Lanterns, wicks drowning in oil from seal blubber, lay dark. Blackness couldn't have swallowed Bronte more completely, and yet, images, images refusing to be blotted out, played vividly across her memory.

Moonlight caught the red liquid sloshing in the glass Bronte held, reminding her too much of blood. With distaste she threw it against the bulkhead where it shattered.

Instead, Bronte raised the bottle directly to her lips and choked down the bitter wine. It was already half-empty but, when she closed her eyes, the inhuman images were still clear.

Hundreds of bodies strewn over sand red with blood.

And the cries.

Endless wailing that pierced the silence of her mind.

Bronte shook her head, trying to dislodge them, and took yet another long pull on the bottle.

Someone knocked tentatively on the door.

She didn't answer.

"Cap'n Farrow?" asked an uncertain voice. It was Cuthbert.

She didn't want to talk to Cuthbert.

"Sir, jus' wan'ed ya ta know we got the name o' that ship—Matilda—and we're on 'er tail." Cuthbert offered through the opaque barrier.

A moment of silence followed as he waited for a response. When none was forthcoming he gave up and his footsteps receded, gradually fading.

Matilda.

Bronte emptied the bottle.

The ship whose captain led a party of sailors to a cove; a cove filled with West Indian Monk Seals hauled up on the beach to care for newborn pups.

And killed them.

Sealing. Legal employment. For the pod of seals, the loss of a few males wouldn't be detrimental. And there were great numbers of females, surely some could be spared. But that wasn't what happened.

They killed them all.

Hundreds.

Seal blubber was a common source of lamp oil, and, here in the West Indies, also in high demand as a fuel and lubricant for the sugar mills of Barbados and Jamaica. Bronte had never before felt any discord with its use—and thousands of seals dwelled in the Caribbean. The blubber from one seal could produce as much as twenty gallons of oil. But, she'd never seen the operation firsthand. And why—why, in heaven's name—anyone could be so ignorant as to wipe out an entire colony, she couldn't comprehend. Didn't they realize if none were alive to breed they'd soon be left without a harvest?

This she didn't understand, but it wasn't why she felt compelled to hunt down the ship they'd seen slip away from the island.

The reason she wanted to literally skin them alive, especially the captain, the man in charge, was that after they killed the males and females, they left dozens of pups to slowly starve to death, surrounded by the corpses of their kin.

It was beyond cruel.

Bronte raised the bottle to her lips, and when only a drop came out she hurled it too against the bulkhead where it smashed with pleasing resonance. It pleased her so much she hooked the footstool with her boot and sent it flying as well, its splinters mixing nicely with the shards of glass on the cabin floor.

The distraction was only too temporary.

Another knock.

This time it was Sam's voice. "Bronte?"

She didn't want to talk to him, either.

"Bronte, I'm coming in."

Let him try. She had bolted the door.

It rattled.

He pounded.

He shouted.

He walked away.

She wanted more wine.

The Huntress heeled and moonlight streamed in, illuminating the debris covering the sole, sending it tumbling back to her, converging on her, just like the pups.

And the birds.

The Huntress had delivered the Dutch crew to an island, without harm, as promised. They sailed only a short distance when they came across the island where Sam and Bronte had once hidden from a ship battle. They decided to see if it held freshwater. They hiked from one side to the other, without finding a single stream when curiosity compelled the party to the far beach where a huge flock of birds gathered, noisily circling and swooping to the earth below.

When they crested the ridge obscuring the beach the crew fell silent, staring at a mass of carnage.

Bronte had left them and ventured into the slaughter, not really knowing why.

The birds dive-bombed her and she drew her sword, swinging it in the air to divert their flight. This undoubtedly was what attracted the attention of the seal pups—all gravitating toward the only living earthbound form on the gory beach.

Tap, tap.

Now who was it?

"I've brought more wine," the voice offered.

It was Blake.

Bronte stood and walked—more like staggered—toward the door.

She did want to talk to Blake.

And he had wine.

Bronte slid the bolt and pulled open the door. Blake waited quietly on the other side, pushing the wine toward her with a guarded expression. She snatched it away and held his gaze a fraction of a second before dropping her eyes. Stepping back from the door she swept her hand wide, bottle still clutched tightly, indicating he should enter.

He hesitated only a moment before stepping into the darkness. Bronte decided the sea was smooth enough for a candle and fumbled only a little as she lit it.

"Sit," she commanded.

He found a chest and sat, carefully avoiding her glare, looking briefly at the glittering mess revealed by the flickering light.

She opened the new bottle and took a draft.

Blake shook his head stiffly when she held it out to him. She shrugged and ambled to her chair, sitting down heavily. She wished she'd something to put her feet upon.

"You did the right thing," Blake said simply.

"Right?" she wondered. "Just a bunch of oversized sea-rats."

"You did what needed to be done. You shouldn't feel ashamed."

"Ashamed?" She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. Was that what she was feeling?

Regret? Yes. Remorse? Maybe. But shame?

What she'd done was order the deaths of dozens of innocent, trusting babes.

The seal pups had surrounded her on the sand mewing loudly, staring with wide ebony eyes. Their coats were like black pearls, shining in the sun. They were far too young to take to the sea. Without their mothers to suckle them they'd die a slow death in the hot Caribbean sun. The seal harvesters undoubtedly thought they were doing them a favor by not killing them, or they simply hadn't wanted to waste the time. Probably the latter. The pups wouldn't have offered any boost to the bounty they'd obtained from the adults.

She'd ordered her men to shoot them dead, and end their suffering. Someone asked why they couldn't use their blades instead, to save the bullets. The answer was simple. She didn't want their blood on her blade. She didn't want it to stain the blades of any member of her crew.

They had begun loading and firing.

After Bronte disposed of one creature, her eye caught Sam's figure. He stood, arm extended, pistol pointed at a particularly small pup, with extraordinarily expressive eyes. It didn't cry like the others—only stared, unmoving, at Sam.

Bronte could not get her pistol reloaded fast enough.

Sam's arm was shaking, his jaw was clenched.

Why hadn't she left him aboard?

Her lead ball fell into the sand and Bronte fumbled for another. Was that sweat rolling down Sam's cheek?

The new ball slipped into the barrel and she shoved the rod in after. The creature at Sam's feet let out a low, pleading cry.

Sam grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut.

Bronte poured the powder into the pan.

A gunshot split the air, making Bronte jump with its closeness.

The little black seal lay dead.

Sam looked around, bewildered. He hadn't pulled the trigger. First he sought Bronte, but she stood dumbfounded, powder still pouring from the horn. It had overfilled and was spilling onto the sand. She started and quickly tipped the horn upright, as she, too, cast about for the shooter.

Blake had turned his back to the spot and trod down the beach toward another orphan.

Blake shifted his boots on the cabin floor, bringing Bronte back to the present. She realized what troubled her so much wasn't the plight of the seals, as much as it sickened her. It was the horror that'd fallen on her friend at being asked to kill. If he'd such a hard time killing an animal, what would become of him if he were faced with killing a human being? A situation Bronte had guaranteed he'd eventually run into by dragging him along in her folly.

"What do you know about Sam?" Blake asked, as if he'd read her mind.

"Only that his mother died on their trip from London to the Caribbean, leaving him to be raised by a shipwright. Why?"

"I only wondered. You two seem close," he demurred.

Bronte wondered if he was trying to avoid talking about the island. Too bad. She wanted answers.

"Why'd you do that? Why did you do that for Sam?"

"You would've," Blake said dismissively.

"But why did you?" Bronte demanded.

"He's a tender heart. Everyone knows that."

Maybe everyone did know, including herself, but she'd turned a blind eye to it. She was angry with herself for putting Sam in that position.

Bronte huffed. "He should've never been there," she said absently, looking at Blake's face in the dim light. Something about it cast a familiarity to his face she hadn't noticed before.

"He's not really suited to this lifestyle you know. And he's not a good choice for quartermaster," Blake stated this in a matter-of-fact way, as if daring her to deny it.

"That's why you voted him into that position. So you could bully him," Bronte rebuked coldly.

"Actually, I was for Cuthbert," he said more to himself. "What will you do when he's asked to carry out a punishment and can't?"

Bronte stood abruptly and took a deep breath as she stared harshly at the helmsman. "Out, or so help me I'll lash the hide off you myself!" she breathed.

He stood immediately and marched to the door, pausing to look back for the briefest of measures. The door clicked softly behind him.

"SAM!" Bronte shouted.

Moments later the door opened again.

She jerked her head at him and he stepped in, closing the door behind.

"Is that foul ship still in sight?" she asked, her voice sounding harsher than she meant.

"It is." Sam's voice was quiet. Subdued.

"You decide what's done when they're caught."

Sam swallowed. "Say again?"

Bronte sighed. Maybe Blake was right. Sam wasn't cut out to be a pirate. And she wasn't being a good one either. At least not since she'd started out with Sam. They'd only one prize taken—what with ignoring the many English merchants they'd seen. Then again, they weren't empty handed. Maybe a little less booty was small sacrifice for an easier conscience. A worthy tradeoff. As she looked at the drawn face of her only friend, she knew she'd little choice.

"We'll handle the ship's company however you choose." And maybe she could learn a little from her friend, if she gave him the chance. She passed her bottle to him. "Remember what horror they wrought under cover of law, and think of how we will repay them under the protection or our own code and courage."

Sam took the bottle and tipped it up, drinking long and deep.

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Sorry for the day late chapter. I wasn't near a computer.