Crossed Swords 01

Stupefied, the two embracing figures studied the sudden horse-drawn apparition. Their reaction to the sight of the gleaming carriage outside the window was similar, except that Giuliana only thought it. When the blasphemous and creative expression slipped past the elegant lips of the tavern-mistress, the captain looked down at her in surprise.

"I beg your pardon," Brandy murmured, pulling away just a bit and removing her hand from its warm, soft perch on the captain's chest.

"Mam'selle," said the captain, going with unthinking impetuousness to the door, "I regret it is I who must beg yours." She threw the door open and walked into the bright late-afternoon sunshine.

After one horrified moment, Brandy followed her out. "Captain!"

Carlisle turned, and her face was shining, eloquent with unspoken love. Brandy turned a bit dizzy, and it was only with difficulty that she caught the captain's next words. "I've a slight matter to settle first, mam'selle, before we can return to our pleasant conversation."

DiFalco had gotten to her feet, and Mistinguette had quit shaking out the rugs, and both were staring.

"Captain," Brandy said, attempting to be reasonable, "you may not have realized that this carriage belongs to Genevieve Ste. Claire."

"It had not escaped my notice, mam'selle," the captain said politely. "Your point?"

"Well," Brandy said, her hands waving a bit aimlessly as she tried to think, "merely that it means you will be going to visit Genevieve Ste. Claire."

"Yes, mam'selle," Carlisle said agreeably, and her fist tightened on her hat as her eyes grew flinty. "Consider for a moment, though, that she will be conversing with Giuliana Carlisle."

She opened the door of the carriage and hopped inside, and the coachman clucked to the horses. The carriage moved off in a cloud of dust, and Brandy stood there watching it leave.

"Oh, God in heaven," DiFalco said, horrorstruck. "Mingeaux is going to kill me."

Brandy shot her a furious glare. "If she can get here before I load the pistol," she grumbled, thrusting her hands into her sleeves and stomping back up the steps to the tavern.


As the carriage climbed into the hills, the captain studied the landscape. The fronded palms lining the roadway gave way to ominous, beetling trees whose dark green crowns met over the top of the carriage, and the occasional branch scraping on the roof gave her nerves a bit of a workout.

Not that she had much calm to spare. As the horses trotted ever on, Carlisle's hands clenched as she reflected on Ste. Claire's numerous and inventive betrayals. Obviously, she was a woman completely incapable of telling the truth, and completely convincing when she was lying through her pretty little pearly teeth. Carlisle's fist ached to turn the mindless smile into a good imitation of a picket fence returning to the elements.

Not only had she deliberately deceived Carlisle about the location of her sister, she had had the effrontery to offer Brandy money for the necklace that encircled her alluring little throat with such distinction... Spanish silver was definitely the material in which to adorn the tavern-mistress, and Carlisle sighed, reflecting in frustration on how close she'd been to the soft, inviting body of her new friend. Her breath had been warm and gentle, spiced with something like cinnamon, and Carlisle was suddenly, passionately curious about how long Brandy could sustain a kiss. The captain sat up, testing her fist again, and resolved to add the unwelcome separation to the account of the mad, maddening blonde.

It did not occur to her that it might have been more prudent to bring Mingeaux with her until the carriage had been some quarter of an hour on the road. She had thought it her own quarrel with the dangerous lady, and she had wanted the pleasure of mopping the floor with Ste. Claire's elaborate gown to be hers and hers alone. If she were feeling generous, she might actually find a padded attic in which to confine the lady until some cure for rampant insanity were discovered; she rather doubted, however, her capacity for either benevolence or restraint.

And when Ste. Claire was settled, there was the other to contend with. Carlisle's lip curled in disdain as she thought of him. The arrogant rat in the beautiful suit who had dissembled with such smooth skill. The last person she knew to be connected with her sister's disappearance. She whispered a name into the growing darkness, filling herself with hatred enough to do the job ten times over.

"Aristide," she hissed into the gloom.


Mingeaux had made her slow way up the hill to the "Bonny Anne", one arm around Emilie, who looked up adoringly into her face, and the other half-circling the shoulder of Torres. Emilie had battered at Mingeaux all the long walk with questions about Brandy's new lover, despite Mingeaux's protests that she'd have to ask her friend herself.

When they arrived outside the tavern to find Brandy quivering with fury and the track of a carriage heading up into the hills, it became apparent that there would be no story of romance soon. Emilie and Torres drew away from Mingeaux, who was left standing empty-handed in the road. For a moment, the formerly happy band from the harbor was silent and still; then Mingeaux turned to DiFalco, who gave her a sheepish look and spread her hands, stuttering, "Ste.--Ste. Claire's carriage--"

"Damn it, DiFalco, can I not leave her in your hands for three minutes?" Mingeaux said in a mild voice that rattled the palms beside the road, and DiFalco winced. Mingeaux spun on her heel, taking a rapid look around her. "Hey!" she shouted, and a woman trotting along in the distance on a substantial horse turned her head. Mingeaux took to her heels, catching up with the plodding horse in seconds. "How much to rent the horse?" Mingeaux demanded without preamble.

"My Blossom's like a member of the family," the woman replied easily, while Mingeaux dug in her pockets for gold. "If I were to consider it, it could only be to one who would care for her as tenderly as I." The woman looked at the glitter in her palm and announced equably, "Very well, then, you qualify. What was your name again, friend?" She slid off the horse, and Mingeaux leapt for its back and turned it with the reins.

"I'll bring her back, but I cannot say when," Mingeaux called.

"She likes a bit of sour mash of a Sunday," said the woman, slipping the gold into her bodice, between her breasts.

Mingeaux stopped the horse beside the still-silent figure of the tavern-mistress. "Brandy--"

"I'm going with you," Brandy told her, holding up a hand imperiously.

"It's Ste. Claire," Mingeaux pointed out.

"And you little know," Brandy replied, fuming, "what her untimely arrival interrupted."

Mingeaux closed her eyes and covered them with her hand, casting about for another reason. "You're in your good gown."

"Like I care the devil's pissette for that!" replied the girl stoutly. "Give me a hand or I cause Blossom's tail no little discomfort."

Mingeaux sighed and held out an arm, and Brandy grasped it firmly. Mingeaux swung her into the saddle before her, and, in a twinkling, the two were galloping along the road to Ste. Claire's mansion.


The carriage pulled up in a circular drive, and it took the captain a moment to register that it had stopped moving. She tried the door handle and stepped out, raising her eyes to the portico of a deceptively beautiful place all in dark teak and white wicker porch furniture. The house was held up on substantial pillars, and windows ranged around the second story. The setting sun melted rose-gold into the wavy ripples of the windowpanes, and Carlisle held a hand before her eyes, mindful of the dazzle, as she ascended the steps.

A lovely Black woman in an off-the-shoulder dress of white linen opened the door. Stunned into politeness by the vision of grace, Carlisle went into the house, trying to avoid stomping. The woman had gorgeous collarbones and a beautiful swelling curve to her bosom, and Carlisle studied her subtly, wondering exactly what service her harsh mistress required of her. A thousand images flitted through her mind in an instant, and for the first time it occurred to Carlisle to be grateful that Ste. Claire did not have Lucia after all.

Not raising her eyes, the woman led her to the back of the entrance hall, where a grand staircase soared into the twilit depths of the house. The woman picked up a lit candle and ascended the stairs, gathering the folds of her skirt in one hand. She bent her head to watch the treads, and her neck was doe-delicate and unmarked. She moved with a subtle, swaying grace of hip and back, her hand descending lightly on the bannister as she climbed, and Carlisle followed her up silently. At the top of the stairs, they turned left.

The woman preceded her without a sound down the hall, then stopped with a murmur of "Ici, mam'selle," and opened the door to the drawing room. Carlisle muttered her thanks and went in.

The first thing she saw was the glory of the sunset over the harbor through the long row of windows that led out onto a wide porch. The second thing was a woman in a bright blue gown standing quietly by one of the windows, a hand up on the window frame toying idly with the tassel of the curtain. Ste. Claire turned from the window, her dark eyes raking Carlisle up and down with insolent familiarity.

"Captain," said the blonde, civilly enough, and Carlisle's hand tightened into a fist.

"Come, mam'selle," she said, out of patience before they'd gotten started, "don't you think we've moved beyond common courtesy?"

The blonde moved further into the room, walking as if thinking, with a slow step that offered the last rays of fiery sunlight ample opportunity to catch her naked shoulders, which were outlined with a delicate and expensive lace. "I should hope," she said thoughtfully, not looking toward the captain, "that we had established a somewhat closer relationship than mere commonality."

"It is not friendship, but commerce, that binds us," Carlisle remarked, by way of correction.

Ste. Claire's eyes snapped up toward her, but when she spoke, her voice was mild and girlish. "Come, Captain, that's harsh."

"Harsh, or realistic? D'you not recall our bargain?" Carlisle said relentlessly. "In that case, permit me. I was to find my sister on Santo Domingo and you were to have your recompense, whatever that might be."

The blonde considered this, head cocked to one side, twining a lock of hair about her finger. The sky outside had purpled with twilight while she thought. "And did you find her?"

"You know I did not," Carlisle said, "for the simple reason that she was never in Santo Domingo."

"No?" said Ste. Claire in her best drawing-room simper.

"Perhaps," Carlisle said, biting off her words, "you are more familiar with a different island, a transshipment point known as 'Hell's Arse-hole'."

It took her aback to be caught out in her lie, the captain could tell, and Ste. Claire's plunging neckline offered an unimpeded view as she caught her breath. She noticed Carlisle's eyes straying toward the roundness of her breasts and gave the captain a lovely little smile without replying.

I confront her lie, and she answers by throwing her pretty body at me? The arrogance of Ste. Claire's assumption enraged Carlisle. She was supposed to forget all about Lucia and sweep this horrible woman off to bed? She would wait a lifetime or two, then. "Let there be no mistake, mam'selle," Carlisle said, the fury threatening to choke her. "You are indeed a beautiful woman, but you are also an infernal liar."

Ste. Claire's head went back, and her eyes blazed with rage. Her mouth trembled, as if she were on the verge of hurling some atrocious and doubtless effective curse, but what she did was bend over, haul her skirt swiftly up over her leg with a flash of lace and white, and seize a small object from a delicate blue silk garter. When it swung into the light, Carlisle could see that it was a pistol, and it was aimed right for her chest.

Before she could find her courage, the captain took a step back and raised her hands.

"Whether we had an agreement or not is no longer of consequence," said Ste. Claire, moving toward her, "because I am the one with the gun."

"Capricious bitch," the captain spat.

"Kiss me," Ste. Claire said, and her lovely lips parted as her eyes clouded with passion.

So here is the game, and out in the open. Carlisle drew herself to her full height, taking care not to drop her hands. "You may commence to pump me full of lead now."

Ste. Claire's face grew hard, the cruelty marked there strongly. The gun trembled in the blonde's hand, and her voice shook as well. "You owe me, Giuliana."

"The only way you will have these lips," said the captain, feeling a bit unreal, "is when the breath has ceased to issue from them."

"Please," said the mad blonde, and her bodice strained with the force of her impassioned respiration. "Ah, God, have mercy on me. I am in agony--!"

The dizzying anger made her forget all about the pistol. "You should have considered a more subtle form of wooing, mam'selle," the captain replied, implacable. "As it is, you have lied about my sister and offered money for a gift I gave to another woman. Forgive me if I find your advances eminently resistible." Her brow was beginning to dampen, and she longed to raise her hand to wipe the sweat from her eyes, but did not dare. Outside, the world had gone dark, and the stars were beginning to glimmer.

"I have the gun, Giuliana," Ste. Claire reminded her, "and I am a damned fine shot."

"You may ballast me with enough buckshot to sink me in the deepest part of the Atlantic before I come willingly to your bed," Carlisle retorted, livid and inclined to carelessness. She added, before she could consider its prudence, "Your bed-games are a bit rough, mam'selle; would not M. Aristide suit you better as a playfellow?"

The flash of wounded pride in Ste. Claire's face told her that her bolt had gone home. "Prepare to die, bitch," she hissed, and her finger tightened on the trigger.

Mingeaux, find Lucy--explain to Brandy--! Carlisle closed her eyes and sent her soul to God.

A musical shattering interrupted her frantic search for a life-concluding prayer, and she opened her eyes in time to see the window kicked in by a pair of closely-fitting black leather boots. Glittering shards sprayed the carpet; astounded, Carlisle lowered her hands.

The boots were attached to leather trousers and a leather jerkin over a jet-black shirt, and the fetching lady in them was wearing a mask. In one gloved hand she held the loop of a stout, lithe rope; in the other was an impressive sabre, the point of which came to rest, agleam with motionless menace, between Ste. Claire's breasts.

"By God," cried the masked lady, "I have always wanted to do that!"

Ste. Claire showed her coolness by swinging the pistol instantly in the direction of the masked lady, who moved, undaunted, to press her back against the wall at sabre's-point.

"Impasse," the masked lady hissed with a grin. She plucked the derringer from Ste. Claire's hand and tossed it to the captain, who fumbled it into place, pointing it at her nemesis.

The blonde's undeniably shapely breasts were in serious danger of damage from the point of the shining blade, and she compounded it by panting with thwarted lust, glaring into the intruder's eyes with a soul-destroying hatred. The masked lady narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips with a gentle kissing sound, and Ste. Claire clutched at the wallpaper behind her with clawed hands, her snowy bosom heaving with emotion. She looked like a trapped panther, and Carlisle realized why the image of the great cat was used as a synonym for uncontrolled danger.

There was a subtle knock on the door, and the masked lady held a leather-gloved finger to her lips.

"Madame?" asked a timid voice without.

"All is well," the masked lady whispered.

"All is well," Ste. Claire parroted, not taking her eyes off the gleaming length of steel.

"Remain without until you're called," the lady added in a murmur, and Ste. Claire dutifully repeated it in a voice shot through with attitude. "I may make a lot more noise," the masked lady added mischievously, "and I don't care to be interrupted."

Livid, Ste. Claire bellowed at the door, "Go away!"

"Oui, madame."

"D'you have her, Carlisle?" the masked lady asked, and Giuliana steadied the derringer.

"Aye." She fitted her finger around the trigger, adding, "Consider it my thanks for the timeliness of your arrival."

The sabre flashed upward, hissing. "My pleasure," said the masked lady, and there was no mistaking the sincerity in her voice. "And now, mam'selle," she continued, sheathing her sword, "you'll do me the kindness to stretch your hands above your head."

"What?" Ste. Claire exclaimed.

The woman in the gleaming leather ran a possessive finger down the side of Ste. Claire's furious face. "I thought it might be... instructive... to turn the tables on you."

"You'll see me dead first," the blonde vowed.

"Carlisle, oblige the lady," said the woman in the mask.

"My pleasure," Giuliana grunted, taking aim.

"Very well," Ste. Claire said hastily, putting her hands up.

The masked woman unwound her sash and whispered, "Only the finest silk for you, my lady." The silk twined around Ste. Claire's wrists, then the masked woman pulled it through the heavy ring at the bottom of the wall sconce. She gave Ste. Claire an assessing look, raising one eyebrow, then pulled on the end of the silk. Ste. Claire bit her lip, resisting for a moment, then raised herself up onto her toes, and the two of them stood looking at one another. The woman in the mask wore an expression of tender sadism, and she completed knotting the silk while looking deeply into the mad, furious eyes of the now-immobilized blonde.

The woman in the leather took half a step away, contemplating her handiwork. "She looks like a picture, doesn't she?" said the masked lady, as if commenting on the weather. The furious Ste. Claire tried to pull ineffectually at the silk holding her to the wall, and Carlisle knew in a flash that that was precisely what the ring below the wall sconce was for.

"Mam'selle," said the masked lady mildly as Ste. Claire continued to struggle, "have a care for that pretty gown, which you stand in serious danger of losing. Or was that your intent?"

Ste. Claire spit suddenly in the lady's face, and the woman in the leathers laughed without anger, reaching for the laces on Ste. Claire's bodice. She untied it and tugged it open with a quick movement, then ran her leather-gloved hand between Ste. Claire's breasts. Ste. Claire gave her another soul-freezing glare, and Carlisle made an impatient movement.

"Your indulgence only a moment more, Captain," the masked lady murmured. She placed her index finger gently on Ste. Claire's lips. "You'll give us fifteen minutes before raising the alarm."

"Why should I?" Ste. Claire snarled, hauling at the silken sash about her wrists.

"Because if you don't," the leather lady told her softly, "I shan't come to you again."

For another moment, they studied one another, the eyes of the one glittering with rage and the other soft with understanding, then Ste. Claire nodded, glowering. The captain watched in utter stupefaction; was there not one person on this island who wasn't a--?

"Come, Carlisle," said the leather lady. The captain shook herself awake, and took a fraction of a second too long to reach the window frame. "Woman," said the masked lady with impatience, "will you wait for the footman to deliver you an invitation?"

She kicked out the remaining glass in the frame, hauled the captain stumbling onto the porch by one arm, and blew the struggling Ste. Claire a kiss as she slid down the rope to the ground.

Carlisle rappelled down, and there was a pair of horses waiting on the lawn. The masked woman gestured urgently, and the captain mounted the nearest horse. The woman in the mask leapt aboard her own mount with catlike grace, looking back up to the shattered window frame and giving a soft, vengeful chuckle. They wheeled their horses, and the masked woman whispered to someone in the darkness, "She'll be in the devil's own mood when you cut her loose--tell your people to stay out of her way."

They galloped off into the night, and Carlisle looked back to see the lights of Ste. Claire's mansion receding as they went round a bend in the road.

After a few minutes, the captain spared a glance at her masked companion. What she could see under the mask looked unbearably smug. "I'll be damned," the lady commented, "she hasn't raised the alarm yet."

"Your threats would've convinced me," Carlisle gasped. "You've a way of being persuasive."

The lady laughed in exultation. "Don't know about you, Captain," she said merrily, "but I'm having a lovely evening." A musket went off a short distance away, and something whistled fast through the darkness between them. The lady crouched low over the horse's neck, muttering, "Oops."

Thirty seconds later, they were at a crossroads, and they pulled up their winded horses. The masked lady pointed down one track. "I'll go the main road and draw them off." She pointed in the other direction. "That's the back way to the tavern. Dismount and make your way quietly to your lady love."

Impatient, Carlisle exclaimed, "Does everyone on this island know my business?"

The lady laughed, looking the captain over from crown to heel as she curbed her fretting horse with an expert's hand. "Speaking of whom, don't I deserve your thanks for returning you to her with your skin unpunctured by Ste. Claire's genteel artillery?"

"Oh, God," Carlisle muttered, turning her eyes to the heavens.

"If you'd not be noticed, you'd have to be half as beautiful." The lady held up a beckoning finger. "Come, Carlisle, what's one kiss to a goddess?"

"You... you perverse little popinjay," the captain sputtered, dumbfounded.

The lady drew her horse near with another excited laugh, and their thighs, taut against the horses' flanks, brushed against one another. The lady leaned over, putting a gauntleted hand to the captain's shoulder, and their lips touched. The woman in the leather fairly crackled with excitement, and her kiss was ardent, skillful, and surprisingly tasty. She was not quite certain how it happened, but the captain's eyes closed as she slipped an arm around the lady, pulling her as close as she could.

The lady broke away, and Giuliana caught a flash of red lips and dark green eyes as the lady turned her horse. "I don't even know your name!" Giuliana exclaimed.

"Call me La Méchante!" She reared the horse and saluted with one gloved hand, then pounded away noisily down the main road.

La Méchante. The Wicked Lady. Well, that explained everything... Giuliana slipped off the horse and held herself up on shaky legs by gripping the surcingle. She lay her head against the horse's shoulder for a moment with a heartfelt groan, then sighed and caught up the bridle. The two of them sauntered down the back road, Giuliana rubbing a hand over her still-tingling mouth.
 

Jameson sat in the darkness, thinking. She had one elbow propped up on the corner of the table, and her chin in her hand, and she was toying idly with a chess-piece. The glow of the lantern threw a puddle of suspicious shadows and eyeache-inducing light around the table.

She turned the chess-piece in her hand, studying it. The knight. It moved erratically, but one could not deny its effectiveness. She lifted her head to the darkness, staring at the detail-less outline of the ship berthed next to hers.

Intrepide. It had been barely five years since the brave American assault in Tripoli against the Barbary pirates had resulted in the utter destruction of the namesake of the pretty yacht now tossing at her berth, half a world away. Had the ship borne the name of her American predecessor when Carlisle bought it, or was the name a sign of her determination?

And what of the dangerous captain herself? Jameson had to admit she'd been impressed; without hesitation, Carlisle had swung her trained gunners into action to protect the now rather shabby-looking vessel she herself commanded. If one could call it "commanded"; it seemed far more likely that Thomas was the one in charge, keeping her from blinding herself on the eyepiece of the microscope...

Come, come, Kathryn, she told herself severely, it's not like you to get a visit from the gloom-fairies when your entire crew has been saved from boarding and pillage... She shut her eyes and sighed; what would the slavers have done to her crew? Would Emilie have been taken back to Tripoli and sold? Or worse? She whistled soundlessly into the dark. And Torres; they'd surely have broken Torres's head, troublesome as she was, little suspecting the richness locked inside.

As she was about to slide from her chair into a complete funk, she heard a boot-sole scrape against the deck. She thought for a moment of pretending that she hadn't heard, but it occurred to her that perhaps the crewman behind her was as badly in need of reassurance as the captain herself.

She turned, and the lantern caught a pair of steady blue eyes. "Mam'selle Tessa," she said, feeling oddly relieved. After all, this astonishingly beautiful girl had survived worse... She juggled the chess-knight in her hand, and a sense of foolishness swept over her, bringing the heat to her cheeks. "I was just trying to decide whether to dare attempt this infernal game again in my life..."

The lie slipped from her lips with surprising ease, and she wondered what it was about Tessa that unbalanced her so. The girl wrapped a delicate but strong-looking hand around a shroud, picking her way carefully across the deck.

"Everyone must learn some time, Captain," said Tessa in her soft, rich voice.

"And I've so much to learn," Jameson replied with what she hoped was an easy smile.

"Especially you, who wish to know everything there is to know," Tessa said. The comment stopped Jameson's brain dead; all she could do was watch as Tessa approached. She stopped by the table, irresolute, and toyed with the buttons on her shirt before inquiring, "Do you prefer your solitude?"

Jameson gestured with the chess-piece toward the other chair. "Indeed, I should welcome your company, tonight of all nights." She sighed, propping her chin on her hand again, and decided to reel in the lie and replace it with the truth. "There's something about coming within inches of death that makes me unaccountably despondent."

Tessa studied her for a moment, her blue eyes burning in the lantern-light, and asked, "Why?"

Jameson's head came up. "'Why'? There must be something to the faith of the Musselman, after all. Miss Tessa, that can only be the comment of a woman who is far more confident of her relationship with the Almighty than I will ever--"

But Tessa was shaking her head with what looked like impatience, and she had held up a hand. "I meant, why did you put yourself in danger for my sake?"

The language rippled over Tessa's tongue like cool water, and Jameson sat up, realizing suddenly how tired she was. A sleepless night would do that to you, she supposed. She looked away for a moment, to where the lantern-light glimmered feebly in the peaceable water beyond the ship's safe berth. "'Tis an excellent question, and one I'm too weary to address properly, I think." She turned back, and the blonde girl--for she looked very girlish in her loose shirt and short, tousled hair--was watching her attentively, guarded intelligence in the extraordinary eyes.

"Your life," Jameson said seriously, "ought to be your choice. Yours and yours alone." She hesitated for a moment, and added, "Wherever possible..." She shook her head and set the knight gently into the hole on the board. "Too few people have a chance at real freedom, and with your brains, there's nothing you couldn't do. The manumission--" Something occurred to her, and she said, "You do still have the manumission, don't you?"

Tessa nodded soberly and patted the pocket of her trousers.

"Good," Jameson said, relieved. "We'll get Mingeaux to look at it once she gives up that entertaining hobby of tossing her captain into the rigging as a target."

"Would you..." Tessa began hesitantly, and Jameson gestured to her to continue. "Would you have done the same for an Arab?"

"I don't know." Jameson faced her across the chessboard. "I'd like to think I would have, Miss Tessa. Justice is justice, no matter the origin of the person to whom it applies."

There was a musket-report from far up the hill, and Jameson was on her feet, staring up the road that led past the tavern. Tessa got up slowly and turned, her apprehension apparent, and Jameson upbraided herself for worrying her unnecessarily.

The musket-shot wasn't repeated, and Jameson sighed a bit. "Tripped with the snake-chaser on the way to the privy," she commented to Tessa, with a reassuring smile. It was obvious that Tessa didn't follow, but she gave her an oddly shy smile in return.

Well, this couldn't go on all night. "We've all been up far too long," Jameson said forthrightly. "Perhaps you should join Miss Brundage in your cabin and get some rest, and we'll get Mingeaux to look at that paper in the morning."

"Aye, Captain," Tessa said unexpectedly in English. She reached forward, reluctant and bold at the same time, and touched Jameson's hand lightly. "And thank you," she added in a whisper, her eyes meeting Jameson's with a steadiness far in excess of her years.

"An honor, Miss Tessa," Jameson said brusquely, wondering at the emotion that threatened to burst from her chest.

Tessa turned with another brief smile and threaded her way through the shrouds again, and Jameson heard her going down the steps to her cabin. Jameson sighed, her mood much lightened, and began to pack the chess-pieces into their box before heading below herself.


Mingeaux and Brandy heard the musket-fire in the distance, and they spurred the hapless Blossom, who proved to have some speed in her. The horse bore them along the back road, the branches of the trees crowding close in voiceless threat. Brandy was moments away from tears when they spotted the plodding figures coming toward them out of the darkness. With a breathless exclamation, Brandy slipped off the horse and ran for Giuliana, throwing herself into her arms. "I don't know whether to kiss you or kill you," she whispered, and Giuliana replied wearily, "Take your pick, mam'selle, you'd not be the first to try tonight."

Blossom jogged to a halt, and Mingeaux dismounted. "All well?"

"Aye," replied the captain, and Mingeaux could hear the fatigue in her voice.

"What happened?"

"Ste. Claire tried to call in payment."

"You didn't, did you?" Brandy demanded, her fright making her a bit dizzy.

"Mam'selle, what do you take me for? Of course not." Giuliana brushed the hair softly away from Brandy's forehead and leaned in. "My heart is elsewhere, and where my heart goes, there only does my body follow..."

Mingeaux harrumphed, and the two of them started away from one another, interrupted for the thousandth time. Enough of this, Brandy reflected in irritation, and she would have no option save to throw her lovelorn, eternally-virgin self into the sea. "Shouldn't we get away from the muskets before the two of you continue this conversation?"

They turned their horses and wended their way back to the tavern.


Jameson was in her shirtsleeves, making the last notes in her diary.

April 26, 1810

An exciting day, to say the least, and the hum of it in my brain in the aftermath keeps me from rest.

She cast a longing look at her bunk, inviting and soft, the clean sheets beckoning, then sighed and turned back to her desk.

We find ourselves in the debt of the singular Captain Carlisle, who trained her guns on a larger foe to-day for the continuation of our newest passenger's liberty. I must confess my less than flattering opinion of the captain has changed overnight, and have resolved to remind myself not to listen to idle gossip in future, lest it deprive me of both a chance at heaven and a seriously useful resource. The project of the improvement of my character is never to end, I fear, and I have such a long way to--

She lifted her head to a gentle knock on the door of her cabin. She got to her feet, setting her quill carefully to one side, and opened the door. Tessa, standing in the doorway, had just raised her hand to knock again.

"Miss Tessa," Jameson said, trying to ignore the surge of emotion that threatened to rise in her like an ocean wave.

"Please forgive the interruption, captain," Tessa whispered hastily, "but I fear Mlle. Brundage may have been taken ill."

Instantly, Jameson grabbed up her vest and her spirit-lamp, and the two of them crossed the tiny hall. Tessa reached around her to get the door, and Jameson slipped inside the cabin. It was obvious to her at first glance that Tessa had identified the problem correctly; Miss Brundage lay back in her bunk, her eyes half-closed and glittering with fever.

"Miss Brundage," Jameson said in concern, handing the lamp to Tessa, who turned to affix it to the wall bracket. Jameson moved to the bunk, bending over to examine her. She could feel the heat coming off Miss Brundage's body, and she placed a hand gently over the reddened, peeling skin of her chest. She was hot enough that Jameson's hand felt icy by comparison, but her skin was dry.

Jameson put her hands to either side of Miss Brundage's face, trying to get her to meet her eyes. "Miss Brundage, are you awake?"

The dry, roughened lips parted. "Where is my angel?"

"Can you hear me?" Jameson asked, trying to keep her voice down.

"I must find her sister--help me, for I am the only one who can," gasped the woman in the bunk, and her head lolled, going slack in Jameson's hands.

"Mr. Thomas!" Jameson called loudly, ripping the blankets from Miss Brundage's unconscious form. "Come here, I need you." There was a scuffling sound of feet in the hall, and Thomas stuck his head into the cabin.

"She's got a high fever," Jameson said without preamble, "and I fear it's very serious." Thomas moved swiftly to the bunk, placing his hand gently on the forehead of the ill woman.

"Indeed," he said, "she is in grave danger."

"I must find her--she is lost and afraid," muttered Miss Brundage. She opened her eyes, fixing them on Jameson, who stood rooted in shock at the insane expression in them. Miss Brundage seized Jameson's arm, tightening her hand around it painfully. "Take me back there. You must--" Her eyes closed again, and her body began to shake.

"Shall I fetch a doctor?" Tessa inquired from the doorway.

"Stay where you are," Jameson snapped without thinking. "Thomas, where is Mingeaux?"

"I have not seen her since we made harbor," he replied.

Jameson's eyes met his, and she saw the gravity of Miss Brundage's situation in his face. "She must be at the tavern."

Thomas nodded and moved away. By the time Jameson looked up, he had vanished from the cabin.

"Mlle. Tessa," Jameson said, "I need you."

Tessa moved into the room again. "How may I assist?"

Jameson almost swooned with relief at her level-headed reply. "First we must get these clothes off her."


Thomas reached the deck and looked around him rapidly. The harbor was shrouded in darkness, except for the watch lanterns and the feeble lights on the decks of the ships surrounding Discovery. He hallooed at Intrepide, and the sentry stuck her head out from around the mast.

"Spinelli," said the sentry, and a cloud of fragrant pipe-smoke drifted his way. "Good evening, Mr. Thomas. May I be of serv--"

"Where is Mingeaux?"

Spinelli got to her feet in a flash and approached the rail of Intrepide. "Haven't seen her since she headed for the tavern. What is it?"

"Her friend is ill," Thomas replied.

"Not Mam'selle Brundage?" Spinelli asked, leaning over the rail with sudden concern and taking her pipe from her mouth.

"Aye. It appears grave," Thomas answered, casting another glance around him. He made his way rapidly down the gangplank to the dock and looked about one more time, irresolute.

A "hist!" called his attention to a darkened corner of the dock. He turned, and a little girl in a loose shirt and trousers beckoned him with her hand. He made his way to where she stood in the shadows. "What is it?"

"She's at the 'Bonny Anne'," said the kid, "with Torres and Emilie."

Thomas took a closer look; the child was the bold rock-thrower who had helped Mingeaux deceive the soldiers a few days before. She looked up at him, her courage evident even in the dimness, and he was reminded, with a sudden pained clutching of the heart, of his own daughter, hundreds of miles away. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Coquin," said the kid.

Coquin? Rascal? A corner of Thomas's mouth quirked, despite the gravity of the situation. "And earned, I've no doubt. Coquin, can you find your way to the tavern in this lamentable darkness?"

Coquin nodded up at him, fisting her hands on her hips. "You may count on me, monsieur."

Thomas clapped a hand on her thin shoulder. "Take me there."


When the three women and two horses got to the tavern, DiFalco ran to meet them, taking the bridles of the horses with evident relief. "I'll get them taken care of," she said, fervent in her devotion now that there was little chance of Mingeaux murdering her in a fit of temper. "Mistinguette has supper for you."

Giuliana slipped her hand about the trim waist of the tavern-mistress and led her toward the steps of the "Bonny Anne", climbing on stiff knees that felt twice their age. Brandy rested a hand gently on the captain's waistcoat, just over her watch-pocket, and she spared a thought for how very nice it felt. Mingeaux followed them up the steps and reached around them with a long arm to open the door.

When they walked in, a swirl of tobacco-smoke and a lusty cheer greeted them. Carlisle grinned down at the lovely blonde in her arm, and Brandy smiled and patted her waistcoat, disengaging herself with gentleness and going to the bar.

"Can I help?" the captain inquired.

"Aye, that you can," Brandy replied, picking up a pitcher and going to the tap. "You can take your tall friend and plant yourselves at the table in the back, and do not move without my permission."

"With pleasure, mademoiselle," Carlisle said, sweeping her hat from her head in an elaborate bow.

"To the rescuers of Discovery!" called a rough young voice, and a riot of congratulation, all lifted tankards and raised voices, saw Mingeaux and Carlisle to their table.

"Damn," Carlisle murmured to Mingeaux, with a relieved smile, "I'd forgotten all about that."

Mingeaux started to say something, but she caught sight of Torres and Emilie making their way toward them. "All's well, adventurers?" Torres called, and Emilie patted Mingeaux on the shoulder with affection before taking the chair next to her.

"No adventure here, Torres," Mingeaux said blandly.

Brandy threaded her way through the noisy crowd, a tray of food and ale balanced in her hands. Not one rum-fueled hand made shift to grab at her as she passed, and she wondered at that for a moment until one of the sailors complimented her on her necklace with a knowing grin.

Mingeaux got to her feet and set out the bowls, then took the tray from Brandy, who slid into a chair beside the captain and picked up her hand. The captain raised her tankard, favoring Brandy with an intimate look as she saluted, and the silver glittered at Brandy's breast as she caught her breath. Her face turned a bit pink in the lantern-light, and Mingeaux gave her a gentle smile and a wink.

When Mingeaux turned her eyes away from the girl in the green gown, Carlisle was saluting her in turn with her own tankard, her face grave and thoughtful. "You've no idea how much I owe you," she said quietly. "Thank you, Mingeaux."

"A privilege," Mingeaux replied. Emilie's eyes were darting from one to the other, and she regarded the captain with lively curiosity. As well she might, Mingeaux reflected; it was the closest she'd ever been to her.

Torres, however, had eyes only for her new blonde engineer, and it hit Mingeaux suddenly that Anne's daughter and Etienne's daughter were no longer pigtailed little girls, playing rhyming games in the streets of Haven.

But Brandy had asked her something, and Mingeaux had missed it in the mists of memory. "Hm?" she inquired politely.

"I fear we distract you, Mingeaux," said the captain. "'Tisn't as though you've had a restful week."

"True enough," Mingeaux said.

"I asked if you'd stay the night here," Brandy repeated patiently, pitching her voice over the noise in the tavern. "We've plenty of beds."

"Thank you, mam'selle," Mingeaux said with an absurd little bow. "I'd like to return to the ship and get Miss Brundage settled, seeing as it's now night."

"I'd forgotten about that too," Carlisle said, smothering a sudden attack of yawning.

"One drink," Brandy said brightly, raising a finger, a girlish gleam in her eye.

"As you wish, dear heart," Mingeaux said, her heart filling with affection for the young lady who so favored her mother. "You know I can deny you nothing."

"And as for you, " Brandy murmured to the captain, patting her knee under the table, "you're going nowhere, even if I have to nail your boots to the floor."

The captain smiled, but with a weariness visible in her eyes, and raised Brandy's hand to her lips. Brandy blushed a rosy pink again, and Emilie caught up Torres's hand without thinking.

It seemed to Mingeaux's sleep-starved eyes as though she was watching a scene that had happened many times, yet seemed fresh and new as the four before her danced a dance of innocence and passion. A touch, a kiss--

"A toast!" Emilie got to her feet, Torres's eyes following her with hunger, and raised her tankard in the air. "To--"

The door swung open, and they turned to see Thomas in the doorway, his eyebrows contracted in worry. "Mingeaux!" he called.


In the little cabin on Discovery, things had gone from bad to worse. Tessa and Jameson, working quickly, had gotten the clothing off their charge. Jameson noted that Miss Brundage's clothes were bone-dry, and her apprehension went up a notch. The captain had sent Ballard, the chemist, through their stock of medicines, and he was able to find a jar of willow-bark for an infusion, but that left the immediate problem of lowering the fever. In the end, they bathed her with tepid water, but even that was not effective.

Miss Brundage drifted, tethered to her body by only the most tenuous of threads, and the unhealthy light in her face grew worse by the minute, supplemented by a bloodshot tinge to the whites of her eyes as the fever boiled in her veins. She alternated between calling for her angel (by which Jameson supposed she meant Mingeaux) and begging for help in finding a mysterious someone.

Through it all, Jameson was grateful for the calm, reliable hands of her new colleague. Tessa seemed to anticipate her every move, willing and pragmatic in the face of a situation fraught with so many perils.

As Miss Brundage's graying hair escaped the ribbon she had tied it in, and as the delirium grew, Jameson thought she looked more and more like that child's nightmare, a witch. Miss Brundage gathered her breath for a powerful cry, then her eyes snapped open as her teeth clicked shut, and a tremor began to run over her body. Tessa and Jameson moved without thought to steady her limbs, and the tremor became a convulsion.

Jameson was winded with exertion in seconds, and she tried to gather enough breath to shout for assistance. All the while, she demanded silently of God, what have you done with Mingeaux?


Mingeaux and Thomas were leading a pack of people back to the wharf, and Mingeaux was grilling Thomas as closely as she could. As his knowledge of the situation was limited, her fancy had had time to paint some very dire pictures indeed, and it was with great trepidation and no little fear that she hurried back to Discovery.

The child who had arrived with Thomas (and who looked very like him, Brandy realized suddenly) trotted silently at his side, looking up at him and not at her feet, in consequence of which she stumbled from time to time. In the back, Brandy held onto Giuliana's arm fearfully. Torres and Emilie strode along without speaking. Brandy wondered if she looked as grim as the rest.

Mingeaux hastened up the gangplank at Thomas's side, not stopping to see if any of the others were inclined to follow. She half-walked, half-jumped down the steps and put her head in the cabin door.

Jameson and Miss Tessa were just tucking the end of a wet bedsheet around the body of Mingeaux's mermaid. Mingeaux swept the tricorne from her head, tossing it into the corner carelessly, and bent over the bed.

It was bad, very bad. Exhaustion and fever had painted dark circles under the eyes of her passenger, and her body trembled quietly. Her eyes were half-slitted, but nothing intelligent looked out. Mingeaux laid her hands gently on either side of Hester's face.

Creator Spirit, you cannot have given her to me only to take her as if she were-- Decisively, Mingeaux swept Hester into her arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her from the cabin. The little group leapt out of her way, then followed her hulking form up as Mingeaux walked out on the deck of Discovery, the unconscious lady in her arms.

Mingeaux looked around in desperation. Her eyes lit on the waves lapping gently against the sides of the ship, and Jameson opened her mouth to protest that the salt would surely cause her raw skin agony. Mingeaux shook her head, evidently reaching the same conclusion, and made another quick scan of her surroundings.

It was Emilie, newest to the crew, who found it first. "Torres," she whispered, "the specimen-bath." Torres nodded vigorously, and the two of them moved to whip the canvas cover off a long, shallow marble trough secured by pins to the deck. Jameson, seeing them, gestured without thinking to Tessa, and the two of them hastened to the rain-barrel on the deck. In a moment, ten hands had joined in, and the group rolled the rain-barrel over to the trough. Carlisle pried the top off with her hands, then joined in heaving the barrel enough to tip first a stream, then a torrent of water into the specimen-bath.

While they were still pouring, Mingeaux placed Hester gently in the trough, as if she were some delicate piece of porcelain. The others helped upend the rain-barrel into the trough, and Mingeaux splashed the water over Hester's heated body. Hester didn't appear to notice that she was again on deck, soaking wet and wrapped in a sheet.

While Mingeaux was scooping the water frantically with both hands, Hester's shoulders tightened. Jameson plunged her hands into the water, groping in the darkness until she found Hester's knees, and she grunted to Mingeaux, "Hold her." In a moment, the rest were kneeling like acolytes at the altar, hands reaching into the water, and the fit commenced in earnest.

The second convulsion was not as severe as the first, and Jameson tried to concentrate on not making the damage worse; instead of a soft bed, their patient was lying on solid rock. She looked up briefly, and her eyes caught the steady blue gaze of Tessa, on the other side of the bath.

Hester's body quieted, and they were able to relax their grip. Mingeaux put a hand to the face of the unconscious woman in the water. "Better," she said shortly.

Tessa got to her feet and stumbled away a few paces. Startled, Jameson stood up and followed her. Tessa grabbed the shrouds with both hands and lay her face against her arm, closing her eyes.

"Miss Tessa," said Jameson softly, not wanting to disturb her. Tessa turned away to rub her face against the cloth of her shirt, and Jameson wondered if she was weeping. She reached before she could think, and her hands settled lightly on Tessa's shoulders. Tessa was trembling, and Jameson patted her back, the way (she told herself sourly afterwards) one would soothe a colicky baby.

Tessa took little notice, but she straightened, breathing with effort, and turned her face slightly toward the captain. When she spoke, the normally controlled, musical voice was ragged and raw. "Will she live?"

"If she does," Jameson replied stoutly, "she'll have you to thank." Tessa turned a disbelieving expression on Jameson, and the captain said without thinking, "We've done well to add you to the crew, Tessa. I can tell you've a cool head with sickness."

Tessa turned her face again, staring out over the harbor. Her hands loosened on the shrouds. Her sight was a million miles away, and she whispered, "My master..."

Jameson tightened her grip on Tessa's shoulders, trying to convey a comfort that had no words.

"The fever's coming down," Mingeaux announced, and Tessa and Jameson turned back to watch the drama on the deck. The next moments passed in complete silence: no speech, but no fits either. Mingeaux held a shaking hand to the lady's brow. "She's cooling off." She glanced around her rapidly. Spinelli and a row of silent sailors stood at the rail of Intrepide, watching. Mingeaux nodded to them with grave gratitude, then said, "We can't leave her on the deck all night..."

"The tavern--" Brandy whispered.

"A moment, Mam'selle," Carlisle said, holding up a hand. She turned to Mingeaux. "Do you think it wise to hold her in such a public place?"

Mingeaux looked back down at Hester, smoothing the sopping hair from her face. There was an impressive area of the deck that was splashed with water, and it glimmered in the light of the deck lantern. "I'd not thought of that," she murmured. "She's now an enemy of Aristide's, and there's no evidence he'd scruple to avoid murdering a woman..."

Brandy got to her feet suddenly. "Coquin," she said, in a voice that brooked no interference.

Hesitantly, shyly, the child who looked like Thomas crept out of the shadows and stood before them.

"The cove--" Brandy said, and Coquin began shaking her head. "Please. It's empty now, I know it is."

Emilie gasped, "Perfect." She knelt before Coquin, putting her hands to the apprehensive child's shoulders. "You know, don't you, that we'll keep your secret?"

"They told me--"

"They needn't know," Brandy interjected eagerly. "She must needs have a quiet place to recuperate, out of the sun--"

The kid looked at the silent figure lying in the specimen-bath, ruminating, and finally made what looked like a difficult decision. "Fetch her along."

Mingeaux lifted the sodden figure from the bath, and the water streamed from the ends of the sheet. "Is it far?"

"Not far," Coquin said, seizing the lantern bravely and making a procession of one down the gangplank, Mingeaux right at her heels. She stopped and turned, pointing at Emilie. "Keep the rest of them here. I'll see them safe in."

"Stay with her, Mingeaux," Carlisle called from the deck.

Mingeaux turned, swinging her burden, with the dripping sheet, and faced Carlisle. There was an incredulous look on her face. "But, Captain, we have Mam'selle Tessa's matter, and we must try to find more information on where your sis--"

"Stay," Carlisle interrupted, "until she's well again. I promise to watch myself."

"Aye, well, you're bound to run into better luck soon, considering--" Mingeaux sighed morosely, then turned and followed Coquin into the darkness. They made their way down the beach, and soon the last little glimmer of the lantern winked out.

Carlisle turned to Brandy, and the unexpected beauty of the blue-eyed vision made the tavern-mistress gasp and catch at the shrouds to hold herself upright. "Mam'selle," the captain said, "It's a shade dangerous for you to return to the tavern tonight, and I'm far too weary to make it back up that hill. May I offer you the hospitality of Intrepide for the night?"

"Certainly," Brandy replied, trying to keep the sudden joy out of her voice.