Crossed Swords 02

They had walked only a short way down the beach when a deeper shadow in the face of the cliff drew Coquin like an arrow to a target. They ducked under an overhanging outcrop of rock and Coquin murmured, "In here."

Inside, a glimmer of light on water and an echo in the air indicated that they were in a grotto. Coquin led Mingeaux and her charge deeper into a cavernous space. What Mingeaux could see, in the shadows of the swinging lantern, was sculpted rock. She could not so much as hear her own footsteps on the sand of the cavern floor, and she could not detect a roof. After a few more moments, Coquin hung the lantern on a pole that had materialized out of the gloom and turned to beckon Mingeaux in deeper.

Mingeaux looked around. They were in an impressive little bedroom carved out of solid rock. There was a four-poster made of some impervious sort of wood, and Mingeaux placed Hester upon it gently, tucking the sodden sheet about her with care. Coquin lit a candle and set it on a table next to the bed, and the two got Hester settled. She did not appear to be awake, and Mingeaux's soul thudded into her boots.

"What is this place?" Mingeaux asked gruffly.

Coquin shook her head. "Best not to know, Mingeaux."

Fresh air was blowing into Mingeaux's face, and she looked up. Far, far above, a star glittered in the night sky. A natural chimney? What would happen in daylight?

"The sun doesn't come in direct," Coquin said, eyeing Hester's terribly sunburnt skin by the light of the lantern.

"Good," Mingeaux grunted, rubbing her eyes.

"Angel?" said a weak, whispery voice from the bed.

The relief of it threatened to knock her off her feet. "Oui, Mam'selle."

"Where are we?"

Mingeaux turned to look around her. The lantern picked out odd, sumptuous details: brocade, gold, a flash of faceted red. "Aladdin's cave, apparently."

Hester laughed softly. "You, my friend, are the doorway to fabulous adventure."

"Rest," Mingeaux told her brusquely.

"Mingeaux..."

"Yes, mam'selle."

"Where is my clothing?"

Mingeaux sighed. Coquin was grinning, and Mingeaux shook a finger at her. "You were taken ill," Mingeaux answered.

"Again?" said Hester, with a shade of annoyance. "How tiresome of me."

"I assure you, mam'selle," Mingeaux told her wearily, "I should far rather explore your talent for dice instead."

The woman on the bed turned her head with an effort, and Mingeaux saw, with gratitude, that her eyes, although tired, were focused and intelligent. "You look exhausted," Hester said.

"Go ahead, Mingeaux," Coquin said. "I'll watch for you."

"Tempting--"

"They'll never find you here," Coquin said stoutly.

Mingeaux saluted Hester. "I'll bid you good night, then, mam'selle."

"Mingeaux," Coquin said hesitantly.

"What is it?"

"There's--there's only just the one bed."

Mingeaux pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course. Why should there be more than one bed in a fairy grotto?"

Hester laughed. "It's large enough for two, even a rangy angel with very long wings..."

Mingeaux started to say something, and Hester murmured, "Come here."

Out of reasons not to, Mingeaux crawled into the bed, not troubling to remove her boots, and a gentle, caressing hand descended into her hair as she stretched out against the pillows. Soothed beyond reckoning, she sighed with unaccountable contentment, and was asleep in seconds.


Brandy came awake in the Captain's cabin, the soft light hitting her eyelids the first thing she was aware of. She rubbed her face gently with the back of her hand and opened her eyes to wonderland. Captivated, she slid out of the bunk and pulled her shawl over her shoulders, standing at the glass wall, staring out into a rosy-pink dawn over the calm sea. The water moved with purposeful serenity, threads of white atop the glassy bluish waves, and she was able to follow the swells with her eyes until she could feel them in her feet, lifting and lowering the ship with a gentle rocking motion.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and Brandy leaned back into the body behind her, running a hand idly up the cambric-clothed arm and appreciating the magic moment.

The hands turned her gently, and Brandy looked up into the Captain's face. Her dark hair was tousled with sleep and her sea-blue eyes were dreamy. Brandy leaned forward as if she had all the time in the world, sliding her hands up the Captain's arms, and the two melted into a long, soulful kiss.

Brandy wanted to spend the rest of her life here, in this quiet, cozy little room, feeding her body and her soul on the beautiful woman who had captured her so completely. The captain's lips were both insistent and gentle, and Brandy opened herself to the kiss as deeply as she could, the locks and bars and gates around her sore, guarded heart flying away one by one. Here was where she belonged, in this moment, in these arms, sealed to this mouth...

A wiser something told her not to hurry, and so Brandy was the first to draw away. Giuliana was breathing a bit hard, her eyes a trifle unfocused, but she slipped her hand down Brandy's arm, taking her hand and pressing it to her lips. "Beautiful," Brandy sighed.

"I've been longing to show it to you," Giuliana said, her voice low. She shrugged and added, "That, and the bunk--"

Brandy laughed softly and reached for Giuliana again. This time, her arm slid around Giuliana's neck, and the captain's hands came to rest on Brandy's waist, just above the spot where her bodice laced over her hips. Giuliana pulled her closer, and Brandy moved with the grace of the ocean swells into the body of her lover. Something about the hands on her waist made her ticklish and expectant, and she slid her other arm under Giuliana's, locking her hands together over the strong muscles of the captain's back.

She could feel Giuliana sigh against her body, and the sound ignited something deep in her, something she had no idea existed. She had time for one moment of doubtful lucidity, wondering, what in the world is happening to me? before the slumbering frenzy came to life--

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Giuliana flinched a bit.

"Captain..."

Giuliana lifted her head and called through the door, "What is it, DiFalco?"

"It's dawn, and Mingeaux isn't back yet--"

"Has a dark-headed brat shied any rocks at us in the night?"

"No, but--"

"Then all's well, DiFalco. Go get some breakfast."

The line of Giuliana's neck was exquisite, limned softly in the pink light of dawn, and Brandy ran a captivated finger down her skin. The voice on the other side of the door said, "But, Captain--"

"Go away, DiFalco," Giuliana said firmly, turning her head and setting her lips to Brandy's again. After a moment, she broke the kiss and listened. There was silence in the corridor outside the cabin, and Giuliana nodded with satisfaction. "That's done it."

"Captain," Brandy said, her eyes alight.

"Yes, yes, yes," Giuliana replied, touching Brandy's hand and wrist with her lips.

"Captain--"

"With all my soul, mam'selle," Giuliana replied fervently.

"Hadn't you better find your first mate?" Brandy inquired mischievously.

"She carries a compass, mam'selle," Giuliana pointed out, burying her lips in Brandy's neck. Brandy threw her arms around Giuliana's neck with a low purr of satisfaction, and the two of them moved toward the bed.


When Mingeaux came to herself, woozy and underslept after an exciting few days, she was alone in the soft, comforting bed. Frantically, she untangled herself from the covers and leapt out of the bed, darting a look around. It was a moment before she got her bearings; she was someplace she'd never been before, but she remembered the child leading them farther into the rock, and the opulent bedroom here, of all things, in a hidden grotto just off the beach. She stared at the furnishings like a brainless twig.

She was in a rocky chamber with a soft sand floor, and high above her head an ancient tunnel led straight up to a soft, golden dawn that turned benign and shadowy by the time the light filtered down to where she was standing. In the mild, caressing light, her eye lit, puzzled, on the substantial wooden bedposts, covered with delicate carvings of intertwined grape leaves. The covers on the bed were a soft green-and-gold brocade in some fabric that could not possibly have been silk, as it would surely have rotted quickly in the sea air. There was a delicate porcelain pitcher and ewer on the marble-topped table by the bedside, and an intricately-patterned Arab rug stretched its knotted tassels out from beneath the seductive bed.

The sound of the sea was strong, and the tang of the salt air refreshed her. In a moment, the cobwebs had cleared. "Mam'selle," she murmured, apprehensive, then turned to hasten down the corridor.

The sight that greeted her was the heavily-protected entrance to what was obviously a cave in the cliffs. At the entrance, framed by dark sea-carved rock, was a soul-stirring view of a bright blue sea, the waves rippling magnificently against a snowy white beach. And sitting on a boulder in the shadow of the cave mouth was Miss Brundage, leaning with negligent grace against the rock wall and looking out to sea. She was wrapped loosely in a bedsheet, her hair wafting gently over her naked shoulders in the refreshing breeze. The image was striking, and Mingeaux blinked away the grainy feeling in her eyes, thinking more than ever of Hester as a gift from the sea.

"Mermaid," Mingeaux murmured, afraid of spooking her, and Hester turned her head with a subtle, weary smile.

"Angel," she answered, holding out a hand. "Come watch the sunrise with me."

"You shouldn't be up," Mingeaux reproved her in a guarded voice, walking forward to take her hand gently. Hester's face was exhausted but alert, and the blistered skin was beginning to heal.

Hester smiled the gentle smile again and ran the palm of her other hand up Mingeaux's vest. "I'd no idea my angel was so handsome," she said irrelevantly. She looked into Mingeaux's eyes. "Can you forgive me? Two days of dim lantern-light... I was starved for a bit of sun."

"It will eat you alive."

"Not with my angel here to keep me safe," Hester replied. "Besides, what errant ray could pass the beetling brow of our secluded little cavern in the cliffs?"

"You're still feverish," Mingeaux said, smiling a little.

"Not at all," Hester told her, her voice the merest touch louder than the whisper of the sea. "A touch of sun-poisoning, gone as quickly as it came on."

"Not just a bit," Mingeaux argued. "You were very--"

To her astonishment, Hester laughed softly and placed her hand over Mingeaux's mouth, hushing her. "Is this heaven?"

"No," Mingeaux said with a bit of a laugh. "It's Haven."


That morning, Emilie and Torres had gulped their breakfast hastily and gotten to the laboratory, happy of the unexpected return to port. It had given them a chance to get the ether evaporator ready to test. Now that they weren't occupied rescuing statuesque Swedish virgins from slavers or providing assistance with the palliation of fever, they were going to run some ether through the tubing to see how it held.

Emilie tightened the gloves about her hands with a particular sense of satisfaction and took up her post by the shutoff valve connected to the ether canister. At the other side of the gleaming brass box, Torres's face, all eagerness and curiosity, was alive with the prospect of progress. She leaned over, one hand on the edge of the evaporator and the other on her knee, and asked, "Ready?"

"Ready," Emilie said, an answering note of excitement in her own voice.

Torres nodded once, decisively. "Thar she blows, then."

Laughing with delight, Emilie turned the valve smartly, and the ether canister chilled beneath her gloved hand.

Torres was peering closely at the sight glass attached to the tubing. "The pressure's coming up," she said. "We'll be able to test the--" Whatever she was going to say next was drowned in a spray of noxious steam that hit her square in the face, and Torres spluttered, wiping at her eyes in a fit of temper.

Hastily, Emilie shut off the valve and turned to grab for a cloth so Torres could wipe the chemical out of her eyes. She took a step toward Torres, looking to hand her the cloth, and Torres swayed woozily before crashing to the floor of the laboratory.

Emilie screamed, throwing herself to the ground and shaking Torres hard by the shoulders. She was breathing, but her eyes were closed, and the smell of the ether was strong. Emilie leaned over in a panic to listen for Torres's heart. She couldn't hear anything, and she pulled Torres's shirt open frantically with her gloved hands, pressing her ear to Torres's flesh. The familiar, comforting sound of a strong heartbeat made her a bit weak. As her head lifted from Torres's chest, the engineer's strong arms wrapped around her. Emilie just had time to look up into Torres's face before Torres lifted her head, eyes still closed, and pulled Emilie to her by the shoulders. To Emilie's shock, Torres's lips pressed against hers. Taken off guard, Emilie kissed her back.

That's how Jack Sere found them when, responding to Emilie's scream, he dashed through the door of the lab. Behind him, Berthe and Daschenhauer whacked into him, and the three of them just narrowly avoided breaking everything in the lab. Emilie peeled her lips away from Torres's at the noise, looking up with no little dizziness to see her three crewmates untangling themselves from various equipment stands.

"Emilie," Torres said underneath her, "what are all these people doing in the laboratory?"

Emilie turned her head, and Torres was glaring in disapproval over her shoulder at the interlopers. The relief that she was all right flashed through Emilie like a summer storm. "You--you fainted," Emilie replied, a bit disoriented herself.

"Nonsense," Torres said brusquely, sitting up. "I've never fainted in my life. Only girls faint." She gave Jack another pointed look, and he and the other two gathered themselves up sheepishly, settled bits of equipment back onto benches, and made their way gingerly out of the lab.

Torres shunted Emilie to the side, gently but firmly, and got back on her feet, staring with wary fascination at the ether canister. "What's in that stuff?" she asked, intrigued.


Giuliana had settled Brandy onto the bed, and the two of them were kissing deeply, Giuliana starting to reach for the laces on Brandy's bodice and Brandy sliding the Captain's nightshirt off her shoulders. There was another timid, reluctant tap on the door of the cabin, and Giuliana snarled an oath, leaping out of bed and throwing the door wide. DiFalco was standing in the corridor outside the cabin, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes?" said Giuliana ominously.

DiFalco took a look inside, to where Brandy was tumbled half-naked, doe-eyed, and rosy-cheeked in the sheets, and clamped a hand over her eyes. "Begging the Captain's pardon, ma'am, but you have a visitor."

"Send him to the devil," Giuliana said, making to slam the door. "And follow him yoursel--"

"It's Dominguez, the commander of the Watch," DiFalco said hastily.

Brady sat up, shaking her head a bit to clear the lust from her foggy brain. "It would be best to see him, Captain," she said, her voice a bit rough.

Giuliana gestured toward heaven. "God hates me." She turned, and the sight of the alluring woman in her bed gave her a moment's pause. "And He could so easily have become my favorite deity. I will be right back, mam'selle. Don't move--unless you have a serious need--"

"Nonsense, I'm coming with you," Brandy replied, bouncing out of the bed and doing up the laces on her bodice.

"You would employ that particular expression at a time when I'll need my wits about me," Giuliana sighed mournfully, grabbing her trousers and stuffing her legs into them with haste.

By the time they hit the deck, to see Dominguez waiting patiently at the foot of the gangplank flanked by two of his soldiers, Brandy was dressed all anyhow in the beautiful green gown, and Giuliana was in a dreadful pet. "Monsieur Dominguez," she began with livid patience, "had your surname not given you away, I would still have known you for a Spaniard, because by God there is no way a Frenchman would've interrupted what was going on belowdecks."

Dominguez was even less pretty by daylight, and he called up with visible satisfaction, "Good morning, Captain."

"It started out that way," Giuliana replied, folding her arms across her chest, "and might well become positively seraphic after your departure, which I hope will be swift." Brandy tittered, and Dominguez shot her a look.

"Where's your mate?" Dominguez demanded.

"When I was called away," Giuliana answered, "I was attempting to discuss that very question with this lady here."

"Giuliana," Brandy pointed out quietly, "he means Mingeaux."

Giuliana threw her hands in the air, the picture of frustration. Brandy doubted it was all a play for Dominguez's benefit. "Pursuing an adventure of her own. For God's sake, she works hard. Is she to live like a monk, or is that merely the curse of anyone who has the misfortune to sail into this misbegotten harbor?"

Brandy was having difficulty keeping a straight face. Dominguez looked across the water, to where an interested crowd had gathered on the deck of Discovery, and on the dock. "D'you know where?" he asked.

"Monsieur," Giuliana said venomously, leaning over the rail, "I implore you for the last time, cease this senseless vendetta against a woman whose only crime is that her success with beautiful ladies so far exceeds your own." Brandy put her hand over her mouth, and Dominguez grew red as he listened to the furious diatribe. "I remind you, Dominguez, that this is a private vessel on a private journey. I have sailed two continents, and I have never been so interfered with as I am by your unending questions."

Dominguez stood his ground. "What do you know of the musket-fire last night?"

Brandy gave Giuliana a swift look, but the Captain proved equal to the task. "What, is this place too tiny for a town crier, that you must come to me for all the news? Monsieur, I assure you, I couldn't have cared less if all of Haven fell down about the very ears of the inhabitants. I--was--occupied."

Dominguez squinted up at the deck of the yacht, and Brandy wondered what was going through his mind. He said merely, "I'll have more questions later."

"You'll doubtless get just as useful answers out of me," Giuliana replied stoutly. "Please, Monsieur, I entreat you. If I paid you well, would you consider persecuting in some other locality?"

By the reddening of the tips of his ears, she could tell that Dominguez was terribly insulted (probably, Brandy thought, that she had brought it up in daylight). "You may be wealthy, Captain, but even a wealthy woman may not interfere with the law."

"Unless she sets it herself, as Mlle. Ste. Claire does," Giuliana shot back.

He gave Giuliana an interested, speculative look, then gestured to his soldiers. They clattered down the wharf, and Giuliana took a breath. As Dominguez rounded the corner, the spectators broke into applause.

"This town badly needs a diversion," the captain muttered. She turned to Brandy and kissed her hand fervently. "Mam'selle, where were we?"

Brandy seized Giuliana's head and pulled her in for a long, ardent kiss. Giuliana was a bit poleaxed when Brandy let her up for air, and the spectators had commenced to whistle and clap. "Diversion," Brandy whispered, then gathered her skirts and dashed down the gangplank.

"Mam'selle--" Giuliana cried from the deck.

"I'm due back at the tavern!" Brandy called, blowing a kiss over her shoulder as she ran. "I'll see you tonight!"

Giuliana turned, blood in her eye, and DiFalco stepped hastily out of her way. "DiFalco," she said, and the gunner retreated a step closer to the rail. "If anyone should call in future, and I am in my cabin with that young lady--" she pointed at the retreating form--"what are you going to say?"

"The Devil dragged the captain back to hell last night," DiFalco replied promptly, "and you may pursue her there, if you've a mind to."

"Good," Giuliana told her, clapping her on the shoulder with bruising force and heading below to fume.


Mingeaux stood over the reclining form of the mermaid. "Should you not get back to bed?"

Hester shook her head; her skin was obviously still quite painful, but it seemed she was returning to health with astonishing speed. "I'm weary of it, Mingeaux, and the sea is so soothing... Please, may I not stay...?"

At that moment, she happened to look up into Mingeaux's eyes, and Mingeaux got a good look at her for the first time. The dark hair tumbling over Hester's shoulders was just going gray, and the color matched the occult eyes trained on her face. Her lips were full, her eyes serious, and Mingeaux found herself bending over without thinking, her heart speeding up. "Forever," she murmured, just before their lips touched.

The kiss was exquisitely tender--both of them were trying so hard to be careful--and Hester unwrapped an arm from the bedsheet and twined it, like a floating tendril of sargasso, around Mingeaux's neck. Mingeaux cupped her hand with a butterfly gentleness against Hester's face, pulling her as close as she dared.


Emilie and Torres were peering closely at the tubing, trying to see where it had leaked, when a young male voice outside called, "Emilie!"

Startled, Torres and Emilie looked up at the same moment, and the sight of Emilie's expressive blue eyes so close reminded Torres of the morning's adventure, when she'd hit the deck with such a notable lack of glory. Torres's face grew hot; surely she hadn't--?

"Maximilian," Emilie whispered.

"Huh?" Torres asked, but Emilie was already past her, running lightly up the steps to the deck. Torres pounded up the steps behind her, trying to catch her arm.

Emilie skidded to a stop, and Torres barreled into her, and the two of them swayed for a moment, trying to get their balance.

Emilie only had eyes for the young man standing on the wharf. "Emilie!" he called. "They said Discovery was back... I need to talk to you..."

"Maximilian," she said gently, "we've already said everything we need to s--"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head with vehemence. "I won't accept it. I've spoken to my father, and I've told him how I feel about you."

"I'm sorry, Ma--"

"And he's offered to sell you back the shop and take you on as a partner."

There was a profound silence on the deck of Discovery.

"He didn't know," Maximilian added, thrusting his hands stubbornly into his waistcoat. "But he does now." He looked up at her, very young and very mature at the same time.

Thunderstruck, Emilie stared at him, her mouth open. Torres placed a gentle, shaking hand on her arm. "He'd say anything--" she murmured.

"No, he wouldn't," Emilie whispered. "Not if it wasn't true." She shook her head with stubborn resolve, and tears glimmered in her eyes. "Not my brave Maximilian..."

Torres was about to say something Torres-like--that is, unforgivable and tactless--when an ally leapt to the rescue. "Maximilian," Jameson said, one hand wrapped around a shroud and a boot up on the rail, "give her some time to decide, will you? She's only just lost her father... and joined Discovery... and it's unfair to ask her to make a decision right now."

Maximilian, chin thrust into the air, addressed Emilie again. "I didn't ask you what you wanted," he said. "I won't make that mistake again. Neither will Father. I promise you that." He held out an impassioned hand. "I'll wait for you forever, Emilie." She stood at the rail, tears pouring down her face. "Forever," he shouted again, a bit uncertainly, then turned on his heel and walked back down the wharf.

Jameson picked her way carefully through the shrouds to Emilie, putting her arms around her shoulders. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, Kathryn," she breathed.

"Impulsive, scene-stealing young cockerel," Torres grumbled under her breath.

Jameson sent her a look of warning, then turned back to Emilie. "Looks like you've got some thinking to do, young lady."

"I--I'd like to go see Papa's grave this evening, if I might..." Emilie said, watching Maximilian's back as he threaded his way through the crowd.

"Of course," Jameson replied, giving her shoulders an encouraging little shake. Emilie murmured something about the ether-tubing, and she and Torres turned to go back below. The look of relief in Torres's face was unmistakable.

Jameson raised her eyes, and a grumpy and unhappy-looking Carlisle was leaning against something on the deck of Intrepide, watching them. Jameson swallowed her uncharitable but highly entertained smile, calling, "Captain Carlisle!"

Carlisle went into an impressive bow. "At your service, Captain," she called back in English, and her accent, liquid and pure, caused the flesh to ripple along Jameson's forearms.

"Has Mingeaux returned?"

"No. I told her to remain with Miss Brundage until the danger was past."

Jameson cast a glance at Tessa, then turned back to Carlisle. "I had hoped we could get someone to look at that paper--"

"I see now," Carlisle remarked, "that I would have done well to give her a timetable."

"I suppose it can wait," Jameson sighed. "I suspect we'll be heading up the hill before sunset anyhow--I've a crewmember to accompany to the church."

"Allow me to escort you," Carlisle offered, with another courtly bow. "Apparently I'm expected at the tavern this evening."

"Indeed," Jameson replied, with a smile, "I should be glad of the opportunity to talk with you again; we've not yet thanked you properly for our rescue."

She marveled at Carlisle's sudden unsettled look.


Meanwhile, the dreamy interlude on the beach continued. Mingeaux pulled away gently from the damaged lips of her lady fair, and the lady stared at the buttons on Mingeaux's shirt, a bit unfocused. Gingerly, Mingeaux folded the bedsheet around Hester's body, less for protection than lest she see a bit too much a bit too soon.

"Forgive me, mam'selle," Mingeaux murmured, and Hester gave her a hazily inquiring look. "I forget myself."

"Not nearly enough," Hester retorted, and Mingeaux laughed a bit to break the tension that threatened to smolder into flame between them. Hester sighed with contentment and leaned back against the rock, toying with a button on Mingeaux's shirt. "You've weakened me again, my angel," she whispered, "and left me fit only for bed."

Despite the languid words, Hester's hands tightened in the folds of Mingeaux's shirt, and Mingeaux's heart did a bit of a hitch. "Courage, Miss Brundage, we've only to wait until you're well, and at this rate--"

Hester pulled her close again, breaking off the meander, and they moved toward one another, kissing ardently, like lovers reunited after a long parting. Mingeaux slipped a gentle hand around the small of Hester's back, and Hester sighed, with some urgency, against Mingeaux's mouth. Mingeaux moved away a bit, trying to haul in the reins of the wagon-team that threatened to run away with both of them. After a moment, Hester placed a hand on Mingeaux's chest, with admirable discipline, and pushed her away gently.

"Perhaps another project, then," Hester said, lying back against the rock, where her hair tangled in the wind and her sleepy marble eyes promised hidden joys.

"The devil--you're absolutely correct, mam'selle," Mingeaux sighed, "much though I hate to interrupt this enjoyable pastime."

Hester smiled (a bit wickedly, Mingeaux thought with sudden apprehension) and climbed with great care off the rock. "Shall we explore another hidden treasure, then?"

Mingeaux offered her a hand in help. "Willingly." Hester shot her an assessing look, and Mingeaux clarified, "Mostly."

"What is this place?" Hester asked.

"I've never been here before," Mingeaux answered, "but it's bound to be a smuggler's cave."

"An unexpected delight!" exclaimed her mermaid, taking her hand gently as they made their way back to the bed. "And how do we come to be in possession of a secret spot for our rendezvous?"

Mingeaux chuckled. "It's on loan."

Hester looked around the little chamber, her eyebrow lifting at the furniture. "So... some pirate brings her lady here on occasion... how fortunate we are that it's the off-season." She climbed cautiously back into the bed, patting the cushions beside her, and Mingeaux shook her head with a grin.


As it was, the active morning dissolved into a drowsy afternoon, and all of them had a chance at some much-needed sleep. Two hours before sunset, the little group collected to head up the road that led past the churchyard before winding up to the tavern. Torres and Emilie walked in front, not saying much, and Carlisle and Jameson brought up the rear, Jameson turning her head, from time to time, to study the wharf from which they were drawing ever farther away.

"I am certain," Carlisle said, "that Mlle. Tessa will be perfectly safe in your absence."

Startled, Jameson raised sober eyes to the captain's. "It appears," she said, covering her surprise with a comment only half in jest, "that we have had great luck in finding lost ladies upon the ocean, and it gives me hope for the eventual success of your mission."

Carlisle's mouth tightened, but she said courteously, and with apparent sincerity, "Thank you, Captain."

"You have been much delayed in that," Jameson added in a low voice, "and largely in service to us."

Now it was Carlisle's turn to be surprised. "Not at all," she said, her eyes roaming the horizon. "If it hadn't been for you, I shouldn't have learned of Mingeaux's formidable skills at chess."

It was an odd comment, and Jameson quirked a bit of a smile at the tall, silent woman by her side. "D'you play?" she asked.

"Not a lick," Carlisle answered immediately.

"Nor I, I fear," Jameson sighed, "despite years of effort," and Carlisle laughed.

Behind them, a horse broke into a gallop, and Carlisle whirled swift as lightning, a hand going to the knife at her belt. Jameson glanced behind them; it was a spirited racer with a young dandy astride, and she gave Carlisle a reassuring smile as she took her hand off the hilt of the knife.

"How fortunate that our guard shows such vigilance," Jameson remarked, teasing a bit, and Carlisle smiled back at her. (She had a very nice smile, Jameson decided, and Brandy was a fortunate young lady.)

"Sorry," said Carlisle, "half-expecting someone."

"Trouble?" Jameson asked lightly, and Carlisle sighed, "Oh, aye, indeed. Trouble in head-to-toe leather." Jameson badly wanted to follow up on that comment, but Carlisle spoke again before she could think of a ladylike way to pry. "When Mingeaux returns, we'll have that manumission sorted."

"I should be forever in your debt," Jameson murmured, subdued, "especially since it distracts you from your quest."

Carlisle's eyes ranged along the hilltops again, and Jameson saw that they were nearing the churchyard. "I had thought," Carlisle said, with a half-dreamy air to her speech, as if she assumed herself alone on the road, "that I could sail in and find Lucia, and leave the rest of the Caribbean to go to the devil."

She didn't speak again for a moment, and Jameson prodded, "And now?"

"And now," Carlisle said, shaking off her reverie and looking down at Jameson with attentive courtesy, "I've met the women who sail her."


When they had reached the churchyard, Emilie took to her heels, running for the tombstones, and Torres, filled with nervous energy, took off a fraction of a second later, following her. They ran like children into the trees, and Carlisle and Jameson, with the ponderous dignity of much older authority figures, walked sedately up to the church.

A man with thinning sandy-blonde hair was just climbing down from a ladder with a bucket of tools as they approached. Jameson shielded her eyes and hallooed a greeting, and the man waved, causing his balance some peril, and clambered down, extending a hand covered with some form of odiferous pitchy substance to her.

"Pastor Olssen," she said warmly.

"Kathryn, my dear friend," he said in accented English, grasping her hand. Too late, he noticed the grime, and it was with a round of muttered apologies and much ineffectual scraping with a cloth that he renewed her acquaintance. He got the worst of the gunk cleaned off his hands, and turned his warm, kindly, weatherbeaten face to the tall brunette waiting patiently by Jameson's side. "And this must be the dangerous and legendary Captain Carlisle."

The surprise in Carlisle's face was genuine. "Indeed, although the name is more factual than the legend. A pleasure, sir." Heedless of soiling, she took his hand firmly, and Jameson approved of her all over again.

The sunlight flashed off his spectacles, and he finally gave up and scrubbed his hands on the thick cloth work-apron he was wearing. "I've been repairing the window-frame... no more excuse for not coming to hear sermon of a Sunday," he said, grinning easily at Jameson.

"We're on another errand this afternoon, Pastor," Jameson told him.

He turned, nodding with sober respect toward where Emilie was kneeling in the grass just out of earshot. Torres was standing over her protectively, hands shoved in her pockets. "Yes, yes, to see her father... I got the cross up yesterday."

"Thank you," Jameson murmured, glancing with concern toward Emilie, who had put a hand over her eyes.

"Come," said Olssen, gesturing toward the side of the church, and Jameson appreciated his low-key tact in leaving Emilie to her grief. As the three of them made their way down a walk paved with crushed seashells, the pastor began to talk volubly in the most positively Swedish English Carlisle had ever heard.

"'Tis all over the island," he said, "how you've both sailed separately and come right back yoked together, and had martial adventures, and picked up a couple of travelers, one of whom may be a countrywoman of mine."

"Does Dominguez know that?" Carlisle interrupted, her expression darkening.

Olssen looked up at her in astonishment, and Jameson interjected, "For him to know what's going on, someone would have to be willing to tell him."

"I see," Carlisle said, grinning over Olssen's head at Jameson. "Pray excuse the interruption."

"Tell me of this blonde girl," Olssen began.

"Thorvald, is it always to be women with you?" asked a voice before them, and Carlisle had her hat in her hand before she'd finished turning her head.

At the side door of the church stood a woman in a simple blue work dress. She had dark brown hair and dark, kindly eyes, and her brilliant smile was welcome and glory all at once. Her sleeves were rolled up past her dimpled elbows, and she had obviously just concluded some job involving scrubbing and window-glass, but her bearing was that of a queen. "Kathryn. What a pleasure to see you again so soon."

"Ah," said Olssen. "Captain, may I introduce to you my wife?"

She was far younger than her husband, and she spoke with a distinctly American accent. Carlisle took her hand with a bow, and the woman inclined her head with regal grace. "Captain Carlisle, I'll warrant," she said. "What an--utter thrill."

Startled, Carlisle interrupted herself in mid-bow and looked up into the eyes of the pastor's wife. There was a flash of something like excitement, then she turned away, and Carlisle could see the color mounting in her cheeks. Carlisle straightened and raised an eyebrow at Jameson, who smiled smugly at her as if they'd shared a joke.

"Can you stay for coffee?" Mrs. Olssen asked, directing the question toward her visitors while looking, oddly enough, at her husband.

"Oh, do, please," Olssen said. He gestured toward the graveyard. "Emilie can refresh herself after her visit..."

"We'd be delighted," Jameson said, since it looked as though Carlisle was never going to utter another word.

"May I help?" Carlisle offered.

"No," snapped Mrs. Olssen, sounding a bit flustered, and her husband's eyebrows crawled toward his hairline in surprise. "Allow me," the pastor's wife said graciously a moment later, and the lovely smile beamed in their direction a bit vacantly before she turned to go back into the doorway.

Carlisle's brow furrowed, and Jameson looked seconds away from laughing. "I wonder if you'd say a few words to Emilie, pastor," Jameson said. "She's missed her father dreadfully, and you're always such a comfort." She added sunnily, looking at Carlisle, "Captain, will you stay here and help Mrs. Olssen bring the coffee?"

Carlisle reflected that she had just been outmaneuvered. She agreed, but not without a direct look straight into Jameson's eyes. "With pleasure."

Jameson nodded, and she and Olssen made their way through the grass toward Etienne's grave. Carlisle settled herself into the doorway and crossed her arms.

Emilie was still on her knees, reading and re-reading her father's name on the new cross set up over the grave he'd only just been laid into. Torres was looking out toward the sunset over the harbor, squinting into the sunlight with a troubled frown.

"My child," Olssen said, kneeling beside her and putting a mostly-clean hand over hers, "do you see how peacefully he sleeps?"

She turned and threw herself into his arms, sobbing, and he caught her up and held her close while she wept.


As Carlisle waited for their hostess to muster the composure to serve coffee, a half-awaited, half-surprising something pressed into her back. She started, and a familiar voice whispered, "Don't turn unless you want me to put a ball through this pretty coat."

"Mlle. la Méchante?" Giuliana inquired with resignation, putting her hands in the air for the second time in twenty-four hours. "Come to collect the rest of your reward?"

"And take you away from your little blonde tavern-mistress?" asked the mischievous lady. "God would surely punish me for such an outrageous theft."

"Why d'you roam the night rescuing sea-captains?" Carlisle asked.

"Euchre palls," was the irreverent reply. "Lower your hands. That's it. Behind your back."

"Mam'selle," Carlisle said apprehensively.

"I shan't bind you," whispered the lady. "Tragically." A piece of paper slipped into Carlisle's hand, and she put it into her coat, then made to turn. The barrel impacted with greater urgency into her back, sending a ticklish thrill down her kidney, and Carlisle raised her hands again as the lady hissed, "My pious sister will be back soon... you must give me time to retreat without detection, for I should surely be undone..."

Carlisle nodded. "My gratitude to you for your service last night," she murmured.

"And to you," replied the lady in a low voice, "for a kiss that will enliven my less proper dreams for a decade. Stand there."

And for several minutes, Carlisle stood there, foolishly holding her hands in the air, until Mrs. Olssen came around the corner holding a coffee-tray. "Captain?" she asked, taken aback a bit, and Carlisle, blushing, lowered her hands and stepped away from the doorway.

"It has been a wearying few days, and I was stretching," Carlisle told her with dignity, relieving her of the coffee-tray. "Tell me, madame, have you a sister?"

Mrs. Olssen studied her, puzzled. "No... I have three brothers, but they're all still in Virginia. Why do you ask?"

"D'you speak French?" Carlisle asked idly.

The pastor's wife laughed a pearly little laugh. She seemed to have recovered her equilibrium. "Where would one be in the islands without it?" she inquired. "I'm no scholar, but I can make shift to buy breadfruit in the market." She led the captain to a stout wooden table under a gnarled, wind-swept oak tree between the church and the graveyard, and the two of them began to lay out the coffee.


"Mingeaux," whispered a voice already familiar and yet still miraculous, "wake up."

"Mrmph."

"Come, come." A hand descended with gentle insistence between her shoulderblades, and Mingeaux remembered where she was, and who with, and she was awake in a flash. She lifted her head, and Hester was leaning on one elbow, her head turned to the side so that her hair swept the pillows. The sheets were drawn up just enough to cover her in the service of decency, and her eyes were peaceful.

In the presence of glory, Mingeaux rolled over, swept up the hand lying on her shoulder, and lifted it to her lips, closing her eyes in ecstacy. "How d'you feel?" Mingeaux asked.

"I think you can answer that question better than I at the moment," Hester murmured into her ear, and Mingeaux laughed, opening her eyes and pressing Hester's hand to her chest. She knew the adoration was naked in her eyes, as unclothed as the supple body under the sheets, and the two of them gazed on one another for a speechless, perfect moment.

"Fever?" Mingeaux asked.

Hester disengaged her hand and ran her cool fingers down Mingeaux's face by way of reply. "Only the obvious," Hester said, hiking a lascivious eyebrow at her, and Mingeaux laughed again, heartily and with the most profound relief.

"It's nearly sunset," Hester announced.

"Good for it," Mingeaux sighed with contentment, seizing the hand on her face and folding it into her own.

"Don't you want to see if Captain Carlisle has been shot from the rigging of Intrepide while you were in fairyland kissing a strange woman?" asked Hester with mischief.

"Not particularly," Mingeaux replied dreamily, looking into the beautiful eyes that were exactly, exactly the color of a storm on the North Sea. "Really, mam'selle, she found her way to the Caribbean with little help from me, and I've faith in her ability to get through an entire evening without my close supervision."

Hester leaned over her, pulling her silken, graying hair away from her shoulders with one hand, leaving Mingeaux just time to gasp, "Ah, God," before Hester's lips touched hers again.

She couldn't decide exactly what it was Hester tasted like; the sea, perhaps (or maybe it was just the air that surrounded them with soft care), or a fine spiced India rum, or perhaps a fragrant, sweet pipeful of moist, dark Virginia tobacco. Hester's skin was blessedly cool, with no hint of fever, and she seemed to be having little trouble with her sunburn, judging from the way she clung close to Mingeaux as their mouths explored one another. Eventually, though, Hester sighed and lay back, snuggling into Mingeaux's arms and slipping a hand with casual grace into the collar of Mingeaux's shirt.

They lay there together for a few minutes, and Hester's breathing was regular and soft against her, and Mingeaux thought, Creator Spirit, if you were to take me now, I'd not mind overmuch. She tightened her arms gently about the miracle, and Hester burrowed sleepily into her chest, and Mingeaux added, save that it might inconvenience the lady no little to turn me loose before she'd quite had a chance to make use of me. The two of them looked up into the chimney in the roof of the cavern, floating in timeless bliss.

She had just decided that Hester had fallen asleep against her chest when she drew breath to speak. "Coquin," she announced unexpectedly, "is bringing us a horse after dark."

"For what possible purpose, mam'selle?" Mingeaux asked, turning to brush the hair from Hester's brow and placing a series of tender kisses on her forehead.

"To bring us back to Intrepide," Hester answered firmly, running the hand inside Mingeaux's shirt down her breast.

"Damn," Mingeaux sighed.

"Precisely," Hester replied. She lifted her head and rolled over onto Mingeaux's chest, and Mingeaux circled her arm delicately with a strong hand as Hester put a fist between Mingeaux's breasts and propped her chin on it. "Still," she mused, using her free hand to toy with Mingeaux's hair, "it'll give me a chance to stow my ballgowns and silken slippers under your bunk."

Mingeaux's brain stuttered to a halt, and she stared at Hester, devoid of possible answer. Hester's extraordinary eyes closed with a flash of silver, and Mingeaux drew her close again, resolving that only Coquin's arrival would draw them from the bed.


A quarter-hour past sunset, Mingeaux and Hester trotted back to the dock on the borrowed horse. The change in the relationship between the two was more than apparent to the grinning sailors on Intrepide, and Mingeaux threatened a good round of ear-boxing as she hustled the sheet-clad lady below for a bit of rest.

By the time she got Hester into a clean nightshirt (which fell to a point well below her knees), her lady was laughing with abandon. Mingeaux kissed her, shaking her head in consternation at the incredible sight of Hester, miracle of miracles, sitting up in Mingeaux's bed.

"Go," Hester told her. "Find your captain."

"Why?" Mingeaux asked. "I'll wager she's not half the kisser you are."

"That's where I'd wager you're wrong," Hester shot back, a wicked glint in her eye, "and I'd pay you double to find out."

Mingeaux spread her hands in helplessness, and Hester flapped a hand at her, dismissing her as a queen would a courtier. "Go. I'll be right here when you come back." She lay back against the pillows, stretching a hand up over her head and regarding Mingeaux with eyes grown sleepy again.

"Ah, God, you had to make it easy," Mingeaux muttered, but she settled for one last kiss before closing the cabin door gently behind her and making her way heavily up the steps.

"Spinelli, where's the--"

"Tavern," Spinelli said shortly, taking a satisfied puff of her pipe and giving her a broadly subtle smile.

Mingeaux studied the steeply-pitched road with remarkable, if entirely understandable, reluctance. "That God-damned hill, one more time," she sighed.

"Plenty of free time when we get back to sea," Spinelli remarked blandly, and Mingeaux didn't know whether to cuff her or shake her hand.


Giuliana was just tucking into a fragrant fish stew with ferocious and commendable appetite, Brandy by her side, when Mingeaux arrived out of the darkness. Somehow, the news of her day-long absence in the company of the artfully-draped Miss Brundage had made the rounds, and Giuliana endured the good-natured ribbing with stoic patience until Mingeaux was able to rejoin her and Brandy. The three caught up on the day's events, and finally Giuliana had a chance to ask, "And how is our Miss Brundage?"

"On the mend," Mingeaux responded, the relief in her evident.

And not only relief, Carlisle thought, studying her closely. There was something in her eyes--some hint of Miss Brundage's illness, perhaps? She resolved to watch her first mate with a great deal more care than she'd shown hitherto. "She'll need a restful place the next few days," Giuliana said, thinking out loud while she dunked her bread into her stew. "I should think she'll rest comfortably in the empty cabin next to Spinelli's."

"Not necessary," Mingeaux said quietly, adding, "Captain."

"Not necessary?" Giuliana asked in disbelief, spooning up some stew. "Would you have her give what she has to the rest of the crew? Or pawn her off on Brandy, here?" Mingeaux's face had gone ruddy, and again Carlisle fretted about fever. Remorseless, she went on, "She's staying with us, Mingeaux--she's our last contact with Lucia."

"Aye, Captain," Mingeaux said, "but--"

"But what?" Giuliana leaned forward, lifting the spoon to her lips.

It was right about then that Brandy kicked her smartly in the boot under the table, and Giuliana lost the spoonful, which hit the deck with a resounding splat. She turned to Brandy for a moment, astonished past speech, and Brandy smiled radiantly at her.

By the time she'd turned back to her first mate, Mingeaux had gotten to her feet. "I think I'll go get another mug of ale," she muttered, and she spun on her heel to walk toward the bar, bellowing for Mistinguette.

"Whatever in the--" Giuliana began, and a soft hand crept into hers. She turned to the tavern-mistress again, and was rewarded with a doe-eyed glance.

"Will you stay the night with me?" Brandy asked with shy determination, and Giuliana caught up her hand, overcome with emotion, mingled with no little lust.

"Of cour--your hand is freezing," Giuliana said, trying not to show her disapproval at this distressing development. She bundled Brandy's hand up into her own. "While I breathe, you'll never be cold again," she vowed, and the sparkle of romance in Brandy's eye was all the reward she needed. Giuliana kissed the back of Brandy's hand, thinking hazy thoughts of the magical night to come, then folded it in hers and slipped both into the pocket of her coat.

As she did so, her knuckles brushed the quite-forgotten note in her pocket. "Excuse me, my dear," she said, letting go of Brandy's hand and drawing the note from her pocket with two fingers. She unfolded it, holding it up in the flickering light of the lanterns, and Brandy saw her eyes grow wide. In a moment, she leapt up, bellowing, "Mingeaux!", and Brandy hastened to remove her hand from the Captain's coat pocket, fearing its imminent separation from her arm.

By the time Mingeaux could turn at the bar, Giuliana was pushing through the crowd toward the door. "We're leaving," she announced flatly.

Brandy stood up in utter bewilderment. "But--" she began, not certain how she'd finish.

Giuliana turned at the door, and the despair in her eyes was visible all the way across the room. "I promise you, mam'selle," she said desperately, "that only the most compelling reason takes me from your side... tonight of all nights..." Mingeaux swallowed her ale hastily, and Giuliana practically dragged her by the collar out the door.

As they made their way rapidly down to the harbor, an interested crowd got up from their tables with much commotion to gather in the doorway, making rampant speculations fueled by drink. Brandy, overcome, went to stand forlornly at the door, and the group drew out of her way, falling silent in respectful commiseration. Mistinguette slipped a sympathetic arm over Brandy's shoulders. "Perhaps it would help," she remarked, "if you were to nail her boots to the floor next time."

The two tall sailors had disappeared into the blackness of night, and Brandy looked down at her hands, which were shaking. At first, she thought it was sorrow, then she realized that, instead, it was anger. "I--will--be--damned!" Brandy exclaimed.

"Probably," Mistinguette agreed in a dry voice. "But all of us are going to hell for something or other."

Never, or forever. Suppose you weren't a pawn, but the queen? A sudden inspiration struck her, and Brandy turned with excitement to Mistinguette. "Keep the place going for me, will you?"

Mistinguette blinked in astonishment. "But--"

"I'm going with her."

The crowd burst into uproar, and Mistinguette caught her breath. "Impetuous fool!"

"But a fool for love," Brandy said, and the exaltation grew in her as she realized that, perhaps, utter dumbstruck joy was not just for other, more fortunate women. "I love her, Mistinguette."

The crowd got noisier, and Mistinguette raised a hand to cuff the nearest. "Back, you curs," she snarled. "While you stand here mooing like moonstruck calves, harder-hearted patrons are drinking the ale you paid for." Instantly, they rushed up the steps into the tavern, leaving Mistinguette and Brandy standing alone.

"Are you certain, my ginger-cat?" Mistinguette asked, her voice softer than Brandy could ever remember it being. "Really certain?"

"I'm certain," Brandy said, and it was as if she'd turned into a lantern, beaming love from every atom of her. "I love her."

"Well, then," said Mistinguette unsteadily, tucking a strand of Brandy's hair behind her ear. Sentimentality shone in Mistinguette's eyes, another unprecedented occurrence. "You'd best be on your way, my girl."

Brandy kissed her impulsively, squeezed her hands, and spun away down the steps. "Farewell, Mistinguette!" she shouted back over her shoulder. "If I end up fish-meal, by God it will be at her side!"