Lucien ignored the pain as he followed a guard down the narrow passages through the cedar prison. The air grew stagnant and moldy as they moved further inside its walls. The heavy dampness in the air clung to him. Concern for Bronte mounted as he neared the cell door. He stood impatiently as the guard fumbled with the keys, finally turning the lock and pushing the door open. Lucien rushed past him and almost stepped on Bronte, lying on the floor, as his eyes tried to focus in the darkness. She cried out in her sleep

"Don't leave me," she pleaded hoarsely.

"I'm here, shshshhh," he crooned as he knelt and gathered her into his arms. "I'm here."

Her skin was cold and clammy and her breath came in shallow rasps. As Bronte's weight pressed against Lucien's ribs a wave of nauseousness and pain coursed through him, but nothing would make him release her now.

He never would again, if he could help it.

The guard led the way out of the passage carrying only a small torch. Moaning and coughing filled the prison, covering any noise made by their exit. As Lucien carried his burden, he stumbled on a large uneven crack in the floor and caught himself by leaning on a prison door. His face brushed against the slimy steel grate momentarily. As he tried to right himself, he found a hand had reached through the bars and clasped firmly to his collar. He jerked his coat free and gathered Bronte's weight more firmly against him, but before he took a step, he stopped short as someone called his name.

"Bellemare! Dr. Bellemare!" the voice whispered.

"Who's there? How do you know me?" he asked apprehensively. To be recognized here was about the worst thing he could imagine going wrong. It wasn't only himself in danger, but Bronte as well.

"It's Sam!"

Lucien breathed a loud sigh in relief. Sam posed no danger.

"You gotta get me outta here!" His face pressed against the bars, and even in the dim light, you could see his unease.

Sam's gaze flicked to the still, heavy burden Lucien carried, and the fear for his friend filling his eyes couldn't be denied. "Bronte isn't ...." his voice died off, the thought too terrible to put into words.

"I'm taking her to my father's estate. There I can treat her and ensure her safety."

There was a brief pause as Sam absorbed this information. "Take me with you. Please, you can't leave me here!" His voice held a trace of desperation.

Lucien shifted Bronte's weight again and let out an involuntary groan as pain shot through his chest. He called to the guard. "Unlock this man as well. He's coming with me," he ordered quietly.

"He weren't parta the deal," the guard said stonily. He looked into Lucien's face as if trying to convey a message.

Lucien understood. He wanted more money. It'd taken half his money to get the guard to say Bronte Farrow died on his watch and he'd thrown the body into the lime pits. "I'll double your payment." Lucien kept his voice low so only the guard could hear him.

The guard seemed pleased with the offer but added, "I can't say this one died as well. It'd be suspicious. He'll be an escapee. I can't guarantee his safety if he stays on the island."

Lucien gritted his teeth. Things had become such a mess. He jerked his head toward the door. It was too late to change anything now.

The keys clattered against each other as the guard rattled the lock and jerked open the door. Sam wasted no time vacating the cell, squeezing his body through the door before it fully opened, as if he feared the guard might change his mind.

Sam fell into step beside him. Lucien noticed he limped heavily. Together, as swiftly as possible, they followed the road to freedom.

Dawn was breaking and its ghostly light made the shadows outside dance, creating the illusion of something lurking behind every corner. They wasted no time ducking into the waiting carriage.

As they pulled away from the jail a handsome carriage arrived, pulled by a single black mare. A man dressed in a long onyx coat and hat sprung from the carriage and stepped quickly to the jail.

Lucien watched him until they turned a corner. Something about the figure made him uneasy, but the thought was driven from his mind when Sam broke the silence.

"What kind of deal did you make with that guard?" Sam questioned.

"I paid him off. He'll say Bronte Farrow died in prison. That way no one will look for her. I admit, in my concern for Bronte, I didn't plan for your escape. I'm sorry."

"No need. You saved us both." Sam's gaze rested on his friend's pale face.

"Listen, the guard agreed to let you out, but as an escapee. They'll search the island. If they find you...."

Sam looked thoughtful. "I'll go."

"I'm sorry. If you ever come back you'll be risking your neck. Literally."

The young pirate swallowed. "I understand. Will Bronte be all right?"

"I don't know."

The rest of the ride was completed in silence as Lucien cradled Bronte in his arms, praying every rattling breath she took wouldn't be her last.

When they reached the estate, Lucien ignored the footman's offer to carry her and kept her gathered in his arms until reaching the bed in the guest room, Sam limping discreetly behind.

Lucien had ordered the room readied for Bronte's arrival when he left and was more than glad it'd been done with few questions. Sam dropped into a chair near the crackling fire and watched quietly. Gently, Lucien laid Bronte's fevered body down and placed his head against her chest. His own pain, pushed aside by the urgency of his previous task, was now kept at bay by his concern. Her heart beat at a gallop and her lungs were so full of fluid it was a wonder she was still breathing. No, he corrected himself, it was the grace of God. He'd answered Lucien's prayers.

The head of household staff, Eliza, bustled in, her chubby face showing concern.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "How is the poor thing?"

"She has Pneumonia," Lucien said as he rummaged through his medicine bag.

Eliza glanced discreetly at Bronte, a look of confusion passing over her face as her gaze glided over her attire, but like any good help, she asked no questions. "I'll find clean things for the dear," she said as she bustled out, completely ignoring Sam, who sat motionless near the fire.

"Bring a pitcher of water, as well," Lucien called after Eliza as he pulled two bottles from his bag.

Eliza returned shortly with a nightgown, followed by a woman carrying the requested pitcher of water.

Lucien took the pitcher and poured water into a glass.

"Young man," Sam looked up expectantly as Eliza acknowledged him for the first time, "help Dr. Bellemare move that screen in front of the bed," she instructed matter-of-factly. Sam muffled a grunt as he moved to comply and Lucien reluctantly put down his little bottles and did the same, mumbling about the necessity of it the whole time.

"Unnecessary! Really!" Eliza chided from behind the screen. "Have some decency!"

Lucien scooped up the bottles and placed them onto a table near the fire, taking the seat opposite Sam. He mixed components together and waited impatiently with his concoction for Eliza to give him the go ahead.

Sam studied Lucien, perhaps looking for clues to his prognosis. "What can I do?"

Eliza called Lucien. He turned to Sam. "Pray," he told him and quickly stepped to the bedside.

Lucien couldn't help but pause a moment. He was taken aback by how feminine Bronte looked in the simple white gown, rather than her standard black attire: a cutlass at her side and a brace of pistols across her chest. Her body suddenly crumpled as she began to cough and he pulled her into a sitting position until they subsided.

He needed to get her to drink the medicine.

"Eliza, pour this into her mouth while I hold her," he requested.

"What is it, dearie?" she asked as she took the glass.

"Angelica Water," he answered.

"I've heard of that. They call it 'The King's Excellent Plague Recipe'," Eliza commented. "But I thought you said it was pneumonia, dear, not the plague."

"I've found it also works well for clearing respiratory disorders," he answered, praying that would be the case with Bronte. Eliza tipped the glass into Bronte's mouth. She gagged on the last of it and Lucien held her until she quieted. Her skin burned against his body. He asked Eliza to bathe her with cool water as he laid her back on the mattress.

While Eliza set to the task Lucien collapsed into the bedside chair, exhausted from too much exertion, too soon. Then, remembering Sam's injured leg, Lucien willed himself to stand and shuffled around the side of the screen. The pirate had fallen asleep by the fire, his boyish face drawn with fatigue. Lucien didn't disturb him. Sam wouldn't be able to rest long, and Lucien regretted not having thought of a better escape plan.

Lucien pushed the screen closed and placed his chair in front of the door, so he'd be able to see them both, and no one could come in without his knowledge. He let his eyes close, just for a moment, his ears tuned to the sound of Bronte's breathing.

It was late afternoon before Sam finally opened his eyes. Lucien had dozed only for short stretches, periodically dosing Bronte with his concoction and listening for her breathing to ease. It hadn't yet. He was pulling a blanket over her when Sam cleared his throat.

Lucien watched from across the room as Sam took in the surroundings, seeming to gather his thoughts. Finally, he caught Lucien's gaze.

Sam stood as if to join him, but as the young man took a step he cried out, his face crumpling with pain; he fell back into the chair, holding his thigh.

Lucien was immediately up and at his side, the doctor in him taking command.

"What happened?" Lucien asked as he pulled a chair up beside Sam, his eyes probing the offending limb.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it. Just fix Bronte all right?" Sam waved him back as Lucien leaned over his leg.

"She's fine for the moment. What's the trouble? Did something happen in prison?"

"No, I took a sliver from the Falcon when she exploded. Dr. Carter's seen to it," Sam dismissed.

Lucien, not so easily put off, made Sam slide down his trousers so he could unwrap the bandage and inspect the wound.

"A sliver! I'll never understand why you sailors call every flying piece of wood a sliver, even when they're the size of a plank!" he exclaimed as he observed the large wound. "Though, it looks like your Dr. Carter did a good job with it. There's only a bit of redness and swelling; a mild infection. I've salve that should help it along."

Lucien stood to retrieve the medicine then asked as an afterthought, "Dr. Carter—he's your ship surgeon? He bandaged me up as well, didn't he?"

Sam nodded absently, his eyes bearing a far-off look.

An awkward silence followed as Lucien cleaned and dressed the wound.

After finishing, Lucien leaned back in the chair, trying to keep his mind off his aching ribs.

"Thank you," Sam said quietly, as he tucked his shirt back in.

"It's I who should be thanking you, Mr. Davies. I owe you and Capt. Farrow my life."

"Sam," corrected the quartermaster with half a smile. "That was all Bronte. He—she," he corrected with a shake of his head, "saved both our lives that night." He looked Lucien in the eye. "You knew, didn't you. About her."

"From the first day I laid eyes on her," Lucien agreed.

"I must be blind," Sam said with disbelief.

They both looked at her unconscious form.

"I was awful to her—in the brig, after Bartholomew told me the truth. I was so angry," Sam admitted as he turned to stare into the dancing flames, expressionless.

Lucien didn't know what to say.

"If she dies, not knowing how I really feel—if I could only explain. I felt so betrayed. It hurt to think Bronte never really trusted me. But in the end, none of that matters. She's still my best mate." Sam's voice betrayed his despair.

"Sam, I can't speak for her but if it helps, she wanted to tell you. She just didn't know how. In the beginning it might have been about trust, but she told me she was only afraid you wouldn't forgive her for lying all this time."

"I guess she called that one right. Some friend I am," Sam snorted.

Lucien leaned forward and clasped Sam's shoulder. "Pray for a miracle. When she wakes, you can make things right." He settled back in the chair and at long last, closed his eyes.

"You love her, don't you?" Sam asked rhetorically.

Lucien didn't open his eyes, surprised at how sure he was of his answer. "I do."

Sometime that evening Lucien awoke at Bronte's bedside to find Sam had gone. He prayed he'd be safe.

All through the night, Lucien stayed by Bronte's side, methodically dosing her with medicine and checking her breathing. His petitions to his heavenly Father went on without ceasing.

***

Bronte woke to the sound of indistinct voices. She'd been hearing them for some time now but had been concentrating too hard on breathing to pay them much mind. She focused her mind and kept her eyes closed as she tried to remember where she was. A large hand covered her forehead. It was cool and heavy. She opened her eyes but could only see the underside of a hand.

A woman's voice asked, "How is she?"

"Fever's down. The Angelica Water seems to have helped clear the airways," answered a male voice she was sure she knew.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the who's, where's and why's swimming in her head, trying to decide if she was in danger. As the hand left her forehead she cracked her eyes open again, but the man had his head turned away. A knock sounded at the door. Bronte closed her eyes and listened.

The familiar voice answered the creak of the opening door. "Dr. Stevens, I see Eliza ignored my request to leave you be."

A low gruff voice—Dr. Stevens?—answered, "I'd have come anyway. I said I'd check in on you, although I distinctly remember asking you to stay abed—not take on patients. Despite all that, you look considerably better than when I saw you last."

Bronte peeked again. An elderly gentleman dressed in a plain umber suit crossed the room. Her eyelids felt heavy as boulders and she could barely keep them open. Finally, she gave up the fight and decided to continue listening awhile with them shut.

"So where'd you find this one, anyway? Eliza said she feared the poor thing wouldn't recover. What have you given her?"

Bronte listened as that familiar tone answered the questioner. "I did what I could. I've given her a mixture of treacle and nutmeg along with—"

The other man cut him off. "Angelica Water, eh? That's something I might not have thought to try."

"It seemed to do the trick. The fever weakened her, but since it eased, she's been steadily improving. I won't deny, had she lain in that damp pri—place much longer, there wouldn't have been much I could do."

The woman's voice exclaimed, "Oh, isn't that wonderful! You saved her!"

"Credit the Lord for that," Lucien insisted. "After all, if I'd remained unconscious I would've never been able to offer my help."

"Speaking of that, let's get to why I came. Even a brilliant doctor like yourself needs someone to look after him. I still say you should've never gotten out of your sickbed. Put yourself at risk," the older man chided. "Sit there, by the fire, and take off your shirt."

A chair scraped across the floor then creaked as someone settled into it. Thinking they must be well occupied, Bronte chanced a glance around the room.

The room was dim. The bed she was in was large with dark wooden posts at each corner, each elaborately carved in a swirling pattern. A plump woman bent over needlework sat beside her in an overstuffed chair. Behind her, drapes fluttered from a breeze born through an open window. Seeing the woman was engrossed in her work, Bronte turned her head to watch the two men sitting at the end of the room, in front of a hearth. An older man had his ear pressed to a young man's chest, which was covered with bandages. She studied the younger man closely as the doctor straightened and looked into his eyes, and then moved to the back of the chair and unwrapped a bandage from the patients head. As it fell away, a thick mass of wavy blond hair fell into his bold, chiseled face.

It finally hit her.

Lucien!

Lucien was safe and appeared well, but what was he doing here in this room with her, and why was she so slow-witted?

She thought back to the last thing she remembered.

The cold, dank jail cell.

She'd cried out to God to forgive her wickedness. She remembered being scooped up in His strong arms. 'I'm here', he'd said and she'd looked into His deep, endless eyes, so full of love, compassion, and forgiveness.

Forgiveness.

She'd felt his complete, unfailing love, and his forgiveness.

She couldn't help smiling as she remembered, but how did she come to be here? Lucien had obviously procured her release, but how? And where was Sam? She coughed, folding her arms over her ribs as sharp pain shot through them.

"Oh! Doctors, come, come," the pin pusher exclaimed excitedly, "she wakes!" She bounded from the chair, throwing aside her needlework, and scurried to the bed.

Bronte watched Lucien approach, pulling on a loose white shirt as he made long strides. The man they called Dr. Stevens made his way around the other side of the bed.

"Well, now," Lucien said, "move aside Eliza. Let me have a look at our patient."

Eliza moved but popped up on his other side smiling and clasping her hands together. "How are you feeling, dearie?" she gushed. Bronte wasn't given time to respond. "Of course you must be feeling so much better; after all, no one's better than our Dr. Bellemare." She blushed and put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear me! Except perhaps Dr. Stevens."

Dr. Stevens pashawed her and she rattled on, "You'll be up and about soon, no doubt. I'll take you out to the gardens—oh—you will just love them! The roses smell just heavenly, and then I shall take you to see the—"

Bronte didn't get to find out what else she'd be taken to see; Lucien interrupted the prattling woman. "Eliza, would you go see Cook and bring some broth for ... ahh, the captain?" he suggested.

Dr. Stevens indicated that would be just the thing for the patient and Eliza clapped her hands and bustled out of the room, exclaiming about the interesting nickname Lucien had come up with, and why she hadn't thought of broth in the first place.

Bronte eyed Lucien as he watched Eliza quit the room, a smirk on his face. He turned back to her and their eyes locked. Bronte's heartbeat quickened and she willed it to slow as Lucien reached for a glass.

She tried with dismal success to think of something to take her mind of his handsome face and those eyes that reminded her of the sea.

Her voice was raspy from disuse as she searched for words. "How ... what...?" she rumbled.

Lucien smiled. "Do you perchance mean where? As in 'where are you'?" He chuckled.

"Mmmm," she grimaced, flinching as the other doctor leaned over to feel her forehead. She wasn't sure she liked this much touching.

"How do you feel?" Dr. Stevens asked.

"Tired," she answered honestly, never taking her gaze from Lucien. "You seem well." She labored even to get those few words out.

"I am, thanks to you," he said tenderly, a look of compassion in his eyes.

Dr. Stevens appeared confused but said nothing.

Eliza came bouncing back into the room, carrying a tray with broth dangerously close to sloshing out of its bowl. "Here we are! This will be just the thing to get your strength back," she bubbled.

Bronte asked for the water Lucien held and tried to sit up to take it. The effort left her breathless and she began to slump down again but was quickly supported by his strong arm. Lucien sat on the bed behind her and let her lean against his chest as she gulped the water he held to her lips. She drank greedily, letting rivulets of water escape down her chin.

"Slow down there, sailor," Lucien cautioned. "You should have some broth too." He took away the cup and scooped a steaming spoonful of broth from the dish Eliza had set on the bedside table.

Bronte didn't feel hungry and turned her face away.

"Come now, you need to eat something," he cajoled, but she refused again.

"Dr. Stevens," Lucien said in a falsely serious voice, "my patient will not heed her physician. What would you suggest?"

Bronte was extremely aware of the warmth of Lucien's body and the way his voice rumbled in her ear as he spoke. Was she hurting him by leaning on his battered ribs?

Dr. Stevens, who was now re-packing his tanned leather doctor's bag, looked up and grinned. "Well now, I don't know. I don't seem to be very good at getting patients to listen, myself. I wish you luck with that, and I'll be on my way." He dipped his hat as he quit the room, exchanging 'good days' with Lucien and Eliza.

Lucien smiled and said to Bronte, "If you want to get out of that bed anytime soon, you will need to eat."

Did she want to get out of the bed? She liked feeling Lucien so close. She turned her head and took the spoonful anyway.

"There now, that's a good girl," said Eliza happily. "Now what did Dr. Bellemare call you, ah ... captain? That's sweet, but of course it's not your name. Do tell me, what is it?"

"Bronte," she grated, not happy to have been called 'a good girl'. "Captain. Bronte. Farrow," she said slowly and with pride.

Eliza's eyebrow went up as Lucien brought up another spoonful.

"Bronte? That doesn't sound like any lady's name I've ever heard of," she said skeptically. "Is that what your mother called you?"

Bronte figured it'd probably send Eliza to the floor if she told her what kind of 'lady' she was, but answered softly, "No. She called me Bronteandra."

Just saying the name aloud, after not speaking it for so many years, made her feel a little like the poor, sad child who bore it.

"Bronteandra," Lucien whispered, and suddenly the name seemed less objectionable.

"Much better," a satisfied Eliza commented. "After all, we can't walk about all day calling you 'The Captain'."

Bronte wondered why not.

"Well, Bronteandra," Lucien said, "I think that's enough for now." He gently lowered her back to the pillows and pulled the blankets up to her chin. "I've got to see about a few things, but I'll be back soon. Get some rest. Eliza will get anything you need."

"Of course I will!" the plump woman giggled. "I've nothing else to occupy my time but to see you back on your feet."

So you can drag me all over smelling roses, Bronte silently added as she sighed.

Lucien smirked as he looked down at her. He must have read her mind.

"Oh, one other thing. No one besides Dr. Stevens and the household knows you're here," he paused and addressed Eliza directly, "and I want no one to repeat the name Bronte Farrow. You understand?"

"Of course!" Eliza answered, looking insulted he would insinuate she couldn't keep a secret, no matter what the reason.

Lucien made for the door but Bronte stopped him. "Wait!"

He stopped and turned.

"Sam?" she questioned simply, not knowing how to phrase everything she wanted to know.

"He's free and well, for now." Then with two long strides, he abruptly quit the room, as if he didn't want to talk anymore about it.

Bronte made a mental note to ask him about the circumstances of their escape.