Chapter 6

 

Megan awoke and sat upright, alarmed until she remembered where she was.  The boat was rocking and she could hear water slapping at its sides as it cut through the rolling waves.  Inhaling deeply, she drew in the scent of salt air, mixed with the tang of the oils Isalba had used to polish her weapons and boots before they went to sleep.  Megan herself was now wide awake and sensed it was near dawn, although it was still pitch black below deck.

Across from her under a separate blanket, Isalba breathed the deep breath of sleep, although gratefully, she did not snore.  They had said little to each other after leaving Chincoteague, both of them too lost in separate thoughts they were not yet ready to share, or at least Megan was not sure she wanted to share.  Although she had not heard everything Beibhinn said to Isalba, what she had heard had hurt.  There were some things Megan had not thought through and now — she sighed.  Now there was no going back. 

Not that she wanted to go back.  It was just that nothing felt solid at the moment, not even the bed she slept in, tossing her to and fro as she fell asleep the night before.  She felt slightly panicked, and crept to the end of the raised platform and slid down to the floor, careful not to disturb Isalba if she could possibly avoid it.

She dared not light the lantern and even if she did, she didn't know where the flint and striker were.  They were likely on the table but she only made contact with the table to feel her way to the cabin door, which she opened, grimacing when it squeaked.  Stepping through, she closed it and continued to feel her way along the wall to the ladder that led up to the deck.

Up top a breeze lifted the loose hair around her face and cooled her skin.  She was still wrapped in the blanket she'd slept under and was glad, realizing the air had a definite autumn bite to it.  A skeleton crew was on deck, two men on either side to work the sails, one at the front keeping watch, and Harry at the wheel.  "Hello," she greeted him, approaching him carefully as she adjusted to walking on the moving surface.

"Good morning, lass.  You be up early this fine morning."  Harry grinned broadly and raised his hat to her.

"Is it? Morning, that is."  Megan held onto a stay for support.

"'Twill be soon enough."  Harry looked up at the sky, apparently reading the stars.  "What roused you so early?"

"The boat rocking, I think." Megan peered at the horizon, looking all around them.  There was only the ocean, for as far as she could see.  "The waves are not too high, though."

"No. We are just far enough from shore so as not to be spotted," Harry advised her.

"Where are we?"  Megan moved closer and sat down on a crate.

"Off the coast of Carolina, bound for Charles Towne."  Harry worked the wheel, though the boat appeared to be practically steering itself, the sails filled out nicely.

"What is in Charles Towne?"  Megan's spirits rose.  She liked boats but was glad they might not be ship-bound for weeks as they had been during the long crossing from Ireland to Virginia Colony.

"Supplies and if Lady Luck be with us, a bigger boat."  Harry looked up as a dark head appeared from below deck.

"There you are."  Isalba joined them, standing tall and sure without support other than her own well-tuned sense of balance.  "Was I that difficult to sleep with?"

"Oh.  No."  Megan blushed.  "I could not sleep.  Excitement, I suppose.  And I am not used to my bed moving."

"Ah.  I see."  Isalba moved closer and lifted Megan's hand. "Seasick?"

"No."  Megan tilted her head in question, watching as Isalba gave a slight pinch to her wrist.  "Why are you doing that?"

"If you do become ill, pressure there will help to ease it."  Isalba let go, gently placing Megan's hand back in her own lap.

"I have been fishing with my father, but I did become quite sick to my stomach when we traveled to this land.  I wish I had known of that trick then."  She smiled and stood, grasping the stay again.

"It also helps if you can stay on deck and watch the horizon."  Isalba motioned to her and they moved away, toward the front of the boat, taking up places leaning on the railing.

"I spent most of the voyage looking to the horizon," Megan commented, studying the approaching clouds.  "I can smell rain."

"Aye."  Isalba followed her gaze.  "The boat will be rocking considerably when that hits us."

"How far to Charles Towne?"  Megan looked up at her.

"If we get a good wind behind us, we may be there sometime tomorrow."  Isalba smiled.  "And if we find a true ship, I shall post a letter to your brother-in-law as to the whereabouts of his boat."

"You would do that?"  Megan touched Isalba's arm, lingering for a moment.

"Why not?  I would have no more need for it."  Isalba looked down at Megan's fingers, just as she removed them from her arm.

"But you left him a fortune."  Megan touched her again and Isalba captured her hand, curling her fingers around it.

"I may be a pirate but I am capable of generosity on occasion." Isalba laughed lightly.

"That much is obvious." Megan watched Isalba's thumb as it brushed lightly over the back of her hand.  Her stomach was fluttering oddly.  It wasn't seasickness, and yet it made her feel as if she couldn't breathe.  At the same time, she had an overwhelming urge to lay her head on Isalba's shoulder.

"Megan, are you feeling ill?" Isalba reached up, touching Megan's cheek.

"No. Why?"  Megan drew in a shaky breath.

"You are breathing as if you are."  Isalba drew her hand upward, pressing her fingertips against Megan's forehead.  "No fever. 'Tis good. We do not need more fever or coughing sickness among the men.  It is a miracle so few are sick after our godforsaken icy swim to shore when our ship sank on the rocks."

"I canna imagine how cold it must have been."  Megan was glad for the change of subject.

" 'Twas so cold, it pressed upon the lungs and sucked the life from the body."  Isalba shivered in memory, despite the warm coat she wore.  "I do not care to repeat the experience, ever again."

"Glad I am that you survived," Megan answered, her voice earnest.  "Both the swim and the fever.  Would have been a bitter pill to swallow, after so long —" she trailed off, realizing what she was about to say.

Isalba swallowed, looking across the water toward the first light of dawn. She recalled Beibhinn's words, knowing Megan could not have heard that part — could not know that she knew Megan had searched for her.  What was she to do with that?  Megan was barely more than a girl.  She was warm and kind, humorous and sweet, and stubborn as the day was long, but as for what was going on in her head, Isalba had not the first clue.

As for what was going on in Isalba's mind, not to mention her body — she reluctantly let go of Megan's hand, lifting her hand as an excuse and pointing toward a sliver of sun peeking at them from between the horizon and the clouds.  "Cooks will be serving us our morning tea soon, though it will be cold and brewed a day ago."

"Breakfast?"  Megan asked hopefully.

"Hard rolls are likely."  Isalba made a face.  "Perhaps some of the ham as well.  We do not cook when the ship is moving.  Fire is dangerous."

"We did not cook when we were on the other ship, either.  'Twas a very long time with little decent food to fill our bellies."  Megan shuddered, remembering molding potatoes, bread that was almost rancid, and water that had tasted slightly brackish by the time they finally reached Virginia Colony.  They had lost a few who were buried at sea before ever setting foot in the new world.  Her own mother had been sick from the rotten food and for many weeks when they first settled, Megan and Beibhinn had taken care of all household duties while their mother slowly recovered from the difficult voyage.

Isalba draped an arm across Megan's shoulders in a light hug, cursing herself internally.  Yet she could not help her feelings and Megan did not seem to object.  "We will not spend so many days away from land.  I prefer to go ashore every few days for fresh food and water.  And so the men can have a proper bath and wash their clothing.  I like for my ship to be clean and my crew as well."

"Good."  Megan smiled.  "Our ship was rather smelly after a week or so.  The stench was almost unbearable by the time we saw land again."

"Ugh."  Isalba agreed with her.  " 'Twas the same for us the first time I traveled to this country.  I had a long talk with Captain Covington after that and from then on we made the men bathe, even when we were underway.  A dunk in a barrel of water works wonders on the filth these men seem to collect."

"Ewww." Megan wrinkled her nose in disgust.  "Please.  I shall not be able to eat if I think of it much longer."

"I am sorry."  Isalba lifted Megan's arm again, applying the pressure to her wrist once more. "Better?"

"Some,"  Megan informed her.  "Perhaps I was getting a bit seasick.  If I think of everything that has happened, my head begins to feel light."

"Do you regret your choices?" Isalba asked warily.

"No."  Megan smiled.  "At least not yet."

"I hope you never do," Isalba replied sincerely.

"My heart hurts, though.  I had not realized how hard it would go with Beibhinn." Megan pulled free of Isalba's grasp, but took her hand as a compromise, holding it between both of her own, studying it as she spoke.  "I will not be there for the birth of her child.  I suppose I may not ever know if it is a niece or a nephew I will have. I — I was not prepared to see her right before leaving her forever."

Isalba remained silent for a while, unsure of what to say.  She could not turn back, even if Megan changed her mind.  It would be foolish and dangerous.  "You could find passage back to Chincoteague from Charles Towne, if you decide you want to."

"I do not —"  Megan looked over at Isalba.  "Unless you want —"

"No." Isalba sounded relieved. "I only want you to be happy with — here."

"I am," Megan reassured her and finally gave in to her craving, laying her head against Isalba's shoulder and feeling the shift as a long arm wrapped around her once more, and the slight pressure of Isalba's chin resting on top of her head. There.  A brush of lips across Megan's forehead and she closed her eyes, unsure of what she was feeling, but wanting desperately to hold onto it, whatever it was.  "I do not mean to complain."

"It is alright," Isalba soothed, her voice low in Megan's ear.  "You have left your home.  It is understandable.  I missed my home for a very long time when I left it."

"And your family?"  Megan asked cautiously.

"For a very long time I put them out of my mind," Isalba responded, her tone sad.  "I had to.  There were people looking for me, to kill me.  I had to flee from Spain.  There was no time to think of anything but survival and escape."

"But you were just a little girl!" Megan gasped in surprise.  "Why would anyone want to kill a child?"

"Because of the blood running through my veins." Isalba held up a wrist for inspection. "They killed my baby brother.  Why not me?"

"Oh.  How horrible!"  Megan wailed in outrage. "A baby? What kind of animals would do such  a thing?"

"Those who wanted followers of Allah exterminated," Isalba answered quietly.  "My family was of the royal line, but did not convert to Christianity.  Those closer to the throne felt the need to cleanse Spain of such heretics, as they called them, even to slaying their own kin.  I have no need of Allah or the Christ."

"You do not fear God?"  Megan was incredulous.

"No. I only fear his people."  Isalba laughed bitterly.  "I pray because he is there.  And I pray to the goddess because she is also there.  I will pray to whoever will help me."

"My mother, she would have liked you if she had time to get to know you."  Megan smiled.

"She would not have liked me."  Isalba lifted her head long enough to look down into Megan's eyes.  "I have stolen her daughter."

"No."  Megan shook her head.  "I did not board this boat in chains.  I want to be with — here."  She tucked her head back against Isalba's shoulder, feeling Isalba's fingers stroking her hair.

No more was said, as they watched night give way to morning, and rain falling like a curtain far off to the north.  The wind whipped up, stirring the waves into foam and chilling both women.  Rather than go below, they snuggled closer, clinging to each other in happy confusion.

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

Charles Towne proved to be only a brief stop for the crew of the fishing boat, which Isalba had taken to referring to as the 'Mighty Megan.'  Upon Megan's protests, she stopped short of having the name stenciled on the back by one of the more artistic crew members.  They dropped anchor only long enough for a small party to slip ashore by cover of darkness, returning a few hours later with a skiff-load of supplies, including a few small goats that were still producing milk, and a hay bale large enough to feed them for a while.

The crew settled quickly into a semblance of their usual at-sea routine, abbreviated by the size of the boat itself.  Swabbing the deck and other cleaning duties took less than half the time and manpower they had needed on the Langley, and there was neither room nor need for the crew the larger ship had required.  After a few days, the biggest issue shipboard was overcrowding and boredom.

Sleeping quarters were cramped, with men sharing bunks made for only one person and others packed together side by side on the floor with little room between them. Even taking turns at sleeping shifts did little to relieve the problem, as awake or asleep; there was only so much space on board per person.  They had to sit, stand, or lay somewhere and too many men on deck led to accidents.

Their biggest relief, perhaps, was that the farther south they sailed, the warmer the temperature became.  It was crowded enough without the bulk of extra blankets and coats in their sleeping quarters, not to mention warmer weather made shifts at sailing much more bearable.  Cold rain gave way to semi-tropical showers and the pale sunlight of late fall became the bright sun of the Georgia colony coastline.

As they sailed steadily south, a few stops were made along the way, only long enough for the restless crew to go ashore and stretch their legs, replenish the fresh water supply, and hunt and smoke fresh game to supplant the bread and vegetables.  Prior to one such journey ashore, Isalba unlocked the treasure chest in their cabin and counted out coins into a bag that Megan held for her, adding a few gems as an afterthought.

The boat was anchored in a small, secluded cove and scanning the shoreline through the porthole, Megan saw only trees beyond the beach.  "Are there shops in this place?"  She carefully tied the bag closed once Isalba indicated it was full enough.

"No."  The taller woman stood, releasing her braid and combing her fingers through her hair to order it, allowing it to fall over her shoulders and down to mid-back.  She donned all her armor, strapping her sword at her side, a pistol on one hip, and daggers tucked smartly into each boot.  Digging through the treasure chest, she sifted through coins, feeling around until she located a plain chain of shiny, gold links, which she draped around her own neck, then straightened the collar of her freshly-washed white shirt.

"Then why do you need this bag?"  Megan set the treasure on their bunk.

"Trade."  Isalba studied Megan and smiled.  "You shall come with me, but you should change into your best dress."

"Alright."  Megan frowned and reached behind herself, struggling to unbutton the plain house dress she had been wearing for two days.  "Dresses are not practical aboard ship, are they?"

"No."  Isalba batted her hands away and assisted her, popping the buttons open one by one until the dress began to slip down Megan's shoulders.  "What do you have other than this dress and the other one you've been wearing?  I fear you have ruined the hems on both of them."

"Yes.  I need to mend them.  But I brought my best church dress.  I didna think to have use for it until now."  She stepped out of the plain dress, and clad only in her petticoat and undergarments, Megan knelt down and pulled her carpet bag from beneath the bunk, removing the church dress and shaking it out.  Surprisingly, it bore few wrinkles, the rich dark green fabric catching the light filtering in through the small round porthole above the bed.

Quickly, she changed, waiting while Isalba buttoned her up.  "This is lovely," Isalba commented, as she buttoned the top button and straightened Megan's collar.  Megan turned and cocked her head in unspoken question.  "As are you.  Just one thing –"  Isalba reached across and removed the pins from Megan's hair, watching it tumble down to her waist.  "Perfect."

"Who are we trading with?"  Megan took a brush to her hair, combing out a few tangles.

"Creek." Isalba hefted the bag and hooked it to her belt.

"No, who, not where."  Megan set the brush down.

"I heard you."  Isalba held the cabin door open and motioned Megan through it.  "Creek Indians, or Muscogees, as they call themselves.  The English call them Creeks."

"What?"  Megan spun around, almost colliding with her.

"They need coin.  We need the goods they make and perhaps some of their corn liquor."  Isalba gently took Megan by the shoulders and turned her around.  "Do not worry.  I know the chief of this tribe.  We respect one another as true warriors."

"Why are you taking me?"  Megan looked down over her shoulder as she began to climb the ladder to the deck.

"I will gain even more respect if I have my own squaw."  Isalba winked at her.

"I am no squaw!" Megan squawked in outrage.  "I am a proper lady from Ireland."

"Yes.  I can see that."  Isalba gave a tug to a strand of sun-bleached hair.  "Tell me, do all fine Irish ladies run away with pirates and bake their skin golden in the sun?"

"Oh!"  Megan stuck her tongue out and crossed her arms over her chest.  "Besides, you are a woman.  Women do not have squaws."

"You have not seen much of the world," Isalba mumbled.  "Come now." She smiled charmingly.  "Do this for me, please? Come with me and I shall trade for something nice for you."

Megan's eyes narrowed and she slowly dropped her arms, resting her hands on her hips.  "Such as?"

"Whatever they may have."  Isalba led her toward the back of the boat where a few men were already waiting in a skiff to row them ashore.  "Painted beads perhaps, or a pretty comb for your hair."

"I will go with you if you promise to trade for whatever I want that they are willing to trade for." Megan stopped short of the down ladder and crossed her arms again.

"You drive a hard bargain."  Isalba passed her and climbed halfway down the ladder, then held her hand up.  "Deal.  Whatever you want, my lady, it is yours." She bowed with a flourish.

"Very well, then.  I will play the part of your squaw." Megan took her hand and followed her down the ladder, taking a seat near the back of the boat.

"Shove off!" Isalba sat down next to her, enjoying the warm, sunny day.  It was mid-morning and most of the men had already gone ashore to take advantage of the time on land and escape the confines of the stifling fishing vessel.

Once they were all safely ashore, Isalba indicated that only she, Harry, and Megan were to follow the path into the woods that led to the Creek tribe's village.  It was a narrow path through tall trees, most of which had shed their leaves, their branches reaching out and forming lacy patterns across the sky.  The leaves were piled up on the ground, crunching beneath their feet as Isalba led the way with Megan walking between her and Harry.

Megan lost track of time, enjoying the chance to walk on solid ground and breath in the scent of the dank, moist soil and the crisp leaves.  From time to time she spotted squirrels, chipmunks, and other creatures as they scurried about making final preparations for the coming winter. At one point Isalba held up a hand and Megan gasped softly, as a stately buck crossed over their path.  He was white in appearance, his coat pale and his eyes dark, liquid orbs that stood out against his intelligent face. His antlers spread out as large and vast as the trees above them, with more points than she could count.

"That is the most handsome creature I have ever seen," Megan commented after he had disappeared into the dark recesses of the forest.

"Such a beast can only mean good luck."  Isalba smiled at her.  "Harry, have you ever seen a white buck before this day?"

"Never, Captain," Harry called out, catching up from where he was still rooted in place.  "Perhaps a sign of a good day of trading."

"Perhaps." Isalba marched on, ducking beneath low branches and pushing back brush that blocked the path, allowing Megan to pass before overtaking her for the lead again each time.

As they continued on their mission, Megan began to hear sounds out of place in the forest - the chopping of an axe against wood and the laughter of children, mingled with the scent of something delicious cooking over a wood fire.  They topped a rise on the trail and there below them was the village, rows of sturdy lodges surrounding a common area where several people meandered about, carrying things, calling out to each other, and herding younger tribe members from one place to another.

From around the corner of one lodge, a beautiful woman emerged, her hair straight and shining black with beads and feathers braided into it, her eyes dark in her reddish-brown face.  Along her shoulders and arms were several tattoos, and her body, including her breasts, was mostly exposed, save a short leather skirt that was belted low on her hips and fell only halfway to her knees.  She studied them for only a moment before a wide smile graced her features.  " 'Salba!"  The woman strode forward holding out her arm.

Isalba took it, clasping forearms with the woman.  "Mary. It is good to see you are still here.  You have met Harry.  This is my companion, Megan."

"Ah, pleased to meet you, Megan."  Mary's eyes twinkled.

"Pleased to meet you." Megan ducked her head in a slight bow, her own eyes full of questions, her cheeks warm as she averted her gaze as much as possible without being rude.  She glanced over at Harry, who merely smiled and shook his head at her, indicating she should save her questions for later.

"Mary, lovely as always."  Harry held out his hand and shook Mary's forearm in the same manner that Isalba had.

"Come."  Mary motioned to them.  "Chief Coweta will be pleased to see you.  It has been a long time."

Harry stayed in the village center to keep watch, while Isalba and Megan followed Mary to a smaller, more ornate building that was set apart from the system of common lodges, and built upon a mound to oversee the village.  Mary held up a hand and disappeared inside.  Megan looked around, taking in the simple bustle of the village, feeling strange eyes on her. A little girl came up to her and shyly reached up, taking a handful of Megan's hair and holding it, stroking it with her other hand before she let it go.  She said something that Megan didn't understand, and scurried away.

Megan looked over at Isalba, who laughed lightly.  "She has never seen golden hair before.  She wanted to feel it to see if it was real."

"Oh."  Megan pushed her hair back from her face.  She looked around some more and frowned, her eyes falling upon some pale bits of cloth hanging from a line strung between two trees.  There was some sort of fringe hanging from them and she stepped away, walking across the open area to get a closer look.  As she reached the two trees she stopped, squinting hard at the fringe, which she realized was hair - dark hair like Isalba's. Reaching out, she lightly touched a piece of cloth and drew her hand back as if it had burned her, covering her mouth to mute a horrified squeak.

Before she could turn and run, she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Isalba looking down at her.  "Yes, they are scalps and no, we are in no danger.  I will explain later when we are away from here."

"Buh —- scalps?"  Megan felt sick to her stomach.

"Yes."  Isalba touched her forehead.  "You are turning green.  Do you wish for Harry to take you back to the beach?"

"No.  I will be fine."  Megan gulped in a deep breath and fanned herself with one hand, glad enough to turn away from the gruesome sight as Marry emerged from the hut, followed by an even taller man whose face was lined with age, his hair streaked silver and black.  His body, however, was still strong and straight, his bare chest muscles well-defined and his biceps bulging.  Megan looked down, embarrassed at yet more display of human skin.

As Chief Coweta and Mary drew closer, Megan realized the chief, like Mary, was indeed also mostly naked, only a long covering of a moss-like substance falling down from his waist to hide his most private parts, but leaving his sides and legs completely exposed.  To her relief, he bore no weapons and showed no signs of wanting to take her scalp.  His rich, reddish-brown skin was much more heavily-tattooed than Mary's, in a complex map of symbols which she could not understand.  His ears were pierced through with jewelry made of bone and gems, and several ornate necklaces hung around his neck. A large bone pierced his nose and braided through his hair were what appeared to be peacock feathers, and some beautiful pink feathers, the likes of which Megan had never seen.

Isalba followed her gaze and suppressing a smile, she leaned over, whispering in her ear.  "That is Chief Coweta.  When we travel a bit farther south, I promise to show you the pink birds from which those came."

Wide-eyed, Megan looked up at her for only a second, unable to draw her attention away from the Chief as he held out his hand and grasped Isalba's forearm, while they exchanged a few words that Megan didn't understand.  From what she could tell, Isalba explained to the Chief who Megan was, and he appeared to acknowledge her, but made no move to shake her hand as he had done with Isalba.  Then Isalba dropped one hand down, covering Megan's lower back and gently urging her to join them as they walked along, with Mary leading them to a round building set apart from the main village. 

As they entered it, Megan looked up to find the ceiling mostly open to the sky, the smoke from a centrally-located fire drifting upward and perfuming the interior with a sweet, evergreen scent.  Isalba continued to converse with Chief Coweta, and Megan noticed that from time to time they both stopped and looked to Mary, who appeared to be acting as interpreter as needed; however, from what Megan could determine, Isalba was holding her own in conversation with the Chief.

They took a seat, circled around the fire ring, with Isalba between Megan and Coweta, and Mary seated across from her.  Mary produced and lit a long-stemmed pipe, which Isalba and the chief passed back and forth.  Occasionally they passed it to Mary, who inhaled deeply and closed her eyes each time she partook of the tobacco, before she released the smoke with a long, soft hiss of air.  Upon one such passing Mary grinned and leaned over, handing the pipe to Megan.

She took it and peered up uncertainly at Isalba, who smiled.  "It is alright.  Try it if you want.  Draw the smoke in, but just into your cheeks, not into your lungs."  Megan pressed the pipe between her lips and Isalba stretched out her hand, helping her hold it, her fingers covering Megan's.  However, Megan noticed that Isalba's eyes were not upon Megan, but locked with the Chief's, with an expression akin to challenge in her eyes.

After a long, silent pause, the Chief looked away first and Isalba leaned over.  "Go on."

Megan did as she was told, taking the smoke into her mouth.  She tried her best not to inhale, but smoke got into her eyes, making them water, and she inadvertently sucked some of the smoke down, coughing violently as her body insisted on being rid of it as quickly as possible.  The other three laughed lightly and Megan pushed the pipe away, indicating she had had her fill of it.

"Are you alright?"  Isalba rubbed her back until she regained her composure.

"Yes," Megan gasped.  "It smells much better than it tastes."

The Chief asked a question and Mary answered him, and he smiled, then laughed again.  Turning to Isalba, he grinned and gestured toward Megan, his voice animated but non-threatening. As he spoke, Isalba listened and her expression grew feral, her eyes narrowing as she draped an arm across Megan's shoulders and drew her close in a possessive gesture. She said something to the Chief, who smiled and raised one eyebrow as he responded with a long string of words, his voice even more animated.

Megan felt Isalba sigh, almost imperceptibly, as she said something back to the Chief, and then Isalba was cupping Megan's face with her free hand.  "Mine," she whispered fiercely, her blue eyes intently fastened on Megan's green ones, gazing deeply into them as if she was trying to say something. 

"Wh —" Megan started to speak but Isalba brushed her thumb across Megan's lips and pressed it against them, forcing her to remain silent.  With that gesture, Megan understood that Isalba needed her to do what she had promised, and play along.

Isalba ducked her head and kissed Megan, her tongue gently probing until Megan responded in kind, so lost in new and confusing sensations that she almost forgot they had an audience.  She clutched at Isalba's shirt, seeking an anchor, while feeling a strong arm supporting her back and realizing it was the only thing holding her up.  Isalba took her time in a thorough exploration of Megan's mouth, the taste of the spicy sweet tobacco smoke seductive on her breath, drawing Megan in further.  Slowly, Isalba pulled back and held Megan's gaze, her lips parted as she sought out much-needed air.  "Mine," she whispered gain, and Megan heard Mary saying something to Coweta, who laughed heartily.

Megan's heart was pounding in her chest, and her breathing so labored, that she wasn't aware of how she ended up pulled tightly against Isalba's side, all but sitting in her lap.  No matter how she got there, though, that was where she stayed, Isalba's fingers absently stroking up and down Megan's arm as she continued speaking with Chief Coweta.  Megan began to relax again, and the conversation drifted around her, as Megan tried to rein in her overwhelmed senses.  Her head was telling her she was playing a role, but her body was telling her something quite different, and Isalba's constant touch, though subtle, wasn't helping matters any. 

At last the conversation came to an end and they all stood, while Isalba and Chief Coweta gestured at each other and they all began to walk toward the hut's entrance, and back out into the sunshine.  Isalba kept one hand at Megan's back the entire time, and steered her toward yet another hut, which they entered. Megan gasped in wonder.  It was filled with eye-appealing goods – jewelry, trinkets, weapons, clothing, pottery, beadwork – four times the size of the sundry shop back on Chincoteague.

"Go find something you like."  Isalba patted her back.

"Anything?"  Megan looked around, her eyes wide as she tried to take it all in.

"That was my promise."  Isalba gave her a little push toward one of the tables laden with clothing.

Megan riffled through shirts, skirts, hats, and moccasins, while behind her Isalba, Coweta, and Mary continued to talk.  Another noise caught her attention and Megan looked up, as two women entered the hut, giggling and peering shyly at Isalba, before leaving two small casks sitting near the wall.  Megan looked at them and raised her eyebrows at Isalba.

"Corn liquor," the taller woman explained. "And I need a few things myself, and for the men."  She wandered over to a table full of small items, mostly pretty, some functional and some not, all of them decidedly feminine.  "Ah." Isalba chuckled and held up a fistful of multi-colored beads.  "These will be perfect for the ladies in Port Royal, and perhaps a few of these carved hair combs."

"Ladies?"  Megan dropped a pair of moccasins and joined her.

"Um –" For some reason, Isalba blushed and didn't look at Megan while she talked.  "The men.  They will want companionship and the ladies sometimes want more than coin before they are suitably impressed.  I – will explain it later.  Not now."

"Alright."  Megan shrugged and went back to the clothing.  "What do you think of these?"  She held up a pair of rust-brown suede leggings, which had bone-buttons at the waist and were adorned with fringe along the entire length of the legs.  "They will be much more practical than a skirt."

"Nice."  Isalba nodded in approval. "With these."  She joined Megan and selected a pair of tall dark brown leather boots.  "And this." With a flick of her wrist, she unrolled a butter-cream colored shirt woven from soft material that had rawhide lacing up the front and fringe in a V-pattern across the chest and upper back. On both front and back it had tiny colored beads sown in a zigzag pattern.  "But we need to get you some light trousers and a blouse for them as well. Where we are going the sun is hot and the days long."

They looked through the pile and Isalba selected a second set of clothing, then turned to Mary, who was the only one in the room.  "Chief Coweta instructed me to gift you with your clothing selections."

"Oh, thank you."  Megan folded up the clothes and set them on top of the casks.  "The Chief is very kind."

"In that case, you still get to pick out something that I will pay for," Isalba got her attention from the tables.

"I want this."  Megan lifted a polished wooden case from a shelf near the door.  It contained a flintlock pistol with a mother of pearl inlaid grip, and a matching dagger, its hilt adorned with the same mother of pearl.  A tooled leather belt was rolled up between the two, and beneath it was a holster that could be attached to hold the pistol, and a matching sheath for the dagger.

"No."  Isalba crossed her arms. "I do not want you bearing weapons."

"You promised me anything."  Megan brought the case over to her.  "This is part of your world, is it not?"

"My world, yes." Isalba frowned.  "Not yours."

"We are in the same world now."  Megan touched her arm.  "I chose to be a part of this, and you allowed it.  You can teach me."

"No." Isalba took the case from her and started toward the shelf.

"So you do not always keep your promises," Megan chastised her.

Isalba stopped, Megan's words cutting through her as effectively as any dagger.  With a heavy sigh she turned to face her, her eyes sorrowful.  "Had I known you would choose this, I would never have made such a promise.  Very well," she answered curtly.  "You may have them, but I will decide when you are ready to learn to use them."

"But –"

Isalba held up a hand.  "I promised to buy you something.  I did not promise to teach you to kill."  Isalba laid the case on the other cask and opened the coin pouch, counting out payment for the weapons, liquor, and a pouch of trinkets she had collected, and placing them in Mary's outstretched hand.

"The Chief will see you in the village center."  Mary held back the door flap for them and they made their way back across the village, where they found Harry and Coweta laughing and sharing another pipe, the language barrier apparently no hindrance to male bonding. 

Two village girls had followed behind them from the supply hut, carrying their loot, and Harry held out both arms, balancing a cask at each shoulder.  "Ah, the crew will be glad enough to get this."

"And this."  Isalba jiggled the leather pouch full of jewelry.

"Aye, that even more," Harry winked at her.

Isalba turned to the chief and they exchanged a few more words and laughs, and clasped arms one last time before Isalba motioned to Harry and ushered Megan along, back toward the path that led to the beach.  Megan held fast to her clothing, which was wrapped in a piece of material to protect it from dust.

"What's in the case?"  Harry glanced down at the box Isalba carried tucked beneath one arm.

"Nothing," Isalba snapped.

"Nothing?"  Harry's voice rose in question.  " 'Tis a beautiful box, to contain nothing."

"Something that shall never see the light of day, if I have anything to say about it," Isalba warned.

Megan's ire rose and she looked up at Isalba, who still had one hand at her lower back.  "We are no longer in Coweta's village."  She flung Isalba's hand away from her.  "And  I am no longer your squaw."  Megan hurried forward until she had put some distance between them, crunching the leaves with her angry stomping.

"Do you wish to go after her?"  Harry watched Megan marching away.

"No.  Let her go.  I will be talking with her soon enough.  There are many things I need to explain to her, none of which have anything to do with this box.  But you and I need to talk."  She eased closer to Harry, shoving down her own roiling emotions for the time being.  "Those scalps we saw?"

"Yes?" Harry nudged a branch aside with one shoulder.

"Spanish missionaries.   Some of them escaped in a large galleon only a day ago."  Her eyes sparkled.  "Coweta believes they are bound for San Agustín."

"Galleon, did you say?"  Harry grinned.

"Yessss," Isalba purred.

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

Isalba and Harry reached the beach and called together a few of the men to discuss chasing down the missionaries and their galleon.  They rowed back to the fishing boat to make use of a case of maps that had survived the ship wreck, and to stay out of earshot of the others until a plan was firmly established.  Isalba went down to her cabin long enough to stow her goods, frowning when she did not see Megan there.  "She was not on the beach," Isalba mumbled.  "Ah, well. I canna be bothered with the tantrums of a child at present."  She mounted the stairs back up to the deck, her maps tucked under her arm.

The sun was sinking below the tree tops on shore by the time they were finished formulating their plans.  Isalba dismissed the men and all but Harry took a skiff back to shore to join a party around the fire they had built on the beach.  From across the water Isalba could hear the men singing, their shouts of revelry evidence that they were already enjoying the Muskogee corn liquor.

"Are you going to go ashore and join the merry-making?" Harry rolled up the maps and carefully inserted them into the long, wooden tube, which he firmly capped closed.

"Later," Isalba replied absently, peering through a spyglass toward the trees.

"She went walking south and headed into the woods," Harry advised her.  "I enquired of the men before we came aboard."

"How do you —?"  Isalba sighed.  "I am obvious, am I not?"

"If you are asking if the men are talking, the answer is 'no'."  Harry gave her a gentle slap on the back.  "At least they are not talking anymore.  They do not wish me to toss them overboard."

"You were a good choice for first mate," Isalba praised him.  "And a good friend.  I am going to go find her before one of Coweta's young bucks finds her first."

"I would think she has not gone far.  Strange woods in a strange place should be enough to put some healthy fear into her."  Harry gazed out at the trees.

"Harry."  Isalba rolled her eyes.  "She is a feisty Irish woman who willingly joined up with a band of pirates and did not run away screaming after touching the scalp of a dead man.  I do not believe she is easily frightened."

"You have a point. I will put these maps below and row you to shore."  He paused at the steps. "Do you wish for me to help you find her?"

"Not yet, but I will let you know if I do."  Isalba waited a short time and then they were off across the water, and soon tossing the skiff's small anchor over a log to keep it from drifting away.

Isalba set off on a southward trek down the shoreline, scanning the trees as she walked.  Finally she saw a bit of bright green that was out of place with the fall coloring of the underbrush.  Before going into the woods, she paused and looked back from where she'd come. The fire on the beach was a tiny speck in the distance, and the sounds of the men were barely detectible. " 'Not gone far, eh, Harry'?"  She snorted in amusement, then cut across the sand, maneuvering through loose dunes until she reached the tree line. 

"Meg?"  She called out, squinting as she drew closer to the green material. "What?  Oh, hellfire."  There on the ground was Megan's dress, neatly folded up and piled on top of her petticoats and high-topped shoes.  Spread out beneath them was the piece of cloth that Megan's new clothing had been wrapped in.

Isalba knelt down and studied the ground closely, finally spotting a trail of broken grass and twigs, indicating the direction Megan had gone after changing.  It was still light enough to see fairly well, and she was able to follow the trail with ease.  "I must teach her how to cover her tracks better,"  Isalba mumbled, then stopped, cocking one ear as she detected singing - a low, somewhat off-key humming mixed with intermittent lyrics that were more in tune.  "And to not draw attention to herself when alone in the savage-filled forest."

"Megan!"  Isalba shouted, and the singing stopped.  She heard rustling and a low curse.  "Stay in place. We will both regret it if you make me run after you in this brush."  She tilted her head to the side again.  "It would be helpful if you would let me know where you are."

"I am in Georgia. Beyond that, I do not know where I am," Megan replied from behind a nearby tree.  "Nor why I am here," she trailed off unhappily, as Isalba reached her.

"That would make two of us." Isalba sat down next to her and reached over, holding out her hand.  "Give me the flask."

"What flask?"  Megan crossed her arms stubbornly.

"The one you shoved beneath that log."  Isalba leaned across her and retrieved it for herself, uncapping it and sniffing the strong scent of rum, before she swished it around, detecting it to be two-thirds empty.  "Tell me this was not full when you set out with it."

"I do not remember."  Megan drew her legs up closer to her body in a defensive gesture.  She was wearing her new leggings and shirt, the leggings tucked smartly into the tops of her new boots.

"You look nice in the new clothing," Isalba commented, taking a sip from the flask before she closed it and set it safely out of Megan's reach.  "I do not recall you drinking like this before." Megan did not say anything and Isalba reached across, tentatively touching her arm, which Megan jerked away.  "I understand you are angry."

"You understand nothing!"  Megan lashed out.  "I want so much to be a part of your world.  And then you take me on a grand adventure.  I saw so many things that I do not understand, but I was proud to go with you.  I felt that if you took me to that place, to meet those people, that you needed me there for some reason. I felt — I felt that I was useful to you."

"You are useful to me." Isalba reached out again and this time Megan allowed the light touch, as she rested her hand on Megan's shoulder.  "You take your turn at your assigned duties without complaint. You help cook.  You mend sails. You help me with many things - shining boots, braiding my hair —" she trailed off helplessly.

"Yet you do not trust me enough to allow me to learn to defend myself and — and perhaps someone else, someday!"  Megan wailed. "In this one thing, I am not an equal member of your crew."

"It is not a matter of trust." Isalba sighed and touched Megan's cheek.  "Look at me and tell me you are prepared to kill another person."  Sorrowful green eyes met hers and then lowered, hidden behind long blonde lashes.  "Meg." She stroked the soft skin beneath her fingertips.  "Have you ever killed so much as a deer?  Or a rabbit?"

"I have clubbed fish." Megan looked up again, her expression defiant.  "If someone were to threaten me, or — or you.  I think I could."

"Once you cross that line, once you take another life, your own life will never be the same again.  I do not wish you to carry such a burden. I can protect both of us."  Isalba lowered her hand, resting it on Megan's thigh.  "I am asking you to trust me in this."

"How many have you killed?"  Megan swallowed.

"More than I can count." Isalba withdrew her hand and picked up the flask, uncapping it and taking a healthy swig, then handed it over to Megan, who raised her eyebrows in surprise but mutely accepted it, taking a drink.  Isalba studied her warily, wondering if the respect she so often observed in Megan's eyes would be gone, but all she saw was acceptance, as Megan reached over, holding the flask up to Isalba's lips.

"I trust you." Megan watched her drink.  "For now."

"Thank you." Isalba took the flask and set it aside again.  "About Coweta —"

"I have so many questions, I do not know where to begin."  Megan nibbled her lower lip and sat back, resting her forearms across her upraised knees, her hands clasped together between them.

"I thought as much. First, the scalps.  They were taken from men who wished to make Coweta's people change their ways — to try to make them conform to Christianity and give up their manner of dress and their very life.  I and anyone I bring into the village are no threat to them. Coweta and I respect one another, as I told you before we set out.  We were in no danger there."  She laughed lightly.  "I have proven myself to Coweta more than once, and again, today."

"What do you mean?"  Megan plucked a piece of grass from the ground between them, and twirled it between her fingers.

"The first time Covington took me to meet Coweta, he had just made me his first mate.  He introduced me and Coweta laughed and said he would take me from Covington and make me one of his squaws."  Isalba laughed lightly.  "Covington told him I was no one's property, that I could defeat Coweta's strongest buck in a one-on-one fight."

"Oh, my."  Megan looked up at her.  "What happened after that?"

"I defeated his strongest buck in a one-on-one fight, no weapons, just our bare hands and bodies."

"Bodies?!" Megan squeaked.

"His man wore nothing but a loin cloth, so I stripped down to one as well."  Isalba grinned.  "Here. Let me show you something."  She unbuttoned her trousers and stood, dropping them to just below her hip, and tugging aside the band of her undergarments, revealing a tattoo at the juncture of her hip and thigh. "It is a Muskogee glyph for warrior." She pulled her pants back up, fastening them closed, and then sat back down.  "After that day, I was welcomed in Coweta's village as his equal.  I told him of Covington's death when we first clasped arms today. He will mourn him this night, as will his entire village."

"Did that hurt?" Megan touched Isalba's hip, over the spot where the tattoo was.

"A little." Isalba released a breath, willing herself to ignore Megan's touch, her body reacting strongly, remembering the kiss in the ceremonial hut. Had they been alone, she had no doubt she would have taken it however far Megan would allow.  "However, I knew you would not want to fight, or get a tattoo, so I had to resolve the conflict differently.  I am sorry.  I know you did not want that to happen again."

"What?  Oh. You kissed me."  Megan blushed.  "Do you mean to tell me Coweta wanted to take me as his squaw, too?"

"Oh, yes." Isalba smiled and tugged at a strand of Megan's hair. "He thinks you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen." Privately, Isalba agreed with him wholeheartedly.  "He was willing to pay a small fortune for you." 

Megan looked up at her in alarm, her eyes uncertain.

"Do not worry.  I told him you were not for sale."  Isalba looked down, and wrapped her arms around her own upraised knees.  "I told him you were mine, but he did not believe me.  So, he — um — he challenged me to prove it.  I apologize. I was not expecting him to challenge me, or I would not have taken you there.  It was foolish.  I wanted to prove to him that I am his equal in every way.  So in that you were very useful to me, but I did not intend for you to be hurt."

"I was not hurt," Megan replied softly, her cheeks blushing furiously.  "I was confused, but not —" she trailed off.  "I do not understand something."

"What is that?"  Isalba glanced over at her, their eyes meeting shyly for a moment.

"You are a woman.  Coweta is a man." Megan looked longingly over at the flask and Isalba wordlessly handed it to her, waiting until Megan had partaken in some apparently-needed fortification.  "How can you have a wife?  I — it is confusing to me."

"Ah." Isalba took the flask and indulged in some fortification of her own, the strong liquor burning in her throat and sliding smoothly into her gut, warming her from the inside, out.  "Not all people are like yours, Meg — Megan."

"I like 'Meg'."  Megan smiled at her.

"Oh. Very well, Meg."  Isalba smiled back at her.  "In some places, men are sometimes with men, and women with women. In my case, because Coweta accepts me as a warrior — as his equal, it is acceptable to him that I might someday take a wife, rather than a husband."

"You would want a wife?"  Megan tilted her head in genuine puzzlement.

"I do not want a husband," Isalba answered her honestly, if not fully.  "And a few of the men on the ship, when we reach Port Royal, will seek out the companionship of other men, rather than of women."

"Companionship?"  Megan stared at her blankly.

It dawned on Isalba at that moment, just how different their worlds were, and how very little chance she might have of ever knowing more of Megan than a few stolen kisses. Her heart heavy with resignation, she pursed her lips inward, thinking.  "You have not been with a man, have you?"

"Been with — I do not understand —"  It was obvious that Megan was struggling to grasp something that Isalba was going to have to spell out for her.

Isalba lifted the flask and drained it, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth when she was finished. "I thought you understood when I told you I did not want the men to think you could be used for their entertainment, so I assume you do know where babies come from.  Baby cows and sheep — surely in the spring, you have seen the rutting?"

"I — oh."  Megan looked down, scrubbing at the side of her neck in uncomfortable embarrassment. "No, I have not — I mean yes, I have seen the rutting, but I have not —" She crossed her legs, still looking down, her hair framing her face and hiding it.  "Patrick and I were betrothed, but we did not —" She looked up. " But Beibhinn — after I became engaged, she told me of her wedding night.  She wished for me to have time to get used to the idea of — she did not want me to be shocked."  Megan looked up, a shy smile on her face. "She told me that sometimes she enjoys it."

Isalba wished the flask was not empty, as she felt her head spinning with a multitude of emotions, one of them the profound relief that there were at least a few things she did not have to explain. However — she sighed.  "No one on my ship is married.  But they are all red-blooded men.  When we get to Port Royal, there are brothels.  They are places where the men, for coin or trinkets, can purchase an evening of companionship with a woman.  That is why I bought the bag of necklaces and other pretty things, for the men to use them.  Do you understand what I am saying?"

Megan frowned for a moment, working it out, and then the blush returned to her cheeks full-force. "Yes."  She nibbled her lower lip again, obviously working up to a question.  "But there is no place such as that for you to buy a man?"

Isalba burst out laughing, grateful for the unexpected humorous relief.  Finally, she settled down long enough to realize that her reaction had embarrassed Megan all over again. "Oh, do not blush so."  She touched Megan's cheek once more, lingering there, stroking the heated skin with her thumb.  "Dear Meg."  She shook her head, her heart full of genuine affection.  "No, there are no brothels selling men to women, at least no such places in Port Royal.  However, if I wanted to be with a man, I would not have to buy one.  As I said, I do not want a husband."

"That is all well and good," Megan argued.  "But neither do your men want wives, yet they want to — how did you say it? — 'be with women?'  It does not seem fair that you cannot have companionship in the same way they do."

"I can," Isalba answered quietly, lowering her hand.  "In exactly the same way they do."

"But you said there are no —" Megan stopped, her eyes growing wide. "Oh.  You buy women in Port Royal?"

"Sometimes, yes."  Isalba desperately wished for another flask of rum.  She had only planned on explaining what the men did in Port Royal.  In much the same way that Beibhinn had explained to Megan about her wedding night, Isalba had wanted to prepare Megan in advance for some of the things she might see or might not understand.  What she had not planned on was a confession or an explanation of her own recreational choices while in the islands.

"But how —?"  Megan trailed off, obviously tongue-tied. "What Beibhinn explained to me, you cannot —"  She looked up, at a loss for words.  "I am prying now, am I not?"

"Perhaps."  Isalba smiled, looking up at the treetops, which were fast becoming silhouettes against a darkening sky.  "But it is alright.  Sometime I will explain it to you, but not tonight. We should go back and join the party."  Isalba stood, holding out her hand and hauling Megan to her feet.

Megan reached behind herself, brushing off her backside.  "I have never worn trousers before.  They are much easier to walk in than dresses."

"Yes," Isalba agreed with her. "And you will be much safer onboard ship in them. Less chance of tripping." She tilted her head, studying Megan's trim form - the taper of her waist and the slight curve of her hips now revealed by the more form-fitting clothing. "They become you."

"Oh."  Megan paused, rubbing her eyes with her fists.  "I am dizzy."

"The rum has started to go to your head." Isalba laughed lightly.  She had noticed a slight laziness to Megan's speech pattern, not to mention a degree of candidness she sensed would not have been present, had Megan been completely sober. Still —"That flask was not full when you took it, was it?"

"No," Megan admitted.  "I had only had a few sips when you found me."

"Good." Isalba bent over and retrieved the empty flask, tossing its strap over her shoulder.  "You shall be fine in the morning."

"What?"

"Never mind."  Isalba held out her arm. "Here, you will be needing some assistance."

"I am capable of walking!"  Megan chastised her, and started off to prove her point, weaving slightly until she stopped.  She looked back at Isalba, her nose in the air in indignation.  "However, if you insist."  Megan held out her hand, beckoning Isalba. When she reached her, Megan tucked her hand into the crook of Isalba's elbow.  "Hurry up, then."  Megan tugged at Isalba's arm. "Perhaps you are the one who requires assistance."

"Goddess, give me strength." Isalba shook her head in exasperation.

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

Chapter 7

Sunlight slanting through the porthole brushed across Isalba's face, waking her, and she frowned, her eyes remaining firmly closed against the assault.  She had a mild headache and her right arm was asleep, due to something heavy lying across it.  "Ugh."  Slowly her eyes drifted open to see a mass of blonde hair directly in front of her nose.  She was wrapped around Megan, who was apparently deeply asleep, if her breathing was any indication.

In a panic, she wracked her alcohol-infused brain, reviewing the evening prior.  She was wearing her nightshirt and undergarments, and a cautious inspection of Megan revealed the same.  The party had gone on into the wee hours of the morning and the last thing she remembered was rowing back out to the boat and carrying an inebriated Megan up the ladder, depositing her in the berth they shared. Nothing more had happened.  With relief she carefully eased her numb arm from beneath the smaller woman and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bunk and scrubbing her eyes with her fists.  "Ugh," she repeated.  She shook her arm vigorously until it began to tingle in a most unpleasant way.

Her mouth felt and tasted like sawdust.  Grabbing a nearby water flask, she downed its entire contents, feeling the headache immediately begin to recede.  They were to set sail in pursuit of the galleon full of missionaries that morning and judging by the angle of the sun, they were getting a late start.  No matter.  The fishing boat was lighter and faster than a four-masted ship It was timing that was important.  She wanted to overtake the larger vessel before it reached San Agustín and any reinforcements.

After getting dressed, she nudged Megan awake.  "Meg."  She shook the unresponsive woman a little harder and heard a low disapproving groan.  "We need to be about breakfast and raising sails."

"Do not mention breakfast again, or I shall vomit," Megan moaned.

Uh-oh.  Isalba looked around and spied another flask.  "You should drink some water."

"It will not stay in my stomach," Megan protested.

"A few sips.  You must try."  Isalba sat down on the edge of the bunk and tugged the covers down from around Megan's shoulders.  She rolled over and opened one eye, glaring at Isalba.

"You are a cruel, cruel woman." Megan flung one arm across her face, blocking out the offensive light.

"Yes, I am," Isalba amiably agreed with her.  "And a driven task mistress, and I am commanding you to drink some of this water.  Now."  She held up the flask and pulled Megan's arm away from her head.

"Very well."  Megan sat up with a grunt.  "It shall be covering the floor of this vessel shortly."

"There is a porthole for such things," Isalba pointed out.  "Please to make use of it if you need to."

Megan glared at her again and took a few cautious sips from the flask, her expression visibly surprised.  "I must admit that is making me feel better."

"It is the alcohol.  It leeches the water from your body and makes you feel ill. You need to replace it."  Isalba located Megan's new clothing, folded neatly over the back of the desk chair, and lifted them up, setting them next to Megan.  "I am going to row ashore and eat with the rest of the crew.  Under the circumstances, I shall remove you from your rotation assisting Cooks this morning.  However, you may discover that a bit of lard-laden food will ease your pains even further.  It soaks up the alcohol in your belly."

Megan turned green.

"Or perhaps not," Isalba hastily amended.  "Come. Get dressed and let us get you up top so you can breathe in the fresh air."

"Fresh air would be good."  Megan nodded.  "Oh.  That hurt."  She clutched at her forehead with one hand.  "Nodding is bad.  I must remember that."  With slow and pained motions, she removed her night shirt and donned her new clothing, not even bothering to protest when Isalba knelt down and helped her pull on her boots and tuck in the leggings. "Either my head or this boat is spinning in circles."

" 'Tis your head." Isalba chuckled.  "Welcome to piracy, my dear.  If you decide to come ashore, yell and I will send someone to row you over.  Now.  Up top.  Come on."  She held out a hand and supported Megan as they climbed the ladder and emerged in the cool, if pleasant, morning air.  "Breathe," Isalba encouraged her, guiding her toward the railing, just in case.

"That does help clear my head a wee bit."  Megan closed her eyes and then just as quickly opened them.  "Closing eyes also bad.  Makes my head spin worse."

Suppressing a smile, Isalba nodded gravely.  "Drink the water and keep your eyes on land. And keep breathing.  I shall return after the unmentionable meal."

"Yes."  Megan wrinkled her nose.  "I can smell it from here.  'Tis vile."

" 'Tis ham and eggs."  Isalba clamored down the ladder to the skiff and looked up.  Backlit by the sun with brightly shining blonde hair,  Megan appeared much like Isalba supposed an angel must look.  "You are beautiful," she mumbled so low that she knew Megan could not hear her.  With a wave, which Megan feebly returned, Isalba untied the skiff and shoved off, rowing vigorously to get the blood flowing through her system, and hopefully rid her of the remaining corn liquor.  She had forgotten just how potent Coweta's much-cherished brew could be, and grimaced, realizing that she herself had given Megan more than one mug full of the strong potion.  " 'Tis no wonder her stomach churns."

Reaching shore, she dragged the boat up onto the beach and tied it to a stump, then walked on up to where Cooks was poking a stick into a frying pan full of sizzling ham.  "Captain."  He greeted her, his hands busy with breakfast.  "I have tried to wake the men, with little success."

Isalba looked around the beach, which was littered with bodies.  A chorus of male snores greeted her ears and she grinned evilly.  Cupping her hands around her mouth, she drew in a deep breath and bellowed at the top of her lungs:  "Wake up, you limeys!  Move!" 

Slowly, the men began to stir, but not fast enough to her liking.  Snagging a bucket, she trotted down to the water and filled it, then proceeded to go from sailor to sailor, giving each one an uninvited morning face-washing.

"Ya!"  Harry sat bolt upright, a piece of seaweed hanging from his moustache.  "Snake!"  He stood and danced around, grabbing the offending piece of vegetation and flinging it away, to be greeted with a round of hearty laughter from the now wide-awake crew.  "I knew it was merely weed," he replied, red-faced.  "Was merely assisting the captain in waking you lazy landlubbers."

"Sure you were," a voice called out across the sand.  More laughter ensued and Harry stood with a huff, moving stiffly toward the water to clean up.  Others followed and Isalba sat down in the sand with satisfaction, accepting the first plateful of breakfast, which she ate with relish, feeling her body return to its normal state of well-being. 

"Good work, Captain." Cooks grinned in approval.  "And where is Miss Megan this fine morning?"

Isalba stopped eating, chewing and swallowing, as she studied the boat across the water.  "Feeding the fishies, I fear."

"She should eat," Cooks held up his frying pan.

"She will learn." Isalba finished her meal and stood.  "Thank you.  That was delicious."

"You are most welcome."  Cooks dished up plates of breakfast, heaping them with steaming eggs and sizzling ham and passing them out to the grumbling men as they returned from their bone-chilling dips in the morning waves.  But rules were rules and they knew they were expected to stay clean, or be dragged behind the boat in a forced bath.

"I am going to go see if I can convince Meg to join us."  She stood, brushing the sand off her trousers, and rowed back to the boat, to find Megan sitting near the back, her head in her hands.

"You must shoot me through the head,"  Megan begged.  "Quickly."

It was unexpected and Isalba could not stop her own snort of laughter.  "It will pass."  She sat down next to Megan.  "But I fear you are in for a rough day at sea."

"Noooooo," Megan mourned pitifully.  "Please to leave me here."

"Very well.  I am certain you shall make one of Coweta's bucks a happy man."  Isalba moved aside, but not enough to completely avoid Megan's well-aimed arm-punch.  "Ah."  She rubbed her arm, which stung only slightly.  "I see you are not completely incapacitated."

"I shall incapacitate you!"  Megan roared, lunging for her and knocking a surprised Isalba to the deck, landing on top of her.

They wrestled about until Isalba flipped Megan onto her back and pinned her wrists together in one hand.  "Oh you will, will you?"  Isalba grinned, straddling Megan, their faces inches apart.  The situation was growing dangerous and she realized she didn't care.   A pair of tempting lips beckoned and she gave in, ducking her head and kissing Megan soundly, who struggled only for a moment before going limp and returning her attentions whole-heartedly.  Not breaking the kiss, Isalba released Megan's arms, which immediately wrapped around her neck, drawing her closer.

Finally, regretfully, they separated and Isalba hovered over Megan, stroking her hair.  "How is your head?"

"My head?" Megan answered dreamily.

"Yes."  Isalba laughed lightly.  "A few minutes ago you asked me to shoot you.  Remember?"

"Oh, yes.  My head."  Megan's eyes focused and she blushed.  "It feels much better.  Coweta is nowhere near us."  She tilted her head in question.

"No, he is not."  Isalba pushed up and sat down next to her.  "Forgive me.  I was not thinking clearly."

"Yes, well."  Megan also sat up.  "You cured my headache.  You are forgiven."  Leaning closer, she shook a finger in Isalba's face.  "Never, never mention marrying me off to a savage again."

"Yes, my lady." Her eyes twinkling, Isalba grasped the finger, leaning in and stealing another kiss.  As they parted, she tugged at a lock of Megan's hair.  "Those kisses were not for Coweta's benefit."

"I do not understand," Megan gasped, her breathing still ragged.

"Good."  Isalba stood and held out a hand. "Come ashore with me.  Cooks will make you something you can keep down."

"Yes, well." Megan took her hand and tossed her head back in a dignified manner.  "It is a good thing.  I have worked up an appetite."

"So have I."  Isalba grinned.

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

Megan ended up eating her breakfast hastily, as the crew readied the boat to set sail.  Heeding Isalba's advice, she consumed only a light amount of bread and eggs, and kept a water flask handy as she claimed a seat on a lashed down crate near the middle of the boat, with a rail nearby but not so close that she could be easily tossed overboard. Isalba informed her that she would feel the boat rocking less near the middle, and that keeping her eyes on the horizon would help her avoid seasickness.

It was good advice all things considered, as Isalba drove the crew and the boat hard once they were underway.  Megan had, after all, grown up helping her father from time to time on his fishing boat.  She wasn't prone to extreme seasickness, but then again, she had never been hung over before.  Her stomach was queasy and her head was still spinning, though not nearly as much as they had been before she ate.  And before Isalba kissed her.

That had been a surprise.  She wasn't sure why Isalba had done it after they had agreed not to kiss anymore back on Chincoteague, but it was the second time in as many days.  Third time, actually, since she had done it twice that morning.  It was one thing to put on an act for Coweta, but quite another that Isalba had done it again when there was no one else in sight.  All Megan knew was that each time they kissed, it made her feel like she was turning inside out, but in a very good way.  She wondered why Patrick had never tried to kiss her, unless he, like Megan, had no idea what he had been missing.

In all honesty, Megan had not thought much about kissing Patrick, and had tried very hard not to think about the things Beibhinn had told her about her wedding night.  Megan was not completely naïve about such things.  No girl who grew up around livestock was.  And she had seen naked baby boys, so she knew their parts were different from hers, and had made the logical jump to how babies were born, based upon how lambs and calves were conceived.  No one had ever had to explain that part to her, at least not in so many words. 

What Beibhinn had done was fill in the blanks, at least some of them, and those things Megan had not been so sure about.  Hugging, she knew.  Kissing on cheeks and hands, she also knew.  Having a man remove all or part of her clothing, she wasn't so sure she would enjoy, and the other part – that was the part she had tried not to think about.  It seemed like it would be extremely embarrassing and Beibhinn had told her that sometimes, especially the first few times, it was painful.  Yet then she turned right around and said that most times now, she enjoyed it, although she had not explained the difference between what made it pleasurable as opposed to painful.  Megan had asked, but Beibhinn had blushed and told her she had said too much, that Megan would just have to trust that Patrick was a man and like Liam, he would know what to do.

Kissing on the lips was another thing Megan had been uncertain about, until sharing kisses with Isalba.  Now she knew that she liked it very much, and really hoped Isalba would do it again sometime.  Did Isalba enjoy it as much as Megan did and – Megan felt her cheeks heat at her own thoughts – did Isalba realize Megan had enjoyed their kisses?  She pondered that and realized that Isalba must have enjoyed it or else she would not have done it twice in one morning, would she?

And then she thought about what Isalba had said – about purchasing time with women in Port Royal.  And her claim that she did not want a husband.  What did that mean?  The same farm girl in Megan that knew how babies were conceived also knew that Isalba was a woman and as such, did not have the male equipment needed for the job.  True enough, Megan had not seen Isalba naked, but she was pretty sure there were only two variations on private parts, and since Isalba claimed to be a woman, her design could not be terribly different from Megan's could it?

So how could she spend time with women 'in exactly the same way' as the men did, to quote Isalba herself?  Megan thought about that, and she thought about Isalba's kisses.  They were soft and gentle, yet powerful at the same time.  They made Megan's stomach jump and her toes curl.  Mostly, they made her wish Isalba would never stop.  Each time she had longed for – something – more, perhaps?  What that something was, she couldn't define.  But she knew she liked being close to the pirate woman, and she wondered if Isalba purchased time with those women so she could experience the same sensations Megan had experienced with her.

Maybe Isalba spent that time kissing those women.  And, maybe – Megan glanced back toward the wheel where Isalba was barking out commands, gesturing with one hand while she finessed the ship's rudder with the other – maybe she could convince Isalba that she didn't need to buy time with women to kiss them when she could have Megan for free.  She closed her eyes, reliving those kisses.  Yes — she opened them again, feeling more butterflies in her stomach – those sensations would definitely be worth paying for.  But maybe Isalba didn't feel the same things Megan did.

Megan sighed.  She wasn't sure if she had the courage to ask.  Isalba had said she would explain things further, but she hadn't said when.  Judging by her intense expression, the no-nonsense tone of her voice, and the way she had the men on deck running around, talking, much less kissing, were the last things on her mind at the moment. 

Perhaps she should follow Isalba's lead and try to think about something else, like the rope that was lashed around her waist to secure her to the boat. The other end, the one not tied around her waist, was threaded through the eye of a large hook that Isalba had fastened to a cleat on the raised part of the deck that Megan was leaning against, just above her head.  Isalba had showed her how to quickly un-hook it, and admonished her to remember that if something happened that caused the boat to capsize, and especially if the boat seemed to be rolling upside down, Megan should unhook herself so as not to become trapped beneath it. 

That was definitely something worth thinking about.  For all the times she had been on her father's boat, she was not a strong swimmer. She could paddle like a dog, after a fashion, but she wasn't sure for how long or how far.  A few times they had gone down to the beach for outings, and she and Beibhinn had donned old dresses and gone barefoot into the water where they splashed around in the waves, but only a few times had she been knocked into the water and carried far enough out that she been forced to take a few strokes to get back to shallower surf.  Still, she had survived those few spills, so perhaps swimming would not be so difficult.  Maybe Isalba could teach her, if the water where they were going was as warm as she said it was.

She tried to picture it.  Isalba said the water was the color of peacock feathers, all blue and green mixed together, and so clear that you could see the fish swimming by your feet, even if you were in waist-deep water.  She had even said that she could swim out and peer through a piece of glass and see much farther down into depths well over her head.  Megan wanted to learn to swim, if only so she could see such things for herself.  Where they were going, the sand was the color and texture of the pale brown sugar in her mother's cupboard, if what Isalba said was true, and they could eat all they wanted of fresh fish and fruits Megan had never heard of.  What she knew was apples and different types of berries, and cherries, but Isalba had described all kinds of exotic fruits and other foods that sounded delicious, and she said they grew in abundance, that there was no need to work for them, just walk up to a tree and pluck them for yourself.

Her skin was already turning brown, at least her often-exposed face, neck, and lower arms were.  Her fingers were so brown now that her nails appeared milky next to the tanned skin.  It was most unladylike, but really, keeping a bonnet on when the wind blustered about so was next to impossible.  Plus Isalba told her that as her skin grew darker, it would not burn as easily, that something in the darkened skin protected her from the sun.  Her hair was already much paler than it had been, and she wondered if it would turn almost white, as Isalba had predicted it would.  She grasped the end of the braid she had platted it in, and studied the thick, curling end of the long tail.  It was definitely very blonde, and luckily most mornings she remembered to comb a little oil through it to keep the sun from burning it brittle.

The neck on her new shirt scooped much lower than the dresses she had been wearing, and the v-neck where it laced up exposed the skin almost down to the tops of her bosoms, and even between them, if she was not careful to keep the rawhide laces tied tightly.  She looked around and certain no one was paying her any mind, she carefully pulled the neck of the shirt out and peered down at the tender skin, to see if it was turning pink as her face and arms had done initially.  Sure enough, she could see the beginnings of burning.

"Hello," a deep voice purred in her ear, and Megan jumped, then released her shirt and blushed furiously as she looked up and over her shoulder, where Isalba was sitting at Megan's shoulder level on the raised deck above her.  "What are you doing?"

"Checking for sun burn," Megan replied.  "I should have thought to use some of that oil you gave me for my face and hands.  What did you say it is made from?"

"Coconuts and Aloe Vera plants from the tropics."  Isalba slid down next to her.  "And lucky we are to have found a cask of it after the ship sank."

"I should go below and retrieve it, before it grows worse."  Megan started to stand, reaching for the hook that tethered her to the boat.

"No, I shall go get it.  It is not good to go below decks if you are feeling even slightly ill in the stomach."  Isalba stood, quickly disappearing around the corner and down the hatch, momentarily reappearing with a small glass bottle in hand.  She pulled out a cork stopper and handed it over to Megan, and sat back down next to her.

"Thank you."  Megan poured a small amount of the oil into the palm of her hand and gave the bottle back to Isalba, then deftly pulled the neckline of her shirt open, unlacing it halfway, before she slathered on the oil from her neck down into her cleavage.

"Do you need some assistance with that?"  Isalba's voice was teasing and Megan looked up in puzzlement.

"No, thank you. I can reach my own bosoms."  Megan looked back down, making sure she hadn't missed a spot.

"Pity," Isalba mumbled.

"What?"  Megan looked back over at her.

Isalba coughed, and was obviously blushing.  "Pity that you are sunburned.  Good that you discovered it early in the day."

"Yes, but this oil seems to help it turn brown instead of red."  Megan finished her handiwork and re-laced and tied her shirt.  "You do not use the oil, do you?"

"No.  My skin is naturally dark, and I have been exposed to the sun for most of my life.  I have not burned in many years.  At least, I do not use the oil for sun protection, but I do sometimes use it to keep my skin from becoming so dry."  Isalba held out her hands for inspection. 

Curiously, Megan reached out and touched the back of her hand, which was smooth, but a little leathery, and with a questioning tilt of her head, she then ran her fingertips across Isalba's exposed forearm, enjoying the surprising sensation of solid muscles flexing beneath silky-smooth skin.  "'Tis softer than your hands."

"Aye. It is not exposed as often.  Plus the hands, I am constantly using them. Catching splinters, rope burn, and the bitter cold wind, if it whips up and my gloves are below decks."  Isalba leaned back, and draped one arm across the deck behind them.  "I am glad to sit down for a moment."  She glanced back where Harry had taken the wheel from her.

"It is near the noon hour, is it not?"  Megan looked up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead. 

"Yes.  Cooks will be bringing up sandwiches soon."  Isalba patted her own stomach.  "It feels as if breakfast were yesterday."

"Even I am a bit hungry," Megan confessed. 

"Good." Isalba ruffled her head. "I am sorry for plying you with Coweta's poison last night.  I forget its strength."

"It is not as if you forced it down my throat."  Megan tisked. 

"True, but I did not warn you, did I?"  Megan shook her head in agreement.  "And I suspect that was the first time you had consumed more than a few sips, no?"  This time Megan nodded in agreement.  "It has been a long time since we had anyone aboard ship who was not familiar with drink." Isalba grinned.

"You were only ten when you set sail with Captain Covington?"

"Aye, and for a few months had him fooled into thinking I was a boy.  He had me at the bottle the first night. Told me I might as well become a man as soon as possible, that the sea and his crew had no love for children.  So drink, I did."  Isalba made a face.  "And sick as a dog I was the next day.  You are faring much better than I did."

"I am much older than you were," Megan laughed lightly.

"Yes, but not much bigger.  Perhaps you hold your liquor better than I did."  Isalba gently nudged her in the ribs.

"You were not this size at ten!"  Megan's voice rose in disbelief.

Isalba stood.  "I beg to differ, m'lady."  She gestured down at her long torso and even longer legs, then sat back down.  " 'Tis partly how I managed to deceive Covington as to my gender.  I was tall but had not yet grown a woman's curves."

Megan studied her for a moment.  "You still are not as curved as I am."

Isalba's brows rose into her hairline and she started to say something, but then stopped.  "No," she finally answered. "I work myself much too hard to keep the extra layers of padding required for much of such curves.  Though –"  She grinned wickedly.  "I do have them.  You just cannot see them when I am clothed.  I shall take you swimming with me when we reach warmer waters, should you need proof.  I will not let the men join us."

"I believe you," Megan answered.  "And I do not know how to properly swim."

"All the more reason I should take you." Isalba stood.  "I should go up front and see if there are any signs of the missionaries."  And with that she left Megan to ponder how swimming would provide proof of curves, and why the men were not allowed to go with them.

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

Morning became afternoon, which segued into early evening.  The crew was weary and the boat had been put through its paces and performed amazingly well, given it was designed for fishing rather than racing.  Isalba drove them on, her eyes continually scanning the horizon, her expression intent as she hunted her prey. 

"Dammit, if only this blasted boat had a crow's nest."  She looked up to the top of the mast, tilting her head and studying it.  After standing there for a few moments longer, she moved closer to it, passing around to the front of the tall structure and out of the way of the wind-filled sails rigged to it.  "Hmmmm."  She looked around and then rooted through a small wooden utility box lashed against the cabin housing, digging around until she found a length of thick rope.

"Drake."  She called over a presently-idle deckhand.

"Yes, Captain," the well-bred man was instantly at her side, reflecting a bit of remaining genteel English charm, which the roughness of life on the sea had not touched.

"I am going to hook this rope to the sail rigging and use it to climb up the mast.  I wish for you to stand below me and let out the excess rope, holding it taut so that if I fall, I will not fall far."  She fastened the rope about her waist and around her legs, forming a harness.

"Yes, Captain."  He reached over and took the end of the rope, tying it securely to the loose end of the rigging rope and holding it out for her inspection.

Isalba tugged at the knot a few times and satisfied it would hold fast, she sat down and pulled off her boots and stockings.  Bare feet could grip the mast much more efficiently than boots.  Shoving her spy glass into a pocket, she grabbed hold of the mast and began to half climb, half pull herself upward, watching as a thick pulley spun above her, releasing rope which dropped past her as she rose. 

Finally, she reached the top and wrapped her legs loosely around the mast, sitting back in the rope harness and bracing herself with her feet and one arm.  She withdrew her spy glass and spent a good amount of time studying the water south of them, looking for any sign of the galleon.  While she found no boat, she did spot what appeared to be smoke coming from the land way ahead of them.  There were no tribes or other settlements that she was aware of in the immediate area, although that could have changed since she had last passed through.

The smoke could be anything:  hunters, fishermen, or possibly weary missionaries gone ashore for the evening.  Although — she pondered, tapping the end of the spy glass against her chin.  There was still the bothersome lack of galleon, which she would surely have seen if the missionaries had chosen to drop anchor for the night.  Whatever the source of the smoke, she was taking no chances. 

"I'm coming down."  She looked below and then began easing out the rope in the other direction, descending with little bounces of her feet against the mast until she landed solidly on the deck once more.  "Pull in closer to shore, as close as you dare without running her aground," she barked at Thomas, who was manning the wheel. 

"Aye, Captain."  Thomas began easing the rudder to the side, as the men working the rigging scrambled to trim the sheets as they changed direction, slowly letting the sails out from the close haul they had been keeping.  Once their new course was set, the sails were drawn back in, taking advantage of a steady wind blowing over the port bow.

"What did you see?"  Harry approached her from the starboard rail where he had been keeping watch from the deck level.

"Smoke on land.  Campfire, perhaps."  Isalba untied her rope harness and coiled it carefully around a cleat near the mast.

"Ah."  Harry was in agreement with her orders.  The closer they were to shore, the longer it would take for whomever was up ahead to spot them.

"I did not see the galleon.  However, should it be the missionaries, I would prefer not to have our surprise ruined, nor do I wish to take cannon fire when we are unable to return the favor."  She sat down and re-donned her boots and stockings.

"Missionaries would shoot at us?"  Megan commented from her seat nearby.

Isalba chuckled.  "My dear Meg, this is the church of which we speak.  Do you not think the same people who would burn unbelievers at the stake and rip babies from their mother's arms would think twice of shooting pirates out of the water?"

"Oh."  Megan nibbled her lower lip in thought.  "I did not realize."

"Yes, well." Isalba took a seat next to her.  "Now you know.  Even were they discriminate in their dealings, no galleon would travel these waters unprotected, unless it has a fool for a captain."

"But this is just a fishing boat," Megan commented reasonably.

"Yes, and I wish for them to believe that up until I snatch their ship from under their stinking feet."  Isalba lit her pipe and took a long drag, holding the smoke in her lungs a moment before expelling it.  "The longer it takes for them to see us, the easier it will be to surprise them."

"What will you do with the missionaries after you capture their ship?"  Megan pulled the bonnet she had finally decided she needed up around her face, shielding her eyes from the wind more so than the sun, which was now starting to drop below the treetops on shore.

Isalba was silent for a bit, then looked over at her.  She tugged at the bonnet. "We need to get you a hat.  This looks foolish with your new clothing."  Taking another hit off her pipe, she gazed out to sea and blew the smoke forcefully from her lungs, her eyes narrowed.  "When I board that ship, do not get in my way."  Without a backward glance, she stood and walked purposefully toward the back of the boat, where she leaned against the aft rail and looked down, watching the wake the boat kicked up behind them.

Megan started to rise and go after her, reaching for the hook that still kept her tethered to the deck.  A large hand closed around her fingers and Harry sat down next to her.  "I would leave her be, if I were you."

"She is going to murder them." Megan looked over at him.  "Am I right?"

"Carries demons, that one does."  Harry eased delicately around her question.  "Let me tell you something.  She is the shrewdest captain I have ever known.  Even Covington saw it in her.  It is how she came to be his first mate at so young an age.  The truth is, in the shadow of Covington's coat-tails, she has been running this crew for a very long time.  I know of no one who knows sailing and the sea better than she does.  I also know that most of the men we have lost were lost in two ways, to disease or on the edge of her blade."  He spat some tobacco juice out, aiming carefully down wind of them and over the rail.  "If you are a loyal and good sailor, she will risk her life protecting you, but if you cross her, watch your back."

"Yet you have genuine affection for her.  You cannot deny that. I see it in your eyes."  Megan searched his face.  "Even after watching her kill your fellow pirates?"

"Ah, Megan."  Harry's gentle smile graced his lips, curling his moustache up.  "I do care for her, but it is not what you think.  She is the younger sister I never had.  And I am a loyal and good sailor, so I have nothing to fear from her.  As for the crew members she has killed, most deserved it and had it not been at her hand, someone else would have done the deed."

"But those missionaries.  They have done her no harm."  Megan frowned deeply.  "It is wrong."

"I did not say she was perfect.  There are times you must weigh the good and the bad, and decide what you are able to stomach.  I chose a pirate's life.  If you are going to go to sea, you could do no better than to join up with Isalba Cortez, and believe me, I have seen some of the worst."  Harry withdrew a square tin from his pocket and took a small pinch of tobacco from it, adding it to the wad between his cheek and gums.  In amusement, he passed the tin across, his eyes growing wide in surprise when Megan accepted.

She took a small bit of the offering and pushed it between her lips, mimicking what she had seen him do.  Ignoring the strong taste, she looked over at him, her eyes watering as her taste buds reacted to the novelty.  "How did you come to be a pirate?"

He blinked, visibly surprised at her question.  "You are the first person ever to ask me that."  He spat again and watched as Megan did the same.  He continued, "I told a wee fib. 'Salba is not the sister I never had.  My sister died of the plague that swept through our village in England, just west of London.  My father first took ill.  He'd been going back and forth to London trading – crops, livestock, tools, whatever he was able to buy and sell.  The plague descended upon London and spread out from there.

"I am sorry to hear of your sister," Megan interrupted him, laying a sympathetic hand on his arm.

"Ah, lass, my entire family, but I get ahead of myself."  He stared unseeing out to sea.  "My mother, though, when my father took ill she sent all of us – me and my sister and my two younger brothers – to stay with my aunt and uncle out in the countryside, but it was too late.  They all came down with plague, except for me, and all of them died.  I was but nine years old and made my way back home, but by then my mother was dead and our house looted down to the bare rafters."

"Oh, how horrid."  Megan patted his arm again.

"It was just the way of things then. It was everywhere," he pressed on.  "So I hitched a ride on a peddler's cart and landed in the port of Southampton.  Tried to join the King's Navy, but I was too young and they wouldna have me.  I took to begging and stealing for food and slept in the cabins of empty boats at night.  One night it was cold and the icy rain was falling, and I thought to stow aboard the nearest ship I could find. It was the Langley and I hid myself in the cargo hold, bedded down in the hay with the pigs and the chickens, warm as my mother's fresh-baked bread."

"So Captain Covington took you in?"  Megan's voice rose, her mind swirling with imagined adventures.

"In a manner of speaking.  I awoke mid-morning the next day when one of the men put a pitchfork through my leg.  He did not mean it; he did not see me there.  As luck would have it, we were already miles out at sea.  Covington was furious, not at me, but at the night watch that had allowed a boy to sneak past them and board his ship.  And so he nursed my leg and our next stop was Florida.  After setting foot on those white, warm sands, I had no desire to go back to England.  I begged Covington to let me stay and he made me his cabin boy."  Harry laughed.  "Got my sea legs the hard way, I did. Sick as a dog for many a day."

"But I thought 'Salba was the cabin boy?" Megan swished tobacco juice around her mouth and spat it out, neatly hitting the water several feet from them.

"Good shot," Harry complimented her. "She was, but I am eight years older than she.  I was a man grown by the time Covington found her.  And I was none too ready to let her have the job."

"So you did not choose piracy, piracy chose you," Megan argued.

"Ah, lass, but I could have gone home and chose not to."  He shook his head.  "There was nothing left for me in England.  No home, no family, and I had not been apprenticed to learn a trade.  I could steal alone or steal with this group of men and what would have been the difference?  I am alive and free.  It is likely had I stayed, I would be in jail or enslaved by now, if not dead.  No woman in her right mind would've wanted to marry such as me, but now the women, I show them pretty trinkets and big gold coins, and they come flocking.  And yet I remain free.  'Tis the best of both worlds."

"Is that how 'Salba gets her women?  By throwing jewelry and coins at them?"  Megan frowned.

Harry coughed violently and stood, hanging over the rail and heaving for a moment.  "I swallowed my tobacco!"  He pounded his own chest with his fist. 

"Harry!"  Megan unhooked herself and was at his side in an instant, patting his back. "You are quite pale."

"Well, yes, as would you be if you ate that tobacco you are chewing on.  Ugh."  He sought out a dipper of water from a pail on deck and guzzled it, then sat back down, great beads of sweat dotting his face.  Reaching in his pocket, he withdrew a rag and wiped it off.  "A lady should not ask such questions of a gentleman."

"You fancy yourself a gentleman, now do you?"  Megan teased him, and he laughed.  "Besides, you mentioned it first."

"Fair enough."  Recovered from tobacco ingestion, he took out his tin once more, pausing as Megan made a face at him.  "Hair of the dog."   He waved it at her.

"What?"

"Never mind." He replenished his cheek and re-pocketed the tin.  "To answer your question, the captain has never needed to throw anything to get the attention of the ladies.  And that is all I have to say about that.  I believe it is my turn at the wheel."  He stood and bowed with a flourish.  "M'lady, if you will excuse me."

Megan giggled and watched him as he moved toward the back of the boat, relieving Thomas from his duty station.  As she looked beyond them, Isalba turned, catching her attention and wiping the smile from Megan's face.  Megan gasped slightly, under her breath.  Those blue eyes were incredibly sad and they locked with her own green ones for a very long moment.  It tugged hard at her heartstrings, and Megan stood to join her, forgetting she had not re-hooked her tether, and in that moment the boat pitched and she lost her footing, falling and sliding perilously close to the edge of the deck.

"Meg!"  Isalba raced across the deck toward her, but it was too late and she slid further, then slipped between the railing, falling through empty air and hitting the water with a shocking crash that forced the air from her lungs.  She gasped for air and two thoughts flitted through her mind:  the water was not as cold as she had expected, and she was sinking, the water quickly soaking into her clothing and weighing her down.  She kicked but the boots hindered her and her arms flailed, seeking out anything solid to grasp and finding nothing.

A large splash sounded next to her and then an arm was around her waist, pulling her head up just as it dipped below the water's surface.  She coughed and half-swallowed, half-inhaled salt water mixed with tobacco.  Water was everywhere – in her eyes and nose and mouth, and covering her.  She was vaguely aware that she was being dragged along and she tried to help, arms reaching out and legs kicking.

"Stop moving!"  Isalba's harsh voice shouted, much too close to her ear.  "You will drag us both under."

Megan obeyed and tried to relax, her heart hammering in her chest and her mind racing with paralyzing fear.  She looked up and saw the back of the boat and then she was being hauled up, slung over Isalba's shoulder as she climbed the ladder, grunting with the effort of carrying both of them upward.  Then Megan was on the deck, sprawled on her hands and knees, and realized her guts were on the verge of turning inside out.  With a sickly moan she retched, emptying her stomach of water, tobacco, and the remains of her lunch.  

But it was not enough and she crawled back towards the opening between the rails where the ladder hung, feeling someone holding her ankles and dragging her backward, away from the edge.  "Are you trying to drown yourself!"  Isalba's voice barked with rage, but Megan fought her, getting close to the aft of the boat, just as she vomited again, this time into the sea rather than across the boat's deck.  It was all too much and she collapsed face down against her crossed arms, breathing heavily, her head spinning and body exhausted.

"Help me get her below!" Isalba's voice sounded far away and yet Megan felt those arms around her again, lifting her and spinning her around, before carrying her below decks, where she found herself deposited in their bunk.  "What were you thinking?"  Isalba waved Harry out of the small space and angrily tugged Megan's boots off, flinging them across the floor, followed by her wet clothing.

"You looked –" Megan closed her eyes, realizing she was naked.  "Sad.  I wanted to comfort you."

"I was not – I do not need – !" Isalba trailed off in exasperation.  "I should leave you in San Agustín and arrange for your passage home.  This sea is no place for a woman."  She found a blanket, tucking it around Megan from her neck to her toes.

"But you are a –" Megan sighed wearily, too tired to have an argument she had already lost once.  "Please do not leave me there.  It will not happen again, I promise."

"No, it will not, especially if I send you home." Isalba sat down next to her.  "You thought I was sad?  You go and drown yourself, and then you shall see me sad – "  She stroked Megan's cheek with the backs of her fingers.  "You are shivering."

"So are you," Megan replied weakly.  She reached out from beneath the blanket and touched Isalba's forearm, which was peppered with goose bumps.

"Yes, no thanks to you," Isalba huffed and stood, turning her back and locating a towel.  She quickly removed her soggy clothing, hearing a gasp from behind her as she dried off and shrugged into a dry shirt and leggings.  Settling her clothing in place, she faced Megan again. "What?"

"Your back."  Megan beckoned her with a motion of her hand, and Isalba joined her, sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling on a dry pair of stockings. 

Isalba finished her task and felt a touch to her shoulder, then turned to face Megan.  "Yes, and?  You have seen my bare back before, when we were staying at the house on Chincoteague.  I saw you watching me.  Ever since then you have averted your eyes when I changed."

"I thought you might want some privacy."  Megan blushed furiously under her gaze.  "And it was dark that first time.  Only the fireplace was burning across the room."

"I do not have privacy issues."  Isalba looked down, placing her hands on her own legs.

"Turn around," Megan commanded, yet her voice was incredibly soft.

It sent Isalba's brain skittering off track and she silently acquiesced, closing her eyes as Megan delicately lifted her shirt, and she felt Megan's gentle touch, her fingertips lightly tracing the angry whip scars that crisscrossed her back.  "Silas did this to you."

"Silas?" Isalba was finding it difficult to breathe.

"The man who whipped you that first night we met."  Megan continued with her maddening exploration.

"Yes, well – he will not be doing it again.  I saw to that."  Isalba laughed bitterly.  "The first and last time I was ever whipped."

"It never happened again?"  Megan asked, her voice a tad incredulous.

"The next man that tried was strangled with his own whip," Isalba replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh."  Megan scooted closer and with that movement, from the corner of her eye, Isalba saw Megan's blanket slip part of the way down.  Then she felt warm breath on her skin and the lightest of kisses at the small of her back, a soft sub-vocal sound escaping the back of Megan's throat.  Isalba closed her eyes, her insides trembling furiously, hoping it did not show on the outside.  "You would be sad if I drowned?"  Megan dropped the shirt back into place and laid back, pulling the blanket back up over herself.

"Yes."  Isalba answered absently and turned, praying inside that she wasn't babbling like an idiot.  "Very sad."  She smiled.

"So you would be sad if I was not with you?"  Megan asked, her voice slightly cheeky.

"I –" Isalba groaned, realizing where the conversation was headed.  "I would be sad if you were dead," she hastily responded.

"Please do not leave me in San Agustín," Megan abandoned her dignity and wailed, her eyes starting to water. "I am sorry you had to rescue me.  I know you are very busy.  Please."  She grabbed Isalba's wrist. "I will not go home.  You cannot make me."

"And what will you do if I leave you there?  Go live in the wilderness?"  Isalba snorted.

"No," Megan answered earnestly. "I would find you.  I would search high and low for you, no matter how long it takes.  Just like I –"

"Just like you have done these past four years?"  Isalba found the fight draining from her, following what was left of her brain cells down some bilge valve.  She touched Megan's cheek, peering into startled green eyes.  "I know.  Beibhinn hinted at your wanderings when we spoke.  You did not hear her, did you?"

"No."  Megan pulled away, covering her face with both hands.  "Perhaps you should leave me in San Agustín," she mumbled.

"Or I could take you for those swimming lessons we discussed." Isalba waited, watching as one hopeful eye peeked out from between Megan's fingers.  "Do you wish to tell me about your visions?"  The eye disappeared again.  "It is alright."  She touched Megan's hand.  "I do not need to know.  But Meg, I do insist on one thing.  No more falling overboard."

"No more falling overboard."  Megan parroted, her face still covered.

"Rest, now.  We will be reaching whatever was causing the smoke soon.  It is just as well you stay below until we determine its source."  Knowing the younger woman needed some space, Isalba stood and left the small cabin, closing the door and standing just outside, her back against the wall.  Her own heart was just starting to settle down.  Watching Megan go over the side, knowing she could not swim, had terrified her more than she cared to admit.  And that terrified her all the more.

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

They pulled into a cove just north of the smoke and Isalba looked around as the crew dropped anchor and readied the skiff to go ashore. "Bradon, Thomas, Andrew, come with me." She motioned toward the ladder. In addition to her sword and the daggers she kept in her boots, a curved flintlock pistol was strapped to her belt, its polished barrel catching the sunlight that filtered through the treetops from the west. "Harry, you have the ship." Turning, she saw Megan's hopeful eyes peering up at her from the open hold entrance. "You stay here. You need to rest." The eyes dropped and the younger woman disappeared again.

Soon the small party reached the beach and headed for the tree line with Isalba in the lead. The woods there were a mix of pine and deciduous trees, the leaves of the latter covering the forest floor in a red and gold, crunchy carpet. Keeping to the sand just away from the noisy ground cover, they stuck to the shadows, moving closer and closer to a bend in the coastline, beyond which was the source of the smoke. At the last tree she held up a hand and they all dropped to their bellies, scrambling to a sand dune. She and Thomas scooted forward and peered over it.

Several yards down the beach was a bonfire, surrounded by at least a dozen men. Something was roasting on a spit and Isalba closed her eyes, inhaling and concentrating, the faint hint of sea bass reaching her nose. A woman was bent over the fire, her long skirts giving away her gender. They were all dressed in black, severe clothing and Isalba squinted, studying a tall pole planted in the ground near the fire. There was a cross at its top. " 'Tis the missionaries," she whispered.

"Aye, but where is the galleon?" Thomas agreed with her.

"That is the mystery," she whispered back. "If we are to assume these are the same missionaries."

At that moment, two more women emerged from the trees, each of them carrying rough-looking skins that appeared to be bulging with something, water most likely. " 'Tis fresh water nearby." Thomas pointed out. "We should collect some once we are done here."

Isalba nodded and eased back out of sight once more. Thomas took one more look around and joined her, as they crept back to the two other men.

"Alright," Isalba continued to whisper. "The missionaries are here, without their ship. They do not appear to have much in the way of weapons or supplies. They have a man at guard on each side of their campsite, but both appear to be armed only with wooden clubs, likely made once they arrived here."

"Take out the guards?" Bradon responded casually.

"Aye. Do not harm the women." She drew her dagger from her boot. "I will take the far guard, Thomas the near one. We sneak up from behind. Once they are out, Andrew and Bradon be prepared to keep the others from running away." She rose up, sitting on her haunches. "I will speak with the leader, once we determine who he is. I believe I saw a high priest near the fire." Her eyes glittered with excitement. "I shall get to the far side while Andrew and Bradon get to the middle, back in the trees. Thomas, watch for me."

"Aye, Captain." They all stood, hunched over, and made their way to their assigned positions.

Isalba felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, her body preparing itself for the action ahead. They were Spaniards and apparently connected to the church. She loathed them all. In no time she was circling around the other side of the campsite and pressed herself up against the backside of a tree, peering over her shoulder. Using her dagger, she caught some sunlight, sending it reflecting back toward the spot where Thomas would be hidden. A brief return flash reflected off a nearby stump and she sprung up, dagger in hand, and leaped across the distance between her and the guard.

She grabbed him, hand over his mouth, and heard the rush of air leave his lungs as she kneed him hard in the ribs. Before he could react she slashed the dagger across his throat from ear to ear, hot blood covering the arm that held him. She let go and he fell to the ground, and then she looked up, spying Thomas standing over the other dead guard.

One of the women beside the fire screamed, and the pirates rushed the group from three sides, closing in with weapons drawn. Chaos erupted as two men ran for the trees. Isalba raised her pistol and shot one in the back, hearing Thomas' pistol sound as he took care of the other. One woman ran for the water and Isalba ignored her, moving instead to the man she believed to be in charge. A younger man attempted to intercept her and she merely kicked out, planting a boot in his stomach that sent him doubled-over, to his knees. Two more came after her and she backhanded one across his jaw with the hilt of her dagger, while simply shooting the other one, who fell down dead next to his injured, moaning companions.

"Hello, father," she growled, grabbing the man she was after by the large crucifix around his neck. She wrapped the long chain around her hand, twisting it until the metal links were cutting across his windpipe.

"We are unarmed," he gasped, clutching at the chains until she smacked him across the knuckles with her dagger hilt, hearing the crunch of bones breaking. He whimpered and went limp, submitting to her.

"Neither was my family!" she roared, lifting her pistol and holding it to his head. "Alright!" she yelled. "The next one who moves without my direction shall force me to kill your priest."

The remaining men and two women all stopped where they stood, their wide, terrified eyes fixed on her. Thomas and Andrew stood to either side of the campsite, swords and pistols ready, while far off around the bend, she heard the escaped woman screaming. Her screams grew louder as Bradon appeared from behind a tree with the woman slung over one shoulder. "Shut up!" he yelled, releasing her and holding a knife between her breasts, his other arm securely around her waist. She complied, watching the others as silent tears began to stream down her face.

"Where is your ship?" Isalba questioned the priest, releasing the crucifix noose enough for him to speak. He merely glared at her and she sighed, turned the pistol on his nearest companion, and shot him. "Now," she demanded. "Where is your ship? Or do I have to shoot another one?"

"It was taken from us," the priest grudgingly replied.

"When? By who?" He resisted and she started to turn the pistol toward another man.

"No! Do not shoot him. It was taken the likes of you," he rasped. "Last night."

"Good boy," Isalba purred. "How many of them were there?"

The priest huffed angrily and glared at her again, then opened his mouth to speak. "I do not know the exact number. Twenty, perhaps?"

"Tell me more. I need to know everything." She tightened the crucifix chain slightly and shook it.

"Please, have mercy." The priest began to tremble. "That is all I know. One of my friars took me below and protected me until they were done."

"Coward." Isalba let go of him and immediately drew her cutlass, plunging it through his side. "Useless," she muttered, kicking him flat as he fell, his blood staining the sand dark crimson. She looked around and brandished her pistol in a wide arc. "Whoever can describe the leader of the men who took your ship, and can tell me how they boarded it, and why, and where they might be, start talking." She held the pistol to the sky and shot off a round. "Or the next shot will not be into the air."

One of the women timidly stepped forward. "Please, do not kill anyone. I saw it all."

"Come here," Isalba motioned to her. The woman was shaking so badly she appeared she might faint. "I do not kill women, unless they are like me. Do not be afraid." She held out a hand, waving the woman toward her. With slow steps, the woman continued to approach her until they were a few feet apart, and then she dropped to her knees at Isalba's feet, her entire body quivering violently.

"It is alright." Isalba knelt down next to her and set her pistol aside, followed by her sword and daggers. "See." She reached out, tilting the woman's chin up. "You have lovely eyes, such a pretty face. Here, take a seat." She drew the woman over to a nearby log and waited for her to sit, then knelt down again, placing herself at a slightly less intimidating position, her head at a lower level than the woman's. She was well aware of Andrew moving in her peripheral vision to stand closer to her weapons, lest one of their prisoners decide to make a dive for them. "What is your name?"

"M – m – Maria," the woman stuttered, tears swimming in her dark amber-hued eyes.

Upon closer inspection, she appeared to be all of fourteen years old, much younger than the other two women, who both had heavily-wrinkled faces and wisps of gray hair peeking out from beneath their head coverings. "Please. I went to the sisters after my family was killed in a fire, to become a nun. I had nowhere else to go. I only wanted to help the natives in this land."

"Do not be afraid, Maria," Isalba cooed. "I will not harm you. Now, tell me what you saw."

"I heard a disturbance on deck," Maria faltered, sniffling. "It was late and I was in my bunk down below. I snuck up top to see what was happening. One of the friars saw me and shoved me into a wooden crate and closed it up, so they would not see me. He –" She blushed and her voice dropped to a whisper. "He told me to stay put if I did not want those men to do terrible things to me, so I watched through a crack in the wood panels."

"What did you see?" Isalba pitched her voice to a low, soothing tone.

"The men that took the boat, a tall man with red hair and beard led them. I could see it in the moonlight. They – I believe they called him by the name of 'Ivan'." Maria paused and took a deep breath, and Isalba immediately offered her a small flask of water she unhooked from her belt.

"Go on, it is not poison." As proof, Isalba took a sip herself. "See." Maria warily took it, her hands trembling as she drank from it. "Sounds like Evil Ivan is in these waters." Isalba looked over Maria's shoulder at Thomas. "But he already had a fine ship."

"No, he did not," Maria corrected her. "That is why they took our ship. I heard them talking. Their ship sank south of here. They were muttering about lost treasure. That was after they set our people adrift on the raft they used to board our ship."

"The Night Bandit sank?" Bradon spoke in wonder. "With her treasure aboard?"

"Hush!" Isalba glared at him. "How did you come to be with the others, Maria, if they were set adrift without you?"

"There were two other young sisters, like myself." Maria's cheeks darkened in shame. "Those men took them below the deck and I heard them screaming. No one was looking, and I slipped over the side of the boat and swam ashore. It was not far from here and I found everyone here, where they had drifted ashore. I should have stayed to help them. They were my friends." She began to cry.

"No, no." Isalba reached out, stroking her cheek. "You would only have been harmed yourself. Now, you are safe."

Maria peered at her dubiously. "What are you going to do with me?"

"With you?" Isalba stood. "You will be taken back to our boat and I will leave you in San Agustín with money for passage back to Spain." She gestured toward the other two women. "Thomas, take them to the boat. Just the women."

"Aye, Captain." Thomas rounded them up, tying their wrists together with a length of rope, which was mostly unnecessary. One look at his pistol was all it took for the three women to compliantly follow him along the shoreline and past the trees, out of sight.

"As for the rest of this vermin, line 'em up." Isalba's eyes grew icy. She watched in stony silence as one by one, Bradon and Andrew wrestled the remaining friars to their knees before her. "Look at me." When none obeyed, she drew her sword and beheaded the nearest man with a clean, swift sweep of her blade, watching impassively as both body and head hit the ground with a bloody, sodden thud. "Look at me!" she barked, and all heads still attached to shoulders snapped to her attention. "You are with the church, therefore you are my enemy. Therefore, I shall –"

"Captain!" Thomas reappeared from the trees with a shout, the women in tow. "There may be a problem."

"What!" Isalba spun around to face him. From behind his coat, Megan appeared, her head held high in defiance. Isalba's heartbeat picked up, pumping blood to her skin's surface, flooding her system with rage. "I told you to stay below!" she marched across the sand with purposeful steps, stopping just short of the younger woman, and lifted her hand, intent on back-handing her.

"So you are to strike me with that bloody hand, now are you?" Megan stuck her chin out, offering over one side of her face. "Go on. Cut my head off, too."

Isalba stopped in mid-strike and for the first time, observed the blood that liberally coated her hand and shirt sleeve. She dropped her arm, clenching her fists at her side, her head buzzing with fury. "Take her back to the boat with you. I shall deal with her later. Lock her in our cabin and tell Harry he will be paying for this."

"No." Megan grew quickly contrite. "It is not Harry's fault. He did not know I escaped." She began to plead, "please do not hurt Harry, he is my friend."

"You should have thought of that before you disobeyed me," Isalba answered coolly. "Take her away. I am almost done here. I assume you took the other skiff?" Megan nodded in answer. "Good, we would have needed it anyway. Use it to take her and these women to the boat. We will be along shortly."

" 'Salba –" Megan began to plead again.

"Do not speak to me." Isalba held up a hand, silencing her. "I am much too angry with you right now. I do not want to –" She drew in a heavy breath. "Go!" she roared, "before I decide to have her whipped right here and now." She watched breathlessly as Thomas wrangled the women and began leading them back along the sand and around the bend. Megan looked back at her once, her expression both mournful and condemning at the same time. Isalba's eyes narrowed and she held her gaze, determined not to be the first to look away. After one more long glance, Megan's shoulders hunched and she turned and walked silently away, out of Isalba's sight.

Slowly, Isalba turned, her rage ebbing and along with it, her energy. "Kill them!" She waved a hand at the friars, who were still kneeling. "No need for speeches. Dead they shall be and talk is of no use then." With her back to the men she faced the sea, feeling the cool breeze on her heated skin and hearing the methodical swish of their swords, as Bradon and Andrew executed the men, one by one. None of the men cried out or begged, a few of them mumbling prayers to the maker they believed they would soon meet. She closed her eyes, waiting for the silence that would tell her it was done.

Looking down, she flexed her blood-covered hand, feeling the itch and pull at her knuckles as it dried. Impulsively, she bent over and picked up a thin shell, and began cleaning the gunk from beneath her fingernails. The tangy mineral scent drifted up, invading her nostrils with its stench. Funny, the sight and smell of blood on her had never bothered her before. Dammit.

"Dammit!" she yelled, and stalked away down the beach, headed for the skiff and a boat she had little desire to board.

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

Chapter 8

Harry reached the boat's ladder at the same time Isalba did, "I do not want to hear it!" she barked, climbing to the deck and passing him, heading for the hatch to the hold.

"It is my fault." Harry followed after her breathlessly.  "Captain, I apologize wholeheartedly."

"It was not your fault."  Isalba spun around.  "I told her to go below. I did not tell anyone to keep her there. She tells me you did not know she left.  Is that true?"  Harry's eyes shifted uncomfortably and she grabbed his shirt collar in her fist.  "Do not lie to me to protect her.  It will not change the outcome here."

"No, Captain. I did not know.  But –"

"Save your breath." She glowered at him and let go.

"She is but a girl," Harry boldly persisted.

"She is a woman grown and a member of my crew who defied me," Isalba replied evenly.  "Do not worry. I do not plan to kill her."  She turned for the hatch, only to feel his hand on her shoulder. "What?!" She slapped the flat of her hand against the hatch railing in agitation.

"What do you plan to do?"  Harry asked, his voice gently concerned.

"I will –"  She released a short frustrated breath.  "I do not know."

"Think, Isalba, before you do anything.  I beg you, do not hurt her."  In an act of compliance, Harry took a step backward and bowed his head.  "Or yourself."

"Are you willing to take her punishment?"  She glanced toward Angus, the whip master.

"Yes," Harry whispered, looking up.

"I'll remember that." Isalba turned and took the steps down two at a time, plowing toward their shared berth. 

Bradon stood in front of the door and stepped aside when he saw her coming.  "Captain."  He ducked his head slightly.

"You are dismissed."  She paused at the door, waiting.  "Leave!"

"Yes, Captain."  Bradon hastily backed away. "Captain, the girl –"

"What is it with my crew?"  she asked in exasperation.  "Do the rules not apply to all of you?  Perhaps you would care to join Harry in taking on her punishment?"

"I –"  Bradon's mouth opened in a moment of shock.  "If you wish, Captain, yes."

"Get out of here!" she roared, kicking the berth door open as she heard him trotting away behind her.

Megan sat in the chair beside the narrow table, her expression defiant.  Her eyes narrowed in anger as Isalba approached her.

"I shall wipe that look off your face," Isalba spoke through gritted teeth, then grabbed Megan by the arm and yanked her out of the chair, lifting her and throwing her onto her back on top of the bunk, then climbed onto it herself, creeping slowly toward Megan, stalking her like a big cat.

Megan scrambled from her, backing away until she was pressed into the very front of the ship's bow, her back hugging the V intersection of its port and starboard sides.  She opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound that emerged was a small gasp.  Isalba laughed dangerously and pounced, pinning Megan' wrists in one fist, hovering over her, her weight balanced on her other hand.  Still holding her wrists, Isalba rose to her knees and drew her dagger from her boot, running it slowly from Megan's belt to her throat.  Megan was panting, beads of sweat covering her forehead.

"Are you afraid?"  Isalba purred.

Megan jutted her chin out, her features hard.  "No," she gasped.

"You lie!"  Isalba laid her blade flat against Megan's cheek.

"You would not hurt me."  Megan glanced toward the cold metal.

"You disobeyed a direct order." Isalba ignored her defiance and dragged the knife downward, resting the blade against Megan's cloth-covered belly.  She lowered her face until it was inches from Megan's.  "What were you thinking?!" she bellowed, watching Megan cringe.

"I – I thought –"  Megan swallowed, the pulse at her throat visibly pounding.  "I was foolish," she whispered.

"That is a given." Isalba pulled back a little, releasing Megan's wrists, holding her down instead with a hand pressed into the younger woman's shoulder.  "But it does not answer my question.  "What –" she flicked the knife up and twirled it in her hand.  " – were –" She drew the knife back.  " – you thinking?!"  She slammed it into the wood above Megan's head, driving it in to the hilt, and Megan screamed, fighting her with her free hand, clawing at Isalba's chest in an attempt to push her off.

"I did not want you to murder those innocent people!" Megan cried out, still tussling with her, grabbing hold of Isalba's sleeve and pulling until it ripped away at the shoulder.

"They were not innocent!"  Isalba flew into a rage, and flipped Megan over onto her stomach, pressing her knees into the backs of Megan's thighs and pushing one side of her face into the mattress.  She pulled the knife from the wall and slipped it inside Megan's collar, slicing her shirt open to mid-back.  Slowly, she dragged a fingertip up Megan's exposed skin, noting goose bumps in her wake, and feeling Megan trembling beneath her.  "It would be a pity to scar such loveliness.  However, you wanted to be part of my crew.  Fine!"  She jumped backward, landing on the floor, and pulled a crying Megan by the ankles off the bed.

"You shall be treated like the disobedient crew member you are." Gabbing Megan's arm, she yanked her to her feet and half led, half dragged her from the small space and through the narrow passage, tugging her fiercely up the ladder and into the light of the setting sun.  "Only you get off lucky."  She shoved Megan to the deck, where she landed on her hands and knees.  "A savior has agreed to take your place."

Megan's head snapped up, her mouth open and her chest still heaving for breath.

"Angus!"  Isalba barked.

"Captain." The large man approached her, stopping near Megan and looking down at the smaller woman, his expression squeamish.  "Captain, you cannot mean to — "

"Harry has agreed to take her place. Tie him to the mast.  Thirty lashes."  She glanced down at Megan with a smirk.

"No!"  Megan lunged forward, grabbing at her ankles.

"Too late."  Isalba took a step, pulling Megan along as if she were a child.

Megan peered across the deck, watching as Harry meekly allowed Angus to strip him of his shirt, and tied him face-first to the mast, his wrists bound up high above his head.  Slowly, the whip master stepped back several paces, un-coiling the whip he had hooked to his belt and giving it a few test cracks to one side.  As he turned toward Harry and raised his hand, Megan leaped to her feet and ran across the deck, pressing herself against Harry and offering her back to Angus. 

"Miss Megan," Harry protested.  "You must let me —"

"No.  I am the one who should be punished."  She squeezed her eyes closed and braced herself, waiting for the lash.

"Enough!"  Isalba held up a hand.  "No one will be whipped here today."

Megan's eyes popped open, along with her mouth.  "I —"

Isalba strode across the deck and took Megan's face in one hand, looking into her eyes.  "I knew you were brave.  I did not realize just how much."  She let go of her, taking a decisive breath.  "However, I cannot let your disobedience go.  Let the punishment fit the crime.  Put her in the skiff."  She gestured at Angus. 

Studying Megan's confused eyes, Isalba forced herself to hold her gaze.  "You seem so fond of taking skiffs.  Perhaps a night of riding behind this boat will make you better appreciate staying on it when you are told to."  She looked to Angus. "Tie her down so she doesn't get pitched out into the sea."

"Captain —?" Angus started to question her but one furious gaze from Isalba and he paused.  "As you wish."

"It is alright." Megan peered at Isalba sorrowfully.  "I shall be fine."  She walked to the back of the boat, waiting patiently for Angus to follow after her.  Wordlessly he pulled the skiff forward by its rope and he and Megan climbed down the ladder. 

"I should get you a blanket," he whispered to her, as he carefully tied her to the boat's middle seat.

"It is alright."  Megan smiled sadly, speaking low so her voice would not carry.  "I know why she is doing this.  She will not let me be harmed."

"You seem sure of this."  Angus tied off the last knot.

"I am,"  Megan confirmed.  "Go on.  Do not feel guilty.  You are only carrying out her orders, as we all should.  As I should have."  She lowered her head, and he stepped out of the boat and climbed back up the ladder. 

Up top, Isalba watched, barely acknowledging Angus as he passed her.  "Harry, take the wheel," she called over her shoulder.

"Yes, Captain." He was pulling his shirt back on, followed by his coat.  He started to approach her but thought better of it, and took his place at the helm. "Prepare to shove off!"  Men began scrambling around the deck, pulling up anchor and unfurling sails.

"Where are the nuns?"  Isalba called out to Angus, finally remembering their new passengers.

"Settled into one of the back berths, Captain," he answered her, placing his whip into a utility box.

"Good,"  Isalba answered absently.

Megan looked up and Isalba met her gaze, holding it for a very long moment.  Narrowing her eyes, Isalba turned her back but did not move far, taking a seat on a bench at the aft railing where she could easily look back if she wanted to.  Down in the skiff, Megan drew in a long breath and released it, but managed a small, private smile, then sat back, determined to take whatever the night would bring.

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

Isalba glanced over the railing, squinting into the spray-filled darkness.  She could barely see Megan, just making out her silhouette, slightly darker than the night sky that framed it.  Sun had given way to moonlight, now obscured by gathering, high clouds.  Off in the distance lightning crackled across the horizon.  There was no rain over their boat and if the wind held steady, the storm might very well pass northeast of them.  It was a tossup as to which she hoped for.  Clear skies made for smoother sailing, but a good storm might provide cover for them to sneak up on the larger galleon, once they found it, especially if they found it after dark.

Harry was relieved at the wheel and he cautiously approached her, his footsteps sounding heavily against the wooden deck.  He stopped a few lengths away until she wordlessly gave a pat to the empty space next to her.  With a tentative smile, he sat down.  "No matter what happened, I would not have allowed Angus to whip you," she commented quietly.

"That –" He coughed and hunched over, lighting his pipe.  "That is good to know, Captain." 

She leaned over, blocking herself from the wind in the shelter of his much larger body, and he lit her pipe for her as well.  They both sat back against the railing and smoked in silence for a moment.  "I had already planned to put her in the skiff when I brought her up top.  I only wanted her to first understand that her actions might hurt others, and I thought if she saw you ready to take her punishment – I expected her to beg me not to whip you. I never expected –"  She shook her head.  "She continually surprises me.  And infuriates me.  Putting her back there, 'tis one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I have few other choices.  I cannot bring myself to whip her.  Keel-hauling, she would drown.  What was I to do?  I could not let it go."

"I know."  Harry nodded gravely.  "I believe she does as well."  He glanced backward but could make out little from where he sat.  "It has been four hours.  You should bring her in.  You need to get some sleep."

"I can sleep without bringing her in."  Isalba looked up, releasing a long stream of gray smoke against the dark sky.

"Yes. I can see that," Harry gently taunted her. 

"I do not know what I am going to do with her."  Isalba turned, drawing up one leg and resting her forearm casually across her knee. "Perhaps allowing her to travel with us was a mistake."

"What do you want to do with her?"  Harry passed across a small flask of rum and she took it, tilting it up for a few swallows.

"I –"  She closed her eyes.  "When I was with her in our cabin, before I brought her up here, I came close –"  She pounded her other fist against the bench.  "I sliced the back of her blouse open.  I wanted to take her.  I am a monster."

"You are a warrior suffering too long with the battle lust." Harry laughed lightly.  "You had the heat of the kill boiling in your blood.  She angered you, and anger at such times only stokes the fire, especially if there is already attraction there."

Isalba's eyes widened in outage and she opened her mouth to speak, but Harry's deep belly laugh silenced her. "Isalba." He laughed again. "You can lie to yourself about your desire for her, but you cannot lie to me. Let me say something to you, man to man."

"I am no man," Isalba protested.

"No, no.  I beg to differ."  Harry shook a finger at her.  "In this, you are.  So listen to me for a moment, not as your first mate, but as your friend.  What I say will do no good if I must decorate it with the niceties due a lady with delicate sensibilities."

"Alright." Isalba grudgingly looked over at him, propping her chin on her forearm.  "Speak."

"There is a reason the men go off to the woods alone, and a reason we sometimes take to that small back berth and do not share the space.  You have not been off to the woods since leaving Virginia Colony, nor have you slept alone. And yet you have."  He raised one eyebrow at her.  "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"That is more information than I need hear." She flashed him a devilish grin, nonetheless.  "Yes, I understand what you are saying."

"I know enough of the female body to know you need no help with this. You are perfectly capable of handling it alone."  He had the good grace to look away as he spoke.  "Your berth is empty at present.  You may not have such privacy again for a while.  I am just saying."

Isalba burst out laughing and took another swig of rum, then passed it across.  "Here.  I believe you need this worse than I.  My dear Harry, no offense.  Thinking of you thinking of me doing what I would be doing, I fear performance would be, shall I say, unattainable at the current moment.  But I will take your words under advisement, should an opportunity to, as you put it, 'go to the woods', present itself.  Though I do commend you."

"For my advice?" He practically wheezed.

"No, for your knowledge of the female body.  It is no wonder the ladies flock to you when we take our leave." She nudged him.  "I had no idea you were the devil between the sheets."

"What are you saying?"  He finally looked at her for a fleeting moment, then looked away.

"I am saying that unlike the men on this boat, I talk to the women I bed, including the wenches of Port Royal."  She chuckled.  "More than one has informed me I was the first to consider taking care of their pleasure as well as my own.  I assume you do the same?  Take care of your women?"  Glancing at him, she laughed louder, as he scrubbed at the side of his neck in embarrassment.  "I take that as a 'yes'.  Anyway, I am not the only one who talks.  If you are satisfying them, they are telling the others." 

"They – they discuss such things?!" Harry's voice rose in alarm.  "But ladies –"

"Ladies?"  Isalba snorted. "They are a gaggle of bawdy whores.  They discuss everything.  It is likely they all know the length of your –"  His hand clapped over her mouth and she only laughed harder, pushing him away.

"I will need to find a new brothel when we reach our destination," Harry moaned piteously.

"Ah, do not worry.  Judging by the attention you receive, you have nothing to fear. Whatever package you come bearing, they appear to be pleased to receive it."  She gave him a light punch on the arm.

"No, it is not that."  He took another sip from the flask, wiping a hand across his mouth.  "It is as you said earlier, knowing that they all know, I fear it may affect me as if I were standing watch while crossing the North Sea in winter."

"It would – what?"  Isalba cocked her head in puzzlement, then his meaning dawned on her and she doubled over with laughter.  "Oh."  Taking the flask from him, she tipped it up and drained it.  "I am glad my bit is not so exposed."  She attempted to hand the flask back.

Harry did not take it, as he had his ears covered with both hands, muttering quietly, "Do not need to know.  Do not need to know."

Isalba now had tears running down her cheeks, her body shaking in silent mirth.  At that moment, the boat crested a wave and dropped suddenly, pitching her forward to the deck.  Landing on her back side, she continued to laugh, and then rolled to her side, clutching her stomach, as Harry joined in, still sitting on the bench.  "Oh."  She sat up.  "I needed that."

"As did I."  Harry smiled broadly, nodding in agreement.  "It has been a very long day."

"Yes, it has."  Isalba stood and made her way to the railing, looking back into the darkness once more.  "Not only for us."  Silently she knelt down and grasped the rope the skiff was tied to, pulling it forward until the small boat abutted the back of the larger one. "Meg?"  A low moan drifted up from the skiff, and Isalba climbed down the ladder and into the smaller boat, oblivious to the spray pummeling her.

Megan was curled up in a ball on her side, as best she could, still tied to the bench.  "Meg?"  Isalba knelt down and tilted the younger woman's face up.  Even in the darkness, Megan's skin was obviously pale and cold to the touch, her hair plastered to her head and her clothing soaked from neck to foot.  Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Isalba, then closed them with a whimper.  "Dear God, what have I done?" Isalba whispered.  With shaking hands, she worked at the knots in the rope, then withdrew her dagger and cut them, lifting Megan up and hoisting her over her shoulder.

As Isalba started to climb the ladder, Megan groaned, "Ohhhhhhh."  A hacking, retching sound reached Isalba's ears and she cringed, recognizing dry heaves for what they were.

Regaining her footing on deck, she brushed past a concerned Harry.  "Get Cooks to make some hot tea and some broth, if we have it.  I will be in my cabin."

"Is she —?"

"She is not dead, if that is what you are asking," Isalba responded curtly.  "Though not for my lack of attempting to kill her.  Go!" she yelled impatiently, and Harry scrambled in front of her to open the hatch.

She clambered down the steps and paused. "Harry."  Turning, she studied him in silent apology.  "You have the wheel for the rest of the night."

"As you wish, Captain."  He turned and headed aftward in search of their cook.

Isalba made a bee line for their berth, pushing the door open and placing Megan across the foot of the mattress.  Grabbing a blanket, she eased it beneath her to keep from getting the bed wet, then furiously removed her clothing before wrapping another blanket around her and pulling Megan across her lap.  "I am so very sorry."  Isalba rocked back and forth, hugging Megan tightly.

"Please," Megan finally gasped. "Do not rock."

"Sorry."  Isalba ceased her motion.  "We must get you beneath the covers and get you warm."  Still holding her, she gently dried Megan off with the blanket she was wrapped in, then got her dressed in a long night gown before she pulled back the blanket on the bed and eased Megan under it, tucking her in up to her chin.

Retrieving a water flask from the desk, Isalba crawled up beside the shivering woman, slipping one arm beneath Megan's shoulders.  "Drink."

"There is nothing left in my stomach," Megan whispered, her voice breaking as she continued to shiver.  Her lips were cracked and bleeding, her eyes bloodshot and slightly vacant.

"All the more reason to drink."  Isalba held the flask to her lips.  "Just a little bit.  You need to replace what you have lost."  She watched as Megan warily sucked at the spout, swallowing a few times before she turned her head away, indicating she was done.

A knock sounded at the door and Isalba looked up. "Come."

Cooks opened the door a crack and looked around, then stepped inside and set a tray at the end of the bed.  "Hot tea and chicken broth, Captain."

"Thank you, Cooks. That will be all," she dismissed him and he backed out, closing the door and leaving them in relative quiet.  Reaching for the tray, she pulled it up next to her and lifted the cup of tea.  "Here, this should help you warm up."

"I do not want to go into the water, ever again."  Megan was more alert now and she watched Isalba, peering over the rim of the mug as the taller woman held it to her lips.  "I feared you meant to leave me out all night."

"I did." Isalba managed a smile.  "Drink more," she urged, tilting the mug up once more.

"What changed your mind?"  Megan pushed the mug away.

"I am so very proud of you." Isalba dodged her direct question, and picked up the cup of broth.  "You need to drink this as well."

Megan frowned and took a few sips, then looked up.  "Proud?  For what?"

"For placing yourself between Angus and Harry."  Isalba waited expectantly and Megan swallowed more broth.  "That was a very brave thing to do."

"It was the right thing to do," Megan corrected her.  "It would be wrong for me to stand by and let Harry take my place."

"I had no intention of whipping Harry," Isalba commented quietly.  "I only wanted to teach you a lesson.  I am not in the habit of punishing one person for another person's deeds."

"Then why did you kill those monks on the beach?"  Megan boldly asked.

After a shocked, silent moment, Isalba sat back on her heels. Try as she might, she could muster no anger.  It was late, she was tired, and Megan was half-drowned for the second time in one day.  "Meg, Meg, Meg."  Isalba shook her head.  "What am I to do with you?"  She peered into the bloodshot green eyes, surprised to find some of the affection she was feeling reflected there.

"Are you going to leave me in San Agustín?"  Megan asked fearfully.

"I do not know."  Isalba slid off the bed and placed the tray on the desk, then removed most of her clothing, stripping down to her knee-length underwear and sleeveless undershirt.  "What I do know, is that you are still freezing."  She climbed back up and slipped beneath the covers, pulling Megan close until Isalba was spooned around her. 

"What are you doing?"  Megan stiffened against her and turned, looking over her shoulder at Isalba, her eyes wary.

"Relax," Isalba soothed.  "You have not stopped shaking since I brought you back aboard. The quickest way to get warm again is to share body heat."  Wrapping one arm around Megan's slim form, she stroked her head with the other hand, making a few nonsense sounds until she felt her relax once more.  "That is better."  She closed the other arm around Megan, and felt her release a sigh of relief.  "Sleep now.  Tomorrow, if I am not fighting Evil Ivan by first light, I will explain to you why I killed those men."

"But –"

"No." Isalba, pressed her thumb against Megan's lips.  "For tonight, no more thinking and no more questions."  She brushed her thumb across Megan's lips, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, before she took up the gentle stroking of her hair once more.  After a few minutes, Megan grew limp against her, her breathing long and even.

Isalba sighed and relaxed her grip slightly, though she continued to cradle Megan in her arms.  While there was no more thinking for Megan that night, Isalba herself had many things to ponder.

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

The boat pitched violently, rolling Isalba swiftly across the mattress and into the wall.  "Ooff!" Immediately awake, she felt Megan roll and collide with her, the smaller woman's elbow digging into Isalba's mid-section.  Reaching down, she gently pushed Megan's arm aside, just as the boat lurched again and Megan rolled away from her, hitting the opposite wall with a thud and a groan.  Isalba braced herself so as not to follow after her, and with some effort managed to sit up, just as another jolt sent her head slamming into the cabin's ceiling.  "Ouch! God's nightgown!"

"What is it?"  Megan tried to sit up as well, only to be tossed onto her back as the boat came down again.  "I cannot stay still."

"Storm."  Isalba tugged on her pants and reached for boots and her shirt, pulling the still-damp cloth over her head.  "Stay here. I am going up top to see how bad it is. Here."  She took hold of Megan, dragging her across the mattress and under the porthole near its foot.  "There is a cleat here.  Hold onto that so you are not tossed about so much."

"Thank you."  Megan grasped the cold metal and dug her toes into the mattress as well.  "Should I get dressed?"

"That is entirely up to you."  Isalba stood and wedged herself into a corner for support, while she tucked a dagger into her boot.  "Habit."  She smiled, as a flash of lightning illuminated Megan's questioning expression.  "Try to go back to sleep, if you can. I do not know how long I shall be up top."

"As if I could sleep in this." Megan laughed nervously.  "My stomach is dancing a jig."

"Bad as this is, it is certain many of the men are in your condition."  Isalba shoved a flask of water toward the end of the desk, which was jutted up to the foot of the bed.  "Drink this, but slowly. It is better for you stomach to have something in it at such times."

"I wish I could crack the window open for fresh air," Megan mourned.

"At present you would get nothing but soaked again."  Isalba donned her longer coat and opened the cabin door, tilting her head to one side.  "Odd."

"What is odd?" Megan carefully maintained her grasp on the cleat with one hand, while lifting the flask with the other.

"No shouting from up top."  Isalba shrugged and left, closing the door behind her and traversing the short passage to the ladder.  There was no rhythm to the boat's rocking, and she was forced to span the narrow space with both arms, pressing her hands against the walls to keep from falling down.  She ascended the ladder into chaos, driving rain pelting her in the face and men scrambling about, as the mainsail luffed wildly in the pounding fury, one of its lines completely loose from the series of pulleys and winches that should have secured it.

"Damnation!"  She lunged for the whipping line, grabbing hold and struggling as the sail battled with her for dominance.  Digging in with her boot heels, she pushed backward with her powerful thighs, inching backward to a cleat and wrapping the line around it, tugging mightily to pull the heavy sail back into some semblance of control.  "Some help would be good here!" She yelled over the din, and Bradon stumbled across the deck, falling in behind her and taking hold of the line.  Together they heaved, and slowly the sail took on tension. "Not too much." Isalba warned.  "Just to get it under control for now." 

Finally she tied off the line and immediately moved back to the wheel where Harry stood, his feet in a wide stance, arms bulging as he fought with the sea for control.  "Captain." He spoke so low she could barely hear him.

"Speak up!" She yelled, and he shook his head.  "What?!"

"The galleon," Harry spoke as loudly as he dared. "She is up ahead.  We see her with each lighting flash.  I told the men to be as quiet as they can in hope they will not hear us or see us.  I cannot risk moving closer to shore in this storm."

"Why did you not come and get me when you spotted it?" Isalba glared at him.

"We had but just seen it when you emerged up here."  Harry tugged at the wheel.  "I was about to send someone down."

"Ah."  Isalba was appeased.  "How far ahead?"

"She is still small in the distance."  Just as he spoke, lightning streaked across the sky and Isalba saw it too, a great ship to her vision, even as far away as it was.

"She is perfect."  Isalba's eyes lit up.  "She will be mine."

"Orders, Captain?"  Harry began to slide across the wet deck and side-stepped to regain his footing.  The boat continued to pitch and he over-compensated, sliding in the other direction before he pulled himself upright, never letting go of the helm.  

"Even were they to see us, they will not launch their skiffs in this storm.  We are nothing but a fishing boat to them."  Isalba squinted into the rain.  "Their sails are down.  They have dropped a long anchor to ride this out, I would wager.  Alright.  Head out to sea."

"What?" Harry's eyes widened in surprise.  "But Captain, the storm –"

"Relax.  Travel only far enough to remove us from their sight.  The storm will be our ally in this. We shall turn back inland when we are south of them and drop our own anchor as soon as we can, hopefully in the shelter of a cove."  She looked up.  The sky overhead was black, the rain falling and blowing almost sideways, pelting the side of her face.  "Once we are stopped, I will take enough men to fill both skiffs, and we will backtrack and sneak up on them by darkness.  Perhaps the storm will assist us in that as well."

"Brilliant," Harry commended her.

"I hope it is so." Isalba pulled the collar of her coat up against the rain blowing down her back.  "If we can board her undetected, so much the better.  I am going below for the remainder of my weapons. I shall roust the rest of the men as well.  I am certain no one is asleep in this."

"Aye, 'Salba,"  Harry agreed and she turned, taking the ladder down, her body and mind now fully-alive at the prospect of the battle ahead.  And there would be a fight, it was almost certain, unless the galleon's occupants were ashore. "Let it be."  She grinned and began shaking the men who were trying to sleep in the main section of the hold, then moved to the back two berths.  One had its door propped open and she leaned in.

"Prepare for battle!"  She yelled, hearing the stirrings and excited, low conversation of the men.  "The galleon is dead ahead.  She will soon be ours!"

Glancing at the second door, she realized the nuns must be in there.  Hesitantly, she knocked, and the younger woman she had spoken with earlier opened it, peering up at her with terrified eyes.  "We hear you.  Are we in danger?"

"No."  Isalba smiled in an attempt to ease her fears.  "Best to stay where you are and out of the way until we are done, but you should be safe enough back here."  The woman frowned skeptically, then silently closed the door and Isalba heard the click of the deadbolt.

Returning to her own cabin, she removed her coat and began strapping on her sword and  pistol, and tucking a few extra daggers on various parts of her person.  "We are taking the galleon shortly.  You stay here until I return."  She stared meaningfully at Megan. "I mean it."

"Yes."  Megan shifted and sat up taller, still clinging to her cleat as the boat continued to rock fitfully.  "I am going to get dressed."

"That is a good idea.  We will be moving to the galleon as soon as we take it."  Isalba pulled her long hair back, and started to tie it into a tail.

"Is there time to braid it for you?"  Megan had lit a lantern, its soft glow casting odd shadows as it swung from a hook on the wall.

"I –" Isalba considered for a moment.  They had to first circle around and south and then find a place to drop anchor.  "Yes.  I would like that very much.  It will be less likely to come loose and fly into my face."  She sat down and felt Megan go to work, taking a comb to her wet hair and working out snarls before she began to plat it.

"Just think, Meg, by the morning we shall finally have room to move around, and a real home of our own."  Isalba shifted forward a little, giving Megan more room to work.

Megan's hands stilled for a moment, then she took up her work again.  "That will be good. Will we – never mind."

"Will we what?" Isalba turned slightly.

"Will we still share a berth?"  Megan looked studiously at the braid, avoiding Isalba's eyes.

"Of course."  With an overwhelming desire to take Megan into her arms and show her just how much more she wished to share, Isalba swallowed and turned back around and away from a source of temptation that was much too great.  If she had learned one thing in the last day, it was the need to hold her heart in check and not let it rule over her head.  "It is the most practical thing to do.  It is easier for me to protect you if you are next to me."

"Of course," Megan repeated her answer softly and tied off the braid.  "What if you do not return?"

"Oh."  Isalba turned and smiled in reassurance.  "I will.  Do not fear."

"But things can happen," Megan persisted.

"Meg." Isalba scooted closer, smoothing back an errant lock of Megan's hair before quickly withdrawing her hand.  "I will come back here to get you.  I am too close to what I want to let anything happen."

"But."  Megan looked down.  "I wish –" she trailed off, plucking lightly at the blanket they sat on.

Isalba sighed.  "Listen to me.  If the unthinkable were to happen, you take this boat and those nuns and get away from here.  I know you have watched enough, you could instruct them on raising the sails while you handle the wheel.  Could you not?"

"I – Yes, I think so," Megan slowly answered.  "Shore is to our west, correct?"

"Yes, yes, exactly." Isalba smiled.  "And we are not far from San Agustín, where you could find passage home.  But –"  Isalba gazed intently into Megan's eyes. "I am going there with you, and on to Port Royal, where we will have the finest Yule celebration you have ever seen."

"I look forward to that more than anything in my entire life."  Megan smiled.  "Whoa!"  The boat lurched and keeled over almost sideways, then righted itself, and she just managed to grab the cleat and hold on. 

Isalba braced her feet on the floor and once the most severe rocking passed she stood, pulling her coat back on.  "Well."  She donned her hat.  "Wish me luck."

"Good luck."  Megan reached for one of her new sets of clothing, a dry pair that was folded neatly and tucked into a small shelf space above the bed.  "I shall be waiting for a ride over to our new home."

"That is the spirit I like to hear."  Isalba paused, thinking.  "I am taking most of the men with me. I will only leave one behind to watch after this boat."

"Harry?"  Megan asked hopefully.

"No, I will need Harry.  I do not know yet who I will have stay, but I will have them come down and look in on you once we leave."  She opened the door and stepped over the raised portal. "While Harry and I are gone, you are the temporary first mate of this boat.  Try not to sink it."

"I –what?!"  Megan yelled after her, as Isalba took off, closing the door behind her.

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

continued...

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