The door creaked open and a small woman entered carrying a tray with a bowl and a glass. Graying hair was pulled in a tight bun and over her sandy almond dress, she wore an apron. She sat the tray down on a table beside the bed and offered Bronte a warm smile.

"I thought you'd be up soon." She took a rag from a basin of water sitting nearby and dabbed at her swollen face. Bronte flinched and grasped the woman's wrist to stop her. The women merely smiled and took her hand back.

"My name is Myra. My husband is Pastor Matthews and this is our home. Your friend brought you here last night."

Bronte sat up and closed her eyes while the dizziness passed. She grabbed the glass from the tray and tried to take a gulp. Water dribbled out of her swollen mouth and the woman dabbed at it with a napkin.

"That was quite a beating you took; your friend was concerned. He should be in anytime now. We didn't have room for him here but he said he could find other accommodations."

Bronte imagined what the accommodations might be but didn't smile. She was certain it'd hurt. A knock sounded from somewhere in the house and the woman rose.

"That'll be your friend now. Try to eat some broth if you can." She shut the door behind her.

Bronte didn't want any broth. She doubted she could ever feel hungry again the way her stomach was rolling. Instead she swung her legs over the side, relieved to find herself fully dressed aside from her boots which, with many a grimace, she pulled on. She looked around for her rapier but it wasn't there. Sam's voice seeped under the door. She pulled it open and entered a small room that seemed to be multipurpose, having a table on one end and a hearth with a couple of rockers at the other. Sam knelt on the floor looking at one. He turned to see her emerging stiffly from the bedroom. A low whistle escaped his teeth as he studied her face.

"That's some shiner ya got," he said.

Bronte grunted. "What are you doing?" she asked, only it didn't sound like that. It sounded more like, "Whap ah you booing?"

Myra kindly pretended not to notice—but not Sam. A grin, wide as Bronte had ever seen, spread over his face. "Forgive me. Say again?"

Bronte scowled at him (as well as she could with one eye) but didn't repeat herself.

Myra cleared her throat. "Sam's offered to repair my chair, among other things, in exchange for your stay, though we assured him it wasn't necessary. We're happy to help those in need. We wouldn't accept his money so he graciously offered his services for a few days until you've recovered." She turned and smiled at Sam.

Bronte was on the verge of pronouncing herself in no need of a recovery period when she caught Sam's eye. His look reminded her of a puppy dog pleading for table scraps. The door opened and someone else entered the cabin. A woman. A woman that made Bronte clamp her sore jaw shut and nod in agreement.

A gray-haired Alice bustled into the room carrying preparations for the morning meal. The same Alice she'd wondered about last night. The same Alice who'd raised Bronte on her knee. Bronte remembered the last words they'd spoken.

"I'm not afraid!" a young Bronte answered stubbornly.

Alice smiled. "Yes ya are, even if not for yerself."

That was on the night she ran from the only two people on earth who loved her, and away from the life they didn't want her to have.

Alice deposited her goods and turned to survey the occupants of the room. As her gaze fell on Bronte she paused and narrowed her eyes for an instant. "What dat young man doing out of bed?" she directed to no one in particular. "Him almos' beat ta death an 'e should be restin. I found me a doctor in town and he promise ta come by later."

Bronte eyed Sam who only shrugged. She really did feel miserable, but knew it was more from rum than anything else. She certainly wouldn't be seeing any doctor. But she couldn't leave without talking to Alice, alone. She needed to find out what happened to her mother. She tried to decide the best way to do it, not an easy task with her head pounding, but the decision was made when Alice grabbed her by the shoulders and gently pushed her back into the bedroom. She pulled back the covers, sat Bronte on the bed, pulled off her boots and lifted her feet onto the mattress without so much as acknowledging her. After pulling the covers up, she turned around and shut the door, leaving Bronte alone in the room.

Alice hadn't changed. The woman had been a second mother to Bronte when she was small. She always was very direct.

The pounding inside Bronte's head was getting louder and she closed her eyes. It really was too difficult to take all this while feeling so miserable.

The door clicked open and Sam shut it softly behind himself.

"Thanks Bronte, you're a real pal. Did you see her?"

Bronte was taken momentarily aback. Sam had no idea who Alice was.

"A rare beauty. I've never seen anyone so lovely. Did she notice me?" Sam sounded lovesick.

Bronte puzzled through his statement and realized she'd barely noted the young woman who'd entered behind Alice. This must be who Sam was blithering about and now she realized what the pleading look was for. She couldn't recall Sam going to so much trouble to get the attention of a woman before. Anyway, it didn't matter. She'd soon get her opportunity to find out what had become of her mother. Just as soon as that drumming in her head stopped.

Bronte sat up and pushed the covers off as she swung her legs over the side.

"Your swords at the room I'm letting. You had me worried when you passed out. But just then the pastor came walking by and asked if I needed help. I have to admit, I was never happier to see a church-man. Anyway, he was glad to take you in 'till you were back on your feet but he wouldn't have any weapons here."

Bronte wondered what the neighborly pastor would think if he knew about any one of the dozens of deadly knives Sam carried hidden on his person. "We leave before nightfall." She held up a hand against his verbal protest. "You know as well as I there's nothing amiss a good strong cup of coffee won't cure. We've no need to take advantage of these good people."

"A fine thanks I get for saving your skin!" Sam grumbled.

She cocked her head to one side as she studied him. He had saved her life—and not hesitated a moment to do it. "You killed that man."

"Course. Couldn't let him strangle my best mate." He smiled.

Bronte smiled with the half of her face that would. "Thanks, Sam." She fell back gracelessly, deciding she'd have a nap after all, and closed her eyes. "I thought my sands were run."

The door squeaked open and then shut again. Later she'd speak to Alice and find out what she could about her mother.

***

Bronte slept most of the morning away and when she woke, the sun was reaching its zenith. The smell of coconut wafted under the door and stirred her stomach.

As she stood, she brushed at her rumpled clothes, wishing for a clean change. She looked around the scantily furnished room and knew there was nothing to be done for it.

A basin stood filled with clean water, and with this, she washed her face carefully and slicked back her hair. She noted with pleasure that though her face was still tender, most of the swelling had gone down. Her mouth felt its normal size again and she could see clearly out of both eyes.

She grabbed a tawny checked towel and carefully dried her face with the coarse fabric. The unmistakable deep tones of Sam's full laugh permeated the door and Bronte decided to see what her friend was up to.

He stood at the table next to Alice, who instructed him over a bowl of something.

"Now you be rinsen that cassava real good now. If I'd a known you be eaten so much I would've made more dis mornin. Iffen your friend is gonna have anyting to eat you can be helpen me."

Sam had both hands in a bowl agitating them in a milky liquid.

"Good, good, now puts it on dis towel and press out the water."

Sam scooped out handfuls of grated cassava, placed them on the indicated towel, and leaned on his hands to press out the liquid.

"When you is done we'll salt it and press 'em inta cakes."

Bronte recognized the process. They were making bammy.

She, herself, had helped Alice do the very things Sam was doing in preparation for the delicious fried cakes. After they salted the grated root, they'd press them into flat cakes a half-inch thick and four inches around. Then they'd be lightly fried, dipped in coconut milk, and fried again.

It was the smell of boiling coconut milk that enticed her from the bedroom. Coconut milk, not the white substance you drink from a coconut (coconut water), was made from boiling chunks of fresh coconut in water until it became the sweet, thick liquid used to flavor many of the dishes made in the Caribbean.

The memory of frying up those cakes every morning with Alice was overwhelming and Bronte suddenly regretted her decision to leave the bedroom.

Sam looked up from his work and smiled at her. "Hey! You look loads better, Bronte!"

"Steady as a ship at port. Alice, you mind a walk with me to the chapel to thank the good pastor before we take our leave?"

"You can't leave yet! The doctor promised he'd pay a visit," protested the young lady Bronte hadn't noticed, sitting in the newly repaired rocker. A needle and thread paused over a swath of checked material.

"I've no need—"A firm knock on the door cut Bronte off.

Alice grabbed her apron, wiping starch from her hands, as she stepped to the door and opened it. "Come in, come in, Doctor. We was just speakin' of how good it be of ya to come, though I fear we mightn't need ya after all. Him seems jus' fine."

Bronte, having turned to face the door, stood with her mouth agape. The moment the tall young man strode through the door, her hand slipped to the place where her scabbard should hang. She patted, unconsciously looking for the sword that wasn't there.

"That's all right ma'am, it'll do no harm to look him over while I'm here," the doctor said as he took two long strides into the room. The girl jumped up, spilling her material onto the floor, and asked if she could get him anything.

Bronte looked quickly at Sam. He'd been engrossed in his work and hadn't looked up yet. When he recognized the deep voice, he stiffened immediately.

His hand slid to his belt.

"Sam!" she called his attention to her. He looked at her across the room and acknowledged the almost imperceptible shake of her head. Despite having the same reaction moments ago, Bronte realized it wouldn't do to repay the pastor's generosity with violence under his roof.

When she called out, Lucien became aware of the unexpected presence of two freebooters in the parsonage.

Time seemed to stand still as the triangle of adversaries froze.

Alice, seemingly oblivious to the static environment, broke the silence as she took the doctor's arm and directed him toward Bronte.

"Dis be the fellow. Ya can take him inta dat room to examine 'im if ya wish."

Sam strode quickly across the room toward Bronte's side. "I don't think—" Bronte cut him off.

"It's fine, Sam." Her eyes locked with Lucien's as she spoke to Sam. "After you, Doctor," heavily emphasizing the last word as she opened the door to the bedroom.

Lucien hesitated only a moment, and then passed by her into the room.

As she pulled the door behind her, Sam caught it. "I'm coming in."

"No, you're not," she answered just as firmly. She looked Sam in the eye. "Don't worry; I've a few questions for our good doctor. I'll be fine."

Sam searched her face, looking for she knew not what, but finally let go of the door. "I'll be outside."

She pulled the door behind her friend and turned to face her adversary. Her heart pounded an unfamiliar rhythm. She knew it wasn't from fear, so from what?

***

Lucien looked at the tall pirate, her back pressed against the door. Through the black and purple bruises her face swam with emotion—uncertainty, anger, and ... something else. Fear?

He'd tread carefully with her, as you might with a wild animal. It wouldn't do to send her running, or more likely, make her think she needed to defend herself.

He let his eyes wander over her bruised face with concern and took a step toward her. "Here, let me look at that." He reached a hand toward her but she turned her face away.

"Don't touch me." Her tone was acid.

"Please, I mean you no harm. And you did promise we could talk when next we met." He waited for a response but received none. "Who did this?" He took a small step back.

"What are you about? Why are you here?"

He was about to tell her it should be obvious but she cut him off.

"Not here." she waved a hand around the room. "In Port Royal. You follow us?"

He nodded to show he understood. "No. I'd business of my own." He grimaced. "Actually, business of my father's. The Falcon is his. He was gracious enough to offer me a job until I recovered my own ship or earned money enough to build another."

She narrowed her eyes as she listened to him carefully. Had she caught the insipid tone he'd tried to keep from his words?

"Until you recovered the Huntress." Her voice was steely. "What're your intentions now, Bellemare?"

"Dr. Bellemare. Actually, call me Lucien. I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I'm a man of my word and I intend to abide the outcome of our duel." He smirked as he remembered how it ended. "And you agreed we could talk when next we met," he again reminded her. "Though I have to say, what you did wasn't at all honorable."

She smiled wickedly. "I am pirate. Surely you did not expect honor?"

"Quite right. Although, I own that what I expected was to win. I've spent much of my youth studying swordplay. I did not account for you to be so well versed in techniques usually reserved for nobility."

"You claimed you were no nobleman," she said cynically.

"No, though my father is working very hard to change that." Lucien found it interesting that she recalled that from the short conversation they once had on the deck of his former ship.

"It's good to know you don't know everything about me, then." She took a threatening step toward him. "How'd you find out," she paused, obviously thinking how to word her question, "what you do know?" she finished cryptically.

He studied her carefully. It dawned on him the fellow she called Sam was outside, and her carefully-selected words meant Sam still didn't know she was a woman. He chuckled to himself. The fellow obviously had never really looked at his captain. But he wouldn't be the one to spoil her charade.

"I'm a physician. Close observation reveals much of what may seem hidden, but is only disguised." He smirked at her. "For instance, I can that what you suffer is largely the ill effects of overconsumption of alcohol. Though, I'd like to take a closer look at the split in your lip."

She looked defiant.

"You'll have to allow me something," he smirked. He added in a near whisper, "After all, that's what everyone expects is happening in here."

She sighed heavily, but seemed convinced. Now if only he could get his own traitorous heart to slow. Why did the thought of touching this woman, no matter how innocently, make the heat rise to his face?

"Remember, Sam and his blades stand ready outside the door," she said as she sat on the edge of the bed.

As he reached for her she started to pull away, but stopped, forcing body as rigid as a statue.

He cupped her chin gently in his hand and turned her face to let the light shine on it. Electricity seemed to pour through his fingers. He looked carefully into her eyes and noted that while at a distance her eyes looked like coal, up close they were never-ending pools of browns and greens, flecked with gold. They threatened to pull him into their endless depths.

Bronte stared back and their eyes locked. She quickly looked away.

Lucien released her and dug into his bag. He removed a small jar, opened the lid and applied a smear to her cut lip. She winced so softly he almost missed it.

Her lips were warm, her breath hot.

"What is that? It's sticky," she asked after he finished.

"Honey."

"Honey? You trying to feed or cure me?"

He chuckled softly. "Cure you. My studies show when honey is applied to a new wound it keeps out infection, and when applied to one already infected it can drive it away."

"What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

"One that doesn't believe things just because someone else says so. I've seen things work—herbs, tonics— that medical books say are made-up medicine. God's pharmacy."

"And where do you find these alternative remedies?"

"I ask. Mother's especially are reliable. They pass remedies that work through the generations. Mothers, in my opinion, are the best doctors you can find."

"I wouldn't know," she said absently. Did she realize she'd spoken aloud?

Bruising on her neck was partially covered by a kerchief. "Nearly choked to death, were you?" he asked as he examined the marks. "Why were you fighting, anyway?" Whoever she'd fought with could nearly wrap his whole hand around her neck.

She started to respond but then stopped herself; he paused in his examination and looked carefully at her. He felt her pulse racing and for a moment the fierce pirate looked ... vulnerable. Impulsively he leaned toward her, intending to kiss the undamaged portion of her lips.

"BRONTE! You all right?!" Sam shouted through the door.

Bronte pulled away, stepped to the door, and jerked it open. "Everything's fine, Sam. What's in your head?"

"It got so quiet ...." Sam threw a narrowed glance at Lucien. "And I don't trust that snake," he added in a low tone.

Lucien, busily re-packing his bag, was careful to act as if he hadn't heard, though it was difficult not to smile. Of all the people to distrust, Sam chose the one who was not a pirate! He caught Bronte's eye and thought she might agree with him.

"Your captain will be just fine, Sam," Lucien assured. "I'll be going now."

"That's Mr. Davies to you," Sam said as he swaggered back to the table he'd earlier abandoned.

Lucien turned back to Bronte and said in a whisper, "Meet me tonight behind the church, an hour before sundown." Then in a normal tone he said, "Good-day, Captain Farrow. In the future, consider contenting yourself with picking on people your own size." He smiled as he gauged her reaction, and hurried to the door before she could retort.

***

As Bronte watched Lucien's hasty retreat, she was dumbfounded at what had taken place. She turned to Sam and was surprised at the strangely venomous look he wore as he stared at Lucien; a look she wasn't used to seeing on him. She glanced back at Lucien. He held the daughter's hand to his lips. She blushed deeply as he said something in that low rumbling tone of his. The girl giggled and Lucien winked as he closed the door. As Bronte watched them, she surprised herself by hoping Sam might act on his murderous look.

She replayed the recent events in her mind. Being so close to him ... alone in that room, made her heart race in an unexpected way. For some unknown reason, she'd the urge to tell him everything: her whole life story. She wanted to share with him, wanted him to understand. Why? Why did she want to tell this man, whom she barely knew, her deepest secrets? Perhaps because he already knew one. The one she never shared with anyone. Moreover, he'd had the chance to tell it twice now, and hadn't. It was such a feeling of freedom, not to have to hide from this one person. She felt like she was in a whirlwind. And then Sam: Why, when she looked at him, did she suddenly feel guilty? Like somehow, she'd betrayed him?

Bellemare's last words, those asking to meet later—she hardly believed she'd heard them. Dare she trust him yet again? It could be a trap: Lure her away from the ship while his friends overtook it. Then again, she was away from the ship now. But he wouldn't do it in broad daylight. Still, so far he'd kept his word. Should she at least tell Sam? But, if he was around, how could they talk freely? It'd be better if they were alone. The idea sent her pulse racing again.

"OY! BRON!" Sam stood in front of her. She blinked as she looked back at him.

"I said, are you gonna sit down and eat or stand there staring at the door?"

"Right. Dinner. Of course."