Darkness fell like a thick blanket, tucking the hostile weather around the Huntress. They lay on the edge of a storm, but even on the outskirts, the water picked up tempo and the waves rose ever higher against the ship as they made their way toward the cove.

Bronte held up the spyglass to gauge their progress when a flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack, illuminated a ship just off the dangerous shoals surrounding the islands. She thought at first Blake had arrived, but reconsidered. There was only one safe way into the harbor and it was apparent this ship didn't know it. Another crack, louder, sent shivers down her spine as lightning zigzagged across the sky and hit the mizzenmast of the other ship. Her heart beat as furiously as the growing storm as the fire spread through the ship's rigging and enveloped her sails. She lowered the glass but continued to stare at the growing fire, wondering if she should risk her crew to save theirs. The ship's chances of making it to safe harbor ahead of the storm were slim before. Now they were zero. The ship would go down. A deluge of rain fell, dousing the mast, but the flames had spread across the ship. When she lifted the glass again, it revealed the mizzenmast breaking off and plummeting toward the deck. She stared hard at the ship's side trying to make out her name. The letters came into view and her heart skipped a beat. It was the Falcon.

"Helmsman, alter our heading!" she shouted above the howling winds and crashing waves.

Bronte vaguely heard him repeat her order back as she shouted out the new course that would bring them to the burning ship.

Sam stomped up on her left.

"ARE YOU DAFT?!" he shouted incredulously. "We have to make port while we still can. It gets much worse and we're better off heading to sea than trying to navigate the course, not to mention, if we grapple on to that ship, the waves will beat us together until we both sink! And if by some miracle we're not smashed to bits, the fire could spread to our decks and we'll be no better off than they!"

Rain, pouring from the heavens, squelched the flickering orange light visible on the ship.

Bronte glanced at Sam triumphantly, turning the corners of her mouth up and lifting her brows.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine, no fire—we'll still be pulverized."

Bronte met his gaze and she knew he could see the storm reflected in her eyes. "I'm captain here!" she said sternly. A look of hurt crossed Sam's face and Bronte, feeling a twinge of guilt, amended simply, "It's the Falcon." Without waiting for him to respond she turned and gave the order to ready the longboat.

Sam shook his head as he tramped toward the ladder to comply. "I don't know who's the daffter. You, or me, for following your orders."

As the Huntress drew near the Falcon Bronte gave orders to heave to, drop the sea anchor, and put out the longboat. "If the longboat is lost, don't wait—haul anchor and get to shore," Bronte said as she turned to Sam. "Find me four strong rowers who'll go aboard—willingly."

Sam furrowed his brows but returned to the crew. Moments later, he reappeared with three men. Black and Cuthbert among them. "Let's be off, Captain Farrow," Sam said.

The rain slowed and the wind came down a few knots. With any luck, the storm would blow by completely. Bronte meant to leave Sam in command of the ship, but it was clear he meant to go. Bronte decided she'd rather not argue and lose the window of opportunity the storm offered.

"Away then. We've little time," she said instead.

The men rowed to the doomed ship swiftly, despite the rolling sea, and soon were climbing on deck.

"Ahoy Falcon! Out boats! Make for Huntress. Look sharp now!" Bronte ordered the various men scurrying about the ruined ship's deck, the wind whipping her hair wildly and pulling at her coat all the while.

Her men separated, repeating the order to all aboard. Sailors raced to lower boats, wasting no time abandoning the ill-fated ship. A sailor with a large brimmed hat, pulled low over his face, rushed past.

"Where's your captain?" Bronte demanded.

"Ze mizzen mast fell on 'im, 'e's dead," the Frenchman answered as he ripped his arm from her grip and hurried over the side.

Sam and Bronte exchanged glances. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

Together they moved toward the rear of the ship and found Lucien lying motionless, the smoldering mizzenmast across his chest. One end rested on the rail of the ship. It prevented the mast from completely crushing him, and gave her hope he might've survived. Bronte put her ear to his mouth but couldn't tell, with the storm raging around them, if he was breathing or not. His head lay in a crimson puddle spreading over the deck—bloodied hair was matted around a large gash, his face was ashen. She clenched her teeth and bit back a cry, then heard a soft moan. Thinking she might have imagined it, she looked anxiously for other signs of life. His hand, blistered and swollen, twitched.

She looked at Sam, hoping he'd seen what she had. He gave a slight nod. Black and Cuthbert approached.

"Cap'n, crew's off, but smoke be coming from below. Fire made it below deck afore the rains put it out. It reaches the powder room and ...." Cuthbert trailed off, not needing to finish the statement.

Bronte heard him from somewhere far off in her mind. All she could think about was Lucien.

"Grab the end of the mast," she ordered. "Now!" she shouted when they hesitated. Sam found sodden sailcloth nearby and cut a portion, wrapping it around the charred wood. The men nodded and together grabbed hold. Bronte put her arms under Lucien, preparing to pull him free. She gave a three count and they lifted the beam as she dragged him out. Grunting with the effort, they let it crash to the deck with a resounding thud the moment she had him clear.

"Get him to the boat," she ordered.

The other two crewmen were waiting as Black and Cuthbert lowered Lucien over the side. They climbed down after, leaving Sam and Bronte onboard, when Bronte heard the hissing sound preceding the explosion.

Parts of the ship splintered into pieces with a loud crack. Lurching as the deck trembled, Bronte was just able to keep her footing. The explosion was relatively minor; only a small portion of the powder must've ignited. They'd little time before the rest caught.

The smoke cleared quickly in the wind and she scanned the deck earnestly for Sam. Finally, she spotted him stumbling awkwardly near the rail. A large fragment of wood protruded from his thigh and he was attempting to pull it out.

"Hang on, Sam!" she cried anxiously as she moved toward him; but the ship heaved and he tottered over the side into the black raging sea.

In an instant, Bronte pulled off her boots and shrugged off her greatcoat, wasting no time diving into the swelling waters. Sam was an excellent swimmer, but he was injured.

The storm still hovered on the outskirts but she could sense it building in the darkness.

Bronte plunged into the surging waters and groped about anxiously for Sam. Underwater so long she thought her lungs would burst, Bronte surfaced empty handed. Immediately plunging back down, she opened her eyes wide, willing them to glimpse anything in the dark abyss, but it was useless. Again breaching the surface, Bronte took in a desperate gasp of air. She glanced at the boat. The crew had untied from the Falcon, which, she now remembered in near panic, could explode at any moment. She had to find Sam. She plunged beneath the waves again, and again came up empty.

Time was running out.

Bronte again glanced at the boat as waves crashed over it. She feared the boat might capsize if they tried to hold their position, and she wanted Lucien safely aboard the Huntress, so she waved them back to the ship. Their oars dipped into the water. She could swim back but first, she needed to find her friend. She turned in a circle to see if Sam had surfaced. A glimpse of his red coat caught her eye and she swam toward it. Sam clutched a piece of debris in the churning waters. His face was white and his breath came in gasps and sputters. Bronte feared he'd give up and sink beneath the waves before she reached him. His grip faltered and Sam didn't struggle as the sea began to claim him. Her stroke quickened and Bronte seized him just before his face disappeared into the mar.

"Got ya, Sam," Bronte said as she shoved a floating timber under his arms. He didn't respond. She wrestled the heavy coat off him, turned him onto his back and placing one arm around his neck, towed him toward the ship. Her chest burned and she'd swallowed enough water to sink a cockboat, but she was close. A ladder was thrown over the side but she couldn't tell if they'd been spotted. A feeble cry for help that didn't carry above the wind was all she could manage. Grabbing onto the ladder, she paused to catch her breath. Then, setting her jaw and gathering every bit of strength, she positioned Sam so he lay over her shoulder and pulled herself onto the rungs.

As the water released Sam's full weight, she struggled to proceed up the ladder. Her knuckles turned white as she grasped the rungs and, unable to climb any farther, she feared she would tumble back into the sea. Her grip was about to fail when someone lifted Sam. They heaved him on deck and gratefully she started clambering the rest of the way up. Two more men reached down and pulled her up, setting her on her feet. Her legs betrayed her and she fell to her hands and knees in exhaustion, her chest heaving.

A large blast sounded behind her and she turned her head to see the Falcon erupt into a massive fireball. The explosion seemed to gather the storm. The gusts grew stronger and the waves crashed high against the ship. Rain pelted mercilessly on her back.

"Cap'n., ye be all right?" someone asked.

She staggered to her feet and raked her hand through her hair. "Weigh anchor!" she ordered as she crossed to the stern. "Move aside!" she told the man at the helm. She didn't bother to look who it was—it didn't matter; she only trusted herself to get into the harbor under these conditions.

Carefully she guided the ship through the maze of reefs until they were safe at last near the shore. One good thing about the ring of cliffs was it protected them from the surging winds of the storm. As soon as she had crossed through the mouth of the opening the ship responded easily. With a few last orders, she left the helm and ducked into her cabin.

The warm, still air inside was a haven after the scourging wind and rain. The lanterns swayed from side to side casting lively shadows about the dim space. They threw their amber light onto the surgeon who leaned over a figure lying on the bed. Dragging her feet like leaden anchors across the cabin, she reached her chair and collapsed into it. She looked toward the occupied bed.

Sam and Lucien lay side by side. Dr. Carter attended Sam's wound. She raked her hand through her sodden hair absently as she watched Dr. Carter remove the last of the shards of wood from Sam's leg. His wet breeches were removed and only a sheet lay over his middle to preserve modesty. Sam was breathing, thankfully, but unconscious.

Lucien lay equally silent beside Sam. His face was still gray and head and chest hastily bandaged. His breath was slow and shallow.

The surgeon glanced at Bronte as he worked, seeming to appraise her condition. "I hope you don't mind; I told the men to bring them in here. It was the only berth aboard this one would fit into," he nodded toward Lucien.

"No, it's fine," she answered. "How are they?"

Carter sighed heavily. "Sam's gonna be fine. Swallowed hisself a barrel of sea water and I suspect he's suffering from a bit of shock, but he's young and strong; the leg should heal if he takes it easy, though it looks to have gone to the bone." He pulled a line of thread and began to stitch the wound.

She looked at Lucien. "There was a lot of blood."

The surgeon nodded, hesitating before pulling the thread through again. "Hard to say regarding the Captain. That head wound is serious. Indeed, he lost a lot of blood. I've yet to stitch it but the bleeding's stopped. The burns on his hands should heal quickly. The worst of it is several ribs on his right side are badly broken and they're cracked on the other. With all the moving between ships it's a miracle he hasn't punctured a lung. At least not yet."

"Yet?" Bronte queried anxiously, her brows shooting up in concern.

"He should keep still until they start to mend. Easy enough while he's unconscious, but if he comes 'round and tries to move...."

Lucien groaned softly as if in response.

"Well, we'll just keep him unconscious," Bronte reasoned.

Dr. Carter nodded as he finished wrapping Sam's leg in clean linen. He pulled off the remainder of Sam's sodden clothes and stretched the sheet and blanket over his bare chest and down over his legs and feet.

Bronte shivered in her chair. The doctor must've noticed.

"You'd better change into something dry," he said. "There isn't room for any more men in this bed."

Bronte snorted in reply. But how would she manage changing?

"I'll be back in a minute," the doctor said, alleviating her concern on that note, as he left the cabin.

Bronte drug her feat wearily to her trunk and pulled out dry garments; then she glanced at the two men in her cabin. Both unconscious ... but could come to any moment. I could go down to Sam's cabin ... But weariness won and she decided she was too tired to care at the moment. Turning her back, she pulled off the wet shirt and donned a clean, dry, loose-fitting top. She'd just stripped off her breaches when footsteps paused outside the door. The door creaked open as she finished pulling on the dry pair. Soft muttering came from where Sam lay and she felt the heat rise to her face. Leaving her wet clothes piled on the floor she pushed past Dr. Carter, who entered carrying a dry set of clothes from Sam's cabin.

Silently cursing herself for her stupidity, she stole a glance above deck. The crew had safely reefed the sails and the storm had moved off. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she remembering again how fortunate she was to have such a fine, brave crew. They'd be safe for the night. Hoping no one inside had seen anything amiss, she turned back to the cabin.

Dr. Carter again leaned over Sam, this time helping him put on a dry shirt. She smiled as she heard a gravelly voice. "Where's Bronte?"

Bronte approached the side of the bed and crossed her arms. "Don't you mean where's Capt. Farrow?"

Sam smirked. "If you're the captain, why am I in the captain's bed?" he croaked out innocently.

Inwardly, Bronte sighed in relief that Sam was behaving in his usual obstinate manner. Scraping the stool across the floor as she pulled it over, she sat down next to him. "Captains bed? You'd be sleeping on the seabed and dreaming of Davy Jones if not for me. Incidentally, you could stand to lose a few pounds!"

"Bah! You'd no choice but to haul me out! Where'd you be without me?" Sam teased back weakly.

Bronte chuckled, but answered seriously, "Aye, where would I be?"

Sam closed his mouth abruptly, looking puzzled. He'd probably had a tart response ready. Instead, with a jerk of his head toward his bed companion, Sam asked, "What's with him?"

"It doesn't look good," Dr. Carter responded as he poured a splash of rum into a glass, followed with another of water.

Sam stared hopefully at the rum, then furrowed his brow as the surgeon added a measure of white powder from a bottle labeled Opium, stirring the combination thoroughly.

Turning from the desk where he'd been mixing it, the surgeon offered it to Sam.

Sam eyed the concoction suspiciously, obviously wondering what the good doctor spoiled the rum with.

"Laudanum," the surgeon offered. "A sip to ease the pain and help you sleep."

Sam sighed and pushed himself to one elbow, coughing. He accepted the glass and looked into it. His expression soured and he scowled at the surgeon again before obediently taking a sip.

Dr. Carter retrieved the glass from Sam and joined Bronte on the other side of the bed, where she stood over Lucien.

It was odd to see him looking so vulnerable; deathly pale, chest barely rising, with hands turning black and purple with bruises underneath the blistering. Injuries all related to nearly being squashed by a mast. Except for the gash in his head.

"If he wakes, a sip of this should set him right," Dr. Carter said, nodding toward Lucien as he set the glass on the side table. "I could use your help dressing his hands while I stitch his head."

Bronte nodded her compliance. Trying to halt the falling mast with his hands was undoubtedly instinctive, but it wouldn't have mattered had the rail not absorbed most of the impact. Wondering why he'd been in its path to begin with, Bronte sat on the bed and took one of his large, callused hands gingerly in hers. As she covered it with salve, his fingers closed gently over hers. Bronte looked at his face. Lucien's eyelids fluttered, and he turned his head toward them, murmuring softly as he stirred. The surgeon quickly laid aside the needle and thread and reached for the laudanum. Bronte stepped to the head of the bed and placed an arm under Lucien's head to raise it as Dr. Carter brought the medicine he'd prepared to Lucien's lips. Lucien fought against it, sputtering and coughing. He cringed in pain as he folded arms over his chest, groaning when the coughing finally ceased. He'd spit most of the laudanum out.

"What a waste of rum," Sam quipped sluggishly.

Lucien's voice came in a whisper and they had to strain to hear him, " ... warn her ... "

Sam looked over from his position on the other side. "What's he saying?"

"Another sip! Hold him still so he can swallow!" Carter ordered Bronte.

Lucien groaned weakly but this time downed the medicine. He quieted, blessedly passing out again. As she eased him down Bronte looked anxiously at the surgeon.

"Hopefully he'll sleep awhile. If he wakes we'll give him more," Dr. Carter said. Bronte watched as he bent and listened to Lucien's chest. Carter gave the captain a reassuring nod, then took up the needle again.

Relieved Lucien was all right for the moment, Bronte finished wrapping his hands in linen, scowling at how clumsy it looked, then slogged across the cabin, dropped heavily in her chair, and propped her legs up on the footstool Sam had remade after she'd smashed the first one.

She was spent. Sam's eyes were drooping as well. Dr. Carter continued sewing up the gash, a look of concentration on his face.

Fortune jumped onto the bed and curled up between the two men, purring loudly. Traitor, Bronte thought as Sam reached over sleepily to scratch the cat's head. Traitor ... Lucien's head wound...? But her eyes closed and sleep pressed in on her before she could consider it further. She was vaguely aware of Dr. Carter throwing a blanket over her as she drifted off.