After their meal, Bronte made no concessions to Sam—it was time to end their stay at the parsonage. She only needed to get Alice alone. As it turned out, Sam himself broke away with the daughter as Alice escorted them to the church to give their thanks to the pastor.

Before Bronte could say anything, Alice turned and faced her. She said nothing for a moment as she stared into Bronte's eyes, then placed her palm against Bronte's cheek. "If only your motter could see ya now."

Bronte started. The woman had previously given no indication she'd recognized her. "You know me, Alice?"

" 'Course, child. I knew the moment you opened those stormy eyes. No one's got eyes like my Bronte."

Bronte looked to ensure sure they weren't overheard. Sam was a good distance away, reading to the parson's daughter from the French poetry book.

"Why'd you keep silent?"

"You think old Alice couldn't see ya be foolin' yer young friend? Though I don't know why."

"It's easier this way."

"Do ya be havin' feelins for him, now?" Alice asked gently.

Bronte's face took on a stunned, horrified look. She glanced back at Sam. He was trying to sneak his arm around the young lady. "Sam?"

"But ya do be havin feelin's for dat handsome doctor. Don't deny it, I saw it when you come outta dat room. Now he be knowin' your secret, don't he?"

"Aye, he knows."

As they talked, they continued walking around the church and stopped on the far side, the place Lucien asked to meet. It was a graveyard. Bronte was surprised he'd want to meet her here of all places.

"I thought you'd want to see this." Alice paused beside a wooden cross, slightly weathered. It bore a name and a date.

GRACE BENNET

1664

RIP

Bronte's knees buckled and she knelt at her mother's marker. "What happened Alice, after I left?"

"Rowland got angry, when he found you gone. He beat her bad. Would've killed her 'cept his heart gave out in da middle of it. I found him lying dead on de floor."

"They say she took something from him."

Alice nodded. "You."

Bronte swallowed.

"When they took 'er to jail I found a kind pastor, like dis one, to vouch fer 'er and take 'er in. She never recovered and died a few months later, but not before pastor told 'er the story from de Good Book, 'ow Jesus don't care where you come from; if you give 'im yer heart he be makin' it like new again."

"And my mother, she did that?"

"She did. She never stopped crying fer you. Not from de moment you left. 'Er motter's 'eart were broken," Alice told her in a soft, sad voice.

"Why'd she do it? Why'd she send me away? Alone. Why didn't she leave with me?" Bronte tried to keep the pleading from her voice.

"She were afraid. Rowland would've made you 'is own like 'e did 'er. De world is not a friendly place fer a woman wit'out a man. And she thought Rowland would stop 'er if she tried to go wit ya. But ya never were an ordinary child." Alice put her hands on Bronte's shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "She knew ya didn't belong in dat place. Not as no common 'arlot. And she knew you had de courage and strength to make someting of yerself."

"But I didn't. I never went to the colonies to live with her aunt like she wanted. Don't you want to know how I ended up like this?" Bronte spread her hands, overwhelmed by Alice's statement.

"Old Alice put da pieces together, child. I was watching when you sneaked aboard dat pirate ship, instead of de merchant's. But you 'ave made something of yerself. You just don't know it yet." She put one hand on Bronte's cheek.

Bronte started to ask what she meant, but was interrupted by raised voices from the front of the church. She hurried around the corner.

Sam and the girl were facing each other. The girl raised a hand furiously and slapped him hard across the face.

"...pig-headed, woman-chasing, scoundrel!" the girl shouted as she turned and stalked into the church.

Sam stood planted, looking indignant. "I most certainly am not! I'll have you know I'm a charming, self-assured, God-given gift TO ALL WOMANKIND!" he shouted as she slammed the door.

The door remained closed long after he finished his statement, leaving only silence to be heard by a bemused Bronte and scowling Alice.

Sam turned to them and put his hands up in exasperation. He looked at the book in his hand with disgust, as if it'd been the thing that insulted him.

"Problem?" Bronte asked.

"I dunno. I only read one of these poems to her and she got all huffy."

"Since when can you read French, anyway?" Bronte asked.

"One of the tavern girls went over parts of it with me." He looked at the book with disgust again and shoved it at Bronte. "You have it. I've got to get my things from the tavern. You coming?"

"Go on, I'll catch up."

He turned without hesitation and stalked off.

She turned back to Alice. "I have to go."

Alice embraced her. "You come back and visit old Alice when ya can."

"I will." Bronte hugged her tightly.

"And you be bringin' dat good-lookin doctor with ya when ya do!" Alice pointed a finger threateningly at her.

"I wi—what?" Bronte furrowed her brows, thoroughly confused.

"Alice knows," the old woman said as she patted Bronte's cheek. Then she turned and disappeared into the church.

***

Bronte and Sam returned to Huntress, sending word for their crew to rejoin them aboard.

Gradually the ship filled up, every member returning, though some looked a little worse for wear.

Bronte kept one eye on the sun, watching as it slowly sank in the sky. Trying to decide what course she'd lay.

***

Lucien waited anxiously in the churchyard for the pirate to show. He hadn't known exactly what impulse possessed him to ask her to meet at all, but now that he feared she mightn't show, he was disappointed.

Just when he decided she wasn't coming, the wind carried the smell of leather and salt to him.

He looked at her silhouette in the fading light.

"Strange place to meet a person," she said as she looked around at the tombstones.

He smiled. "It was the first place I thought of where we might have some privacy. I didn't think you'd want to meet in a crowded tavern."

"And why, by cock, do we want to meet at all?" She stood before him, arms crossed, leaning to one side.

Her fierce attitude only enticed him more. He reached toward her and she froze, her hand poised over her rapier, but he only brushed a lock of raven hair gently out of her bruised eye. The sensation sent tingles up his spine. "I don't know," he answered, genuinely puzzled at his own actions.

A loud buzzing sounded nearby and Bronte started, drawing a pistol as she turned.

The doctor laughed as he put a hand over her arm and lowered the gun.

"Relax. Just a hummingbird," he assured the skittish pirate.

Bronte frowned. The tiny bird darted this way and that, stopping, then shooting off again. It flew in a circle and paused in front of her, studying her as much as she was it. It had a slender red bill, standing out all the more against its bright chartreuse breast, with a forked blue-black tail at least twice as long as its body.

"It's called a doctor bird," Lucien said. "He's looking for a safe place to spend the night."

"Well he can quit looking here!" she said, and the little bird obligingly flew off, landing in a small flowering tree. "What'd you call it?"

"Doctor bird. It seems each little island in the Caribbean harbors its own species of hummingbird. I try to find them whenever I come ashore. In Santiago, there's one the size of a bee. I almost squashed one. And back on Bermuda, there's one with feathers bright as rubies at its throat."

Bronte looked curiously at him. Why was he babbling about birds? "I'm sorry, you must be wondering why I'm acting like a buffoon," he said.

She smiled, then asked suspiciously, "What moved you to keep my secret? You want something from me?"

"No. I mean yes. I don't know." He shook his head and rubbed his hand over his face. "Actually, I was hoping to bargain a berth aboard my—your ship with a Letter of Marquee." After their meeting at the parsonage, Lucien went to see the governor, Thomas Lynch. He passed on his father's regards and discussed some of his father's business dealings with the man. Remembering how he'd denied help to Governor Wentworth, he'd little hope the man would go along with the scheme Lucien had formed after his meeting with Bronte. But he still had to try.

He was a man of his word, but even so hoped to regain his ship in some fashion or another. If he got a Letter of Marquee, he could secure a partnership with Farrow. Together they could sail the West Indies and take prizes, stopping to help the sick in various ports. And he had to admit, the idea of sailing with her set his pulse racing. It was a good plan, but he'd left without anything to show for it. Lynch wasn't in the business of privateering.

"I didn't succeed," he said at last.

Bronte raised her eyebrows. "You're still trying to think of a way to get the ship?"

"Only to share ownership. I admit, I would rather have it to myself, but that seemed the next best thing." This wasn't the complete truth. He liked the idea of sharing with her.

Fireflies came out of their daily hiding places and flew lazily in sloppy patterns, flickering in the humid night air. Caught in the fiery insects' dance, they watched the points of light chase after one another for a few moments. Rain began to fall gently, the pattering sounding all around them. Without hesitation, pirate and gentleman doctor settled on a little bench under the canopy of a flowering tree, leaning their backs against the outer wall of the humble church.

***

"Truly, you did not follow me to Port Royal?" Bronte asked for lack of a better question. She wasn't sure how to act with this man who knew her secret. It felt unnatural.

"No, I swear. Business only led me here," he said with a catch in his voice.

He sounded guilty.

She looked at him.

He looked guilty.

He continued, "I stopped back to pick up my captain. I left him to recover from scurvy when I went to intercept you off the coast of Curacao."

"Had he scurvy?" she asked suspiciously.

Lucien coughed. "It could've been an early stage. Staying land-bound is the best cure."

"How'd you know where to lay your trap?" she asked.

"Ships with blue sails might be hard to see, but they're not hard to track," he said simply. "Once I knew what I was looking for it was easy."

Bronte was pleased by this. If her ship was already making a name for itself, it would make potential prey easier to take.

"You dislike working for your father, don't you?" Bronte asked, certain she was right.

He gave her an appraising glance. "Some rascally pirate put a delay in my plans. I'll have to do it until I save the funds for another ship," he said without relish.

"If you're trying to make me feel guilty it's not working. I'm won't give the Huntress back—she's mine."

He chuckled. "I wasn't. You've won. The ship is yours, free and clear."

Bronte appraised Lucien a moment. She'd lied. She did feel a little guilty. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her coat to warm them and brushed her hand against Sam's book.

"Here," she said as she drew out a book, "forgot I had this. One of your men might make use of it. Sam said some of the girls thought it witty."

Lucien spared only a glance at the cover before sticking it in his pocket. He seemed too busy staring at her to pay it much notice.

"Does that fellow Sam really not know you're a woman? He must be really thick."

Bronte snorted. "No, just very trusting," she said, bemused.

"You should tell him. I think he'd be all right with it," Lucien advised sincerely.

"I'm not sure he'd forgive me for lying all this time." Bronte's shoulders slumped, heavy with burden. Then, to change the subject, she said offhandedly, "You know, he really does like everyone. Everyone but you. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. Guilty conscience, maybe?" Lucien suggested.

"I hadn't thought of that. He's a good soul," she said. "Best mate I ever had."

They sat quietly for a few minutes listening to the dripping rain.

"You're really not going to tell anyone, are you?" Bronte repeated.

"Everyone has a right to their secrets. Only Jesus is privy to many of mine."

"Jesus? You mean the person in your Bible; The one I found onboard."

"Yes, only He's not just a person, He's God. Might I have it back?" Lucien asked abruptly.

"No," Bronte quickly answered.

"No?" Lucien questioned as he turned his body to face her.

"No. It's mine now. All contents are part of the ship." Bronte crossed her arms in a challenge.

"If you want it so much, I give it to you freely. If you ever have any questions about it please don't hesitate," Lucien said, turning back.

Bronte looked at him sideways but said nothing.

"I want to ask you something." Lucien sounded apprehensive.

"Aye. What is it?"

"Was it you, or Sam, who killed the guards the night you stole the ship?"

Bronte was affronted. "We didn't kill the guards. We sent one on his merry way, and the other," she sighed and looked away, "the other was with us."

"One was in on it? Well, that explains why we only found one body. He was stabbed. I thought maybe Sam, but ...." Lucien shrugged his shoulders, as if he couldn't think of an alternative for the guards demise.

She was getting irritated at him. "By thunder! I told you—he was alive and well when we pushed him off."

"All right, all right. I believe you." He held his palms out in front of his chest.

"You do?" Bronte was surprised. What did he mean? Trusting her like that?

"Yes, somehow I do." He smiled. "You certainly found yourself a good place to hide. The governor's ship was out looking for months!"

"Near St. Kitts there's a little group of islands. One looks like nothing but an uninhabitable ring of sheer cliffs, but if you find the little opening, inside there's a hidden harbor. The reefs make a dangerous maze but I have them well charted." Bronte was surprised she found it so easy to reveal the location of their hideaway to him. It felt right to tell him. He didn't seem to be trying to pry, but held a genuine interest.

Bronte reached up and broke off a branch of the lovely pale-blue blossoms covering the tree.

"Ligum Vitae," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"Sorry," Lucien apologized. "Sometimes I can't help myself. The tree. Its sap is thought to be a cure for syphilis. I should collect some while I'm here." He looked over the trunk.

She looked askance at him and wondered if he was always so odd. "Sam likes to use this wood for pulleys and such. You can make ink with it as well." Bronte felt the need to let him know she was educated, too.

Bronte walked to her mother's grave and gently laid the flowers on it. Conscious Lucien was watching, she turned and sat back beside him, so as to not have to look at him.

"My mother," she answered his unasked question.

He reached out and turned her face toward his. "I lost my mother, too," he said as he cupped her chin.

Bronte looked into his eyes. They seemed full of understanding. "I thought, not so long ago, I'd everything I ever wanted. Now, I don't seem to know what I want."

"Odd, I feel the same," he said, his voice but breath.

Slowly their faces drew together, like the unyielding ocean tide drawing steadily up a beach, and when their lips met all reason fled. No longer was there any thought of pirate or merchant—gentleman or thief. Lucien's lips were soft, warm, and full of electricity. He put one hand behind her head and she followed his lead, the kiss deepening. It seemed to Bronte as if the rest of the world, and all its pain, dropped away. Bronte thought she might understand the allure Sam was always going on about.

The rain continued its gentle patter on the leaves, sounding like tiny drums beating in time with the thrumming of their hearts, as the kiss went on, growing more passionate. Finally, they broke apart, and Bronte stared again into Lucien's blue eyes, now sparking with passion. A muffled scrape from the other side of the church wall called her back to attention.

Someone was eavesdropping.

Bronte stood, and in the barest whisper told a confused-looking Lucien to talk.

"About what? Where are you going?" he asked, not at all understanding the change in situation.

"Spout off more doctor gibberish! Whatever you do, don't stop," she breathed as she quietly snuck around the corner.

Lucien began talking about other uses for tree sap as she edged around the front of the church and slipped through the door.

A figure crouched against the wall with an ear pressed to the wood. Bronte raised her pistol and took aim but before she could fire, someone opened the door behind her.

"NOT IN THE HOUSE OF GOD, MAN!" Pastor Matthews shouted. "PUT THAT WEAPON AWAY!"

Alerted to her presence, the eavesdropper bolted, shoving Bronte into the pastor before she could make another move. There was just enough light to vaguely mark  his appearance: average height, light hair tied back, and a kerchief pulled over one eye. However long he'd been listening, he was sure to have heard something she didn't want him to.

Bronte disentangled herself from the blustering pastor as Lucien came bounding through the door.

"Hang it all! After that bilge-sucking weasel!" Bronte admonished as she righted herself, gesturing into the street while ignoring the pastor's indignant tutting.

"Who?" Lucien said as he turned and looked back out the open door.

Bronte pushed past him and bolted through the entrance. She looked around, but in the darkening night and the falling rain, she could see no one.

"Someone was listening in on us," she stated to Lucien who'd come up beside her. Bronte wiped the rain from her face abruptly, flinging the droplets into the mud, angry that kept her from tracking effectively.

"Is this how you repay my kindness? With violence in God's house?" the pastor admonished from the doorway, waving his hands in disgust.

"Apologies, Reverend. I'll be on my way and won't trouble you again." Bronte turned sharply and left the churchyard.

To her surprise, Lucien followed. She did not dissuade him.

They exchanged ideas about who the eavesdropper might have been. Lucien volunteered to help look about the town to see if they could find the spy. Gradually, without a hint of the eavesdropper anywhere, despite hours of searching, they lapsed back into candid conversation.

The rain subsided and they now walked along the coast, the waves a soothing backdrop to their conversation. They spoke of how Bronte's past had led to her currant vocation and of Lucien's future plans. Sometime deep in the night they lay in dry sand looking at the stars and conversation turned to their Creator.

"Alice said my mother found Jesus before she died. What did she mean?" Bronte said as she lay in the cooling sand.

"The Bible says all who seek shall find Him."

"But what does it mean?"

"Think of it like asking Him to be captain of your ship—" Lucien began.

"Things didn't work out too well with my last captain," Bronte reminded him, having told him this same night of how she'd been discovered by her last captain and brought to work at the shipwrights.

Lucien looked at her appraisingly. "God already knows you're a woman. He made you."

"Fine. I ask Him to be captain of my ship." She played along.

"Listen closely and He'll guide you through the waters of life. He'll tell which direction to steer, whether to turn east or west," Lucien explained.

"And if I don't want to go where He's telling me?" she wondered, thinking it might be a difficult thing to do after having lived so independently.

"You always have a choice—He won't force you to follow His direction," Lucien stated, as he looked at her carefully.

"Will He punish me if I don't?" Or dump me off at the nearest port?

"If you were sailing through some shoals with your crew, and they didn't follow your orders, what might happen?" Lucien asked carefully.

"Lots of things. We could tear a hole in the hull and sink or run aground and be stranded," she answered easily.

"And would that be you punishing them?" he asked, turning his head to catch her gaze.

"No, just the result of their own stupidity."

Lucien smiled at her word choice. "And so it is with us. He'll guide us through any storm and get us to our destination even when the winds blow against us; but, we have to listen continually for direction lest we're blown off course. If we are, we must face the consequences of our choices. A lesson I've had to learn again and again."

"Sounds difficult," Bronte said.

"For those of us who like to lead I think it's even harder. But remember this: Even when we make mistakes, He never abandons us."

The horizon paled to the telltale graying before dawn and Bronte left him, promising to meet soon in Bermuda. Bronte returned to her ship a different person than the one who'd captained it only a few days before. Her mother was dead. And free. Her enemy was now a friend. Maybe more. And God. What was she going to do with Him?