Megan stirred in her sleep, mumbling and whimpering at turns, gripped in the throes of a nightmare.  Isalba paused across the room and studied her.  Frowning, she went back to work mixing herbs for fever and congestion.  "I should have insisted she take these when she first began coughing," she chastised herself.  Crushing one more vial of leaves, she mixed it into the green-tinted liquid in a mug and sniffed the pungent concoction.  "Ugh." She wrinkled her nose and moved back to Megan's side.

Kneeling down, she gently shook Megan's shoulder, then stroked her cheek.  "Meg.  Wake up."

"Noooo." Megan clawed at the blanket covering her, pulling it up beneath her chin.  "She is good, Ma.  Good to me."  A tear squeezed from Megan's eye and she sniffled.  "Pappa, I love her. I canna come home.  Need her."

Isalba drew in a sharp breath, guessing at the subject of Megan's dreams.  "I need you, too, Meg," she whispered, surprising herself for a moment at the admission.  Shaking her head, she sighed, realizing just how true her statement was, and the complications that were sure to come with it.  She continued stroking Megan's face, her fevered skin very warm to the touch.  "Meg, wake up, mi amor. Te quiero. I love you very much," she added quietly.

Megan stirred and turned to her side, at first pushing at Isalba's hand and then grasping it, pulling it to her chest.  "Isa?"  She frowned, still asleep.  "They want me to stay here, but I wish to be with you.  Isa, you came for me."

"I never left you," Isalba gently corrected her, Megan's uninhibited thoughts touching her deeply.  "Meg, please."  She hesitated, not wanting to shake her any harder.  "You must wake up.  I need you to wake up," her voice broke with despair. 

"Mmmmph."  Megan's eyes fluttered and opened halfway, peering upward in bloodshot confusion.  "They hurt you."  She reached up.  "Need to help you escape.  I will get the axe from the Smithy's shop."  Trying to sit up, she groaned in frustration when Isalba held her back.

"You already helped me, sweetheart."  Her heart hurt, realizing Megan's mind had gone back in time to their first meeting.  "Many times."

"They will be here by sunrise," Meg fretted. "They will hang you in the town square. Have to save you.  I love you so."

"And I love you.  Will you do something for me?" She decided to change tactics, playing into Megan's dreams.

"Anything."  Megan licked cracked, dry lips.

"Will you drink this for me?"  Isalba held up the mug.

"Need to get up." Megan rose to a half-seated position and this time Isalba allowed it. "Save you."

"Drinking this will help save me," Isalba encouraged her.

"It will?"  Megan scrunched up her face, smelling the strong herbs.  "Alright."  She grasped the mug and Isalba helped her hold it.

"Drink all of it, Meg."  She tilted the cup as Megan slowly drained it, grimacing as she swallowed the last of the vile potion. "Good girl."  She set the mug aside and watched as Megan's eyelids began to flutter.

"So sleepy," Megan muttered.  "Have to stay awake to help you."

"Meg. Look at me." Isalba held up her hands before Megan's face. "You set me free.  See, no stocks."

"I did?"  Megan fought the drugs as they began to invade her blood stream.  "When did I do that?"

"Not so long ago," Isalba responded.

"I do not remember," Megan fretted.  She took both of Isalba's hands and squeezed them tightly.  "You are safe now?"

"Yes, and so are you."  Isalba lifted one of Megan's hands, kissing it.  "It is safe to sleep now."

"So very tired."  Megan slowly released Isalba's hands and lay back down.  "It is cold here."  A shiver worked its way through her body, and Isalba pulled the blanket back over her. "You could keep me warm," Megan added hopefully, eyes closing wearily.  "Always keeping me warm."

"Poor Meg." Isalba touched her face, cupping her cheek.  "You mind moves about.  Yes, I can keep you warm."  She slipped out of her boots and crept around behind Megan, curling up against her back and spooning with her.  "Better?"

"Warm," Megan's voice trailed off happily.  "Yes."

"Sleep, my love." Isalba stroked Megan's hair, which was damp with sweat.  "The storm will pass and so will this fever.  Tia said it would.  She has never been wrong."

Isalba allowed herself to doze, her own mind too keyed-up to give in completely to sleep.  There was so much to do.  She needed to check on her ship and crew.  Surely they were looking for her, or would be as soon as the storm eased up enough to form a search party.  Bradon and Samuel, the two men who had been left to guard the path up to the cave, had hopefully escaped the worst of the storm's fury.  She would never have expected them to come up the hill against the raging river during a cyclone. Hopefully the ship had survived. In a short period of time, it had become hers and she realized she would truly miss it if it were destroyed.

And then there was Tia, who seemed to believe she was near death.  Isalba frowned, thinking of the monastery priests who were tormenting Tia's family, keeping the voodoo queen from receiving the care she needed and deserved.  Despite her powers, and Isalba was convinced they were great, she had never known Tia to cast an evil spell against anyone who did not deserve it in double measure.  Most of the old woman's days were spent caring for those who were ill on the island, providing medicine unsanctioned by more traditional doctors in the town of Port Royal.  Isalba suspected it was not approved of because typically, Tia's potions were more effective than the treatments offered by the doctors, and what's more, Tia asked little in return for her services, only what coin or barter an ill person or their family could afford.

Finally, her thoughts turned to Megan, who was resting less-fitfully in her arms.  There would be no leaving Tia's hut until Megan was able to travel, ship and crew be damned.  It hit her hard, then, how quickly her priorities had shifted.  Before Megan, she would have gone running downhill and back to the port to her ship, would have risked her life to get through the cyclone to her crew. This time, no such thought had crossed her mind.  Truly, when first she realized their lives were in peril, her only thought had been for Megan's safety. That and a grudging stubborn anger that there would be any threat to her new-found love, be it human or from Gaia herself.  She'd be damned if she would allow this chance at happiness to be snatched from her so quickly.

Now, in this forced time of isolation, she had time to think.  It was dark outside, night having fallen without notice while she was caring for the two women currently in her charge.  It was strange to realize that two nights before, she and Megan had hurt each other so terribly and then in the same night, come to the realization that they loved each other and both wanted the same things.  And just last night they had consummated that love.  Things had changed so swiftly that she hadn't had time to process it.

She loved Megan fiercely, and knew it was true that she had loved her since four years before, when they first met.  What they had shared in the cave had been sweet and satisfying, more satisfying than anything she'd shared with the women she had bedded before Megan.  Isalba wasn't stupid. It was all about the love.  She knew that.  Making love with Megan had meant more than anything to her. When Megan touched her, she touched not just her body, but her heart, satisfied not just her physical desire, but her soul.  Megan had given herself completely and without hesitation, and had been unashamed in her own eagerness to make Isalba feel good, to feel loved.

What would it mean going forward?  What they had shared had forever changed her.  She knew she would not be able to go back to the ship and pretend otherwise.  And she also realized that in one night, her crew had shifted from first place to second place in her life.  Megan now occupied that first spot and it meant that if Isalba ever had to choose between Megan and her crew, that she would choose Megan.  Was that fair to her men?

She had wanted to be where she was for so long.  From her first few weeks working as Covington's cabin 'boy,' she had realized she loved her life on the sea and wanted her own ship someday.  Now she had it, and much sooner than she had expected to.  Had the Langley not met its unfortunate demise off the coast of Chincoteague, there was no reason she would not have expected Covington to live another ten or even twenty years as captain. And she would have been happy to wait, spending those extra years in his service as first mate.

Proving herself to the crew had been relatively easy.  There was nothing false in her self-confidence in her own ability to be the captain of that crew.  She had the skills.  She had the knowledge. And she had eight years of experience on the sea prior to Covington's death.  Most of the crew had willingly followed her as first mate, so following her as captain had been a logical jump for them, even though she was much younger than many of them.

Looking at Megan's fair hair, her face now serene with sleep, Isalba acknowledged that although she was only two years older than Megan, she thought of her as barely out of girlhood. And as much as she felt confident in her ability to captain a ship, she was like a child floundering in the waves when it came to love.  In this she had no role model, no captain's log, no guide whatsoever other than the depths of the emotions of her own faulty heart.  Goddess help both of them, she sighed.

Megan coughed and moaned, waking up for a moment.  "Throat hurts," she rasped.  Turning, Megan nuzzled Isalba and curled against her, burying her face into the pirate's chest as another cough racked her body.  Isalba held on, making little comforting noises and rubbing Megan's back until the coughing fit passed.  She felt Megan's forehead, which seemed even warmer than it had earlier, despite the herbs she'd given her.  She dared not give her more for at least a few more hours. The dose Megan had already consumed was very strong.

Moaning unhappily, Megan drew in a long, rattling breath, gasped, then drew in one more, her body fighting to get the air it needed. "Meg."  Isalba tilted the younger woman's head back where she could see her face in the firelight, and squeezed her jaws enough to force her mouth open.  Her throat was raw and swollen, the passage for both food and air to pass dangerously narrow.  Isalba's heart skipped a beat, realizing the implications if the herbs didn't start doing their work soon.  She had seen the ship's doctor cut a breathing passage in a man's throat once, but the man had not survived, his body giving over to infection that set in at the wound site.

"Meg." Isalba sat up, scooting back so she could lean against the wall, drawing Megan back with her.  "You need to sleep sitting part of the way up."

"I hurt all over," Megan answered, her voice much lower than normal. "Ouch."  She coughed and grudgingly leaned back against Isalba, clutching at her shirt as Isalba pulled the blanket up around both of them.  "Want to lie down."

"You breathing will fare better sitting up," Isalba insisted, kissing the top of her head.  "Come on, Meg."  She rubbed her lover's back, feeling the effort of breathing in the labored movement of Megan's rib cage.  "Sleep, now.  Let the herbs begin to heal you."

"Canna sleep," Megan mumbled, her eyelids drooping in spite of her protests. Another few labored breaths, and she finally relaxed, closing her eyes and resting limply against Isalba's chest.

Isalba sighed shakily, knowing she was not going to sleep a wink.  Megan's condition was too fragile and so she resigned herself to keeping vigil, listening for and counting each rise and fall of Megan's chest, each wheeze, and every cough.  It was going to be a long night.

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

Isalba's head jerked and she groaned, rolling it around to relieve the stiffness in her neck.  The darkness pressed in, the scant light of the glowing remains of the fire making little headway against what she guessed to be sometime past midnight.  It was quiet – way too quiet – and she realized the storm had ceased its pounding, the furious howling of the wind and the lashing of rain replaced with the chirps of a few brave crickets in the undergrowth outside the hut.  A slight trickling sound reached her ears, which she attributed to storm runoff, as the river and a smaller tributary creek were too far away to be heard even in the best of circumstances.

Something else was amiss and she realized Megan was also much too quiet. In a panic, she touched Megan's upper lip, feeling very little breath coming from her nostrils.  Her chest rose and fell and then stilled for much too long before it repeated the cycle again.  Soft cheeks were much too warm and Isalba cursed.  "Meg."  She gave the thin body in her arms a very slight shake.  In reaction, Megan coughed violently and wheezed afterward, gasping for breath.  In the darkness, she clutched feebly at Isalba's shirt, then her hand fell limply down to the pirate's thigh.

"Meg!" Isalba cried out in despair, crawling closer to the fire pit, dragging both of them along.  "Goddess, no," she whispered.  "Please, no."  Megan made no response other than a slight, obvious struggle for breath.  "No!"

Isalba gently but quickly lay Megan down on the pallet, then dodged behind the curtain to Tia's bed chamber. "Tia!  Meg cannot breathe.  Her throat is constricted.  Her chest – she cannot breathe," she repeated, her own chest tight with emotion.

"There is a vial." Tia motioned her closer.  "Dark brown glass, on the top shelf.  A powder.  It will drive the blood from her swollen tissues and make them shrink. Get some on her tongue and into her nose. Do not use too much. It is very strong, only used when all else fails."

Not bothering to answer, Isalba rushed to the shelves where Tia's potions were stored and lit a candle. She knocked glass bottles and wooden boxes aside as she climbed up on the counter and reached for the top shelf that was out of reach from the hut's dirt floor.  Feeling frantically around, she lifted a few bottles, holding them to the candle light until she found a small brown bottle.  Pulling the stopper, she sniffed it cautiously and drew back as her nostril hairs curled and her eyes stung, tears popping up unexpectedly and streaming down her cheeks.  "This must be the one."

Dropping down next to Megan, she lifted her up.  "I am sorry, this will be most unpleasant."  She dipped her pinky into the vial and then eased it into Meg's mouth, touching her tongue.  Megan gasped and struggled, her mouth opening wide as she sucked in a breath of air.  "I know," Isalba soothed, repeating her actions with a dab of powder to the inside edge of each of Megan's nostrils.

"Aggghhh," Megan cried out as if in agony, her voice painfully hoarse to Isalba's ears.  "I canna — I canna –" She gasped again and rolled toward Isalba, lying across her lap and holding onto one arm as her entire body convulsed, then calmed.  Chest heaving, she drew in several more breaths and then coughed violently, spitting onto the floor.  "Sorry," she mumbled.

"It is alright. It is dirt," Isalba comforted her, rubbing Megan's back and holding her as she continued to struggle with the drug invading her system.  "I need to talk to Tia for only a moment.  I am sorry, Meg." She carefully helped Megan roll back to her side and pushed a folded blanket beneath her head. 

Reluctantly, she went back to Tia's bedside and knelt down.  "What was that?" she demanded, almost angrily.

"Powerful medicine from the Orient, made from the wasabi plant and other herbs." Tia advised.

"I believe it helped. She was able to draw breath.  What else am I to do?"  Isalba felt her own heart hammering in her chest.

"Bleed her, child."  Tia lightly touched Isalba's wrist.  "It will drain the fever."

"She is weak," Isalba replied uncertainly.

"But she burns?" Tia persisted.

"Yes." Isalba's face scrunched up in worry. "She was not in her right mind earlier. Did not know where she was or what day it is."

Tia considered for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing quietly.  Slowly, she opened her eyes. "You fear blood loss will make her condition worse?"  Isalba nodded and Tia continued, "Never ignore your own intuition. First rule of healing.  Very well. Do not bleed her yet. First get her body into cold water or wrap her in cold, wet cloth."

"She will not like that." Isalba sighed. "She shivers with the fever."

"Listen to me." Tia grasped Isalba's forearm, squeezing it feebly for emphasis.  "Fever is a friend to a point. But too high for too long will burn the inside of the head.  Leave it addled permanently.  You must bleed her or cool her body. You must choose, Isalba." 

Isalba sighed wearily.  "Then I choose the cold water."  She paused, touching Tia's forehead.  "You are warm. Shall I dunk you next?"

Tia smiled, a croaking chuckle escaping her lips.  "You have not changed.  And yet you have. No. I am old and I would rather burn than freeze.  Go take care of your lady love."

"I will be back to care for you as well," Isalba corrected her.  "Thank you, Tia."  She stood.  "I am going to wrap her in cold cloth. If that does not lower the fever, then I will take her to the creek."

Leaving Tia to rest, Isalba exited the small space, entering the slightly-larger main room.  She realized the gray light of near-dawn was beginning to drive the darkness away.  Collecting a blanket from a pile on a chair, she cautiously opened the hut's door and stepped outside into air that felt heavy with moisture, though cooler than it had been before the storm.  Looking around, she spotted a rain barrel at the corner of the hut and dipped the blanket all the way into it, lifting it and twisting it until it did not drip too much.

Pressing her lips together in a thin, grim, line, she made her way back inside and placed the wet blanket in a bucket, then managed to get Megan out of her clothing.  Her teeth immediately began to chatter and with what little strength she had, she pushed at Isalba, fighting even harder when she felt the cold, saturated material wrapped around her.  "Isa —" Megan fretted, shaking as Isalba held her close, ignoring the water now soaking into her own shift.

"I know," Isalba soothed, pitching her voice low.

"So c-c-c-cold." Megan's teeth clicked together as she continued to shiver. "No —" She grabbed at the blanket, trying to push it down, and Isalba grasped her hand, pulling it back and holding it against her own chest.

"Let the water do its work, Meg."  She leaned over, kissing Megan's forehead.  "I know you hate this. As do I."  Megan whimpered, still thrashing in her arms.  "Do not fight me.  You need to save your strength to fight the illness."

"Why?" Megan blinked, her eyes reflecting slight clarity in the dimly lighted room.

"For your fever," Isalba explained, hitching herself up and around, settling again with Megan sitting up against her, between her legs.

"Fever?" Megan parroted, whimpering piteously as the cold continued to penetrate her overly-warm skin.  "Isa. No more." She tried again to push the blanket away but Isalba only wrapped it more firmly around her.

"Shhhhh." Isalba rocked back and forth, holding Megan close, wondering if her own body heat was counteractive to the cold blanket.  With a sigh she released her hold, cradling Megan loosely in her arms, but not hugging her.  Megan shook violently and Isalba fought with her own instinct to free her from her torment.  "Just a little while longer."

Reaching down, she pressed the back of her hand against Megan's cheek, then trailed it up, feeling her forehead with her palm.  It was difficult to tell if the fever had lessened, and she blew out a frustrated breath, wondering if bleeding would be the better choice, after all. "I do not want to hurt you.  I have seen men weakened from the bleeding."  Turning her sight inward, she recalled a man in the Spanish town where she was born, who had never fully-recovered his strength after the doctors bled him for too long.  Shaking her head in memory, she dug in mental heels at doing the same to Megan, and renewed her resolve to choose the lesser of the two evils in the cold, wet prison that now encased Megan's thin body.

After a while, Megan calmed and ceased fighting her, only fussing a little each time renewed shaking seized her.  Finally the material began to take on the room's temperature, neither cool nor warm, and Isalba unwrapped Megan, drying her off and replacing the wet blanket with a dry one.  Testing Megan's skin again, Isalba thought perhaps the fever had dropped a little bit, and she sighed in relief, standing and stretching before she made her way to the counter to mix more fever and coughing herbs.  Megan's breathing still seemed to be coming more easily than it had during the night, and she appeared to be resting more comfortably, curled into a ball on her side with the makeshift pillow tucked beneath her head.

"Tia said she will recover from this," she firmly reminded herself.  Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn't eaten since around noon the day before.  Quickly, she finished with her potion and got a good dose of it into Megan with minimal fuss.  "Meg." She smoothed Megan's hair back, waiting until the younger woman's eyes opened.

"Are you here to pour more nasty liquid down my throat, or are you here to try to drown me with a wet blanket?" Megan groused, her voice an octave lower than usual.

"You must be feeling a little better." Isalba smiled, plucking at a strand of errant hair that fell across Megan's face. "I just wanted to tell you that I am going out back to see if any of Tia's hens have laid eggs we can cook."

"You can cook." Megan closed her eyes again, swallowing and frowning.  "Hurts."

"I know."  Isalba's expression grew sober.  "The medicine I just gave you should help." 

In answer, Megan reached across and curled a hand around her calf, her eyes still closed.   "Good to me," she murmured.

Isalba lifted Megan's hand and kissed it, then tucked it back beneath the blanket.  Standing, she looked around and picked up a basket, then went back outside and started up a narrow path that led through the trees to a shack set far back enough from the hut to avoid the scent of chicken poo on most days.  Morning broke as she reached the shack, pale sunlight peeking through the canopy of trees, sparkling on the raindrops that still clung to the leaves.  She could hear chickens clucking and cooing, and she opened the shack door a crack, wrinkling her nose at the stench.  "Of course," she remembered. "Tia has been ill."

Sighing heavily, she set the basket aside and lifted a shovel from a peg on the wall, and set about mucking out the small shed, hauling out forkfuls of dirty sawdust and straw, and dumping them in a covered barrel.  Another barrel next to it would be filled with fresh sawdust and wood shavings, but when she lifted its lid, the scent of mold reached her nostrils and she realized the rain from the storm must have drifted inside, wetting and rotting its contents.  There was nothing to be done for it.  The hens would have to make do with the sawdust and straw that remained in the shed.  More straw or sawdust would require a trip into town.

At least the bag of corn for the hens seemed to have remained dry, stored inside a secure bin inside the shed.  She scattered handfuls of the sweet, dry kernels, swinging her arm in an arc and flicking her wrist to distribute it evenly so all the hens would have a chance to eat.  The hungry birds vacated their roosts and began greedily pecking at the offering.  With a grin, Isalba took advantage of the opportunity, filling her basket with several fresh eggs.

"Thanks, ladies," she tipped her hat to the hens and started to open the door, anxious to get back to the hut. She'd been gone much longer than she intended.  As she grasped the door handle, a faint rustling noise outside caught her attention.  She hugged the wall next to the door and tilted her head, listening, as the rustling grew louder, accompanied by the low chatter of male voices.  Concentrating, she sorted out the sounds, counting three sets of footsteps and three voices, two of which she recognized.  The men grew closer and she waited, biding her time until they were even with the outside wall of the coop.

"You think she is here?" A voice asked.

"Based upon where you say she was before the storm, I would bet good coin on it," another voice insisted.

"You would win that bet." Isalba stepped out of the chicken coop and laughed heartily as all three men nearly jumped out of their skin.

" 'Salba!"

"Harry!"  She laughed again.  "And Bradon." She gave one of her guards a nod.  Studying the last man, she stepped closer and her face grew sober.  "And you must be Tia's son."

"Yes, ma'am. That I am."  The man appeared to be somewhat intimidated by her, unconsciously wiping a hand on his trousers before he extended it in greeting.  "Tomas is what they call me here."

"Tomas." Isalba shook his hand firmly.  "It is a pleasure to meet the son of a fine lady."

"We crossed paths on the way here," Harry explained. "And a good thing. When Bradon told me the whereabouts of the trail you and the lass took when last he saw you, I remembered Queen Tia's care of you, but the storm has washed out many of the trails through these woods. Tomas led us the last mile."

"Tomas, Tia is quite ill," Isalba informed him.

"She was growing ill before the storm," he confirmed with a sad shake of his head.  "I was to sneak out and travel here the night the storm hit.  You have been caring for her?"

"As best I could, yes."  Isalba bid them follow her with a wave of her hand.  "Meg has also fallen ill.  It has been a very long few days."

"Miss Megan is ill?"  Harry's voice rose in concern.

"Yes.  With chills and fever.  I am glad all of you have arrived.  Tomas, Tia should be moved to your home as soon as you can arrange to transport her there."  They reached the hut and Isalba stopped short, barring the doorway.  "Wait one moment.  Meg is in her night clothes." A small lie, she acknowledged to herself, as Megan was actually naked, wrapped in a blanket.  "Allow me to help her change to something more appropriate and then I shall let you in."

She ducked inside, setting the basket of eggs on the counter, then locating Megan's now-dry shirt and trousers, which she quickly got onto the drowsy woman.  "Isa?" Megan was disoriented from the strong herbs so recently consumed.  "The ship no longer rocks."

"We are not on the ship, sweetheart."  Isalba arranged the pallet Megan had been resting on, then eased her back down onto it and covered her with the warm, dry blanket.  "But Bradon and Harry have come to help us get back to the ship."

"Oh."  Megan smiled.  "I shall be glad to see our berth again."

Our berth. Isalba smiled back at her.  "Me, too." Standing, she opened the hut's door.  "Come in, but please to be quiet. I believe Tia may be asleep."

"Miss." Tomas tugged at her sleeve.  "Forgive me, Miss, but I cannot move my mother to my home.  The priests at the monastery —"

"Yes."  Isalba's lip curled into a snarl. "Tia told me all about them.  Do not worry.  I will take care of them.  You get her moved.  It will take you a day, no?  You will need to go back home and get someone to help you move her?"

"Yes, I will —" Tomas trailed off, hesitating.  "But the priests —"

"Will no longer be bothering you or your family," she informed him.  "Go on." She shooed him toward Tia's bed chamber.  "She will be glad to see you.  And she needs another dose of the herbs on the table in there."

"Yes, ma'am."  Tomas bowed slightly and ducked behind the light curtain and into Tia's room.

Isalba heard the soft, happy exclamation, indicating Tia was indeed very glad to see him.  She smiled and looked around.   Harry was kneeling down next to Megan, who was groggy but awake and talking to him quietly, her voice cracking as she spoke. 

"Bradon, could you go outside and lash some branches together to make a liter for her?  We can carry her out, now that I have help." Isalba was glad beyond measure the two men had come looking for her.

"Aye, Captain."  Bradon left the hut, grabbing a hatchet that was propped in the corner near the door on his way out.

"How long as she been like this?"  Harry's brows furrowed and he lifted the mug Megan had last drank from, sniffing it.  "Ugh. I had forgotten how horrible Tia's potions are."

"Yes, but they work."  Isalba sat down on the ground next to him, reaching out and resting a hand on Megan's leg.  "She is much better than she was during the night.  She fell ill shortly after we took shelter here.  I am glad Tomas is here to care for Tia.  I have been torn, wondering how the ship fared during the cyclone."

"She weathered it well." Harry grinned broadly.  "The men got the sails all tied down and covered before it hit.  Very minor damage to some of the top deck fixtures, but when we left the men were busy repairing her."

"Ah, 'tis good to hear." Isalba felt some of the tension ease from her neck and shoulders.  "Let us cook some breakfast and pack up and be on our way.  There is much to be done.  Meg, we will be back to the ship before night fall."

"Mmmm." Megan smiled, fighting the sleep that was setting in from the herbs.  "I canna walk, I do not think."

"We are going to carry you."  Isalba stroked her hair.  "Do not worry."

"Not worried," Megan's voice trailed off.  "You will take care of me."

Harry studied them in silence, noting the dark circles beneath Isalba's eyes and the tired, fine lines across her forehead.  She was oblivious to him for the moment, her entire focus on Megan.  There was something very personal, almost intimate in their exchange. Isalba's light, loving touch and Megan's dreamy smile.  He found himself blushing, realizing that things had changed drastically between them since last he'd seen them, and guessing at the reason for the change.  Finally, he stood. "You would like the eggs in that basket fried up, 'Salba?"

"Yes," she answered, looking up at him.  "That would be perfect.  I should go help Bradon."

She started to stand and Harry's voice stopped her.  "He is capable of cutting branches and lashing them together, 'Salba.  When did you last get a good night's sleep?"

Frowning, she thought about that and looked up again.  "I do not remember for sure. Perhaps not since before we arrived in Port Royal."

"You should rest," he chastised her.  He located a skillet and began cracking eggs into it.

"No."  She hauled herself to her feet.  "If I rest now, I fear it will be that much harder traveling.  I am going to step outside and gather some wood.  Eggs will not cook on dying embers, now will they?"

"No," he agreed with her, realizing that arguing with her would be futile.

"Very well, then.  I shall be back shortly."  Isalba donned her hat and exited the hut, closing the door firmly behind her.

Harry watched her leave and shook his head.  "Stubborn woman.  No one could ever make you bend to their will, could they?"  He looked down at Megan, who was asleep again, a tiny smile playing at her lips. "Well, almost no one."

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

Chapter 17

It was a long hike back to the ship, the path mostly downhill and strewn with branches and leaves stripped from the trees during the storm.  The river was still swollen and cold, and fording it was treacherous, the angry water coming up to Isalba's chest and almost bowling her over as it rolled around them.  She and Harry held the litter carefully between them, bearing a feverish and mumbling Megan.  They had tied her down lest she struggle in her confusion and roll off the tightly-lashed contraption.

Bradon forged the trail ahead of them, using a machete to whack away at any foliage that might trip them or knock them on the head.  A few times he called out warnings of thick, gloppy mud that sucked at their boots, threatening to pull them off their feet, and twice they were attacked by blood-thirsty mosquitoes that swarmed up from pools of stagnant water.  The air was warmer than usual for December, and Isalba counted days in her head.  "Oh."  She shook her head and muttered quietly.

"What is the matter?"  Harry brought up the rear, holding his end of the litter steady so that it was level with Isalba and provided a smoother ride for Megan.

"It is but a week until Yule.  I have lost track of time."  She stepped over a thick tree root.  "Root," she advised.  "It is nothing.  I was merely thinking aloud."

"How long are we to stay here, that is, in Port Royal?"  Harry's voice was hopeful.

"You would choose to stay forever, eh?"  Isalba teased him, laughing lightly.

"Perhaps not forever, but I would not object to seeking shelter until the Spring," he admitted.

"We shall see," Isalba replied unexpectedly.

"Truly?"  Harry's voice rose in surprise.  "It is not like you, to linger so long in one place.  Always the restless one, you are." 

Isalba smiled, though he couldn't see her face.  It was a truthful observation.  Even when Covington had been calling the shots, she had always been there in the background, quietly influencing him, suggesting that they should keep moving, keep going, always seeking the next conquest and the next pile of loot, stolen or otherwise. 

Now – she sighed softly. Now she was weary and maybe she would feel differently about staying after a good night's sleep.  Then again, the drive to keep seeking fulfillment seemed to be deflated, and she had a very good idea why.  "Perhaps I never had a reason to linger before," she finally answered him.  No, spending a few months in paradise with Megan at her side and in her bed was suddenly way more appealing than whatever might be 'out there,' somewhere.

"Whatever the reason, I will support it," Harry sagely replied, privately guessing at her motivations.  "Is Miss Megan going to be alright?"

"Tia said she will."  Isalba took a turn in the path, careful to keep Megan steady as she did so.  "And Tia has the eye.  She is never wrong about these things."

"That is good. What of Tia herself?"  Harry also carefully negotiated the turn and they finally reached the last short stretch of trees that led to the blessedly level beach.

"Tomas will take good care of her."  Isalba paused, surveying the horizon.  Nothing but calm seas, blue sky, and white fluffy clouds stretched across her vision for as far as she could see.  "I am going to make sure she is able to stay with Tomas from now on.  She is too old to be alone up on the hill, but each time Tomas has thought to move her to his home, he has met with opposition.  The priests near where he lives have been threatening and intimidating him because of Tia's power."

Harry made a disgusted sound.  "If you need some help clearing them out, I will be glad to assist."

"Count me at your side as well," Bradon chimed in, having held up once they reached the sand and he was no longer needed to clear a path.

"I thought as much."  Isalba firmed her grip on the litter and they began the long trudging walk across storm-flattened sand.  It was easier footing than the sugary-soft dunes from a few days before, but the sleepless nights and the worry and simply the stress of fighting with Megan and then so quickly becoming lovers was catching up with her, although the latter was definitely a welcome stress. 

All she wanted to do was curl up in her bunk with Megan and sleep until they both woke up, but she knew the minute they reached the ship she would be bombarded with questions, comments, and work.  There was always work to be done on the ship and even with a crew to delegate it to, she would never allow them to coddle her.  She had always led by example.  The sun told her it was late afternoon.  Sleep was several hours away.

"When do you plan to honor the padres with a visit?" Harry huffed and puffed, having already made the journey in the wee hours of the morning from the other direction.  Even Bradon, who was much younger and fitter, was beginning to show signs of strain.

"It must be done before Tomas takes Tia back to his hut.  I spoke with him before we left and he is going to stay with her for a few days in hope she regains some strength, before he returns to get his sons to help move her.  I am to send him a message when it is safe. I have a day, perhaps two."  Her boots hit the fine, crushed-shell trail that led to the beach from the docks, and she felt a slight burst of energy.  Her ship awaited her.  She could see it now, its tall mast at front and center of the bustling pier area.

The storm had done significant damage to the port, she realized, as she spied many smaller boats broken and piled against one of the sturdy stone walls that separated the docks from the market area.  From the looks of the pile, they had been lifted and blown there by the wind, rather than stacked in the debris-clearing effort that was going on for the length of the entire port area.  Men were busy with mallets, boards, and netting, and a few women and men were sitting in groups, gabbing as they mended sails. 

They passed Jacquotte's ship and Isalba winced.  Its main mast had snapped near the base and was lying half-submerged in the water, the other half smashed across broken railing and a good portion of ripped upper deck.  Her pain was reserved for the ship alone, not its mistress.  Jacquotte herself was nowhere to be seen, though a good number of her crew were scurrying about, working on repairing the wounded vessel.  "Any sign of puss in boots since I last saw her?"

"No," Harry readily answered, knowing who Isalba referred to.  "But we have all been too busy to care for or fight with other crews.  It has been each ship for itself.  Goro and I fought and bargained for the few supplies needed to repair the Patientia.  I think you shall be pleased.  She is in much better shape than most of the others.  The men stood by her through the storm, letting the lines out and pulling them in as she rose and fell."

"I owe you all a greater debt than I can repay," Isalba replied quietly.  The guilt of her actions hit her then – her choice to seek shelter for Megan rather than return to the crew for which she was responsible.  Deep inside, she warred with herself.  It wasn't that the men were not capable of taking care of the ship in her absence.  As they reached it at last, it was apparent they had done exactly as they were expected to do, and the vessel had been in good hands while she was away.  It was the knowledge that she had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned ship during a crisis.   Had she done the right thing?  The answer would have to wait, and she pushed the question aside to ponder later, once she had assessed the situation.

Reaching their dock, Isalba paused, scanning the long, board walkway.  "The winds even favored her berth," she commented in amazement. "Not a board missing."

"Aye, true."  Harry blinked as salty sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging them.  " 'Salba, I fear I need to put Megan down. Only for a moment —"

"Yes." Isalba looked over her shoulder and they both slowly knelt down.  Isalba slowly turned as they set the litter down on the weathered wood.  "I will carry her from here.  Meg?"

Two green eyes fluttered open.   "I am awake.  Just resting my eyes."  Megan smiled wanly.  "You do not need to carry me.  I can — oh —" She tried to sit up and the world began to spin.

"Here you go."  Isalba ignored her protests and got both arms beneath Megan, hefting her up and over a shoulder for the climb up the Patientia's back ladder.  Once on deck, voices rang out and she silently groaned as men began to approach her from all directions.  She readjusted, shifting Megan's weight until she was cradling her, one arm beneath her shoulders and the other behind her knees.  "Better?"

Megan nodded feebly and closed her eyes, clutching at Isalba's shoulders with both arms.  "Everything is rocking."

"We are back on the ship," Isalba pointed out. "Hello, Angus." 

The large man approached and held out an arm.  "Shall I help you, Captain?"

"Yes, Captain.  Welcome back aboard!"  Cooks appeared from below, wiping his hands on an apron.

"Captain!" Goro slid down from the mast and made his way toward her.  "Your ship's repairs are almost complete."

"Good work," Isalba complimented him.  "Megan is ill.  I am going to take her below, then I have a job to do.  Harry and Bradon have already volunteered to help me, but select two more men and tell them to arm themselves."

"Yes, Captain." Goro bowed slightly and turned, scanning the deck for likely candidates.

Isalba made her way past the growing crowd of her crew, smiling and nodding, exchanging greetings, then navigated the steps down below, grateful for a reason to escape the buzz of voices.  It was warm in the passageway, but thankfully when she reached her cabin, the portholes had been opened and a pleasant cross-breeze kept the temperature tolerable.  "Meg, we are home."  She lowered Megan to the bunk and pulled the younger woman's shoes and stockings off.

"Isa."  Megan licked dry lips and looked up at her.  "What about Tia?"

"Her son Tomas is taking care of her."  Isalba filled a mug with water from a pitcher and brought it to the bedside, sitting down on the mattress and scooting toward Megan. "Here, you must keep drinking water."

"Mmmphh." Megan suffered Isalba lifting her up and she sipped from the cup, swallowing painfully.

"Meg."  Isalba set the mug aside and helped Megan get situated beneath a light quilt.  "I must go attend to something for Tia.  Will you be alright here without me for a few hours?"

Green eyes met blue, then looked down.  Megan plucked at the quilt.  "I heard you and Harry talking."

"Please do not do this." Isalba took a step back and Megan looked up, her eyes sorrowful. "I promised Tomas."

"I know," Megan rasped.  "I know who you are," she went on quietly.  "But Isa, I know you."  She placed a fist over her heart.  "I wish —" She looked back down.  "You must do what you must do.  Go on. I will be fine." 

Isalba swallowed hard, wondering whose throat hurt most at that moment.  She grabbed an extra dagger from the table and bent over. Pushing it into her boot, she stood and turned toward the doorway.

"Isa."

Closing her eyes, Isalba steeled herself and turned back around, wordlessly meeting Megan's gaze.  Expecting to find judgment in those green eyes, she almost lost her composure, seeing only concerned love shining back at her.

"Be careful," Megan almost whispered. "I love you."

Taking two steps back to the bed, Isalba leaned over and kissed Megan's forehead, pushing long blonde hair back from her face.  "I do not deserve you," she replied sadly.  Standing, she forced herself to leave, finding her feet as heavy as iron as she climbed the steps back up topside.

The sun's glare was harsh, slanting across the freshly-swabbed deck and reflecting up into her eyes.  She pulled her hat down lower across her brow and met the men waiting for her.  "You fill them in?"

"Yes," Harry fell in beside her as they all hit the dock and made their way up toward the central part of the port town.  Bradon, Byron, and Thomas followed behind them.  All of them seemingly glad to have a mission other than ship repair.

"Good." Isalba  motioned them toward a side road, which led to the monastery.  "Let us get this thing over with."

The men grew silent.  They had all seen Isalba on many other such 'missions.'  Those who crossed her at such times, even her own men, were likely to end up on the wrong end of her sword.

 

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The monastery was at the end of a long, narrow path through thick jungle foliage.  Isalba had long since shed her jacket, which was sodden from their earlier trek across the river.  She was grateful for her long-sleeved, white shirt, filthy though it was, and her tall boots, though they were warm.  Between the long sleeves and her pants tucked into her boots, she was spared a complete blood-letting from mosquitoes.  Harry and Byron were not so lucky, clad in short sleeves and hatless, both of them continually slapping at their arms as they moved along through the dense trees.  Though they provided shade, there was not a breath of air and the humid heat hung heavy all around them.

"Blast!"  Bradon hacked away at a thick branch that had fallen during the storm, its smaller branches and leaves completely blocking the path.  To one side of the path was brackish, standing water that extended several yards into the jungle.  It was unclear how deep it was or what might be lurking there, mosquitoes or worse.  To the other side was a thick, thorny vine that had woven itself between the tree trunks.

"Save your energy."  Isalba pushed past him and dropped down, slithering on her belly through a space between the branch and the ground.  With a groan, Harry followed after her, barely squeezing beneath the branch.  He stood, looking down unhappily at his mud-covered shirt.  Goro, Bradon, Byron, and Thomas all followed him and soon they were on their way again.

Isalba was beyond grumpy.  She was exhausted from lack of sleep and at war with herself, knowing Megan didn't approve of what she was about to do.  She didn't know what to do about that, or if she could or should do anything at all.  Megan had said it herself: Isalba was who she was and they both knew it.  And she knew Megan had chosen to follow her, knowing she was a murderer.  What more could she ask for, really?  She had fallen hard for her blonde bed-mate and knew she was lucky to be accepted even on grudging terms, given how different they were when it came to such things.

The entire concept of actually being in love was confusing enough.  Pirates didn't fall in love, at least not in any meaningful, lasting way.  It was too risky and too pointless.  If your love was on land, you were bound to have to leave them behind; if they were on your ship, there was always the chance one of you would be killed and besides, such relationships on board ship were a liability to the crew.  Isalba knew at least two of her men, Marcus and Nigel, always shared close bunks for a reason.  No one bothered them about it or questioned them, as long as they didn't let it interfere with their shipboard duties, which so far, they had not.  Both were good sailors and loyal crew members, and she was fairly certain both of them were willing to lay their lives on the line for a crew-mate.  Still, she knew for her to enter into such a relationship was not going to be quite so simple.

Well, she reasoned.  She'd deal with that as she had to.  At present, she had something entirely different to deal with and it would do her no good to get distracted by other issues. "Hold up." She stopped and held up a hand, squatting down next to a tree.

"What is your plan, 'Salba?"  Byron knelt down next to her, both of them eyeing a bend in the road ahead.  Just the edge of the stone dwelling could be seen.  Harry stood behind her and Bradon, and Thomas and Goro stayed farther behind, watching the path in the event any monks were on their way to the monastery. 

"I do not have one," she admitted. "I am of a mind to jump the wall, walk up to the door, and rap on it. With you all pressed against the wall on either side of me, out of sight, of course.  That is assuming no one sees us before we reach the door.  Alright." She turned on the balls of her feet, still crouched down on her haunches, and faced them, motioning for the others to move closer. They dropped to the ground, listening.

"Harry and Thomas," you watch the path. You know the whistle if there is trouble. Bradon and Byron —" She eyed the two younger, slimmer men – "We are going to scale the wall. I will go first. If the coast is clear, you two will follow.  We will go up to the door and knock, with only me in sight.  As soon as someone answers, I grab them and cover their mouth while you two get them tied up.  From there, we find out who is responsible for the harassment of Tia's family, and deal with them accordingly. Goro, you follow us over the wall and work on getting the gate open in the event we need to make a quick escape. "

"Aye, Captain."  The men stood and Isalba did as well.  Harry and Thomas moved farther back down the path, taking up stations on either side of it.  Isalba adjusted her sword and with a flick of her wrist, motioned at Bradon, Byron, and Goro to follow her.  Swatting at a mosquito, she cursed under her breath as they reached the wall.  Around the top were iron spikes.  Though not impassable, it would make getting over the wall more treacherous.

" 'Salba," Bradon eyed the thick, stone barrier.  "Let me go first."

"No."  Isalba shook her head, pitching her voice low.  "Let us look to the gate for our entrance as well as our exit.  Perhaps we can break open the lock."

They made their way down to a heavy, barred entrance, keeping close to the wall.  Isalba examined the padlock and without much thought gave it a tug. It opened and fell away from the gate in her hand. "Then again," she grinned, "perhaps we shall simply walk right in.  Byron, go warn Harry and Thomas that there are likely padres out on a stroll.  Lazy ones who do not lock the door behind themselves."

"Then re-join you, Captain?"

She paused, thinking. "No.  Send Harry in. You replace him at lookout."

Byron frowned but knew better than to question her.  "Aye, Captain."  He took off and she, Goro, and Bradon opened the gate just enough to slip inside. She tossed the lock aside, then thought better of it and retrieved it, shoving it into her pocket.  "Might be best to prevent them from locking us in."

"Yes," Bradon agreed with her, shading his eyes from the sun overhead.  "What now?"

Isalba looked around.  It was a pleasant courtyard, with a well-tended garden and a few colorful parrots roosting on ornate stands that were driven into the ground.  Chimes tinkled, hanging from the slanted eaves of the building.   In stark contrast to the greenery and brightly-hued flowers was the gray square-cut stone of the building, and the thick, wooden door that was its only entrance.  There were no windows facing the courtyard, other than a few narrow openings up near the top that apparently allowed in air and sun, but prevented anyone inside from looking out on the gardens.

Walking up to the door, she shrugged and gave a turn to the iron wrung that served as a door knob.  The door opened slightly and she grinned.  A noise at the gate alerted them and they all reached for their swords, until they realized it was Harry. He pushed his way inside and silently joined them.  Isalba made a zipping sound to her lips and waved, indicating they should follow her.

It was dark inside, save the faint light pouring in from near the ceiling.  Though not cool, the thick stone held some of the outside heat at bay and it was much more pleasant than the jungle humidity.  Blinking, Isalba looked up and down the narrow corridor they found themselves in.  At either end other passages branched off.  A short pedestal bore a basin near one of the passages, and she crept toward it, the men following after her.  The basin held water and she dipped one hand into it, wiping the fresh liquid across her face, enjoying the cool sensation.

" 'Tis holy water," Bradon muttered.

"And I am the goddess of the seas," Isalba hissed.

Harry chuckled and took advantage of the refreshing water when Isalba was finished. Goro shrugged and also used the cistern to wash the sweat from his face.

As she turned into the next passage, Isalba came up short, encountering a pair of double doors.  A small, square hole was cut into each door and she looked inside.  It was a chapel and she opened the doors with the men at her heels. It was plain inside, save for a high, round, stained glass window at the front, which emitted colorful beams of light that shone across neatly-swept stone floors and weathered wooden benches. A stone altar graced the floor beneath the window, and another pedestal with a basin stood at either end.

At that moment, a door at the far end of the chapel opened and a priest entered the room bearing a pitcher.  At first he didn't realize they were there, and strode toward the altar, placing the pitcher on it.  Kneeling down, he retrieved a pewter mug from behind the altar and as he stood, looked up and saw them.  "Ummfff," he uttered in unintelligible surprise.  Slowly he set the mug down and then took off, running for the door. 

Isalba leaped a bench and ran up the aisle, following him through the door and tackling him to the ground in a dark hallway.  Drawing a dagger, she pressed it to the back of his neck.  "Move or yell, and I will use it," she warned.  "Understood?"

His face pressed to the floor, the man nodded and slowly Isalba pulled back, standing and bringing him up with her.  With some effort, she nudged him back into the chapel, the knife now pressed at his throat.  "How many men live here?"  The man remained silent and she allowed the blade to dig in, just short of cutting him.  "Listen to me.  I can kill you now and go after them, or you can co-operate and perhaps some of you will live.  Now, once more.  How many men live here?  Lie to me and I will kill them all."

"Seventeen," the priest uttered in a shaking voice. "We have gold.  I could retrieve it for you.  Just please, spare us."

"I am not after your gold." Isalba replied.  "Or it least I was not until now."

Bradon and Harry laughed, their voices ringing off the stone. Isalba and Goro glared at them to quiet them and they both grew sober.  A boy appeared from the hallway and looked up, a squeak erupting as he saw them.

"Run and I kill him" Isalba advised.  The boy's eyes grew wide with fear and he stood, rooted in place, his robes fluttering as his knees shook beneath them.  "Harry, get him and bring him over."   Harry brought him to her and she shoved the priest at him.  "Trade."  Grabbing the boy, she held her dagger at his belly and looked the priest in the eye.  "You will co-operate with me, or I will kill him."

"He is a child!" The priest exclaimed in horror, ignoring Harry's knife at his throat.

"He is but a few years younger than me," Isalba informed him.  "How old are you?"

"Fif-fifteen," the boy replied.

"I have bedded younger." She felt the boy stiffen against her. "Relax.  They were women."

"What vile thing are you after?" The priest struggled, and felt Harry's arm tighten against him.

"What would it take to get all of the men living here to gather in this room?"  Isalba looked around.  "Minus the ones who are out walking and left your gate and door unlocked, that is."

"What do you plan to do to them?"  The priest frowned, his chin jutting out defiantly.

Isalba moved closer, dragging the boy with her.  She trailed the dagger up to his chin.  "As I said, co-operate, or I will kill them all, starting with this one."  She pricked the boy's skin, and watched the priest turn white.  Looking down, she wiped the drop of blood away with the flat of the blade and felt the boy grow limp, his weight suddenly heavy.  "Oh, bloody hell.  He has gone and fainted.  Very well."  She shifted, holding him up.  "I believe he may need to lie down, Padre."  She taunted the priest.  "Tell me how to get the men in here and then I will make sure he is made comfortable."

Shaken, the priest swallowed.  "There is a bell tower behind here.  Ringing the bell draws the men here for afternoon prayers."

"How do we get to the tower?" Isalba lowered her blade. The boy stirred, opened his eyes, looked up at her, and promptly passed out again.  She rolled her eyes. "He has chosen the right profession.  Too cowardly for the real world, I would wager."  Shifting again, she moved closer.  "Time is passing.  As is my patience.  How do we get to the tower?"

"Through the hallway where you captured me," the priest responded, his face still white with fear.

"Harry, take the padre back there and ring the bell.  Bradon and Goro, go stand at the back door against the wall."  Stepping back, she dragged the boy along with her, stepping behind the altar. "I shall be conducting prayers this afternoon."

" 'Aye, Captain."  Harry shoved the priest toward the hallway and Bradon and Goro took up their places on either side of the door.

"Anyone tries to run, kill them," Isalba commanded.

"Aye."  Bradon drew out his pistol and checked that it was loaded, while Goro placed a hand on the hilt of his katana.

The bell sounded and they waited.  The boy came around and looked up. "Faint again and I shall make it permanent," Isalba warned him. "Gather your courage."  Gulping, the boy trembled but appeared to make an effort.

"What is your name?" he finally, quietly, asked her.

"What?"  She raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"I would like to know the name of the woman who killed my family," he answered, meeting her gaze.

"I — " She opened her mouth and then closed it.  Now Isalba was shaken, wondering what he was getting at, but there was no time to question him, as the first of the priests came through the back door.  Two of them, deep in conversation, looked up halfway down the aisle and stopped.  "Keep quiet, keep walking, and take a seat, and the boy may live."  She gestured toward the front pew.

Eyes wide with fear, the men complied, as three more came in after them.  One turned to flee and Bradon held up his pistol.  The man stopped and held up his hands.  "I would advise you to turn around and find a seat," Bradon brandished his weapon.  The priest slowly turned, hands still up, and followed after the others. 

"You one of the seventeen?"  Isalba asked the boy.

"Y-yes," he stammered.

"Good."  She counted thirteen priests now seated or finding a place to sit.  "With you and the bell ringer, this makes fifteen.  Perhaps two went walking?" 

"Perhaps," the boy whispered.

"And perhaps they are walking inside now." Isalba chuckled, as Byron entered the chapel with two men in front of him, both of them with arms held high. Shoving his gun into one of their backs, he nudged them along until they took a seat.  "Good work," she praised him.  "Go back and re-join Thomas. I do not believe there will be more, but I may have been lied to."

"Yes,  'Salba."  Byron ducked back out of the chapel.

"Isalba Cortez," the boy looked up at her, his voice cold.  "They said it was you."

"Speak again unless I ask you to, and I shall cut out your tongue." She squeezed his cheeks together for emphasis and felt him swallow.  "You may be an altar boy here, but in my world you are a man practically grown."

Harry re-appeared with the priest, interrupting her thoughts, and she waited until he had maneuvered himself and the priest to a spot against the wall.

Looking around, she shoved the boy against the altar and pressed herself against him, the dagger still threatening.  "I know you all are wondering why we are here.  I am a friend of Queen Tia.  More than a friend, she is like family to me."

"She is a godless heathen," one of the priests boldly answered.

"Stand up," Isalba commanded him.  When he refused, she shoved the boy again until he was sprawled belly-down across the altar.  The pitcher fell over and dark, red wine spilled out, trickling across the stone to begin pooling on the floor.  One of the priests gasped and leaped from his seat.  "Siddown," she yelled.  "That stuff is no more the blood of the Christ than what is running through my own veins."  She grabbed up the pitcher and drank deeply from its remaining contents, eliciting more gasps of outrage.  Smacking her lips, she set it down.

"Now." She grabbed hold of the boy's head and cut a lock of hair from the nape of his neck, holding it up.  "Stand up like I asked, or I will cut more than hair from his head."

The priest stood, arms crossed over his chest. 

Isalba drew a dagger from her boot and flung it across the room, embedding it into a wooden support post.  One of the priests sitting next to it screamed.  Looking down at the boy, she smirked, catching his eye.  "Move, and the next one goes through your heart, do I make myself clear?"  He nodded and she stepped away from the altar.

"You." She motioned to the standing priest, "step forward."  He stood in place, glaring at her, and she drew out another dagger.

"You will not dare," he challenged her.

With one smooth toss, she embedded the dagger into the kneecap of the man Harry held against him.  The priest yelled in agony.  Harry had not so much as flinched and she grinned at him briefly in approval.  "Obviously, I will," she replied evenly.  Walking over, she yanked the dagger out of the man's leg, ripping his robes in the process.  He cried out in pain, as blood poured out and onto the floor at his feet.

"Maybe now you understand. Defy me and it is one of your fellow padres who will pay for your folly." Turning back around, she moved like a panther, quickly grabbing the defiant priest and hauling him from his place between the pews, out into the aisle.  "Tia, as I said, is family to me.  I am here to determine which of you has been harassing her family."

"They perform black magic.  They are an abomination unto God," the priest she had grabbed replied.  "We have our orders."

"From whom?" She looked pointedly around the room.  Her eyes fell on one of the men, his robes a bit nicer than the others, a few bits of braided piping adorning his sleeves and collar.  The cross on the chain around his neck was larger and etched in fine scrolling, the well-polished gold catching the gleam from one of the red stained glass window panes overhead, painting it pale pink.  "Him?"  She gestured at the decorated man.

The priest refused to answer and she twirled the bloody dagger in her hand, looking around for her next victim.  "Answer me!" she bellowed.  "Or I swear to your God I will start killing you one by one until someone does."

"Yes, from me," the decorated priest replied quietly.  "I am Father Nicholas.  I have made it my mission to rid this island of its filth.  The likes of you," he snarled.  "The black magic against our God.  The harlots that sell themselves in the taverns."

"I see." Isalba turned toward him.  "Let me make myself clear, Nicholas.  You will cease harassment of Tia and her family.  You will allow them to live in peace.  Or you will face my wrath.  You and all the men here."

Clearing his throat, Father Nicholas stepped out into the aisle and to the front of the room where she stood.  "Let me make myself clear," he mimicked her.  "You will not be here forever.  You may threaten and intimidate these good men all you like, but you cannot hold us under your thumb if you are out on the sea, now can you?"

"So what you are saying —" She pressed her lips together, then continued.  "Because I want to make certain I understand you. What you are saying is that once I leave, you will continue to order these men to intimidate Tia's family?"

"Until every last one of her godless family has left his place, yes," he answered evenly.

"Thank you for your honesty," she replied.  He smiled insincerely and she moved quickly, driving a dagger up under his ribs.  He gasped in surprise and she twisted it, shoving hard and slicing downward until she had cut him open from sternum to navel.  Blood poured out of his belly and he fell to the floor, dead.

A fearful murmur rose up and the man near the post who had screamed earlier passed out cold, slumping off the pew and hitting the floor with a thud.  "Is cowardice a requirement for the priesthood?" Isalba deadpanned.

"Now." She looked around.  "Once more. You will allow Tia and her family to live in their home in peace. You will not harm so much as a hair of their heads. It is true that I will leave this place, eventually, but I will be back.  And if they have been harmed by the men of this monastery, I will come back here and I will kill all of you. And then I will drag one of the cannons from my ship up the hill and I will blast your walls to the ground. Am I understood?" Looking around, she was met with silence, then slowly, a few of the priests nodded in agreement.  "Good."

"Harry, let him go.  He needs someone to tend to that wound."  Harry released the priest, who dropped to his good knee and both hands, then sat back, grasping his injured leg. "The rest of you are free to go.  Do not bother getting the law after me.  When I am in Port Royal, I am the law.  Try to string me up from the gallows and it will only end badly for the rest of you."

With murmurs of 'murderer,' the men slowly began to file out of the room.  Turning back to the altar, she observed the boy, who looked up and met her gaze.  "You," she motioned to him. "You stay." He remained silent but sat back, scrubbing his face with both hands, which were shaking.  "Relax, I do not intend to harm you."

Two men came and helped the injured priest out of the room, while two others dragged the dead one out the back entrance.  Waiting until the room was empty, she looked around.  "Harry, Bradon.  Check the perimeter.  Make sure no one is stupid enough to go running down the path.  They will only meet with Byron's gun if the do. Goro, please step outside and guard the door.  I need a word alone with —" she glanced at the boy. "Your name?"

"Timothy," the boy answered.

"I need a word alone with Timothy," she finished her sentence.

" 'Salba —" Harry approached her.  "He has done nothing."

"Is everyone determined to act as my conscience today," she groused.  "First Megan. Now you.  I am not going to harm him.  I merely have a few questions to ask.  Now.  Go!"

"Sorry, 'Salba," Harry apologized.  "Shall we wait at the gate for you once we have secured the place?"

"Yes."  She watched him leave, then approached Timothy.  "What did you mean? Those things you said."

"I am an orphan because of you." Timothy looked up at her.

Stricken, Isalba, moved closer but stopped just short of reaching him.  "Explain yourself." She maintained an outward air of ambivalence she didn't feel inside.

"My parents and I were traveling from England to the New World and our ship was captured by Spanish pirates.  They were not after people, only the gold and food the ship was carrying.  Then you came along.  I remember you. I was much younger and so were you, but I shall never forget you."  He looked up at her.

"Go on," she answered, a lump rising in her throat.

"The pirates who originally captured us were going to set us free when they reached the islands, but your ship attacked ours. I was hidden beneath a sail the pirates had been mending." He looked up at her, his chin jutting out. "I saw you."

"I was not the captain," she protested.  "It would have been while my former captain, Covington, was alive."

"You killed them!" Timothy's voice rose in anguish.  "It does not matter who was captain. I saw the whole thing.  You — all the Spanish pirates — you drew your sword and you killed them all, one by one —"

"But your parents were English," Isalba protested.

"My father — you had him and some others lined up at the railing.  You moved toward where I was hiding and he stepped out, I think to distract you."  Tears streamed down Timothy's face.  "You shot him.  My mother was standing behind him.  It killed them both."

"I —" Isalba stopped and drew in a long, trembling breath.  "I am sorry. I do not remember this."

"Because you have killed so many?" he challenged her.

"Yes," she answered quietly.  "Because I have killed so many. Tell me, how did you escape?"

"Your captain had the surviving English put in the hold.  I came out of hiding, after your carnage ended.  They rounded me up with the others. Released us all somewhere in the New World.  I do not know where we were, exactly, but some nuns took me in for a few weeks, then sent me away on a ship with some priests.  We eventually landed here, and I have lived here ever since."

Isalba sat down on the front pew, leaning over and placing her face in her hands.  She was still weary, more so now.  It was the first she had ever encountered any of the innocents she had harmed.  Faceless, it was easy to tell herself every person she had killed deserved it, but meeting Timothy — it shook her to the core.  Absurdly, she felt like crying, and she gulped in air, pushing the emotions down. 

"When I first saw you, I irrationally thought you had come to kill me, after all this time," Timothy stood and stepped from behind the altar.  He sat down across the aisle from her, studying her curiously.  "I described you to some people.  They told me who they thought you were, but I was never sure until today.  But I knew your face, the moment I saw you."

Isalba looked up, her eyes full of anguish.  "I know I can never repay what I took from you.  But I could offer you passage back to England, if you wish."

Timothy laughed bitterly.  "To go back to what? You took everything from me.  This is my life now.  Perhaps you will make good on your threats and take that as well."

"I know how you feel."  Isalba held up a hand to silence him, as he opened his mouth to protest.  "Save it.  I am not going to explain myself to you, but I am not lying.  I have been in your shoes, and that is all I am going to say about that.  Other than I am sorry for the pain I have caused you.  I cannot offer you more and you have made your life here.  As long as these men leave Tia and her family alone, you need not fear my return to this place.  Perhaps you will help see to it that I have no reason to."  She stood.

"You are unbelievable," Timothy admonished her.  "I have met no one as cold-hearted as you."

"Yes, well."  Isalba stood over him. "Someone must be the worst person you have ever met.  It might as well be me.  I wish you well, Timothy.  I have done what I had to do.  You will find your way in the world, just as I did."

Turning, she walked out, moving swiftly through the passageway and back out into the courtyard, where she drew in deep breaths of the humid air.  The heat was stifling after the relative cool of the chapel and she welcomed it, anything to distract her from the guilt that was washing over her, threatening to drown her.

Reaching the gate, she shoved past her men and without a word, stormed down the path, back toward the harbor and the ship.

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

The western sun was slanting low through the porthole, shining in Megan's face and awakening her from a long dream-filled nap.  Most of the dreams were a blur of confusion, brought on by the herbs she'd been given for the fever and coughing, and the uneasiness with regard to the conflict between her and Isalba that she'd harbored when she fell asleep.  She sighed and stretched, feeling much better physically than she had in a few days.  Her throat was still a little sore, but the brain-fog from the fever had lifted and her clothing was damp, indicating she'd sweated in her sleep as the fever broke.

Carefully, she sat up and was glad when the cabin did not begin to spin.  She could feel the gentle, almost imperceptible bobbing of the ship in its slip beside the dock, but the motion no longer felt like it was coming from inside her head.  Pushing the covers aside, she swung her feet over the edge of the bunk and stood on legs that felt weak as a newborn colt's.  Holding onto the edge of the bunk's frame, she shuffled toward a cubbyhole in search of dry, publicly-presentable clothing.  She chose a loose, comfortable shirt and a pair of light-weight trousers and tugged them on, then pulled on her boots.

From outside she could hear the men top deck who were working on the remaining repairs to the storm damage, and her nose told her Cooks was grilling something up there as well, the scent of roasting meat drifting in on the breeze and making her mouth water.  A good sign, she acknowledged, both her hunger and her desire to be out of the confining cabin. 

She thought about the days that had passed since they had left to go to the cave, and realized that many of the men had not seen her since the tiff between her and Isalba at the tavern on their first night in Port Royal.  Although, she realized with a blush rising to heat her cheeks, it was almost certain they all knew they had left together for some private time. The men weren't stupid and she found herself embarrassed to show up on deck without Isalba's cloaks to hide behind.  Her skin had thickened since she first began traveling with the pirate, but she was not looking forward to any bawdy comments directed specifically at her.

There was so much to process and she was still pondering it all.  It had happened so fast – the fight, the admission of their feelings to each other, and their time together in the cave.  It had been wonderful and she found her gut clenching all over again, just thinking about it, recalling the touches they'd traded, the overwhelming desire that had awakened in her, and the passion and love she'd felt in Isalba's arms.  Apparently the longing of love was not quenched once it was shared and satisfied, but rather  the satisfaction was temporary, and only made the next bout of longing all the more potent.  Thinking of her feelings for Isalba in comparison to how she had felt toward Patrick made the void between her new life and her former one all the greater. 

She had liked and respected Patrick – had even admired his plans for the farm and home he had wanted to build – but she knew now without a doubt she had not loved him.  He was a good man, but he was not for her and she was not for him.  They both deserved happiness, she reckoned, and were not likely to have found it together.

Now she knew what love felt like.  What she had felt for him was a drop of water in a bucket while the emotions that came over her for Isalba were like the torrential rains of the cyclone they had just weathered.  Powerful and unstoppable.  And yet in this quiet moment of reflection, even knowing they had differences between them and perhaps always would, that storm had become a quiet, gentle stream flowing through her, holding fast to the love she felt and carrying it along, knowing the storm would rise again, that they would greet it, and that it would ebb and flow, but it would never go away.  It was as vast as the sea on which they sailed.

Well.  She was dressed and she was clean, given how much rain had fallen on them.  She was even a little bit hungry.  Mostly she was thirsty and the water supply in the cabin was almost gone, so if she wanted to drink, she was going to have to overcome her shyness with regard to the men's idle gossip and go in search of fresh water.  She grabbed up a flask and squaring her shoulders, she opened the cabin door and peered out into the narrow passageway.  It was empty, as expected.  No one in good health would be below decks except to work or sleep, while docked in such a beautiful place.

Easing out of their quarters, she closed the door and pattered along the smooth wooden flooring to the stairs that led to the top deck.  She popped up through the propped-open porthole cover and looked around, seeing a few men a little way from her mending nets.  The water barrel was closer, just around the side of the cabin housing, and she climbed the rest of the way up, enjoying the warm sun on her face and arms below her rolled-up sleeves.  She was halfway to the barrel when Harry's voice boomed out.  "Miss Megan!"

"Harry," she turned and rasped, shading her eyes until his bulk blocked the rays shining directly into them.

"You should not be up," he admonished her.

"I feel much better," she advised.  "And I am thirsty and almost out of water."

"Here, let me get it for you." He took the flask from her and she allowed it, following after him, glad of his presence.

"Where is Isalba?"  Megan looked around.  "I thought you were with her on her – mission."

"I was."  Harry carefully avoided her eyes, fully-intent on his task.  "She stopped before we reached the docks.  Said she wanted to buy clean clothing."

"She has clean clothing in our cabin."  Megan touched his sleeve.  "What are you not telling me?"

Harry sighed and capped the flask.  "She is much out of sorts.  I think she did not want you to see –" He trailed off.  "She was planning to go to the bath house after she purchased her clothing."

"What did she not want me to see?  The blood stains?"  Megan studied his face, seeing the answer there without need for verbal confirmation.

"Yes, I think.  But something happened before we left the monastery.  That boy –" He shook his head.

"She killed a boy?!"  Megan's voice rose despite the residual pain from her sore throat.

"No.  Oh, no," Harry reassured her.  "She killed – well not the boy.  A priest.  I shouldn't say anything more.  She was different this time.  Give her a chance to explain herself to you, please.  She took no pleasure in what we did today.  For her, that alone is different."

Megan pursed her lips inward and frowned.  "What about the boy?"

"I have said too much," Harry fretted.  "Just an altar boy we encountered.  She talked to him, I do not know about what, exactly. Made us leave. Miss Megan, please.  I have definitely said much more than I should.  She would be most unhappy if she knew I had betrayed her emotions.  Even to you," he added softly, reaching out and touching her cheek.

"I know."  Megan patted his hand.  "I will not be betraying you to her, Harry.  I know she will share with me when she is ready.  If she is ever ready," she added sadly.

"Thank you. If it is any consolation, there is not much more to tell.  Only that she was in as foul a mood as I have seen from her."  He drew Megan over to a bench near the railing, bringing a dipper of water along with the flask, which he handed to her.  "Here.  Drink this and save the full flask for your cabin."

She drank deeply, feeling the fresh water soothe her throat.  "Thank you."  Setting the dipper aside, she sat back, leaning against the railing.  "Port Royal has been one adventure after another," she commented, then blushed, realizing her unintended implications.

Harry wisely ignored her and pulled his pipe from a pocket and lit it.  He puffed on it for a bit and then looked at her.  "I believe 'Salba may be planning to stay here a while. Perhaps you will find time to relax and enjoy the island at a slower pace."

"That would be ever so nice," Megan mused. 

"I had expected her to rush back here to check on you," Harry abruptly changed the subject back to Isalba.  "For her to stay away this long – I think she is in a very bad way."

"She has not seen much kindness in her life, has she?" Megan commented softly.

"Of course she has," Harry sputtered. "The men on this ship are loyal to her, and would die for her.  Even those who fear and dislike her show the greatest respect for her skills."

"Respect is not the same as kindness," Megan corrected him.  "True, she invokes loyalty in her crew and they do as she asks, and even in the tavern that first night here, everyone was watching her.  Some with admiration, some with envy.  But how many simply treat her nicely? Think about it. I think she needs to have someone be kind to her sometimes – to care for her just because – oh."  Megan shook her head in frustration.  "I am not making sense."

"You make more sense than you realize," Harry replied gently.  "You speak from a place of love. And I think you are correct in your assessment.  Even Covington – perhaps he showed her some kindness, but I think the greatest gift he gave her was allowing her to remain on board and become the sailor, the captain, that she is.  Perhaps it is for you to show her that kindness, and to lead the men by example in that."

Megan looked at him and without a word, patted him on the arm.  As she glanced across the harbor toward the rays of the setting sun, she felt a sense of peace come over her.  It was so beautiful where they were – the red and golden light of the sunset gilding the clouds and painting the water's surface in rainbows of fiery color.  The storm had cleansed the port area and the jungle beyond, the scent of bruised, green foliage mixing with the salt air and the smell of the warm sand and weathered wood.  A hint of the flowers growing at the edge of the nearby trees reached her, the sweetness filling her up. 

Did Isalba ever have time to feel for such things?  If not, Megan intended to see to it that from then on, she did.  She deserved that – deserved some beauty and peace in her life. Some kindness.

"I do not know if I could ever lead these men in anything," she finally answered.

"Oh, but you already have," Harry assured her.

"How?"  Megan gestured around the deck with a sweep of her arm. "I can help, but there are certainly those more skilled than me in every task required to run this ship."

"You have led them to see the Captain as human," Harry replied.  "And to find their manners. They behave much better with you around.  I think you remind them of the women back home. They make more of an effort to be civil."  He laughed lightly.

"Well, I suppose that is a good thing." Megan smiled.  "They do not need to behave on my account, but better behavior makes it easier for Isa."

Harry was about to reply when Cooks called out from across the deck, indicating whatever he was cooking was ready for sampling.  Men appeared from all across the top deck and a few from the dock where they had been working, all of them dirty, sweating, and obviously hungry, their excited talk of the feast to come drifting over to Megan's hearing.  A few of them glanced her way and smiled politely, and she realized none of them appeared to smirk or be gossiping about her.  Sometimes, she reflected, the respect Isalba commanded did come in quite handy.  Her stomach growled and she looked over at Harry.  "Shall we join the others in line?"

They found their place and waited patiently as Cooks dished up what appeared to be some sort of grilled meat with fruit and vegetables that had been wrapped in palm leaves and roasted, the leaves holding in their juices.  As they got closer, Megan accepted a plate passed back to her, its steaming contents making her mouth water.  "What kind of meat is this?"

"I believe that is wild pig," Harry replied.  "That is roasted coconut, that is plantain, and the other is cho-cho.  A feast with some of the island's fruits and vegetables."

"Oh." Megan followed him back to their seat and dug in, finding the fruit and vegetables to all be somewhat starchy and a little bit sweet.  The roasted pig was falling off its bones and she found all of the food to be soft enough that she was able to swallow it without too much pain to her tender throat, washed down with sips from a mug of cold ale. 

Harry finished his meal before she was halfway done, and rose, patting his belly.  "I am going to see if there is enough for second helpings."

"Harry."  Megan quickly chewed and swallowed a bite of her food.  "Would you make sure a plate is set back for Isa? She has not returned. I do not want her to be going hungry."

"I will." He left her to finish her food, returning after a while with two plates.  "One for the Captain."  He pushed it toward her.  "Cooks left it wrapped in the palm leaves. He said he will be happy to place it in the coals to re-heat if she is back before they burn down."

"Thank you."   Megan downed the last bite and took another sip of ale.  "I am going to go find her."

"It is not safe in the town for a woman alone," Harry advised her.  "She would not want you wandering about in the dark, and it is nigh on to dusk now."

"Then you shall go with me," she informed him.

"I have never intruded on her when she wished to be alone, not unless there was an emergency." Harry protested.

"I am worried about her," Megan answered softly.  "I merely want to know that she is alright.  Please, Harry, help me find her and then you can leave us. I will take the blame if she becomes angry."

"I supposed you will try to find her without me if I do not go along?" He groused.

"You know I will," Megan replied with a sweet smile.  "The only reason you are going at all is to protect me, and I will tell her as much.  I practically forced you to come along, did I not?"

Harry returned her smile.  "Absolutely.  Twisted my arm, you did."

"Very well, then." Megan picked up the plate he had brought for Isalba.  "I will put this in our cabin and then return top deck.  Will you be ready to leave by then?"  She eyed his plate pointedly.

"As if I have a choice."  He waved at her.  "Go on.  I will down my grub by the time you are back."

Megan ran down below and dropped off the plate. She looked around and considered a coat but realized the night air was still warm.  Back in Virginia colony the snow would be falling, she mused, her family sitting by the fire, counting down the days until Father Christmas might come to visit.  Did they exchange gifts on pirate ships?  Hmmmm. She decided she needed to go shopping the next day.

Returning to the deck, she and Harry made their way down the plank that led to the dock and followed along the sand to the crushed-shell lane that led up to the streets of the main part of town.  Port Royal nightlife was already winding up and some of their ship mates were trailing along behind them, intent on visiting the taverns and brothels for the evening.  She and Harry ducked in and out of a few places, looking around and checking the tables and bar areas, but did not find Isalba in any of them.

"She would not –"  Harry shook his head.  "No."  He grumbled under his breath.

"What?" Megan nudged him.

"Nothing." Harry frowned.

"You are worried about something," she pressed him. She nudged him again with no further result, and then fell to thinking. "You are worried she has found a woman to spend the evening with?"

Harry coughed and rubbed the side of his neck.  "Miss Megan – I – please do not think badly of me – I –" He sputtered and grew silent, fishing his pipe from his pocket.

"Harry."  She patted his arm.  "I do not think badly of you, and no, I do not think she would – well –" she felt herself blushing and was glad of the near-darkness.  "I just do not, that is all."

He wisely made no comment, puffing away on his pipe as they reached the next tavern.  Harry poked his head past the two swinging half-doors and wished he hadn't, spying Jacquotte seated at a nearby table. She saw him and he grimaced.

"Ah, Isalba's lap dog!" She cried out. "Come. I will pour some ale into a saucer for you to lap at my feet."

"Bah!" Harry made a dismissive gesture.  "Better her lap dog than her discarded rubbish."

"You do not speak to my captain in such a manner!"  One of her men rose and came after him, stumbling, half-drunk, brandishing his sword and swinging it sloppily around.

"Are you trying to attack me or trim that grease-filled mop on top of your own foolish head?"  Harry stepped aside just as he reached him, and the man fell, face-forward through the doors, landing on his belly in the street.

"Why, I oughta —!" The man pushed up and fell over a few times before regaining his footing.  Coming after Harry again, their swords clashed, and the fight was on, untidy as it was.

By the time the skirmish began, Jacquotte had made her way to the door to watch the entertainment.  Spying Megan, her lips curled up into a wicked smile.  "And there is Isalba's little knife-wielding bitch.  Tell me, have you shown her the things I bought for you?"

Megan shook her head, her anger rising at Jacquotte's words.  "Bitches sleep at the foot of their master's bed, not in it."  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she blushed furiously, realizing what she'd said.  Then, just as quickly, her anger took precedence and the flush of her embarrassment was replaced with a more furious heat that spread over her skin like fire.

"Oh-ho!"  Jacquotte noted her anger, moving closer and circling her.  Nearby, Harry was still engaged with the drunken man, unable to intervene.  "So the bitch is in heat, eh?"  Jacquotte taunted her.  "You made a promise, remember? If she does not show you what those things are for, I get to. And I owe you a return slap, though truly, you hit like a child. Barely reddened my cheek.  Perhaps I shall spank you instead.  That might be more to your liking if you are sharing her bed now."

"I – " Megan felt herself shaking inside, her ire rising and boiling over, making it difficult to breathe. "I am no bitch!" she roared and lunged at Jacquotte. She got one punch in and cocked her fist to land another, just as a firm hand grasped her shoulder, startling her so badly she jumped and spun, only to have her drawn fist caught in Isalba's firm grasp.  "Isa! Am I ever so glad to see you!"

Isalba's eyes were tired, but they crinkled into a brief smile when they fell on Megan's face, then narrowed as she surveyed the scene before her. "What is going on here?!" she demanded.

" 'Salba!" Harry greeted her, not taking his eyes off his poorly-matched opponent.  "Back off, you drunken scallywag!  I do not wish to cut your head off."

Isalba rolled her eyes and strode toward the other man, grabbing him by the shirt collar and lifting him off his feet.

"Hey!"  He kicked out and she grasped the seat of his trousers in the other hand, then with a shove of her boot to his backside, sent him flying into a nearby trough.  "Hey!"  He sputtered again, thrashing around in the dirty water until he managed to roll out and back onto the ground.  Leaping to his feet, he came at her, fists flying, his sword left behind in the dirt.

"They never learn," Isalba sighed.  As he reached her, she pulled her sword and knocked him in the head with the hilt.  He dropped to the ground with a thud and remained still.  "How many men are going to faint in my presence today?"

"Huh?" Megan looked at her, just as Jacquotte sauntered over.

"How was your night with  Arianna?" She provoked both women, rubbing her jaw where Megan had hit her. She knew better than to give Megan a return blow in Isalba's presence.  "It seems you cannot make up your mind which woman you want in your bed." Eyeing Megan, she laughed lightly.  "I was merely reminding your cabin girl here that we have a prior agreement she has yet to make good on."

Before Jacquotte could open her mouth again, Isalba was standing over her, picking her up and shaking her. "I do not know what you said to provoke her so, but whatever  agreement you have, it has just been revoked."  Spinning Jacquotte around toward the tavern, Isalba slammed her against the wall.

"Oh."  Jacquotte grinned despite Isalba's forearm, which was pressed against her throat.  "But we shook hands.  The lady gave me her word.  Perhaps she has no honor?"

"I have plenty of honor," Megan spoke up, her hands still curled into fists.

Isalba glanced over her shoulder briefly.  "Would you care to explain to me what she is referring to?"

"We bought some things.  That day, before the tavern."  Megan shrugged a little.  "There has been no time since to show them to you.  She said if you do not show me what they are for, that she would.  And we shook hands on it."

"So there is an out for your agreement.  What sort of things?"  Isalba's frown became an all-out scowl, her own anger edging up, ready to pounce.  Jacquotte laughed uproariously and Isalba pinned her against the wall even harder.  "You shut your filthy trap," she warned, easing a knee between Jacquotte's legs. "I will see to it you do not walk for a week, and it will not be a pleasurable experience, trust me. Just because you have not a man's jewels does not mean my knee will not render you unable to sit down comfortably for the foreseeable future."

"Oh, please. Cease with the chivalrous threats."  Jacquotte struggled a little but stilled when Isalba drew her knee back, prepared to kick.  "Release me and be on your way.  I made the deal assuming one of two things: either your little handmaid would have not the courage to ask you or that you would have too much of your own honor to show her, and I would win a sample of the lady's charms.  It is obvious you are soft, where she is concerned.  This confrontation changes things.  She will ask and you will show her, in order to put an end to the agreement. I merely purchased a few toys.  You know — 'toys.' All things considered, I have done you a favor and I have lost already."

Her meaning dawned and Isalba sighed heavily.  "Mierda."  With a shove that sent Jacquotte stumbling halfway across the street, Isalba stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. "Get out of here, and take your trash with you." She gestured toward Jacquotte's man, who was starting to come back around.

Jacquotte found her balance and spun around, her expression a cross between anger and amusement.  "To be a fly on the wall in your cabin –" she trailed off, tisking.  "Come on. There is no more fun to be had here."  Bending over her man, she hauled him to his feet and they made their way back inside the tavern.

Watching them for a moment, Isalba shook her head and looked over toward the other side of the tavern wall, where Harry had backed into the shadows as soon as Megan had begun to explain the agreement.  "Harry?"

Slowly, he emerged from the darkness, moving toward her with reluctant steps.  " 'Salba, I can explain. Miss Megan was worried about you.  We both were. My fault, I –"

"Harry, shut up."  She turned so she was fully-facing him.  "Go back to the ship."

"Come on, Harry," Megan rasped, tugging at his sleeve.

"Not you."  Isalba grabbed a handful of the back of Megan's shirt and stopped her in mid-stride.

"Isa, I am sorry –" Megan's voice trailed off to a whisper and she coughed, the cooling night air tickling her throat.

"Meg, it is alright. I am angry at neither you nor Harry."  Tired blue eyes met Megan's gaze and held it for a moment, reflecting a weary warmth.  Looking past Megan, over her shoulder, Isalba addressed Harry again: "You will forget everything Jacquotte said about this agreement, understood?"

"It is already forgotten," Harry replied, his face completely void of expression.  "Captain, will you be returning to the ship tonight?"

"I do not know." Isalba looked down, straightening her shirt, tucking it in more securely, and fiddling with her weapons. She looked back up. "You are in charge.  Tell Goro he is free to enjoy an evening on the town."

"Yes, Captain.  I bid you good evening, 'Salba – Megan." Harry touched the brim of his hat and turned, moving toward the port area with purposeful stride.

"Good evening, Harry," Megan called after him, her voice cracking.

"You should not be out of our cabin," Isalba admonished her.

"What Harry said is true.  I was worried."  Megan reached out, looping a finger inside Isalba's belt and giving it a tug.  "Do not worry about me.  I am feeling much better."

Isalba laughed listlessly.  "Do not worry about you?  I am gone for one evening and you cannot avoid getting into trouble. What am I to do with you?"

Contrite green eyes peered up at Isalba, and then Megan looked down.  "I am sorry.  Do with me as you see fit."

Isalba reached out, tilting her chin up.  "Oh, I have."  Leaning over, she brushed her lips lightly against Megan's.  "And I will again, once you are feeling better."

"Oh."  Megan dug a toe into the ground.  There was that annoying blush again.

"Come on."  Isalba ruffled Megan's hair, then draped an arm across her shoulders.  "I think I would like to find a more civil place to have a drink before we return to the ship."

Megan could feel the tension in Isalba's body, pressed against her side, and remembered Harry's words regarding what had transpired at the monastery.  "Rough day?" she risked, not wanting to break her promise to Harry by revealing her knowledge of the day's events.

"I did not kill them all," if that is what you are asking," Isalba answered, her voice slightly defensive.  "Meg, I am exhausted.  Please do not lecture me tonight."

"I –" Megan felt tears sting her eyes and she blinked, hoping Isalba could not see.  "That was not my intention," she replied, giving Isalba a little squeeze.  "Let us get that drink.  Then we will go back to the ship and sleep until the sun rises."

"Now that is more like it.  A drink, a warm bed, and the most beautiful woman in Port Royal to share them with.  What a lovely end to a horrid day." Isalba returned the squeeze, resting her cheek against the top of Megan's head as they continued their slow stroll toward the hotel bar at its end.

"Isa, about the toys –"

"Later."

"There was this cylinder —"

"Later."  Isalba curled her arm farther around Megan, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. "Much, much later."

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

 

Chapter 18

Three rounds of Port Royal's finest rum went a long way in putting a temporarily-numbing distance between Isalba and her memories of the day.  In the lively atmosphere of the hotel tavern, surrounding by revelers who were either carefree or well on their way to forgetting their losses in the storm, it was easy to forget who she was and the things she'd done.  Torchlight and the music of a fiddle-player added to the celebratory atmosphere, and a pleasant sea breeze blew in through the doorway.

Looking around, Isalba decided she liked the place and needed to spend more time there.  The hotel faced the ocean and from its upstairs balconies she knew there was a clear view to the moon-lit horizon.  It wasn't a brothel disguised as a tavern, as so many were, but rather a genuine hotel where the royalty of many nations chose to stay should they be traveling to the tropical islands of the new world.  The air was decidedly English and somewhat more refined than her usual  haunts, and though she was obviously a pirate with her weapons and ear piercings, as long as she behaved herself, management made no move to ask her to leave.

She was in no mood to fight or do much beyond drink and soak in Megan's presence at her side.  Megan had made several attempts to apologize for following after her and was currently in the middle of yet another 'I am sorry.'  "Hush," Isalba interrupted her.

"But —"

"Meg."  Isalba sighed dramatically and leaned over, kissing Megan thoroughly, well-aware they were being watched and not caring too much if anyone was disturbed by it.  "Hush."  She brushed her fingertip across Meg's pink lips.  "Have I complained about you searching for me?"

"Well, no," Megan answered, "But I know you do not like to be mothered."

"That is true," Isalba agreed with her, and smiled gently.  "In most cases."  She looked down, fiddling with her belt and shifting a coin pouch clipped to a belt loop.  Why was it so hard to admit certain things?  She swallowed and sucked it up.  "But for some reason, I do not mind when it is you."  There, she'd said it.  There was no turning back now.

"No?" Megan's voice rose in surprise, a delighted smile gracing her lips, and Isalba realized she craved the sight of that smile.

"No."  Isalba smiled warmly in return, allowing the emotions she felt to show on her face.  "The goddess help me, I know it means you care. Besides, as I told Harry, if I have learned nothing else about you, I know that you are going to find a way to get what you want, no?"

"Um —"  Megan tilted her head to the side, her nose crinkling as she smiled sheepishly. "I suppose I can be somewhat headstrong from time to time."

"No, really?" Isalba dead-panned.  "Thank you for informing me. I would never have known."

"Now you are making fun of me," Megan reached over, giving a little push to Isalba's leg.  Megan's smile disappeared and her brows scrunched into a worried frown.  "Isa, I am sorry.  I do not mean to —"

"Hush," Isalba repeated yet again.  "Yes, I am making fun, just a little bit.  But that stubborn streak saved my life when we first met.  Did you not sneak out of your father's house in the middle of the night because you were curious about me?"

"Yes." Megan's eyes lit up and her features softened once more.  "Nothing could have kept me from seeking you out. Not after they described you.  Not after I had just had that vision."

"And because of that you saved my neck."  Isalba drew Megan closer, touching her face and leaning down for another kiss.  She felt the sharp intake of breath at the fingertips of her other hand, which was curled around Megan's waist, and heard the catch of that same breath as Megan returned her affections, causing Isalba's guts to twist pleasantly.  "How are you feeling?" Isalba broke off, her face still inches from Megan's.

A deep pink blush colored Megan's face from the opening of her shirt at her throat to the pale roots of her hairline.  Isalba smiled and trailed a fingertip upward, following the path the blush had taken.  "I take it you are feeling the same way I do." 

"How is that?"  Megan's breathing was still labored and her hands were unconsciously busy, playing with Isalba's shirt ties, winding one around one of her fingers.

"That I wish very much that we were alone right now." Isalba kissed her again, glad they had chosen to sit on the same side of the table.  She swung one leg over the bench they shared.  "And that you were naked," she whispered in Megan's ear, causing goose bumps to rise and skitter across Megan's neck.

"We could be alone," Megan encouraged her.  "The ship is not so far away."

"And this is not a brothel," Isalba reminded her.  "There are rooms right up those stairs with comfortable beds.  And sweet tea and biscuits to be brought to the room at dawn.  I could take you up there, Meg — we could be treated like kings for a night."

"It is your coin," Megan reminded her.  "The ship is already yours at no cost."

"And the walls are thin between cabins," Isalba reminded her.

"Oh."  Megan released the tie she was playing with and smiled as Isalba captured her hand and kissed it.  "You think the men will hear us if we —"

"Maybe." Isalba leaned close and nibbled an ear lobe.  "Though I think we could help each other in that regard.  I do plan to ravish you in our cabin, Meg, on many nights to come. But tonight I would like to take you upstairs here, and feed you breakfast on our balcony in the morning."

"That sounds ever so nice."  Megan turned her head and found Isalba's lips, and Isalba felt her control slipping, her body craving a closeness that required privacy.

After a few more moments she pushed away from the table and stood, holding out a hand and drawing Megan to her feet.  As she approached the bar a steward met her halfway, key in hand.  "Up the stairs at the end of the hallway on the right, our finest room, overlooking the beach."

"You read my mind."  Isalba reached in her pocket and pulled out a few gold coins, smoothly exchanging them for the key. With an exchange of 'thank you's' she climbed the stairs, her hand at the small of Megan's back, urging her forward and down a long, wooden hallway, the scent of fresh rushes and polishing oil reaching her nostrils in a curious mix of citrus and greenery.  Windows were open at each end of the hall, allowing a cross-breeze to cool the area, and as she unlocked the door and opened it, another salty-sweet breeze washed over her, drifting in from the open window.

She closed the door and bolted it, taking a deep breath to slow herself down.  The part of her that had been denied Megan's physical presence through the days of illness in Tia's hut wanted nothing more than to rip the clothing from the younger woman's body and throw her down on the bed.  Luckily, the better part of her senses realized that all of this was still new to Megan and that she had promised her she would never harm her or frighten her when it came to love-making.

A lantern burned on a bedside table, casting high shadows on the walls and bathing Megan's skin in a warm, sensual glow of pale light.  "You are so beautiful," Isalba murmured, as she reached out for Megan, pulling her close and threading her fingers through long, blonde hair.  She kissed Megan slowly and completely, exploring the sweetness of her mouth and enjoying the whimper of pleasure it elicited.  With one hand she unlaced Megan's shirt and began pulling it from her trousers, lifting it over her head in a tangle with a lace-trimmed undershirt.

Creamy breasts appeared and Isalba ran her hands up Megan's torso, cupping them and teasing Megan with her thumbs.  "You are feeling well enough for this?"  She paused, studying Megan's face. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted slightly, her chest rising and falling more deeply than usual.  Slowly, green eyes opened halfway, desire burning in their depths.

"I am beyond knowing."  Megan laughed lightly.  She reached out and gave a tug to Isalba's shirt, helping Isalba as they both shed the remainder of their clothing.  "And beyond caring."  Megan's nostrils flared as she took in Isalba's naked body, her expression clearly showing she wanted what she saw.

"Good." Isalba eased a knee between Megan's legs, pressing upward.  "Because I am almost beyond stopping myself."  Brushing against Megan, she groaned and wrapped both arms around her, their bodies coming together in a growing familiarity.  Skin caressed skin and Megan cried out softly, as Isalba reached behind and grasped her backside, lifting her slightly, urging her in a slow grind against Isalba's thigh. 

"Isa — " Megan sighed and reached up, curling both arms around Isalba's neck and shoulders.

It was so different from any other woman, Megan's reactions — all at once sweet and shy, yet strong and sensual, the timbre of her voice and her movements expressing things the younger woman had not yet learned to describe in words.  That would come in time, but it didn't matter.  Megan clearly wanted her attentions and Isalba's own body thrummed in sympathy, as she slowly backed Megan against the wall and lifted her higher still, until Megan's legs were wrapped loosely around Isalba's hips.

The scent of their shared desire filled her and she reached between them, stroking Megan, while leaning in and nibbling her neck, suckling and moving lower, knowing she was marking Megan's skin and not caring.  Megan buried her face against Isalba's neck, her lips kissing and nipping just below the pirate's ear.  It sent a jolt of pleasure through her and Isalba groaned, increasing her motions until Megan gasped and released a mewling sound, her stomach muscles rippling with her climax.

"Hold on." Isalba moved away from the wall, walking carefully toward the bed with Megan wrapped around her like a second skin.  She lowered Megan to the bed and followed after her, stretching out between the younger woman's legs and grasping her backside, pulling her close and kissing smooth, salty inner thighs, before moving in for some much more intimate kisses.  Megan's hands flew down to the top of Isalba's head, stroking her hair, one hand reaching out and tracing her cheek. 

"Isa —" Megan's vocabulary had apparently been reduced to the diminutive of her name, and Isalba smiled, nuzzling soft curls as she continued her attentions. Soon, Megan cried out again and Isalba pushed up, hitching herself forward before lowering herself down for a long, heartfelt kiss.

"Mmmm."  She pulled back and looked down into Megan's eyes, which were soft and shining, full of contentment.  "So very beautiful, my love."  She cupped Megan's cheek and gasped as Megan unexpectedly turned her head and kissed her palm, giving it a little lick for good measure.

"Against the wall," Megan mumbled, a smile gracing her lips.

"You did not care for that?"  Isalba tilted her head in confused question.  Megan had surely not seemed to have any complaints.

"No.  I mean, yes."  Megan blushed.  "It was nice.  I was just wondering how many different ways we can do this."

"More ways than you can count." Isalba shifted, rolling to her side and tracing Megan's facial contours as she spoke.  "And I hope to experience as many ways as I can with you." She smiled, then closed her eyes for a moment, as Megan stroked down her stomach and between her legs, in a show of growing confidence with her actions.

"We have not done it lying side by side," Megan whispered, moving closer. She kissed her way along Isalba's collar bone, then delicately took a nipple into her mouth, her lips and fingers seemingly connected by the intense ripple of pleasure that shot through Isalba's body.

"No."  Isalba eased her own legs apart.  As Megan moved closer still, Isalba reached across, returning the favor, smiling as Megan's eyes flew open for a moment. "And it is a very nice way."  She eased Megan's legs apart.  "Together."

"Oooo," Megan lost track of what she was doing for a moment, then quickly made up for it, her strokes and touches more intense than before as they brought each other up higher.  Soon Isalba was lost in her own waves of pleasure, Megan's whimpers of mutual quenched desire reaching her ears like beautiful music.

Rolling to her back she pulled Megan against her, rubbing her back and stroking fine, blonde hair, letting it sift through her fingertips.  She kissed Megan, taking her time and savoring the sweetness between them.  "I am so very glad you came looking for me." Isalba laughed lightly, then kissed Megan's forehead.

"So that we could do this?"  Megan shared in her laughter.  "I could have simply waited on the ship, you know, and we could still have made love."

"True."  Isalba sobered, sorting through all the reasons why she was glad Megan had come looking for her, and settling on the one that mattered most at the moment: it meant she was not judged for doing what she had done.  "You came after me, even knowing what I had to do —where I had been," she finally whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

"Isa."  Megan rose up, resting her head in an upraised hand.  Her other hand was splayed across Isalba's stomach, and she began tracing light circles as she spoke. "When I decided I wanted —" she gestured between them "— this — with you, I had to search my own heart first."

"As did I," Isalba acknowledged.

"Shhh."  Megan touched her lips for a moment, then went back to rubbing Isalba's belly.  "Hear me out, please."

"Sorry." Isalba slipped one leg between Megan's, tangling them together and resting one hand against a bare hip. She took a deep breath, unsure if she wanted to hear what Megan had to say. "Please, Meg.  I know I have done terrible things.  Just for tonight, be kind to me."

"Kindness."  Megan repeated the word with an odd, briefly-sad expression.  "I was right," she mumbled.  "It is late and we are both weary, I know," she continued.  "But please, just let me say a few things?"

Reluctantly, Isalba nodded, and Megan drew in a long breath, releasing it slowly.  "I am not who I was when I left Chincoteague.  I am much more than I ever thought I could be.  And you — you have given me a life I could only have dreamed of.  I do not judge you, Isa. Not anymore.  Sometimes things you do make me sad —"

"I know," Isalba answered quietly, her heart nearly breaking at the thought that Megan might be disappointed with her.  Not so long before it would have made her angry but now — now, she realized, it made her want to live up to Megan's hopes for her and the only anger she could muster was anger that it no longer made her angry. She laughed, shaking her head.

"What is funny?"  Megan paused, touching Isalba's cheek again and stroking it.

"That is so nice."  Isalba leaned into the touch, absorbing the emotions behind it.  "I am only laughing at my own absurd foolishness."  She looked deeply into Megan's eyes, a part of her surrendering to Megan in a way she was not sure she could ever express. "I am sorry.  Please continue."

"But my sadness, it is because I know you." Megan repeated her words from earlier that morning, before the terrible day had unfolded.  "I know your heart.  You are a good person, Isa.  You are kind to those weaker than you, and you are good beyond measure to your crew. You are hard, but fair.  Those who also know you respect you.  Harry.  Coweta.  Those of your crew whom you have allowed close."

Isalba closed her eyes, afraid if she didn't, the tears she felt stinging them would spill out, and she was not prepared to be that vulnerable.  Not at that moment.  Megan's hand softly cupped her face and Isalba felt something inside herself relax, a giving up of trust, and she inclined her head, eyes still closed, listening.

"So much you do is good and right.  But in this one thing —" Megan trailed off.  "As I said, I do not judge, but I do not understand.  Perhaps I never will."

"Would that you do not," Isalba answered, opening her eyes.  Collecting her feelings and settling them, she gave Megan's hip a squeeze.  "Thank you for accepting me as I am. There is much I would like to say to you — much that happened today.  But I am still thinking on things myself.  For tonight, I would like only to hold you until we fall asleep."

"I would like that as well."  Megan cuddled up against her and they shifted, ending up with Isalba on her back and Megan's head at her shoulder, as they hugged each other close.

Outside the wind rose, rustling the palm leaves and whistling below the inn's eaves.  If she listened hard, Isalba could hear the waves rolling ashore, mixing with the sighing of the wind and Megan's quiet breathing as she drifted off to sleep.  That fierce, protective sensation rose up once more and she kissed the pale hair, then rested her cheek against Megan's head. 

There would be plenty of time in the days to come to think on the day's events — what she would do about them and where she would go from there, but for this one shining moment, she could rest in the knowledge that at least one person loved her without judgment.  What's more, Megan's words began to sink in and Isalba's own hope rose up. Megan accepted her now but it was obvious she saw something of what Isalba might become.  After so many years of believing the life she led was all there was for her, she suddenly realized that maybe she was meant for something more, after all.

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

Megan awoke to a tickling, cool sensation across her bare skin.  Slowly, she opened her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was, as she peered around in the semi-darkness.  The sheets were tangled and had slipped down, exposing her torso to the room and the breeze drifting in from outside.  Frowning, she realized that she was alone in the bed and the balcony door was open.  Pale moonlight flickered in and out of the room and looking out, she could see stars that popped into her vision and then disappeared, only to re-appear again.  Clouds, she realized, were moving swiftly across the sky, and she could smell salty rain on the breeze.

She sat up and grabbed a blanket that was folded up at the end of the bed, wrapping it around herself and tucking the end in securely, as she stood and pattered across the floor to the doorway.  She stopped there, leaning against the facing, studying the tall figure that stood outside, leaning on the balcony railing.  Isalba's long hair blew back in the wind, which also plastered the long, white shirt she wore against her body.  It came down to her upper thighs, exposing long, strong legs, one of which was propped up on the lower bar of the railing, bare toes curled around the smooth iron.

Isalba was beautiful and Megan drew in a breath at the unexpected emotion that washed over her, a combination of desire and concern, protectiveness and possessiveness, and something she realized was simply love.  This magnificent creature, for whatever reason, cared for her, desired her, and held her with the greatest of strength, while loving her with a gentleness that brought tears to her eyes. 

Isalba could express a dozen different emotions without saying a word, her heart and soul reflected in her eyes and the planes and angles of her face.  Studying her profile now, there was a profound sadness there, a heaviness that was confirmed as Isalba drew in a long breath and slowly released it, looking down as she curled both hands tightly around the railing, squeezing hard before she relaxed her grip.

"Isa?"  Megan finally spoke, unsure if her presence was welcome.

"Oh." Isalba turned, her lips briefly curved up into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.  She took Megan in with a slow sweep from head to toe, then looked away and down.  "I was hoping I would not wake you."

"You did not wake me."  Megan approached her.  "The wind did."

"Yes, but I left the balcony door open.  I am sorry."  Isalba scooted over, making room for Megan to stand beside her.  Across from their room, a line of palm trees swayed in the breeze and beyond them, a long stretch of beach reached out to touch the waves as they rolled ashore with a crash.

"It is alright."  Megan breathed in the night air.  "Did it rain?"

"Not yet."  Isalba glanced out to sea.  "There is a storm offshore.  See?" She pointed to a spot on the horizon where the stars no longer shone.

"Oh, yes."  Megan looked up overhead, where wispy clouds danced across the moon, rolling and twisting in odd shapes.  "Not another cyclone, I hope."

"No."  Isalba shifted, switching her weight from one leg to the other.  "At least I do not think it is.  The wind does not feel like a cyclone and the clouds are not the right pattern.  Cyclone clouds come ashore in circling arcs. These blow in straight lines.

Megan smiled and looked up at Isalba's sharp profile.  "You know so much about so many things."  She shook her head.

Isalba looked down, another brief smile curling her lips up. "I am not so certain of that, but I have lived through enough cyclones to know the signs. Of course that night we were at the waterfall, I was preoccupied — not paying attention to the sky." She bumped her hip against Megan's.

Laughing lightly, Megan bumped back.  "Isa?"  She grew sober, cautiously feeling her way forward. "Why are you standing on the balcony in just your shirt in the middle of the night?"

"I could not sleep."  Isalba shrugged.  "I thought to only step out long enough to draw a fresh breath of air.  I suppose I stayed longer than I intended."

"Was I keeping you awake?  I do toss and turn sometimes."  Megan peered anxiously up at the taller woman.

Isalba's jaw clenched and she swallowed hard, the movement of her throat visible even in the darkness.  "No.  I was more afraid of waking you when I slid out from under you. You were very much wrapped around me when I awoke."

Megan felt a blush rise to heat her cheeks. "I — I cannot help myself.  I feel safe in your arms.  I sleep like a babe."

"No one should feel safe in my arms," Isalba replied quietly. Her fists curled around the railing again, so tightly her knuckles grew momentarily white.  "But I am glad you do," she quickly added.  "You are a comfort to me, Meg."

"Truly?"  Megan laid one hand over Isalba's, lightly stroking the back of it with her thumb.

"Truly," Isalba confirmed.  "For what it is worth, there is precious little comfort in my life.  I think —" she paused, taking Megan's hand in both of hers.  Looking out to sea, she swallowed again.  "I think perhaps you are the only one with whom I am able to let my guard down.  I do not feel I have to be the captain when I am with you.  I can just be me."

"Oh."  Megan turned that over in her head, deciding she'd just been given a priceless gift.   "But that does not answer why you are standing out on the balcony in the middle of the night, unable to sleep.  What woke you up?"

"See, there you go." Isalba laughed and glanced over at her.  "You are not afraid to push me, even less afraid than Harry, and I thought no one could be more brave with me than he is."

"Isa."  Megan eased closer, placing one hand at Isalba's back and giving it a scratch, before she took up a gentle rubbing, making circles with the palm of her hand.  "You are out here, why, exactly?"

"I killed the head priest this afternoon," Isalba answered slowly, drawing her words out, her eyes fixed steadily on the horizon.  "He left me no choice. He made it clear that the moment I am gone from Port Royal, he would continue to make Tia's family's lives miserable.  I hurt a few others, but he is the only one I killed."

"And you feel badly about that?"  Megan was actually surprised. It was unlike Isalba to second-guess herself.  "You said he left you no choice." She peered over, until she could see Isalba's face, and searched her eyes.

"No." Isalba looked away, down at her feet.  "He was an evil man. Even if he were not a Spanish priest, I would still feel the same.  I do not usually allow people to live if they tell me they plan to hurt people I care about.  And I do not waste time feeling guilty once I have disposed of them."

"Then why —"

"Why am I out here?" Isalba cut her off. "Because —" She released Megan's hand and crossed her arms over her chest.  "Dammit," she cursed quietly.  "Damn that boy."

"What boy?"  Megan knew immediately it was the boy Harry had spoken of. She held her breath, wondering if Isalba would be forthcoming about whatever had happened. "Isa?"

Abruptly, Isalba pulled away from her and moved to a bench on the balcony, taking a seat and placing her face in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees.  She scrubbed her face, then raked her fingers back through her hair, before dropping her hands until her forearms were braced loosely across her thighs.  Her head hung down, long hair framing her face.

Megan watched her a moment, then followed, dropping down to one knee on the deck next to her.  She placed a hand on a taut thigh, giving it a squeeze. "Please tell me. What troubles you so?"

"I have become what made me," Isalba answered in a hoarse voice. "That boy, I used him — took him hostage so the others would cooperate.  He was different. Terrified of me and yet proud — defiant even. When it was over, he confronted me and told me his story — he's an orphan, an altar boy in the care of the monastery here."

Megan frowned, trying to understand.  "It is sad he is an orphan, but he has a home.  A bed to sleep in and food to eat.  People who take care of him. It is more than many orphans have."

"He is an orphan because of me," Isalba whispered, raising her hands to her face once more.

Megan's hand stilled at her thigh and she sat back, digesting Isalba's words.  "You —  so you are saying that you — ?"

"I killed his parents," an anguished voice confirmed.  "And I do not even remember it, not specifically.  He said it — I have killed so many. It never occurred to me —" she trailed off and drew in a deep breath of air. Slowly she looked up and turned her head toward Megan.  Her eyes were wide and sad, unshed tears swimming in the moonlight.  "How many orphans have I created?" 

A few tears slid down Isalba's cheeks and Megan reached over, wiping them away.  "I do not think you will ever know the answer to that question," she replied gently.

"At least not on this side of Davy Jones' locker," Isalba agreed with her bitterly. "One day I suppose I shall meet them all."

"Do not talk so."  Megan rose and eased up onto the bench next to her, draping an arm across Isalba's shoulders. Her back was rigid, the muscles pulled tightly across her frame.  Megan took up a slow, easy kneading of her shoulders, feeling Isalba's quiet, defeated sigh. "You cannot know that and there is no use torturing yourself."

"I am a murderer," Isalba responded. "I told you as much.  But I always felt it was part of the revenge I deserved, for what they did to my family — that I was justified."

"And now?" Megan gently prodded.

"Now — " Isalba shook her head from side to side. "Now I do not know.  The first time I killed a priest, it felt good — right — and for a short while it eased some of my pain.  But when the pain returned, I killed again.  And again.  And after a while —" She shrugged.  "It was just part of what I do.  Even when Covington was alive, I had responsibilities — to him — to the men — we do what we have to do to live and prosper, and that meant borrowing, buying, or taking what we needed — what we wanted. And if that was who I was going to be — a pirate — then I thought I might as well take from the people who had harmed me most."

"But that boy did not do anything to you, did he?"  Megan knew it was a brazen question to ask and instinctively prepared to move aside if Isalba came swinging back at her.  But she didn't.

Slowly Isalba sat up, eyes closed, and her chest heaved as if breathing were difficult.  "No.  He and his family were in the wrong place at the wrong time, if he is telling me the truth of his story. Now I find myself wondering —"  She opened her eyes and looked over at Megan.  "How can I ever make sure I do not do the same thing again on another day — create another orphan? What if I cannot do this anymore?  If I am not a pirate, who am I and how do I take care of the men in my charge?"

"Oh, Isa."  Megan reached up and touched Isalba's face.  "If you truly want another way, surely we can find it."

"We?"  Isalba glanced hopefully at her.  "Even now, after all of this, you stand by my side?"

"Yes."  Megan leaned over and kissed her cheek.  "Even on the other side of Davy Jones' Locker."  She stood and held out a hand.  "Come inside. The storm grows closer." She gestured toward the darkening sky.  Slowly, Isalba stood and took her hand, then abruptly pulled Megan into a hug, holding her close as they wordlessly rocked back and forth.  Overhead, the skies opened up and the rain began to fall, a streak of lightning streaking out in a spider web across the heavens.

Under the shelter of the covered balcony, Megan stood on tiptoes, finding Isalba's lips and brushing her own against them.  Thunder cracked and rolled, shaking the deck beneath their feet. " Come inside," she repeated, taking Isalba's hands and pulling her back into the room, closing the door firmly against the raging fury outside.

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

continued...

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