of her mind — the house he had built, the shame he would likely suffer, and the wedding plans that would not go forward.  Beibhinn's unborn child might never know any of its aunts, and that saddened her.  "I am the most selfish girl that ever lived," she chastised herself.  And yet, she could not turn back.  Her course was set. This was her last chance to escape a destiny that seemed determined to tie itself around her neck like a noose.

Her hope was that her parents would look for her first with Patrick, and head for the mainland in the opposite direction of where she was going.  Her greatest hope was that they would not go to Beibhinn until they had exhausted all other possibilities.   It would be like their mother to not want to worry Beibhinn during her pregnancy unless there was no other way to avoid it.  And much as she wanted to throw them off, her carpet bag missing would be evidence enough that she had left of her own free will.  She did not want any savages blamed for kidnapping her as well as Silas.

So many thoughts whirred around in her head, it almost made her dizzy.  "Stop it!"  She halted and took a deep breath.  "You do not love Patrick.  You do not want six children.  You do not want to spend the rest of your life keeping house on a farm.  You do not want to die having seen only ten miles of the same land."  Her heart was beating wildly and she closed her eyes, thinking about the sea.  Her father had been a fisherman for a long while, and so the salt air and water ran through her veins as well.  She was not sure if she heard its call but she certainly heard the beckoning of the greater world around her.

As she opened her eyes, the blue waters in her mind morphed into the blue of the morning sky, and then the blue of Isalba's eyes.  They were incredible and she smiled, hoping those eyes would be friendly when she made her plea.  What if Isalba didn't want to take her with them?  Well, Megan frowned.  She would simply have to find a way to convince her it was in her best interests.

It was a much shorter walk than she had anticipated, and soon she stood at the edge of the woods, looking out toward the house.  She squinted, barely able to see the pale, almost-invisible white smoke trailing up from the chimney.  "How did she manage that?"  Megan shook her head.  She doubted the smoke could be detected from the beach.  And there was not a man in sight.  No telltale skiffs on the water.  To the naked eye, it was the same deserted house as the morning before.

Someone touched her shoulder and she dropped her carpet bag, nearly jumping out of her skin.  "Yah!"  A rough hand wrapped around her throat and she swallowed, as another one closed over her mouth.

"Now, you listen to me, girlie."  Louis spoke low, directly into her ear.  His breath stunk of liquor and Megan wrinkled her nose.  "The Cap-i-tan is fooled by your charms, but I am on to your bewitchments.  How many in your village know of us?"  He shook her hard.  "Hmmmm?"

"Numphhhh." She tried to answer him and he laughed. 

"I do not believe you." His grip tightened around her neck and she saw stars. Curling one lip up as best she could, she got her mouth partway open and clamped down.  "Owwwww!"  Louis yelled and released her, then reflexively slapped her across the face.  "You bit me!"

Rubbing her face, Megan's eyes flashed angrily and she drew back a foot and kicked him hard in the shin.  "I couldna breathe, you old sod!"

"Augggghh!" Louis grabbed his injured leg, jumping up and down on the other one.  He drew a knife and waved it in an arc.  "You listen to me."

Megan looked around and grabbed a long, solid, slender branch from the ground.  "No, you listen to me."  She swung it, proving her reach was greater than his by almost a body's length.  "I did not tell a soul of this place or Isalba or her crew." She emphasized the word 'her.'  "There are things you are too thick to understand so all I can say is you must know I wouldna do such a thing.  And if you ever touch me again —" She swung the branch again, coming dangerously close to his privates.  "— I shall kick much higher and harder."

"Hah."  Louis stepped closer but stopped as the branch nearly took his head off.  "Now, you listen to me.  I am not afraid of you!"

"No?"  Megan smiled charmingly.  "Are you afraid of her?" Opening her mouth, she drew in a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

"No!" Louis held up both hands.  "No, no, no!"  But it was too late, as the back door of the house flew open and Harry came running out.

"What in bloody hell is happening?" Harry yelled.  "Oh."  He saw Megan and Louis and made a beeline for them. "Miss Megan."

"Hello, Harry."  Megan stuck one end of the branch in the ground and leaned on it, smiling up at him.

"Was that you?"  He grinned. "Such a great noise for such a slight girl."

"Your watch frightened me," she glanced sidewise at Louis, who glared at her in return.

"Why, Louis." Harry held up a finger and shook it at him.  "You should not sneak up on women-folk.  They are delicate."

"Hmmphhh."  Louis crossed his arms over his chest.

"What happened to your hand?"  Harry noted a few bloody bite marks between Louis' thumb and index finger.

"Squirrel," Louis quipped. "Tried to steal my bag of walnuts."

"I see.  And Megan, your fair cheek, 'tis very red."  Harry eyed Louis suspiciously.

"I ran into an ugly old tree," Megan replied matter of factly, glaring at Louis on the word 'ugly.'

"Ah."  Harry leaned over and retrieved her bag, then held out his other arm.  "Shall I escort you to see the Captain?  She is still fevered and sleeping, but I believe she will be glad to see you when she wakens."

"I would be most grateful." Megan tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Louis, the Captain would like for you to stand watch through the noon hour."  Harry shooed him back to the trees with one hand and Megan, standing behind Harry, stuck her tongue out at Louis.

"Very well," Louis fumed.

"Who won the fight?"  Harry leaned over conspiratorially, speaking low so Louis could not hear them. 

"I did." Megan laughed lightly.

"You know, the Captain would have his head if he is responsible for the red mark on your face." Harry studied her carefully.  "For that matter, I would have it as well."

"Yes, and Louis is aware of that."  Megan smiled smugly.  "I do not wish anyone to die at my expense.  I am fine now.  It does not hurt to have one such as him beholden to me, does it?"

Harry laughed loudly, his red beard shaking with the effort.  "You are certain you are not injured?"  He finally, soberly, asked her and she nodded affirmatively until he relaxed.  "Why do I get the feeling you are accustomed to getting what you want?"

"Because you are an astute gentleman," Megan replied, patting his arm.

They reached the house and Harry held the door open for her.  Untying her bonnet, she made her way through the back lean-to into the main room, where Isalba lay sleeping beside the fire.  Megan knelt down on the hard wooden floor next to her and reached out, touching her forehead.  "She is still so warm."  Megan looked up at Harry, her features worried.

"Aye."  Harry set her bag down and Megan immediately opened it, retrieving her jar of herbs.  "What is that?"

"Me mother's fever remedy."  Megan stood and lifted a pitcher of water from a nearby table, filling the mug next to it partway and dropping a few pinches of the pungent powder into the water.  "It has never failed to draw the heat away from the body.  She needs to drink this."

Turning to Isalba, Megan touched her face, then stroked her hair.  "Isalba," she spoke softly. 

Two blue eyes fluttered open and Isalba smiled.  "I was dreaming of angels. I must be asleep yet."

"No." Megan smiled and cradled the back of her head with one hand.  "I brought you stronger medicine.  Here.  Drink."  She tilted the mug against Isalba's lips.

"Ugggh." Isalba hesitated, then swallowed quickly, draining the mug in only a few gulps.  "Are you sure it is not poison?"

Megan laughed lightly.  "No.  It only tastes like poison.  It is the same powders she brought from the old country and nursed my sisters and me through many a horrible illness. It will make you sleepy." Megan slowly lowered Isalba's head back down to the pillow.  "You should rest now."

The medicine was already hitting Isalba's system, slamming through her veins with rapid force. There was something she wanted to say — to ask — but her tongue felt thick, her mind fuzzy.  Instead she reached over, taking Megan's hand.  "Stay," she whispered.

"That is what I had in mind," Megan replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Isalba stirred and turned, pulling a blanket more tightly around herself.  She was shivering but her head felt surprisingly clear.  Raising a hand to her own forehead, she realized her hair was damp with sweat, as were the shirt and trousers she wore.  Her fever had broken and her eyes no longer felt like they were filled with sand.  The nearby fire crackled invitingly and she studied the flames as they licked hungrily at the stacked logs that fed them.

A glance toward the window revealed it was twilight and she frowned, realizing she had slept the day away.  "Time to change these soaked rags."  She lifted the blanket and braced herself against the cooler air of the shadow-filled room.  "Oh." Turning, she noticed the sleeping figure curled up on a blanket at one end of the hearth.

In sleep, Megan appeared incredibly young.  "Sixteen years old," Isalba mused quietly.  "A mere slip of a girl."  Megan was curled up on her side, her right arm crooked and pillowing her head, and her left hand tucked up under her chin.  Curiously, Isalba studied her, realizing the ring that had adorned her ring finger was gone.  Against the wall was an unfamiliar carpetbag, with a woman's bonnet folded up on top of it.  "Hmmppph."

"First things first."  Isalba rose and ambled unsteadily toward a table, where the men had separated and folded a pile of assorted clothing.  She dug through it, finding a dry shirt and clean pair of trousers, which she held up in front of herself.  Satisfied they were close enough of a fit, she shimmied out of the pants she wore and pulled the clean ones up, buttoning them at her waist, before she tugged the cold, sweat-soaked shirt over her head.

As she started to don the dry blouse, she heard a soft gasp behind her and turned.  A pair of green eyes fastened on her for a long moment, then quickly glanced away.  Her expression impassive, Isalba slowly allowed the shirt to drape and fall down over her body, covering her bare torso.  She tugged her hair free of the shirt collar and tied the rawhide laces in front closed.

"Tell me that potion you poured down my throat did not take me out for more than a day."  Isalba walked slowly toward Megan and knelt down, squatting on her haunches, her forearms draped casually across her thighs.

"No.  Oh, no."  Megan met her gaze.  "You have only slept since the morning.  It is nigh on to supper time.  I believe your men are all out in the barn where your cook has made a pot of stew. Are you hungry?  You certainly look to be feeling much better than before."

"That, I am." Isalba eased one knee to the floor.  "I owe you my gratitude for the medicine."

" 'Tis my mother's mixture." Megan rose, not quite sitting, propping her weight on one hand.

"It grows late."  Isalba reached out, tilting Megan's chin up with two fingertips. "They will be missing you at home."

Megan tried to look down but Isalba held her face firmly in place.  She swallowed audibly, looking anywhere but toward the two blue eyes that threatened to burn a hole through her.  "They know not where I am, if that is what you are asking."

"What is in your bag?"  Isalba let go of her chin, only to grasp her left hand.  "Why are you here?" She squeezed Megan's fingers together, then took only her ring finger, twisting it a little.

"Ouch."  Megan attempted to pull away, only to have Isalba draw closer, her face unreadable.

"Why?!"  She flung Megan's hand away and stood, pacing away from her toward the window.

"I —"  Megan sat up and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them.  "I canna go back there."

"You cannot stay here."  Isalba spun around and came back, kneeling down again.  "It will bring your village down on my head.  I have to protect my men."

"The village men, they all be on the mainland by now," Megan shot back at her.  " 'Tis a great distraction at present.  A man from our village has gone missing.  Blood was found beside the well in the town square.  The men, they think savages robbed us and took him."  Megan reached out, touching the new laces on Isalba's shirt, the scent of leather still fresh.  "It was not the savages, was it?"

Isalba didn't answer, but shook her head in frustration.  "You must go home."

"I canna," Megan answered stubbornly.

"I cannot be responsible.  I will not add kidnapping you to the list of crimes against me."  Isalba stood, her hands on her hips.

"It is not kidnapping if the person goes with you willingly, now is it?" Megan also stood, holding her arms out in supplication. "Isalba, please.  I shall die if I go back there."

"You have a home and a family and a fiancé," Isalba objected.  "What became of your ring?"

"I canna keep it if I do not intend to marry Patrick." Megan flipped her left hand up, glancing for a moment at her empty ring finger.  "I do not love him," she added softly.  "I left it in a cabinet in our barn. It will be found and returned to him, eventually."

"It does not matter.  Go home.  Marry or not.  'Tis none of my affair." Isalba moved a step closer, her features hard.  "The one place you may not remain is here.  There is no place for a woman on my ship. And I will command a ship again, sooner rather than later."

"You are a woman," Megan pointed out the obvious.

"I am the captain," Isalba retorted.  "Women on a ship are nothing but trouble."

"I can cook and clean and sew." Megan presented needle-pricked finger tips for inspection.  "My father, he is a fisherman.  I can mend nets."

"Really?"  Isalba let her guard down, just a fraction.  "What of sails?  Our sail-maker, I fear he has drowned in the wreck."

"I can mend sails," Megan hastily confirmed.  "And braid rope."

"No!"  Isalba became angry at herself for faltering.  "Dammit, woman!"  She deliberately turned her back on Megan, striding quickly toward the window, staring out at the gathering darkness.  "The sea is a dangerous place.  My men can be dangerous.  I — am dangerous."  She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely in front of her.  "There is no place for you on my ship!"

"You do not have a ship!"  Megan yelled in frustration.  "How can you say such a thing when you know not how big a ship you shall have?"

"No ship would be big enough," Isalba countered.  "Do you understand who I am?"

"I —" Megan looked down, feeling her eyes stinging, willing herself not to break down and use tears.  "No, but I know there is something drawing me to you.  Every year, I saw you —" she trailed off.

"In a vision," Isalba finished for her, her tone less harsh.  "I remember."

"Isalba." Megan moved to her side and looked out the window.  "Do you not feel it?  Please tell me I am not insane."

"I do not know. What is it you wish me to feel?"  Isalba eyed her cautiously.

"Oh."  Megan stomped one foot.  "I do not know, exactly.  I only know I cannot marry Patrick.  I was in despair for these past weeks and you come along, just in time.  I do not know what all it means.  But I canna go back home.  I do not belong there.  I want — oh, so many things.  I want to see what is beyond this place.  Please, take me with you.  I will make myself useful to you.  I must escape this place.  You are my only hope."

"I should send you home." Isalba released a frustrated breath.

"No.  Please." Megan touched her arm.  "If you send me back, I will not stay. I shall wait for the next ship to come along.  Would you leave me to go off with a ship full of strangers?"

"We are strangers!"  Isalba looked around for a way out, her back still to the wall beside the window.  Megan's hand was steady and warm through the material of the shirt and she looked down, watching as Megan gave her arm a squeeze.

"I saved your life.  And you saved mine," Megan spoke earnestly, her eyes brimming with tears.  "Does that not make us friends?"

"I am a thief, and a murderer," Isalba reasoned.

"Not to me," Megan took Isalba's hand and held it between her own.  "To me, you are a savior."

Isalba snorted, then made the mistake of locking eyes with Megan.  So close, she could see the golden flecks dancing against green, reflecting the firelight across the room.  Megan sniffled and the tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks.  In that moment, Isalba was lost. Or maybe she was found.  Reaching up, she brushed them away, her fingers lingering a moment too long against soft skin.  "Please.  Do not cry, Megan.  You may stay."

"Oh."  Megan flung herself against Isalba, hugging her fiercely.  "I canna thank you enough."

"Do not thank me." Isalba reluctantly disengaged herself from Megan's hold, surprised at just how much her body protested the loss.  "I am a thief, do you understand that?"  Megan shook her head soberly, as Isalba's continued. "I have killed, and I will kill again. That man in your village, I sliced open his throat.  Do you still wish to go with me?" 

"Yes," Megan answered without hesitation.  Solemn green eyes studied Isalba.  "He is the one who metes out the whippings."

"Yes," Isalba answered in surprise.  "That he is.  One thing more. I do not care if savages are punished for my crime.  The longer your village is looking the other direction from here, the better. And I demand complete loyalty from my crew.  Do you still wish to stay with me?"

"I —" Megan looked down.

" 'Yes' or 'no'. Decide now," Isalba persisted.

"Yes."  Megan looked up.  "Captain," she added with a little flourish of a courtesy.

"Goddess help me," Isalba mumbled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With purposeful stride, Isalba left the house and crossed the yard between there and the barn.  She needed a chance to breathe, and had ordered Megan to stay in the house and asked her to make a pot of tea, in hopes it would keep her occupied.  It was almost dark and after losing yet another day, she felt restless.  It was time to get off the island.  Winter was coming.  She could feel it in the air, and observe it in the behavior of the few animals that had not flown south or gone into hibernation.

As she reached the barn, she heard raucous laughter and a lively harmonica jig.  It immediately lifted her spirits, taking her back to nights on board ship when they were out at sea and the waters were calm enough for top deck entertainment.  True, there was no fiddle and no accordion.  Those instruments had been lost in the wreck, but to hear the men clapping and singing did her heart good. A happy crew was less likely to be a mutinous one.

"Hello," she eased inside the barn and leaned against the wall.  "Carry on." She gestured with one hand, as the harmonica player paused for a moment, then smiled and did her bidding.  Waiting through two songs, Isalba accepted a mug of ale and took a long, thoughtful swallow.  Fishing her pipe from her pocket, she filled it with tobacco and was soon inhaling the sweet, heady smoke. 

"Captain, I see you are recovered from your fever."  Cooks approached her and briefly clasped her shoulder.  "Would you care for some stew?  It is thick and hearty, full of potatoes and ham."

"Perhaps after I speak with the men."  Isalba pushed away from the wall and joined the circle, as the song in progress wound down.  "It is Saturday night." She looked around expectantly.

"Aye," Thomas agreed with her.  "And a fine evening it is, especially now that you are feeling better, Captain."

"And?"  Isalba crossed her arms.

" 'And?' Captain?" Thomas frowned.

"Have all of you bathed?"  She placed her hands on her hips and sniffed the air delicately.  "If I were to guess, I would say you have not."

" 'Twas Covington's rule, was it not?"  Angus asked cautiously.

"Who do you think suggested it to him?"  She persisted.  "Unchecked, the stench of your body will give way to illness.  Have you not seen this in the very streets of the ports?  There is a trough over there." She pointed to a sizeable wooden feedbox in one corner.  "Use the cook fire to warm some water and all of you, I expect you to be clean before you retire this evening.  Harry —"

"Yes, Captain." Harry set down a mug and rose from a barrel serving as a stool.

"Have the bed moved back into the bedroom in the house, so more men may sleep beside the fire in the front room." She drew deeply from her pipe, blowing a smoke ring.

"Yes, Captain."  Harry looked around.  "Samuel, if you would help me —"

"One more thing," Isalba interrupted him.  "Find a mattress or if you cannot find one, have someone make one.  There is enough clean hay in the loft here to fill one. Place it on the floor in the bedroom in the house, and find some blankets for it.  We have taken on another crew member."

"Aye, Captain," Harry answered in a grave voice, his twinkling eyes giving away his true emotions.

"Crew member, Cap-i-tan?"  Louis eased closer, frowning.  "Surely you do not mean to take on the girl?"

"Are you questioning my decision, Louis?"  Isalba studied him, her eyes dangerous.

"No, Cap-i-tan, of course not.  But you said yourself yesterday, the rules —"

"The rule is no taking a woman aboard ship for the purpose of pleasure, willing or otherwise," Isalba shot back at him.  "Female crew members, while rare, are a different matter entirely."

"Rare? We have never had a female crew member, before!"  Louis replied in outrage.  Isalba merely turned to fully face him, her head tilted slightly, one eyebrow raised.  Laughter rose up around her and Louis turned three shades of red as he realized what he had said.  "Pardon, Cap-i-tan."  He bowed slightly and backed away a step.  "I do not think of you as a — what I mean to say is that you are a —"

"Yeeesssss?" Isalba propped one boot up on a barrel and rested a forearm casually across her thigh.  "Pussy got your tongue, Louis?"  More laughter rang out.  "Hmmm?"

"I have only thought of you as the first mate in the past.  Now you are the captain." Louis finished meekly.  "I never thought of you as a —"

"Please, to stop while you are ahead," Isalba cut him off.  "The girl knows how to mend sails and fishing nets.  She will be of great help to us, once we take to the water.  Tomorrow morning I will need a party to go to the village.  While the village is at the church meeting-house, we shall take the largest fishing vessel we can find.  It will be a temporary vessel, until we are able to obtain a larger ship.  As long as we find one big enough to carry us away from here, it will do.  Harry, I would like for you, Giles, and Louis to accompany me. That is all.  Bathe, all of you, and carry on."

"Aye, Captain."  Harry frowned and followed after her as she left the barn. "Captain, Louis and Giles?  Did you not have Giles punished, only yesterday?"

"Yes.  I am going to assign Megan to assist Cooks with preparing our food stores to ship out.  She will be here.  Louis and Giles will be with me," Isalba responded.  "I cannot watch her and steal a ship for us at the same time, so I will put the two of them to work."

"Ah.  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?"  Harry chuckled.

"Exactly."  Isalba mounted the steps to the porch.

"Captain, how did you know about Louis?"  Harry held the door open for her.

"He protests her presence too much," Isalba replied.  "It is merely a feeling that he will eventually be trouble.  Why? Is there something more I should know?"

"I —" Harry looked down, realizing he had not actually witnessed anything.  "Captain, I suspect he struck Miss Megan this morning.  He was on watch when she approached the house.  Her face had a red mark on it."

"Oh?"  Isalba's features darkened.  "Megan!" She entered the house and found Megan kneeling beside the fire, lifting the teapot full of hot water.  "Stand up, please."

Megan set the teapot down and stood, wiping her hands on a rag serving as a makeshift apron.  Isalba touched her chin, tilting her face toward the firelight.  Megan's face was no longer blotched with tears, nor red with the frustration of argument.  Brushing fingertips lightly across Megan's cheek, Isalba noted the slightest darkening below her left eye.  "Did someone hit you?"

"I —"  Megan looked past her at Harry, who appeared apologetic.

"Look at me," Isalba drew her attention back.  "You swore loyalty to me.  Tell me.  Did someone hit you?"

"Yes, Captain," Megan answered quietly. "But only after I bit 'im first. And I kicked 'im in the shin after 'e hit me."

"I assume the both bite and kick were deserved."  Isalba released a surprised laugh.  "Who did this?"

"I — please.  No more beatings on my behalf," Megan pleaded.

"I am the captain," Isalba sternly reminded her. "I shall decide who does and does not deserve punishment among my crew.  Now.  Who hit you?"

"It was Louis," Megan relented.  "I told 'im I shall kick 'im in the privates if he touches me again."

"He shall have no privates if he touches you again," Isalba retorted.  "Very well, he will not be beaten."

"Captain?" Harry's head snapped up in surprise.

"In this case, a beating is not what I promised."  Isalba removed her cloak, draping it over the back of a chair.  "However, I should have you beaten for withholding this information from me."

"That is my fault," Megan jumped in.  "Harry did not see Louis hit me.  He merely suspected as much, but I didna tell him, for certain, what had happened."

"Then perhaps I should have you beaten," Isalba lightened her tone, to take the sting from her words.

"At that time, I had not yet pledged my fealty to you, Captain," Megan countered, a touch of mischief in her voice.

"Ah, that is true."  Isalba approached her again, circling her slowly. She stopped behind Megan, just short of touching her and leaned over her shoulder, her lips near Megan's ear. "And now?  I have your fealty? You are ready to obey my orders?"

Her voice sent a chill skittering down Megan's spine. "Ye - yes, Captain."

"Good, my first order is that you cease calling me 'Captain' unless we are in front of the men. Harry does not count. He is my first mate, as you know."  Isalba moved back into Megan's line of sight.  "Harry, if you will see to that mattress."

"Yes.  Captain, what of Louis? Shall I —"

"I will deal with Louis in my own way and in my own time."  Isalba removed a whetstone from her pocket and retrieved both daggers from her boots.

"Isalba, please —" Megan squeaked.

"I made my feelings clear yesterday, Megan."  Isalba held up a hand.  "Louis heard me. I hold my men to their word.  I cannot hold myself to any less a standard."

"It — may I say something, please, and not be beaten for it?"  Megan was no longer teasing, all traces of impudence gone.

"Of course." Isalba smiled and patted the empty chair next to her.  "It is just you and me.  Harry, that mattress?"

"Oh.  Yes, Captain."  Harry hastily left the house, closing the front door behind him.

"Now, what do you wish to say?"  Isalba began sharpening one of her daggers.

"You plan to have Louis killed, do you not?"  Isalba nodded and Megan continued, "It makes me feel guilty, as if his blood is on my hands.  It hurts.  In here."  She placed a hand over her heart.

"Listen to me. His blood shall be on his own hands, not yours."  Isalba set down the dagger.  "I made a rule.  Had they been taunting another woman from your village, I would have acted no differently.  I do not tolerate my men abusing women, but this goes much deeper. You are soon to go to sea with me and two dozen men. Even the largest ship grows quickly small after a few days away from shore.  For your protection, the rules must be firmly established and the penalty for breaking them sternly enforced."

"I do not want special treatment," Megan protested.

"This is not special treatment," Isalba explained.  "But you do wish to be treated as an equal member of the crew, do you not?"  Megan nodded and Isalba touched her chin again, stroking her cheek once with her thumb.  "Then the men must understand you are not aboard our ship for purposes of entertainment.  Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I — Yes."  Megan blushed and was relieved when there was a knock at the door.

"Captain, pardon me." Harry poked his head inside.  "One of the men set to work on making a mattress as soon as you left the barn.  I have it here.  It is not much — a few flour sacks sewn together and stuffed with hay, but it is serviceable. Shall I bring it in?"

"Megan, I will have some buckets of water brought in so that you and I may wash.  For tonight, I will sleep on the mattress and you will take the bed."  Isalba stood.

"I will take the mattress, and you the bed," Megan contradicted her.  "No special treatment, remember?"

"But —" Isalba stopped, realizing just how it would look were the men to see her giving up her bed for a crew member.  "Very well.  Harry, make sure we have plenty of blankets for Megan's mattress."

"Aye, Captain."  Harry emerged from the bedroom.  "Shall I hand-select the men who will be allowed to sleep in the house?  After the two of you have bathed, of course."

"Yes.  Thank you, Harry."  Isalba watched him leave, and turned to Megan.  "Do not contradict me in front of the men again.  That includes Harry."

"I am sorry." Megan studied her and finding no harshness in Isalba's eyes, continued, the mischief returning to her voice, "Does this mean I am allowed to contradict you when we are alone?"

Isalba glanced at her, then stood and placed her sharpened daggers back in her boots.  "As if I could stop you."  She donned her cloak.  "I am going to go get the water for our bath myself."  Pausing in the doorway, she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, a smile tugging at her lips.  "The captain does not fetch bath water for the crew.  Will you hurry up and help me?"

"Oh, of course." Megan hastily stood, grabbing her own coat and trotting after her.

Not quite allowing Megan to catch up, Isalba turned and headed for the well, hearing Megan's footsteps behind her.  "Will you please slow down?"  Megan breathlessly fell in beside her.  "Your legs must be twice the length of mine.  I canna keep up."

"You assume I wanted you to keep up," Isalba deadpanned.

"Oh.  I am sorry.  I —"  Megan stopped, allowing Isalba to get ahead.

Isalba turned and laughed.  "I got you with that one, did I not?  Well, come on."  She motioned at Megan, who paused and simply stared at Isalba in exasperation, then finally smiled and re-joined her.

"You are a most confusing person," Megan commented.

Isalba glanced at her and snorted.  "Where is a mirror when I need one?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"  Megan gave her a little poke.

Isalba captured the poking finger and held it for a moment, then tucked Megan's hand in the crook of her elbow and held it there. "Nothing.  Nothing at all."

Sharing the roles of confuser and confused, they walked on toward the well in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long before sunrise, Isalba awoke.  It had taken a long time to fall asleep.  Megan's presence on the mattress next to the bed had proven to be a much greater distraction than anticipated.  They had talked little after bathing, though both had laughed a few times as they listened to the men in the main room getting ready for bed, their talking and antics, and then their snoring penetrating the thin wood of the closed bedroom door. 

Megan had fallen asleep before Isalba, who had spent at least an hour peering over the edge of the bed, watching the younger woman as moonlight spilled across her face from the window.  She had thought of Megan often during the years following her first visit to Chincoteague, but as time had passed, she had come to think of her as something of a dream — a memory she would hold in her heart but was likely to never revisit.  And now, there she was, sleeping next to her as if she belonged there.

Finally after thought circled back upon thought and confusing emotions followed behind, Megan's deep, even breathing served to calm Isalba's racing brain and lull her into slumber as well.  Illness, the sadness of losing Captain Covington, and the stress of making sure the men were cared for had also taken their toll.  When she finally slept, Isalba slept deeply, overcome by exhaustion. 

Now, in the dark early morning hours, she felt surprisingly rested and ready to face the day.  With any luck they would be gone soon to a place where they could truly reorganize and refocus.  At present she felt as if she were sitting in place, tossed back and forth between the waves but never moving forward.  She sat up and carefully stepped over Megan, but the mattress had her blocked in and there was no avoiding stepping on it and jostling it, even if she avoided stepping on its occupant.  "Blast," she cursed  softly, as Megan stirred.

"It is dark outside," a sleepy voice complained.

"Most mornings when I rise, it is dark," Isalba answered, laughing lightly.

" 'Tis not the gray of dawn," Megan pointed out.  " 'Tis black as pitch."

"Go back to sleep," Isalba suggested.  She felt around and located her flint and striker, lighting a candle on a table at the foot of the bed.

"And how am I to sleep with you setting the room ablaze," Megan grumbled.

"My, my. Are you not the grumpy one? Am I to look forward to this attitude every morning?"  Isalba located her trousers and tugged them on over her long undergarments.

"That would depend," Megan shifted until her head was at the foot of the mattress, her chin propped up on crossed arms.  She looked up.

"Depend on what?" Isalba pulled her shirt over her head.

"It would depend —" Megan paused, licking her lips nervously.  "It would depend on if we are to wake up in the same place each morning."

Isalba paused in the middle of tying her shirt laces, her eyes meeting Megan's in the low candlelight.  They studied each other in silence and Isalba finally looked away, reaching around and below the table for her boots.  She sat down on a chair and slid one on.  Looking up, she tossed her head a little, her hair settling about her shoulders in a tousled fashion. 

There was no reading Megan.  Her suggestion could mean so many things. The girl was surely a virgin, unless Patrick had taken prenuptial liberties with her.  Even on the unlikely chance Megan did know the ways of men, there was little chance she knew the ways of women or even had knowledge of the concept. Isalba would as soon cut off her own arm as ask on either count.

"Do you always talk so much this early?"  Isalba changed the subject.

"No." Megan sighed.  "At least, not since my sister married.  We shared a bedroom until then.  I miss talking with her sometimes."

"Does she still live in Chincoteague?" Isalba was grateful Megan had so readily accepted the change of topic.

"Yes, but 'tis a long walk to her house." Megan rolled over again to her back, crossing her arms behind her head and looking up as Isalba reached up to braid her own hair.  "Shall I help you with that?"  Megan sat up and then pushed up and moved to the edge of the bed, patting the space next to her.  "Sit here.  I did this every night for Beibhinn."

"Beibhinn?"  Isalba asked absently, taking Megan up on her offer.  She sat down next to her and turned her back toward Megan and the candlelight.

"My sister," Megan answered.  "She has beautiful long, red hair.  It fell to 'er knees when it was not pinned up. She wore it in a braid to sleep so as to avoid it snarling during the night."

"And I see you do the same." Isalba dropped her head down as Megan worked on her hair.  It was an odd sensation, feeling someone else's hands tugging at her scalp and she laughed lightly.

"What do you find so funny?"  Megan paused for a moment to capture a wayward strand of hair, working it into the braid in progress.

"I just realized the last person to braid my hair for me was my mother."  Isalba shook her head slightly in memory.  "I was ten years old."

"Do you miss her terribly?" Megan lightly touched Isalba's back, feeling a muscle twitch under her fingertips.

"I try not to think of her unless I am battling Spaniards," Isalba answered, her tone slightly harsh.

"I am sorry.  Do you wish me to stop?"  Megan faltered. "I was only trying to be useful."

"No. It is alright."  Isalba glanced back over her shoulder.  "You are doing this twice as quickly as if I were to do it myself."

"Why do you think of your mother when fighting Spaniards?  If I may ask?"  Megan hastily added.

"Thinking of my family gives seed to my anger," Isalba answered matter-of-factly.  "My fighting becomes more focused."

"Oh."  Megan finished the braid and held it in one hand.  "Do you have a tie for this?"

"Yes."  Isalba fished in her trousers pocket and withdrew a strand of leather.  "Knot it well.  I do not want it coming loose and getting in my eyes at the wrong moment."

"Done."  Megan gave the braid a little tug, then quickly patted Isalba's shoulder, feeling those muscles moving again.  She lingered for a moment, liking the way that felt.  "Does it —" she trailed off, about to ask if her touching Isalba bothered her.  Slowly dropping her hand to her lap, Megan decided she didn't want to know the answer.  Confusing emotions washed over her and she swallowed, glad it was dark enough to hide the blush she could feel to her face.

"Does it what?" Isalba turned to face her.

"Never mind."  Megan looked down.  "My brain is addled. 'Tis early."

"Well then —" Isalba stood, tucking her shirt into her trousers.  "I am leaving shortly to get us a boat.  I should like for you to assist Cooks today, if you will.  He will be packing up most of our food stores for transport."

"Shall I pack up your things as well?"  Megan watched as Isalba picked up her two daggers from the table where they rested overnight, and dropped them neatly into her boots.

"There is not much to pack, for any of us."  Isalba strapped her sword to her hip and held out both hands to her sides.  "This is all I have, really."

"Oh, of course."  Megan shook her head in a self-effacing manner.  "Most of your things went down with the ship, did they not? I am sorry."

"I had not much to lose even before the wreck," Isalba answered. "And I would give it all up all over again if it were to bring Covington back."

"He was very special to you?" Megan stood and moved to Isalba's side.

"He was my family," Isalba answered softly, the tears in her eyes rising up and shining in the candlelight.  "Damn."  It was unexpected and she reached up, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes.

"Oh."  Without thought Megan also reached up, capturing a tear and then touching Isalba's face for a moment, before engulfing her in a hug.  Isalba was shaking, as if she were at war with herself, one hand pushing Megan away slightly, while the other clutched at her nightgown sleeve, holding her close. "Shhhhhh."  Megan rubbed Isalba's back, holding her loosely enough that she could pull away, if she wanted to.

She stayed, holding on as she inhaled deeply several times, willing herself away from a breakdown she could not afford at the moment.  "I —" Isalba sniffled once and released a string of Spanish words, harsh and biting, though Megan sensed they were not directed at her.  "I cannot —" Suddenly, Isalba pushed away, one hand lingering for a moment at the back of Megan's head.  "You must think me insane."

"No."  Megan curled her fingers around Isalba's forearm.  "Losing someone you love is hard."

"Yet you choose to leave your family."  Isalba tilted her head to one side, trying to understand.

"Oh, well, yes." Megan smiled sadly.  "And I shall probably miss them something fierce. But you see, if I do not leave them, I myself will be lost.  I do not make sense, do I?"

Isalba stroked the back of her head.  "No, you do. I would not like it either, were I to be forced into a marriage I did not want."

"I am glad you understand." Megan nibbled her lower lip.  "May I ask you a question?"

"You may."  Isalba continued to lightly stroke Megan's hair.

"Do you always touch people when you are talking to them?"  She felt Isalba's hand still, though she did not remove it.

"Ah, an easy question." Isalba's eyes shone warmly upon Megan and she leaned over, brushing her lips across Megan's forehead, then stood up tall and turned abruptly, moving to the bedroom door where she turned back and paused.  "No, I do not."  With a hint of a smile, she slipped out the door, closing it behind her.

Reaching up, Megan touched her forehead.  "Why do I feel as if I am already on the deck of a ship?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 5

Sunlight crept over the edge of the earth and invaded a small stand of trees where Isalba and the men were sheltered, awaiting the church bell's signal. A quarter mile away sat a small house with a well-built barn out back. As was the case with many houses in the village, it was on the waterfront with a dock extending into the channel between Chincoteague and Assateague. More importantly, tied securely to the dock was an impressive three-masted fishing boat, its sails neatly wrapped and covered against the coming winter.

"She is a beauty," Isalba sighed, her eyes dreamy. "We cannot take to the water soon enough. My feet itch from being too long on land."

"Aye, as do mine," Harry agreed with her.

"It has been too long since last we saw Port Royal, Cap-i-tain" Louis chimed in. "Too long without female companionship."

Isalba merely glanced at him, the dreams in her eyes erased by clouds of anger. She said nothing and inched forward, peering through high brush that covered the ground surrounding the trees. Far off in the distance, the church bell tolled, thin and dull in the heavy, sea-saturated air. "Shhhh." She held up a hand behind her and the men immediately grew still.

A buggy pulled up to the house, driven by a lone woman. She reined in two sleek horses and jumped smartly down, her skirts and coat swirling with her motion before they settled once again to cover her shoe tops in a lady-like fashion. With efficient motion she tied the buggy to a post beside the house and mounted its steps, rapping sharply on the front door. In short order another woman opened the door and stepped outside, tying her bonnet as both women walked, heads down to the wind and climbed up into the buggy. With a flick of a switch they took off, soon disappearing around a bend in the tree-lined road.

"Be there anyone remaining inside?" Harry mused. "No man with either of them?"

"Megan said the men were all on the mainland." Isalba grinned wickedly. "Searching for savages they believe to have stolen the goods we took from them."

"Ah. Yes." Harry laughed lightly. "Let us hope they keep looking to the west and not the north."

"Still," Isalba drew a dagger from her boot and flipped it over in her hand a few times. "I do not want to encounter the only man left in the village. Before we take the boat, we search the house."

"And if we find someone?" Giles eased up next to her, wincing at the pain in his recently-whipped back.

"If he sleeps, one of you is to keep watch until we secure the boat," she answered idly, as she rose from a crouch to her feet.

"And if he wakes?" Giles rose with her.

"Kill him." She motioned to the men. "Keep low and follow me."

Running swiftly she leaped over a log and covered several yards, stopping and ducking behind a large water tank halfway between the trees and the house. The men all landed behind her, breathing heavily from excitement more than exertion, their breath fogging the chill morning air. Isalba peered over the tank. The house was quiet. She could smell wood smoke on the air, though none emanated from the chimney. Tilting her head, she studied the lay of the land, the barn, and the curtain-shielded windows. Lack of smoke did not necessarily mean lack of occupants.

With a quick motion of her hand, she took off again, hearing footsteps crunching in the dry grass behind her. It sounded like gunshot in comparison to the quiet lapping of the nearby water. She grimaced and kept going until she reached the side of the house, dropping down at the end of the long porch. "Harry and Louis, keep watch. Giles, follow me."

In a crouch so low it made her thighs burn, she eased past and beneath a window, crossing the porch to the front door where she stood, waiting, her fingers lightly caressing her dagger hilt. Behind her Giles stepped on a loose board, its creak squeaking loudly as he hastily moved aside, lightly bumping the side of the house in the process. "Fool!" Isalba hissed, glaring at him as he paled under her scrutiny.

As he reached her, she tugged at the leather strap extending through the latch-hole, and gave the door a slight push open, tilting her head to listen for a long, breathless moment. When no sound reached her ears, she opened it wider and stepped inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the shadow-filled room. Embers glowed in the fireplace and a dish-pan sat on a table. She dipped a finger into the water, finding it tepid.

Giles slipped through the doorway and she held out a hand indicating he should stay put while she explored what appeared to be the only other room in the house. Edging up to the single doorway, she lifted a curtain open just an inch and peered inside, breathing a sigh of relief when she found it empty, the bed neatly made. "All clear," she finally spoke aloud. "Bag up what you can take." She looked around the main room. "Especially those." She indicated two muskets leaning in one corner of the room, a powder horn hanging above them from a peg. "Find the bullets."

"Yes, Captain." Giles produced an empty grain sack from inside his coat and set about filling it with food stores from the cupboard.

"I am going with the others to the barn." She paused at the front door. "Once you have finished here, bring the booty down to the dock. I will send Harry to help you after we secure the barn."

"Aye, Captain." Giles closed the cupboard door and moving next to a set of shelves that bore dishware and other cooking utensils.

Isalba crossed back where Harry and Louis waited and leaned down, pitching her voice low. "There is no one in the house. Follow me to the barn."

More brazenly, she approached the barn in the open, its windows all firmly shuttered closed against the brisk sea breeze. A cross bar secured the double doors, giving her relative assurance no one was inside. Still, she did not re-boot her dagger until Harry had lifted the bar. "Coast is clear, Captain." He grinned and opened one door wide enough to let in the morning light.

Inside, several clucking hens roosted and a placid cow occupied one of the stalls, indifferently chewing her cud while two horses eyed the strangers solemnly, their ears pricking in curiosity. Isalba retrieved a few dried apple slices from a barrel and held them out, as warm, bristly muzzles lipped at her palm, snatching up the sweet treats. "Fine horseflesh," she murmured. "Pity we cannot take them with us." She gave a scratch to first one nose and then the next.

"Aye, but these will fetch a pretty penny, will they not?" Harry tapped two well-oiled saddles, then gave a tug to the matching bridles hanging next to them, their finely-polished buckles catching the glint of morning sunlight from the doorway.

"That they will. Alright." Isalba looked around. "Harry, gather up anything useful in here and bring it to the dock. Then go help Giles haul the goods down from the house. Louis, come with me to rig the boat. We must hurry. I wish to be well-away from here before the church meeting ends."

Stepping outside, she drew in a lungful of crisp, salty air, then took off at a trot for the boat. She could hear the sea calling to her now, beckoning her back to a place and a way of life that would always be more of a home to her than any structure on land could ever be. It was time to claim her place at the helm and make the life for her men they all so richly-deserved. Almost all, she mentally corrected herself, Louis' crimes fresh in her mind.

Reaching the boat, she first inspected the wheel, drawing off its canvas cover. "Nice," she nodded in approval at honey-toned wood that was polished to a fine sheen. Louis had already scrambled below decks and she could hear his heavy footsteps as he tramped around beneath her. Circumnavigating the deck, she noted the built-in storage lockers, the neatly-coiled ropes, and the sturdy masts, their sheets tied in close and their sails begging to be raised.

Quickly, she untied cover after cover, preparing for that moment when they would shove off and head back to the rest of the crew. "Tomorrow morning we sail." She placed her hands on her hips, surveying her new, if temporary, domain. "Aye. All the better." She noticed several brackets set out along the rails, presumably to hold fishing poles in place. Opening one of the lockers near the back, she found used but well-cared for nets. "We shall eat plenty hearty." Closing the locker, she turned, just as Louis re-appeared.

"Cap-i-tain," he called out as he approached her. " 'Tis a fine set-up below. There are bunks enough for twenty, though twenty-six will be close, he did the mental math, accounting for the two dozen drew remaining, plus Isalba and Megan."

"Good." Isalba studied him, her eyes thoughtful. "Let us go back to the barn and assist Harry."

"As you wish, Cap-i-tain." Louis stepped off the boat back onto the dock, only to find himself shoved to the ground, a boot heel digging into his back. "Cap-i-tain?" He tried to look around, just in time to feel Isalba's sword hilt smash into his jaw, the bone shattering with a loud crack, as it split in half. "Aggghhhhhh," he groaned in agony.

"You slapped Megan." She rolled him over, giving him a kick to the ribs, hearing them crunch as a nickel-plated toe connected with solid impact. "You heard me. You know the penalty for harming her."

"Cap-i-tain!" His voice was garbled, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. There was little time to think, before her sword drove into his chest, his dying heart beating its last and spilling rich, warm blood out across his coat.

Isalba withdrew the sword, wiping it on his pants leg to clean it, before she re-sheathed it. She quickly removed his weapons and a small pouch of coin hanging from his belt. Then with a snarl of disdain, she grasped his arms, dragging him to the tall marsh grass, where she pulled him out a few yards and dumped his body, watching it sink halfway into the gooey, thick mud. "One less bunk needed," she muttered, high-stepping out of the muck to clear water where she rinsed her boots clean.

As she looked up, Harry reached the dock, a large sack slung over one shoulder and a saddle cradled in the other arm. "Here is part of it. I will get the rest. Where is Louis? His help would be appreciated."

"Louis will not be joining us." Isalba marched out of the water. "I will go assist Giles."

Harry shrugged and dropped his bundle on the dock, then noticed the blood stain on the weathered wood.  Shaking his head, he hopped aboard the boat, then lifted the pack and the saddle over the railing and carried them down to the hold below.  After another quick trip to the barn for the other saddle and a crate bearing four of the laying hens, Isalba and Giles arrived with the items collected from the house.

Isalba took the helm while Harry and Giles worked raising the sails.  With a shove away from the dock, the boat drifted backward and out into the cove, where the wind lightly luffed at the sails and slowly filled them, as Isalba finessed the wheel, maneuvering the vessel to take full advantage of their power source.  Soon the boat was making fairly good time back along the coastline.  Isalba looked backward, noting the small rowboat tied to the back for transport from ship to shore.

"She's a fine piece of craftsmanship," Harry joined her, the boat set on a steady course for the time-being.

"That she is," Isalba agreed, a huge grin plastered across her face.  "She will be fine until we are able to get a bigger one."

"Are we to set sail tomorrow morning?" Harry shifted and swayed a little, re-gaining his sea legs.

"Aye, if not tonight," Isalba cheerfully answered.

"Giles is very quiet," Harry observed.

"I told him why Louis will not be joining us."  Her smile disappeared.  "She will not be happy with me."

"She seems happy enough," Harry corrected her.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"  Isalba frowned.

"That, Captain, you must discern on your own.  I believe I will go make some adjustments to the rigging now."  With a cheeky smile and an innocent whistle, he left her stewing on his words.

In a much shorter time than it had taken to walk to the town, the arrived back at the vacant house where the crew was busy milling back and forth, obviously preparing to break camp and ship out. There was no dock and Isalba dropped anchor several yards out so as not to run aground, and they all descended down to the rowboat for the short trip to shore.  Once she was on land, she all but ran to the house, anxious to show Megan her find.

Entering the front door, she smelled a pot of Cook's stew bubbling on a spit over the fire, and the sweet scent of burning pine.  Megan was across the room, her back turned as she sorted through the pile of extra clothing on the table, folding and sorting it. Hearing the door close, she turned and smiled.  "The food stores are all packed, except for what we are to eat today."

"Excellent.  Come see the boat."  She motioned to Megan, retrieving the younger woman's coat from the back of a chair.

Megan slipped into it and followed her out and down to the shoreline.  "Oh, dear." Megan stopped short, her eyes shaded against the eastern sun as she peered out at the vessel bobbing sedately on the water.

"What is wrong?"  Isalba followed her gaze.  "That is as close to shore as I dared get, not knowing these waters. I did not want to risk damaging the hull in shallows or on rocks.

"No, it isna that," Megan wailed softly.  "You must not take that boat."

"Why ever not?  It is the largest one we could find."  Isalba turned to face her, her hands on her hips.

"That is my brother-in-law's boat."  Megan tugged at her sleeve.  "You must take it back."

Cursing in Spanish, Isalba left her, storming past the house and into the woods behind it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marching through the woods, Isalba could feel the angry flush of blood rushing to the surface of her skin, burning her face in its intensity.  "I am the captain of this damnable crew," she muttered to the unsympathetic trees.  "Men fear me on both sides of the great Atlantic.  I have killed more than I can count and I have stolen and transported riches enough to build an empire.  Twice I have been shot and lived to tell about it.  I have dined with kings and bedded ladies whose beauty brings tears to the eyes.  And I will not – will NOT – be bossed about by a fisherman's daughter from a backwoods village in these godforsaken colonies."

Reaching the sand on the other side of the trees, she plopped down with a heavy thump near the shoreline and stared at the water for a long moment, then buried her face in her hands and slowly raked her fingers back through her hair.  "I should take her back to the village and leave her there.  Or perhaps killing her would be the simpler and easier path."  Deep inside she knew it would be neither simple nor easy to leave Megan behind, much less kill her. "Women!"  She yelled in frustration.  "Nothing but trouble.  I will not let one smallish, barely full-grown specimen defeat me."  With a weary sigh she crossed her arms over her upraised knees and rested her chin on them.  She was already defeated.

Looking out over the placid inlet, she reviewed everything that had happened since swimming ashore, clinging to the neck of her desperate pony.  The ponies had since migrated as a herd toward the north end of Assateague Island, away from the initial pirate campsite.  With the pirates' own migration to the house on Chincoteague, the spirited ponies were safe to roam and thrive, provided they could survive the coming winter.  Isalba smiled.  Much as she loved to make a profit, transporting ponies bound for slavery in the darkness of the Central American jungle mines had been depressing.  She had allowed herself to grow fond of the small but sturdy beasts and was glad for their freedom.

Now she faced her own freedom.  "I can do anything I want," she mused.  "Anything except bring myself to say 'no' to an impossibly annoying yet breathtakingly beautiful woman.  How is it that I can tame a pony but not the girl?"  Setting her jaw firmly, she stood, retrieving a handful of small flat rocks, which she began to fling forcefully, one by one, skipping them across the calm surface of the water.  The crisp autumn air served to cool her cheeks and steel her resolve.  "I must stand fast," she admonished herself.  "Even if she uses tears against me."  Hearing now-familiar footsteps, and the swish of skirts, she kept her back resolutely turned, listening to Megan approach as she continued to collect and throw the pale grayish-brown rocks.

"Will you teach me to do that?"  Megan's voice was hesitant and she stopped beside Isalba, but well out of her reach.

" 'Tis not all that difficult."  Isalba bent over and gathered a fresh fistful of the sandy stones, and closed the distance, grasping one stone between her thumb and middle finger, her pointer finger extended to brace the stone on its narrowest edge.  "You must hold it like this, then draw your arm back, just so –" she demonstrated, curling her arm in an arc and heaving the rock side-armed, watching as it skittered across the sun-dappled bay.

"Here, you try."  She held out a stone and dropped it into Megan's upturned hand.  Megan correctly gripped the smooth offering, but drew her arm straight up and back, flinging it into the water with a decided slosh that sprinkled both of them liberally before the water settled. Wiping water from her eyes, Isalba glared at Megan, who merely gazed back at her, waiting to see what she would do next.

"No, no.  Like this."  Isalba sighed and moved in behind Megan, taking her hand and depositing a rock in it, before she curled her arm around the smaller woman and took her wrist, pulling it back and around at the correct level, without releasing the rock.  "Do you see how it feels, done properly?"

Megan turned and looked up at her, her skin dusted pink and her eyes shy, her chest rising and falling in a slightly labored fashion.  Isalba could smell a hint of the soap they had bathed with the night before. She decided she liked that, the fresh scent tickling her senses in a pleasant way, and she eased a little closer to Megan, feeling her own breathing become labored. 

"I – I think I can do it," Megan stammered.  "Maybe you can help me the first time."

"Very well." Isalba drew even closer until she was pressed against Megan's back, holding her around the waist with one arm while she held Megan's hand and the rock with the other.  Slowly, they drew their arms back together, then with a determined snap, released the stone, which hopped and skipped several times before dropping below the surface out of sight.

"Oh!"  Megan exclaimed in excitement.  "That was ever so much fun.  Thank you."  Turning, she looked up at Isalba, her eyes shining warmly, her lips parted as she smiled.

It was too much to resist.  Isalba slipped her hand inside Megan's coat, feeling her heartbeat beneath her fingers curled around the younger woman's ribs, just below her breast.  Megan made no move to pull away, but rather studied Isalba, her eyes full of questions.  Slowly Megan licked her lips once, her eyes sparkling green and gold in the sunlight, then looked down, her blush deepening. 

"You are very beautiful," Isalba whispered.

"As are you."  Megan looked back up, searching Isalba's face, their fingers still twined together from their joint effort at rock-skipping.  With one thumb, she absently stroked the back of Isalba's hand, then gasped in surprise as Isalba delicately traced the sensitive palm of her hand, causing a pleasant chill to dance up her arm.

Isalba tilted her head and brushed her lips against Megan's, feeling her turn in her arms as they held on to each other.  Isalba hugged her close for a long while, rocking back and forth, their hearts pounding in their chests.  At last they parted and Isalba closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against Megan's, feeling her head spin with dizzying happiness.  "I have been dreaming of holding you."

"I did not dream of this, exactly."  Megan's words were choppy as she fought to regain her equilibrium.  "But I have dreamed of you more nights than I could ever count."

"And this?"  Isalba traced a pink cheek, then drew a fingertip across Megan's lips before she sampled them once more.

"Better than my memories." Megan sighed dreamily.  "I am so happy to be here with you.  I only wish —" she trailed off, her brows scrunched together in unspoken thought.

"Megan," Isalba grasped her chin, tilting it up.  "I am sorry, but I cannot return the boat."

"But –"

"No."  Isalba touched her lips again.  "It is the only boat in your village large enough for all my men.  I owe these men safe passage away from here.  I do not owe your brother-in-law. You knew who I was when you came here.  We have discussed this."

"But it is his livelihood!"  Megan protested unhappily.  "My sister is great with child.  And some of the younger men who do not have boats of their own, they also go out with him to fish.  You steal not from my family alone.  There are women and children depending upon selling the fish they catch from that boat.  What of my unborn niece or nephew? Would you snatch the food from a baby's mouth?"

"It cannot be helped."  Isalba took a step back, her hands resting lightly on Megan's shoulders.  "There are other boats in your village.  I only need one.   Unfortunately it is the largest one that I need."

"He saved for that boat since he was a young lad." Megan's lips pursed inward, her eyes snapping in anger.  "It will take him years to buy another one so fine."

"You will not change my mind," Isalba reluctantly released Megan completely, her hands dropping helplessly to her sides.  "Was that why you allowed me so close?  A bribe perhaps?"

"No!"  Megan answered, her eyes shocked at the mere suggestion.  "I did not – how could I have known you would? – Oh!"  She took a step forward and bracketed Isalba's hips with her hands.  "No," she repeated fiercely.  "If that is how you are to think of me, it will not happen again." 

Hurt green eyes searched equally-pained blue ones, and Megan took a step back.  Isalba steadied herself, her emotions a cyclone swirling inside.  "As you wish," she finally answered, her words clipped lest fragile walls come tumbling down.  "You have a choice: come with me or I can take you back home, but I will be leaving tonight on that boat, with or without you."

"I choose to go with you," Megan answered, some of the pain receding from features.

"Very well."  Isalba allowed the slightest hint of a sad smile.  "You understand that once we leave, I cannot come back here?  I will be a wanted woman for the rest of my days."

"I understand," Megan replied solemnly.

"Come, then."  Isalba held up her arm and Megan slid her hand inside it, her fingers lightly brushing against the soft cotton that covered Isalba's forearm.  "We must set about loading the ship.  I wish to be gone before the men of your village learn you are missing, and come hunting for you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The late afternoon sun had already sunk behind the tall tree tops on the mainland, casting filtered shadow and light across the beach as the men scurried to finish loading the boat on Chincoteague.  Over on Assateague, Isalba and Harry stood beneath the tree where they had buried Covington's treasure chest, both of them digging furiously with shovels pilfered during their main pillaging expedition into the village.  "Had I known we would be able to leave so soon, I would have hidden this, rather than bury it."  Despite the cold air, Isalba was well-warmed with the activity, and stood up straight long enough to wipe the sweat from her brow.

" 'Tis alright." Harry plunged his shovel into the ground and hit something solid with a decidedly wooden timbre.  "I've found it."  He dropped to his knees and brushed aside the rest of the dirt on top of the chest, then with a heave of a long pole, raised one side up.  "If you will grab that ring, I'll dig for the other one."

Isalba grunted and knelt down, taking hold of one carrying wrung, keeping the chest slightly elevated to her side, while Harry worked to free the other one.  With a groan and a downward shove of the pole, he pried it up and took hold of the ring on his side.  "Ready?"

"Yes."  Isalba struggled onto both feet and they stood together, lifting the heavy chest and setting it on the ground.

"Do you wish to open it?"  Harry removed a dagger from his belt, prepared to pick the lock if needed.

"No." Isalba brushed her hands together to remove the dirt.  "It has not been disturbed, judging from its weight.  Let us get it on board the boat and then I will worry about inventorying its contents. Perhaps it will give my frisky little friend something to do – keep her busy."

" 'Frisky little friend'?"  Harry covered his mouth to hide a smile.

"Not a word from you."  Isalba glared at him.  "She is a whirling dervish. That is all that need be said."

"But you trust her enough to allow her to not only see, but count your treasure?" Harry asked, his tone a bit more grave.

"It may be against my better judgement, but yes." Isalba rolled her eyes.  "Besides, she will not be allowed to see it until we board the boat.  What would she do then, even if she wanted to betray me?  Jump overboard with it?  It is heavier than she is."

"You have a point," Harry agreed.  "I take it the two of you have reached an understanding regarding her brother-in-law's boat?"

"Not exactly."  Isalba bent down to slide two poles through smaller rings at each of the chest's four corners.  "But we do agree I am taking the boat, whether she likes it or not.  Shall we?"  She took hold of the ends of both poles on her side and gestured toward the other side.

"Oh, yes."  Harry knelt and took the other two ends and together they stood, transferring the weight to their shoulders with Isalba leading and Harry following, as they made their way out of the woods to one of the skiffs, to transfer the treasure from Assateague to the main getaway boat.  "You cannot blame her for being concerned for her family."

"Harry," Isalba warned. "Enough.  I am the captain.  That much has been made clear to her.  She has seen firsthand the penalty for disloyalty, and she was given a choice.  Now she must live with her decision."

"Pardon," Harry hastily apologized, his voice full of merriment nonetheless.  "And since she is still with us, am I to assume she has chosen you?"

"Harry!" Isalba barked.  "Need I also remind you that I am the captain?"

"No.  No, no." Harry grinned at her unseeing back.  "I will drop the subject, Captain Cortez."

"Humph." Isalba stomped slightly, emphasizing her agitation and her frustration.

A short trip later, they were back at the house, where the fishing boat was loaded with most of the men already onboard.  The sky above the western trees was bright red, the clouds on the horizon to the east tinted in pink reflection.  It had grown decidedly cooler and Isalba pulled her cloak more closely around her body, drawing its hood up and over her hat in protection of her cold ears.  "That is all I need," she muttered.  "To grow ill again.  Where is Megan?"  She trod ashore and looked around.

"She is in the barn with Cooks," a voice shouted from inside the house.

Isalba frowned and made her way to the barn, where she could hear Megan's high, melodic voice, lost in some story.  Cooks laughed and Megan giggled, continuing with whatever tale amused him.  "Are our food stores aboard?"  Isalba entered the barn and pushed her hood back.

"Yes."  Cooks gestured toward one lone crate sitting next to the doorway.  "That is cold, cooked meat and some fruit for tonight's supper.  I thought while we pull away from here, the men could eat their fill and begin taking their turns at the duty roster you set."

"Aye," Isalba smiled, her voice pleased.  "Very good.  And the men?  Who is not yet on board? I know there is someone still inside the house."

"Byron and Drake are moving the mattresses to the boat," Megan jumped in. "They thought you would be more comfortable."

"They thought correctly," Isalba agreed. "As would you.  Speaking of getting underway, I need you to go ahead and board the boat, so I can show you our quarters.  There is a forward v-berth we will be sharing."

"I am familiar with the forward v-berth," Megan answered curtly.  "More so than you are."  With a glare, she left the barn, her footsteps sounding loudly on the wooden planking outside the door.

"I am not going to suffer this back and forth attitude!" Isalba groused, slamming the door open and following after her.  "You said you wanted to leave with me.  Are you having second thoughts?"

"No.  Yes.  I mean, no."  Megan had settled herself at the end of  an overturned wagon, sitting with her arms loosely braced across her legs, her head down.  She looked over, as Isalba sat down next to her.  "I am not used to taking orders.  Especially when it comes to something that belongs more to me than it does to you."

"I did not —!"  Isalba cut herself off and took a deep breath, trying to see things from Megan's perspective.  It wasn't something she was often concerned with when it came to running a ship.  Even as first mate, she gave orders and they were carried out.  That was just the way it was.  But in this case — "Megan, I was not giving orders."

"Megan, do this, Megan do that.  Help with the food. Stay here while I go to Assateague.  Come see the place I have chosen for you to sleep."  Megan frowned.  "Do I not get any choices?"

"Would you rather sleep in the common area with the men?"  Isalba asked, gentling her voice.

"I — no, of course not."  Megan sighed.

"Then what is really bothering you?" Isalba nudged her.  "Everyone on my ship pulls their weight or they get used for bait.  While I believe the fish would find you quite tasty, it would be in your best interests to help out when asked. I am trying to give you duties I believe you to be capable of."

"I do want to help out." Megan reached down, pulling up a dried bit of grass and sifting it through her fingers.  "It is hard for me, stealing my own family's boat."

"You did not steal it, I did," Isalba reasoned.

"But I am going with you. It makes me guilty as well."  Megan slowly let the grass float away, watching the light breeze blow it across the ground in front of them.

"You feel badly about taking a boat, but not about abandoning your family?"  Isalba shook her head.

"No, I feel badly about abandoning my family on the boat you took," Megan corrected her.

"There is nothing I can do about that.  You will have to find a way to reconcile yourself with your decisions, Megan."  Isalba stood, as Cooks walked past them carrying the last crate.  "I see Byron and Drake are rowing out with the mattresses.  You and I are the only ones left.  This is your last chance. Are you coming with me or not?"

Slowly, Megan looked up at her and then held up her hand.  Isalba hesitated, wondering if she should turn and walk away while she could.  It would be the right thing to do, wouldn't it?  And then their eyes met and somewhere in the depths of Megan's was an unspoken plea.  "Do you —?"  Megan swallowed, unable to finish her question.

A hundred curses died on Isalba's lips.  Until that moment, she had fooled herself into believing it was fully Megan's choice.  Now, with a simple gesture something had changed, sending Isalba's world spinning off balance.  As if it had a mind of its own, Isalba's hand stretched out and grasped Megan's, hauling her to her feet.  "Yes," Isalba answered, twining their fingers.  "Do not let me live to regret it," she added.

"Do not worry, then. If I see signs of regret, I shall kill you," Megan answered cheekily.  Isalba stared at her incredulously, and Megan laughed.  "I got you back."

"Whirling dervish," Isalba mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

They got into the remaining skiff and rowed out to the fishing boat, where Isalba climbed aboard, then gave Megan a hand up the ladder in back.  "You know the way, my lady. Lead on."  Isalba mock bowed, extending her arm with a flourish and pointing toward the front of the boat.

Megan pretended to ignore her and made her way across the familiar deck and down into the hold, which was filled with eerie shadows cast by two lone hanging lanterns.  Ahead she could see another light, guiding her to the front berth.  With Isalba at her heels, she forged forward and pushed open the lockable door, stepping over the raised threshold and entering the small, tidy space.

At the very front was a cozy platform the two mattresses had been placed upon.  Against one wall was a narrow writing table and chair.  Tucked beneath the platform Megan saw her carpet bag and next to it was a burlap sack she assumed held what few possessions Isalba had accumulated since the shipwreck.  Against the wall opposite the desk sat a wooden chest and on the wall above it was a shelf that bore the weapons Isalba was not currently carrying on her person.

"It looks completely different," Megan mused softly, as Isalba ducked into the room, lightly brushing against her, the space was so confined.

"Is that good or bad?" Isalba's voice was close, burring in Megan's ear.

"Neither."  Megan eased away and sat down on the bed platform. "Just different.  What is in the chest?  Some fancy pirate treasure?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."  Isalba drew a dagger from her boot and knelt down on one knee, working the lock until it clicked open.  "Come here."  She opened the chest and heard Megan gasp.

"I really did not expect to see this when I asked."  She sat down next to Isalba, her voice full of wonder.

"I know.  Here." Isalba held out a gold coin and dropped it in Megan's hand.  "And here."  She plucked out several more and reached for the burlap bag, drawing out a single stocking.  "Put them in here."

Mutely, Megan complied, dropping twenty-five gold coins into the sock.  "Buh —"

Isalba fished around in the chest and pulled out a large emerald, handing it over for good measure.  "Can you hold onto that for me?"

"I — Yes."  Megan held the sock as if it were a raw egg, carefully tying a knot in the top lest it tumble from her trembling hands and spill out on the floor.  "You simply want me to hold this?"

"Yes.  All the way to Port Royal."  Isalba winked as Megan's mouth fell open.  "Never try to get a getter back."  She tweaked Megan's nose.  "No, I only need you to keep track of it in case I have quick need of it. It will be easier than popping that blasted trunk open in a hurry, especially if any of the men are hovering about at the time."  Her expression grew serious and she placed a hand on Megan's shoulder.  "You are the third living person to know what is in this chest.  The original third person is now dead.  Do not let me hear of a fourth.  Understood?"

Wide-eyed, Megan nodded, unable to speak. 

"We are soon to set sail, so I am going up top.  If you want to hide that sock under the mattress and join me, you are welcome."  Isalba stood and placed her dagger back in her boot.

"Alright."  Megan stood and shoved the sock well back under the straw mattress she had slept on the night before. 

Isalba was waiting, holding the door open, an indulgent smile on her face.  Megan hastily followed after her and emerged into the gathering dusk.  A sickle moon hung low in the southwestern sky and Isalba paused, pointing to a star pattern just below it.  "They call that cluster 'Antares.' Once we are well-underway I will take you to the back of the boat and show you more, if you would like."

"I would like that very much."  Megan looked around.  A dozen men scurried around the deck, raising sails and running rope through various pulleys and around cleats.

"I am going to take the wheel, if you would like to sit down behind me."  Isalba pointed at a crate lashed in place against the aft railing.

Megan sat down and tested the railing, then leaned back against it and relaxed a little, taking in all the activity.  She did not recall Liam needing so many men to handle the boat, but supposed Isalba was used to doing things a certain way. Content to just watch, she crossed her ankles and vaguely heard Isalba's commands float over her.

Soon, the ship was rocking with the waves, pulling away from shore, carried by a steady wind in its sails.  Megan felt a slight mist on her face as sea water occasionally splashed up and sprinkled the deck in front of the wheel.  Isalba stood tall and proud at the helm, her hands flexing as she finessed the wheel.  Her hair hung down her back, still secure in the braid Megan had platted for her that morning.  Bare-headed, her cloak caught the wind and ruffled back behind her, making her appear regal to Megan's eyes.

At that moment, Isalba scanned the shoreline and guided the boat closer to land.  "We will be dropping anchor around the next bend, but only long enough for me to make a quick trip ashore, alone," she added for emphasis.  "Megan, I need you here, at the wheel for a moment."

Surprised, Megan quickly stood and joined her, almost losing her footing.

"Hold onto my waist," Isalba patted her own hip. "There is no other place for you to grab hold and I do not wish to watch you go stumbling overboard."

"Alright."  Megan carefully wrapped one hand through Isalba's belt.  "I do not know how to steer a boat."

"I did not call you over to steer the boat."  Isalba laughed lightly.  "I need to ask you a question.  If I were to leave something in that barn over there, where would it be most quickly found?"

Following her gaze, Megan was startled to see her sister's house coming into view, its outline darker than the rest of the landscape around it.  "They hunt for eggs every morning, so in the chicken coop, I suppose.  Unless you are planning to leave me. In that case I will just walk into the house, if you don’t mind."

"No, I am not leaving you."  Isalba glanced at her. "But I do need you to go below and get that sock."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me." Isalba gave her a little hip bump.  "Go on.  I need to do this quickly.  Hopefully the men  in your village are still away and not preparing to hunt you down.  Do not just stand there with your mouth open.  Go.  Now!"

"Yes.  Sorry."  Megan scurried across the deck, holding on for balance where she could, until she reached the entrance to the hold and carefully made her way down the ladder.  She could feel the boat slowing and almost fell across the threshold, scrambling for the hidden sock, which she held in a death grip as she resumed her place at Isalba's side.

"I could buy this boat with five of those coins," Isalba casually commented.

"Thank you."  Megan eased closer, wrapping one arm around Isalba's waist to hug her.  She ended up holding on as the ship bobbed in the water and the men dropped anchor and tied down the idle sails, rather than lower them completely.

"Your family is about to be set for life," Isalba advised her.  "This is your very last chance to stay here. You would probably not have to marry that boy.  One of these coins would buy you passage to England.  You said you wanted to see the world beyond this island.  It would be a much more civilized way than on this boat."

Megan looked across the water toward the house, and beyond to the darkened woods, her mind following the familiar path through the trees that led to her family's home.  Surely her mother was worried with grief and possibly alone, since she would likely not worry her pregnant sister with her absence.  Was there any going back at this point?  Lowering her eyes, she held Isalba's gaze, finding the world in the pair of hopeful blue eyes peering back at her.  "I will be waiting for you here on deck when you return."

Hopeful eyes grew warm and Isalba smiled slightly, before taking to the rowboat with what amounted to the best Christmas stocking in history.  It was a short trip to shore and she tied the boat to the dock, then crossed the wooden planking and took the worn path to the barn.  Just as she reached it, motion caught her eye and an unidentifiable figure came out of the house and stood on the porch in the shadows. 

"Have you come to return our boat?"  Beibhinn called out across the yard.  "My husband will be missing it greatly when he returns."

"Blast," Isalba cursed quietly and changed direction, walking up to the house and stopping at the bottom of the steps. "I cannot return the boat."

"Come up here and tell me to my face," Beibhinn replied bitterly.  "Me mother has taken to her bed, worried half to death over my missing sister.  I just left her a little while ago in the care of a family friend, as I must take care of the stock here in my husband's absence.  And my unborn child — he or she would like to meet the woman cruel enough to leave us penniless."

With an uncharacteristically hammering heart, Isalba mounted the steps and approached Beibhinn, holding out the stocking.  "Not penniless. Here. Take it."

Uncertainly, Beibhinn reached out and grasped the offering, her soft intake of breath indicating she understood what it was by both weight and feel.  "I — what am I to say?  Shall I thank you for forcing me to sell the boat?"

"I do not expect you to like me, much less thank me," Isalba replied, her voice sorrowful.

"She is out there on the boat, isn't she?"  Beibhinn moved closer until she could see Isalba's shocked face in the faint moonlight. "Yes, I know who you are."

"Of her own free will, yes," Isalba answered.  "No matter what you may hear in the days to come, I did not kidnap her."

"I know that.  What you canna know is that you took her from us four years ago."  Beibhinn's features hardened.  "May God damn you to the Hell you deserve."

Isalba ducked her head slightly, acknowledging the curse.  "Does her mother know where she is?"

"No. Not yet."  Beibhinn set the heavy stocking in a rocking chair and closed the distance between them.  Without warning, she hauled back and slapped Isalba hard, across the face.  "That one was for breaking my mother's heart."  With a backhanded return sweep, she struck her once more.  "And that was for taking my baby sister away from me."

Isalba reached up, feeling blood trickle from her lip.  "I —"

"Shut your mouth!"  Beibhinn shook a finger in her face.  "At least I will no longer have to watch her go running over to Assateague every time the wind blows the wrong way, or worry that she will be kidnapped by savages or  — or some other band of pirates."

"I do not understand."  Isalba brushed the back of her hand across her face, wiping away more blood.

"Looking for you, you selfish, ignorant heathen!"  Beibhinn's voice rose in rage.  "I canna count the number of times I waited, worrying over her return.  Well."  She stepped back into the shadows.  "I wash my hands of her.  I canna worry about her anymore.  I have my soon-to-arrive little one to think about.  She was never going to be happy here anyway, but now that you have her, you had best take care of her."

"On my honor —"

"No!" Beibhinn roared. "There is no honor in this.  Go now. Just — go." Turning, Beibhinn snatched up the stocking and went back into the house, slamming the door closed behind her.

Stunned, Isalba stared at the door for a long moment, then quickly made her way back to the skiff, her head spinning as she rowed back to the boat.  Solemnly, she took the helm.  "Prepare to sail," she called out, her voice sounding too loud to her own ears.  Behind her, she heard the men hauling up the anchor and she closed her eyes, feeling the breeze that would soon fill the sails and carry them to Port Royal.  She couldn't get there soon enough.

A touch to her elbow made her turn, to find Megan at her side, holding up a damp rag.  Megan dabbed at the blood still trickling from her lip.  "I am sorry she hit you. Sorry she said those things to you," Megan's voice trembled and dropped to a hoarse whisper.  She sniffled and Isalba grasped her chin, tilting her face up to the faint moonlight.  Fresh tear tracks stained Megan's cheeks and she fought Isalba's hold, trying to look away.

Wordlessly, Isalba pulled Megan against her in a comforting side-hug.  Once they were safely underway, she draped her forearm across the wheel to keep it in check and drew her other arm up and across Megan's shoulders, pointing up at a cluster of stars.  "That one is called 'Scorpius'." She drew a line through a star pattern with her finger.

"And see that one just above it?"  She felt Megan nod.  "It is called 'Sagittarius'."

"Can you show me more?"  Megan asked quietly.

"Much, much more."  Isalba leaned over and kissed the top of her head.  "As many as you want."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

continued...

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