The air smelled foul, Bronte was cold and wet, her head ached, and something heavy had settled on her chest. She opened her eyes and looked around. The bars of a cell came into focus. She was in the bowels of a ship. A guttering lantern hung outside the cell, dimly illuminating her surroundings. She sat with her back against the bars in about four inches of rank smelling water, her bootless feet sliding on the slimy surface of the sole. Apparently, the ship had a leak. She turned her head. Sam leaned against the bulkhead. He'd been watching her, but now turned his head to look away.

"Sam, I—" she started, then coughed and couldn't stop for a few minutes. Finally the coughing ceased and when she looked back at Sam he still wouldn't meet her gaze. It was obvious he didn't want to discuss Bart's revelation. She closed her eyes.

They spent the remainder of the journey in silence; save for Bronte's sporadic fits of coughing. Anytime she caught Sam's eyes, they seemed to spark with anger and he'd turn away. She longed to break the tension but didn't know what to say. He must feel betrayed. She wished she would've told him herself but knew she'd let many opportunities pass by. Her fear of rejection had kept her from it.

A fear now justified, for her best friend wouldn't even look at her.

Footsteps approached. Outside the cell a gruff voice mocked, "Hope you ain't got too comfy, cuz yer about ta change rooms."

Metal keys clinked together and the cell door creaked open. Bronte tried to get to her feet, but her knees buckled and she fell into the murky water. Instinct moved Sam to help, and he hurried to her side, not bothering to grab his crutch. The seaman gave him a sharp kick in his wounded leg. Sam yelped and fell against the side of the ship.

"Let the 'lady' walk herself up. She wants to dress like a man, she can act like one," he snipped.

Bronte used the bars as an aid and stood, feeling the world spin. The seaman moved aside to let her pass. She glanced back at Sam. He gazed at the jailor with narrowed eyes; his hand opened and closed, as if he wished it held something—a dagger, perhaps—as he grabbed his crutch and limped after her. The small act of camaraderie comforted her.

Bright sunlight hit her as they breached the upper deck, making her eyes water. A warm breeze wafted over. Bronte tried to pull in the fresh air, but the deep breath caused another coughing fit. Her ribs were sore. Her legs shook unsteadily as she placed one foot in front of the other. Though the day was warm, she shivered in her wet clothes.

Captain Bartholomew stood waiting on deck with a smile. "I hope you enjoyed your visit to the Blood Rose. I'd invite you for another, but, from the looks of you, you'll probably soon be another carcass for the lime pits." His address was as polite as one might address the King of England. "And I did so hope to see your pretty neck stretched."

Bronte, too weak to attempt a retort, noticed Sam was balling his fists. Perhaps their friendship was not lost. The seaman who accompanied them also noticed and kicked Sam's crutch from under his arm, bringing Sam to his knees.

Bart snickered, gave a jerk of his head, and turned to walk away. Two crewmen took Sam's by the arms, dragged him to the side of the ship, and ordered him over the side. Another grabbed Bronte and shoved her forward.

The journey took them from ship to shore, and by wagon to the gates of prison.

Bronte stared ahead blankly as the crewmen handed them over to the guards. Soon she found herself alone in a putrid cell. It was infested with vermin, stank, and had barely enough light to see, but she thought little of it. It was getting more difficult to breathe by the minute. Pain shot through her lungs as she concentrated on taking shallow breaths, to avoid coughing.

The sound of crude laughter came from outside her cell and she looked up to see two greasy looking guards boldly staring at her. They held up a piece of garnet cloth and shoved it through the bars.

"Thought you might want to change into something dryer." They laughed.

She grabbed the fabric and held it up. It was a dress—of a sort. The skirts were dirty scraps of worn material with bits of torn lace sewn to the bottoms. The bodice had barely enough material to cover a mouse. The men stood at the door leering at her, perhaps hoping she'd change in front of them. Instead, she spread the dress on the cold, unyielding floor and lay on top of it. The two men guffawed and snorted disappointedly, but turned and left.

She rolled over, putting her back to the door and let her hand fall against the damp floor. She was sweating but felt cold and couldn't stop shivering. Breathing took most of her concentration. How ironic was that? The simplest thing of all—breathing—and she could barely manage.

Bronte thought of how she'd struggled and fought to be the best at everything she tried; how important it seemed for her to prove herself to everyone. She'd been trying her whole life to convince everyone she was something she wasn't. In the end (and she believed this was the end) did it matter? Her need to validate herself had cost her everything; not just her but Sam, who'd always been a loyal friend ... and the crew who followed wherever she led. They'd trusted in her, and she'd betrayed them all.

Thinking she'd be dead before fate could carry out justice, Bronte thought only of her companions. What would become of them? And what of Sam? Blackness threatened to overtake her as she struggled to take in every breath. Being the best swordsman, the best sailor, the best strategist—wouldn't save her, now.

Lucien had tried to make her see that God wanted her for his own, that all she had to do was accept His free gift of salvation, repent of her sins, and she could spend an eternity with Him. She'd plenty of time to consider before but now, time had run out.

She'd doubted God would accept her. No one else had—save for Lucien. Others who knew who she really was had cast her out. She had feared rejection her whole life, and it was difficult to let go of that fear. She thought God would reject her too.

The verse Sam had read on the deck of Huntress a lifetime ago played over in her mind, "...Why hast thou made me thus?" A thought occurred to her that hadn't before as she recalled the rest, "Hath not the potter power over the clay...?" God was the potter, and He'd made her. He would not reject her, for He'd created her, as she was, for a purpose. On purpose. God didn't make a mistake by creating her a woman. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes as it all became clear to her. Jesus already knew and loved her, just as He'd made her. It wasn't for her to deny her worth. But was it now too late for her to accept His gift? Please, let it not be too late!

She cried out to Jesus, "Forgive my doubt Lord God, please, forgive this wretched pirate." She sobbed, "I accept your gift from the cross, unworthy as I am. I give myself to you to use as you see fit."

A peace filled her soul, and she knew He'd heard her. For the first time since that day on the dock, when she was a child parting from her mother, she cried herself to sleep. This time however, it was not because she felt cast out, but because she'd finally found acceptance. Her soul finally found home.

***

As it turned out Lucien hadn't needed to do much acting to convince anyone he was still out of it. He'd found it difficult to stay alert, as his head was pounding; and every time he fell asleep he was rudely awaked by a roll of the ship that caused his body to shift and send sharp pain through his torso. Consequently, he was trapped in a state between sleep and wakefulness marked by a haze of pain.

He was, however, aware when they reached port in Bermuda. There was a lot of shouting going on outside the cabin. Before he could make any sense of it his head started to throb and he tried feebly to shut everything out.

He lost consciousness again and when Lucien woke, he was being lowered over the side of the ship on a stretcher tied in a longboat. He listened closely for clues to where they were heading.

Eventually, Lucien realized they were taking him to his father's estate. No harm had come to him as of yet and he was hopeful that would not change.

Finally, he was settled into his own room at the mansion and was surprised to be called upon by a physician he knew.

With a valiant effort, he pushed away the murkiness clouding his thoughts. He needed to find out what his situation was. He questioned the old doctor extensively as he was examined. "Dr. Stevens! How'd you come to be in Bermuda? Where is my father?" Lucien tried not to grimace when he spoke.

"Rest easy, son," the doctor patted Lucien reassuringly on the shoulder as he unwrapped the bandage on Lucien's head. "I heard there was need of more doctors in the area and I boarded a ship headed here. I arrived with the daughter of your father's new partner." He set the bandage aside and began gently pressing on Lucien's scalp. "You should meet her. Extraordinarily beautiful girl. Anyway, I understand we arrived just after you'd left." He unscrewed a jar of ointment and applied it to the gash. "And your father's gone to London on business. Now, I've a question: How is it you've come to so much damage?"

"I was attacked, by a traitorous wretch," Lucien scowled as he spoke.

"A lucky thing Capt. Bartholomew rescued you, I dare say!" he said as he examined the stitching on Lucien's scalp. "I didn't think that fellow who cared for you aboard ship looked to be that handy, but he seems to have done a fine job of sewing this up. No sign of infection. He said he kept you sedated, otherwise I wouldn't be surprised to hear you'd looked after your own recovery!"

Lucien winced as the doctor pressed a clean bandage on the wound.

Dr. Stevens began wrapping a new bandage around Lucien's head. "Surgeon didn't do as well for the captives they took to prison. Poor souls. One was pale as death. They claimed it was a woman, but she was dressed up like a lad. I should see if they'll let me pay a visit." He rambled on as he unwrapped the bandage over Lucien's ribs, and little realized he had the young man's rapt attention. When he noticed Lucien staring at him intently, he obviously mistook the look for something else. "Forgive me, old habit. Conversation to keep the patient's mind off the pain, you know."

"Not at all. Please, tell me more," Lucien encouraged.

The doctor was silent for a few moments as he felt Lucien's ribs. More than one tender spot caused Lucien to close his eyes with a grimace, as pain and blackness shrouded his vision. Dr. Stevens watched his patient carefully and tutted as he discovered the extent of the damage. "That's all I know, really." He rewrapped the bandage tightly around Lucien's torso. "Now, stay abed and don't exert yourself. A little time and patience and you'll be good as new. I'll be back to check on you," he said as he pulled a sheet over Lucien, and then excused himself from the room.

Lucien waited until he heard him walking down the hallway and flipped the sheets back. He'd no time for rest. And patience was certainly not on the agenda. He'd plans to make, and quickly. He was certain it was not God's will Bronte die alone in prison. He'd been sent to aid her.

***

Despite the peace her soul had found, Bronte's body was giving out. As she lay on the dirty floor, she drifted between sleep and wakefulness, the weight on her chest becoming impossible to bear. She'd no concept of time and sometimes wondered if she were already dead. No, if she were dead, she'd be with her Creator and besides, death couldn't feel so miserable.

She drifted back to sleep.

Waves lapped against her feet as she stood in the middle of the ocean. The sky was a bright robin's egg blue and the sun warmed her back. A man stood at a distance amidst the waves. He smiled at her. She strained to make out his features but couldn't, save his eyes. His eyes captured hers and she stared into them. They were as deep as the ocean and warm as the sun. They looked kind and loving. She felt as if they knew each other. His arms opened wide to embrace her. As she fell into them, a wave of peace and love filled her soul. He released her, gently turned her around, and gave her a nudge.

"No," she protested.

His gentle voice rolled like music across the waves. "It's not your time. I have more for you to do."

"I don't want to leave you," Bronte cried.

"I will always be with you; I will never leave you or forsake you..."

"Don't leave me!" she cried as He faded away.

"I'm here, shshshhhh, I'm here," answered a solid, reassuring voice.

Someone lifted her off the floor. The voice repeated, "I'm here," and Bronte drifted into unconsciousness.