Caribbean Sea, 1671

White-hot pain ripped through Bronte's back as she crashed to the deck. Chaos erupted around her. She tried to push herself up but her arms did not comply; pain radiated from Bronte's shoulder, down her arm, and through her fingers. Warm, sticky blood ran freely down her back. There was more shouting and then-another gunshot split the air.

It all seemed far away; her mind seemed fractured. She closed her eyes. Scuffling footsteps sounded near her head.

"Well? Is he dead?" Capt. Bertrand asked.

Was she dead? Bronte had imagined death to be a little less painful.

"He's dead all right, Captain. No more worries from that one."

"'Tis a shame. He was a good sailor." The captain's remorse sounded genuine.

"Aye, but he had it coming, Captain. Pete was more trouble than his skills made up for."

Pete.

Bronte rolled over with a groan.

Pete was dead.

Her head cleared and the day's events crashed over Bronte. Pete-caught stealing. Pete's flesh laid bare for punishment. Blood soaking into the thirsty deck.

Her blood.

And it was her back that screamed in agony.

And Bronte remembered why.

All the ship's company had gathered to bear witness to Pete's punishment. Bronte, disguised as a man named bearing an officer's title, had been standing dutifully at her captain's side. The quartermaster had begun to tie Pete to the mast, but Pete had grabbed the quartermaster's pistol (foolishly left in his baldric primed and ready) and aimed it at Captain Bertrand. Bronte had spotted it quicker than the rest and had thrown herself at Bertrand, knocking him to the ground.

The bullet, meant for him, had burrowed into her flesh.

The fresh wound now burned.

"Look to the first mate!" the captain ordered.

Sickness gripped her stomach; Bronte moaned as well-meaning shipmates converged on her. Through the haze of pain, she realized they meant to take her to the surgeon. They'd find out her secret. If that happened, worse was in store for her than a bullet.

As they dragged her to her feet she tried to push them off. "I'm well enough-I don't need the doc. Lemmee go."

"Easy now, Mr. Farrow."

She struggled harder. "Leave me! That's an order!"

They ignored her and continued propelling her toward the ladder leading down to the surgeon's cabin.

She wouldn't go.

She shook herself free. Two steps-and the world spun as she crashed to the deck again. Beside her, Pete's dead eyes stared into her own, a bullet-hole in his forehead. Someone grabbed her legs and another put hands under her arms. Bronte screamed when they lifted as renewed pain drove through her right shoulder. A black door promising release appeared, and she escaped.

Bronte awoke in a haze. She lay on her stomach, her cheek pressed against hard wood. Unfamiliar smells, sharp and bitter, wafted over as she struggled to consciousness.

She was in a small room. A lamp, hung overhead, swayed, illuminating a sparsely furnished cabin. Movement from the corner drew her attention and she tried to raise herself. Pain, like a hot torch, shot through her back and shoulder, and she dropped back to the table with a moan.

A voice spoke softly nearby. "Rest easy, lass."

Lass?

Her brows knit as Bronte tilted her head to focus on the speaker. The surgeon stood beside her, wiping long-fingered hands with a bloody rag. He'd called her lass. Bronte closed her eyes, groaning again.

Bronte could hardly remember a day not spent fiercely guarding this secret. There was only one reason pirates would consent to having a woman aboard, and she'd decided long ago, she wouldn't play that part. Precious few times, when crew had been aboard for an extended period, her fear faded into the background (though never disappearing completely), when it seemed that after looking at the same faces day in and day out, they simply stopped seeing them. Eventually, new crewmembers signed the articles, and her anxiety would again rise to the forefront. Careful attention to dress, mannerisms, conscious moderation of her thankfully already low, raspy voice, always remaining attuned to who may be watching-so many years of cautiousness-thrown away in one impulsive act. She wasn't even sure why she'd done it. She'd just reacted.

"The bullet come out easy enough, but it snapped your collar bone. That arm will be useless till it heals. Yer a brave bonnie lass. You'll be right soon enough," he assured.

The surgeon, pressed into signing articles some years ago when his ship was captured, had always been kind to her. Dare she hope he'd kept her secret?

"Captain Bertrand?" she questioned.

"You saved his life and he'll not be forgetting that."

"He knows," she whispered.

"He knows," he echoed.

With determination and more than a little help from the doctor, Bronte turned onto her back, teeth gritted against the pain.

Life was filled with pain.

No longer would her disguise shield her from it.

The door creaked open, revealing her captain. His command had always been firm-some said harsh-and he made quick, unwavering decisions meant to benefit the Company. Good qualities in a captain; not qualities Bronte was hoping to see, now. He paused in the doorway, clinical eyes assessing his first mate. Surprisingly, his features softened. He walked toward a table strewn with the doctor's instruments and picked up an unfriendly looking device, turning it over absently in his hands. "All this time...." he said to no one in particular.

He laid aside the instrument and clasped hands traitorously showing discomfort at his back, clearing his throat. "I've loved you like a ... son. Never have I known anyone so loyal-so determined. You mastered whatever you put your hand to. And-you saved my life. For that, I'm indebted. But-"

Here it comes. No mercy.

"-I'll not have a female on my ship," he finished.

Bronte looked away. Rejection hurt, even when expected.

He paused, waiting for the protest that never came. He defended his decision anyway. "It's for your own safety. Once the crew find out they'll never let you be."

Bronte snorted softly. She'd heard a similar speech once before and little good had come of it. She closed her eyes and tried to feel anger-betrayal-even remorse. Anything, but the resignation filling her soul. But she'd always expected this day would come. Bertrand's boots scratched against the deck, shifting the sand strewn over the sole to keep the surgeon from slipping in the blood of his patients.

"First landfall I'm putting you ashore," he said with a note of finality.

Still, Bronte lay silent.

Retreating steps sounded and the door closed softly. Bronte opened her eyes.

She was alone.

Fine.

Alone was how she liked it best.

***

Days later, she found herself sitting in the cockboat beside Captain Bertrand as two others rowed. Their oars cut too quickly through the waves, propelling her over clear, turquoise waters toward the pink sands of the Bermudan shore. Bronte stared at the Siren's Bosom, her ship-her home, as it grew further from reach.

She'd been cloistered in the surgeon's cabin until today and as far as she could tell, none of the crew knew her secret. Few words had been exchanged between her and Capt. Bertrand after he'd stated she would be put ashore, and she remained unsure of her fate. Was his plan simply to maroon her? Perhaps he meant to sell her. The cold manner Bertrand had adopted pained her.

Bronte felt no better physically; her shoulder ached even though her arm was bound to her side. The restriction made her feel helpless. She disliked being at the mercy of others.

They landed, climbed out of the boat, and walked up the beach. The sun beat harshly on her dark, loose fitting blouse and faded-black, knee length breeches causing sweat to bead on her back. Her cutlass banged against her thigh as she readjusted the small leather satchel containing her sparse belongings. Among its contents were thirty ducats, the split from a Dutch trade vessel; the last ship she'd pillaged with the Siren's Bosom. It was not much to show for her years of plundering.

So lost was Bronte in her thoughts, surroundings passed unnoticed; it was with surprise she found herself facing a small shack. Nearby were piles of lumber and the skeleton of a ship. It did not interest her. Captain Bertrand bade her wait outside as he was admitted into the cabin.

Staring a moment at the door after it closed, Bronte turned sharply and trudged to the water's edge. The coral sand beaches made a stunning contrast with the clear, blue water. Seabirds swooped overhead the sea as its gentle lapping sounded a soothing rhythm. Bronte let out a long sigh as she lowered herself to the sand, stretching long legs out so the waves licked at her bare feet as they rolled in, thinking of her uncertain future.

Without warning, a young man dropped to the sand beside her. Startled, Bronte pulled away as she turned to study this bold soul. Chestnut hair curled in an unruly mass atop his head, softening a square jaw. Large brown eyes looked keen, yet gentle, a twinkle of humor dancing in them. He smiled widely, revealing even white teeth. He was boyishly handsome.

He stuck his hand out. "Hullo, I'm Sam. Samwell Rhodes."

She narrowed her eyes as she glanced at his hand, opting not to offer her own. "Bronte Farrow."

"Good to meet you, Bron," he answered, clapping her back with his calloused hand when he determined she wasn't going to offer hers. "What happened to your arm?"

Bronte cocked her head to the side, hesitating only a moment before answering, "Got shot. By a pirate."

His eyes widened as his eyebrows shot up. "A pirate? Was your ship attacked?"

"No." Bronte smirked, enjoying the private joke.

"You met one ashore?" His voice carried an edge of excitement.

"I'm a pirate. At least, I was. Another pirate on our ship shot me."

"A pirate." He looked her over from head to toe, seemingly reassessing his conversation partner with an air of approval.

Bronte was surprised at his casual acceptance of her. Until he finds out I'm a girl.

Bronte turned her face back to the sea, longing to be riding the waves crashing in.

"I'm a shipwright," Sam said, puffing up his chest. He deflated slightly, adding "Well, I'll be one soon anyway."

The door of the shack slammed and they turned together. The captain clasped the hand of a stout middle-aged man sporting a round, balding head. He rather looked like a rectangular block of granite with a sphere placed atop.

Bronte couldn't hear the conversation, but they were looking in her direction and nodding. Then Captain Bertrand, after giving one last glance toward her, put his head down and hurried away.

Only as he retreated did Bronte understand. This was where he was dumping her.