Bronte paced nervously on the deck of the Huntress. Coming here was a mistake. She clasped her hands behind her back and stared out toward the town. If Sam took any longer primping she might give the order to weigh anchor and be done with it. It was close to dusk and the damp, hot air pressed on her from all sides, making her hair stick to her forehead. A bead of sweat rolled down her back and she anticipated the cooler night air, bringing relief when the sun finally gave up the day ... but dreaded it at the same time.

The crew voted to find port to spend the loot they'd recently procured from a Spanish vessel. Bronte couldn't help but smile as she remembered how Sam had surprised her yet again.

Sam had voiced a complaint from one of the new crewman about sharing the ship with 'that devil of an albino'. She deferred the situation back to Sam—after all, he was quartermaster.

He'd handled it in an unexpected way. They'd been shadowing a Spanish vessel for a time and were soon to close on it. He made every sailor cover himself in whitewash. Then he had everyone stand on deck making ghostly and devilish noises as they passed. When it became clear they meant to board, the Spaniards evacuated in a manner Bronte had never seen from a vessel not afire, leaving easy plundering for the pirates.

Jamaica was near so they decided to go to Port Royal. Bronte had mixed feelings about it from the start. Her mother was somewhere on the nearby shore. She wanted to see her again with every fiber of her being, but dreaded it just as much. Bronte began pacing again. Would that man never be satisfied with his appearance? She wanted to shout at him to hurry but didn't because she feared he might. She was a mess.

Bronte had always intended to return but now that she was here, doubts crowded her mind. And what was she going to do about Sam? Ask her mother to keep the secret? Or finally be out with it? Would Sam abandon her if he knew what she really was?

She kicked a crate lying on the deck into the mainmast and it splintered into pieces.

"Blazes! What'd that poor crate ever do to you?" Sam chuckled as he finally scurried up the ladder. He was freshly shaved, and his curly hair was still damp from its washing. Black boots shined with fresh polish, and a crisp cream shirt hung loosely over his broad shoulders, lace edging the cuffs and collar. Bronte couldn't help but think him handsome as he flashed a generous smile at her.

"Fire and torment, you took your time! I nearly abandoned ship and left you to primpin'!" She tried to look impatient.

"I can't disappoint the ladies. They prefer a man with a bit of style, you know. They'll wonder what they ever did before ol' Sam showed up." He strutted up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll send a few your way."

Bronte rolled her eyes but barely suppressed a smile. He thought he knew so much about women yet couldn't tell one stood right in front of him. "I assure that will be unnecessary; I prefer to acquire my own company." She was already swinging over the side and down the accommodation ladder to the waiting dinghy.

The night was well on its way as they sauntered down the street together, taking little notice from the inhabitants. Indeed, there was nothing strange about a couple of seamen heading to the taverns and brothels.

"This place looks lively." Sam stopped before the first tavern, leaking sounds of swearing and laughter into the streets.

"No, there's another, down a ways, I heard was better." Bronte hoped she could find the little tavern she sought. She hadn't been there since she was a child and found the town of Port Royal was very different.

For one, it'd grown immensely. Even so, the town seemed—in a way—diseased. Filthy streets full of dirtier people crowded around the circular harbor, following the shoreline as closely as they could. When the Crown of England started giving Letters of Marquee to enterprising sailors promising not to attack its own, the town had boomed with marketers trying to get in on the booty. Everyone crowded in closely to the harbor, each wanting to be the first place a privateer went after disembarking with a pocket full of gold. They offered mostly liquor and women, with a dash of gambling. The lack of variety didn't seem to keep the gold from flowing freely.

Bronte was certain her own crew was busily spreading the wealth, but truthfully, she was beginning to weary of the endless circle of pillaging, splurging, then pillaging again. Why did it not bring the fulfillment she expected?

Sam brought her from her reverie as he shrugged and joined her, and she thought belatedly that she should've let him go off on his own. His presence could be a problem.

Finally, out of the darkness the building appeared. It was farther in from the harbor then she remembered and they'd twisted down a dozen alleys past buildings that hadn't been there before. The old bar seemed shrunken, the wood bleached and fragile looking. It had a hole cut in its side covered with a tattered rag, for a window. A few rats prowled nearby, sniffing out forgotten morsels.

"This is better?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Well, it was some time ago I'd heard that. Anyway, let's go on in." She smiled nervously, hoping she looked optimistic.

As they pushed open the insubstantial door foul smells of humanity mingling with savory ones of the night's meal wafted by. The dim lighting was hardly an improvement from the dark night outside. It was a tight room, though not as bad as the outside would've suggested, and moderately clean (for a tavern). Several grubby looking men stood at the bar with a scattering of others at wooden tables throughout the room. A few ladies with frilly, dirty dresses and painted faces smiled and giggled at them. Sam smirked as he sauntered toward them.

Bronte tried to appear casual while studying the room, looking for familiar faces. Sam made his way to the barman with a woman in the crook of each arm and asked for a bottle of rum. When it was delivered, he wandered off to the nearest corner with his catches.

Happy to have him so quickly distracted this night, Bronte strode to the bar and leaned against the worn wooden slab. Her nerves were strung tight and she badly wanted a drink to calm them.

She gave a backward glance to reassure herself Sam wouldn't overhear. The women sat on Sam's knees playfully tousling his carefully manicured locks and nuzzling his scrupulously pressed shirt. He was oblivious to all else.

She reached over the counter and caught the barman by the arm as he shuffled past. He scowled at her with dark puffy eyes topped by bushy dark brows. "Who's cook here?" she asked as she quickly removed her hand.

"Why? You gotta problem wit' the food?" His voice was as burly he was.

"I haven't had any. An African woman, Alice by name, still do the cooking?"

"Nope." He disappeared into the back.

He was a helpful fellow. She glanced again at Sam who still took no notice of her absence. A wintry man on her left smiled , showing his two remaining teeth. Grimacing as she noted the wiry gray hair coming out of every exposed part of his body, she gave him her attention.

"I remember me old Alice. She sure could cook," he cackled. "Can't see how a smock-faced babe like you'd even know 'bout her! She ain't been in that kitchen nigh unto ten years!"

Ten years. Was that how long she'd been away?

"What happened to her?"

"As I recall, she left after Rowland died. He us'ta own the place. Rascally feller he was and the world better to be rid of 'im, I say. Anyway, after Rowland up and died the new owner what took over had his own cook, see. So's Alice went her own way."

"Rowland died? How?" Bronte unconsciously shifted her weight and leaned in.

"See, he was a butcherly sort an' prone ta fits, ya know. So's one night he goes into a rage at one of his girls. Nothin' outta the ordinary. Anyway, he says she stole somp'in of his, or somethin' like that—no one seems to be 'xactly certain. Well, he got hisself inta a right state—then choked up and died! Fell to the floor clutching the place where his heart woulda bin, iffen he had one." Cackling, he slapped a knee at his own joke. "Some of 'em tried to say the girl done killed him, but weren't nothing to it. Blighter killed his own self." The old man's head bobbed up and down to affirm it.

"And the girl?"

"Even if she weren't no murderer, they reckon whatever she stole musta been something important, though, she swore she never took nothing o' his. They locked her up, and that's the last I ever heard of it."

"Recall you her name?" Bronte asked, her breath caught in her chest.

"Can't say I do. Common woman like that, ain't no reason to know."

Bronte's temper quickened, but turned her attention toward the bartender who reappeared through the shadowed doorway. "OY! Can I trouble ya for a drink?" she asked rhetorically.

He brought his chin up. "Sure lad. What's your poison?"

"Port."

"Fresh out." He turned his back.

"Claret?" She tried again.

"Nary a drop." He retreated through the door behind the bar.

"Madeira?" she raised her voice hopefully, but he was shaking his head before she finished. "What do ya have?" she raised her voice another octave as he continued through the door.

He poked his head out, a malicious smile on his face. "KILLDEVIL, and that be all!" And with that he was gone again.

She passed her hand over her face in exasperation. Why had he bothered asking if he only served rum?

He came back out clutching a small bottle of the stuff.

"A tankard, then." She needed something!

"No can do." He smiled in mock sympathy. "Gotta wait till one frees up."

Bronte narrowed her eyes and looked at the shelf behind him, lined with a half dozen polished tankards. "Give me one of those," she indicated with an inclination of her head.

He glanced at them. "Can't. Them's new."

She gave him a puzzled look.

He explained, as if to a child, "If I give you one, it won't be new anymore, will it? And moreover, everyone will want one and what'll I be left with?"

She rattled her head side-to-side, as if shaking it around in her brain would make sense of it. It didn't help, and only reinforced her need for a drink. "Gimme the bottle."

He handed it over as she tossed him some coin.

She pressed it to her lips, tipped it up, and emptied half before letting it down again. It spread like warm courage through her veins, fortifying her.

She looked at the bartender, staring with apparent amusement. "I'm looking for Grace. Know her?"

He smiled that grating smile again. "Aren't we all?"

A middle aged man, sporting uncombed hair and clothes that could've stood on their own, spoke from her right. His mouth was deformed by a scar running through it and down his chin. "Ain't you a mite young to be asking after ol' Gracie?"

Bronte's heart quickened. She looked him in his sickly yellow eyes, their color matching the teeth that showed through his grotesque grin. "You know her?"

"Oh, I knew her. I knew her well." He snickered. "Was a younger man then," he lamented.

Bronte's stomach turned. She took another long drink.

"Won't find her here. That murderer the old salt was tellin' you bout? That be her."

Despair, mixed heavily with disappointment and regret, replaced the courage of a moment ago. She drained the bottle.

"Still, I wouldn't mind havin' her again, murderer or thief. She were a pretty pearl o'woman-ware, that's for sure." He licked his deformed lips.

Bronte hadn't felt herself stand. She didn't notice how tightly her fist was clenched. But without a doubt she knew where to send it. She pulled back her arm and relocated it full into the man's unsuspecting face. He fell into the man behind him, spilling the other man's drink down his front—only he was more than a man. He was a giant the size of a bear.

Bronte took two steps back. She had to, to look into the giant's face. His face and head were covered with thick dark hair. The lot of it was snarled and wild. He plucked his sopping shirt away from his skin, then sent a maniacal glare at the yellow-eyed man who'd fallen to the floor. With one giant boot he lifted the man and sent him flying into the next table. Bronte's hand flew to the hilt of her sword but before she could draw the giant grabbed the front of her shirt and raised her to eye level. The tips of her boots scraped the floor. He drew back a fist half the size of her head and slammed it into her face, sending her crashing toward the wall where she slid, dazed, to the floor. In a few strides, the giant covered the distance between them and, pressing one massive hand around her throat, raised her up over his head. She pried at his fingers, trying in vain to release his grasp as the life was choked out of her. The world dimmed, and she knew it was the end. She looked one last time into the face of the ruthless attacker, searching for a trace of pity—remorse—any sign he might relent. Suddenly the man's eyebrows furrowed and his grip loosened, letting her feet touch the floor. Bronte was able to pull his hand off as the man staggered and turned toward the small crowd gathered. As he turned, the knife in his back became visible and Bronte watched him sink to his knees. Over the top of his bushy black head, she met a pair of large brown eyes, their owner's hand still extended from the throw. All sensation, having previously deserted her, came flooding back as she slid down the wall and to the floor. Her back screamed, her head pounded, and her throat burned.

Sam covered the distance between them, pulling his knife from the giant as he passed. He tucked it away before leaning over Bronte and helping her up.

"Hey, ya all right? Don't be starting any fun without me!" he teased as he wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"Sure thing, Sam. Sorry," she rasped. She could already feel the left side of her face swelling.

Pulling a handful of coins from his pocket with his free hand, Sam tossed them on the bar then helped her into the street. She leaned heavily on him; her body didn't seem to want to do as told. Sounds blended and her vision blurred. Sam was looking at her. His lips were moving. She concentrated on what he was saying.

"You gonna be all right?" He looked worried.

She pushed herself upright and snatched her arm off his shoulders. "'m..fiiine." The words didn't sound right. She tried again. "'mmmfff..."

The world tilted and her face hit the dirt. The ground felt firm and unmoving so she decided to stay. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, something was wrong. First of all, one eye wouldn't open at all, and she was looking one-eyed at—a ceiling? She raised her head; it swam terribly and she let it fall back with a groan. She went over the last thing she remembered and groaned again. The giant. She mentally checked herself over. Her right hand was stiff and swollen, from hitting that yellow-eyed vermin, she recalled. Her back ached and her neck was sore, but most of all, her face hurt. Her jaw was stiff and she had a fat lip. Her eye was swollen shut and her head pounded. From the beating—or the rum? It didn't matter; the most important thing now weighed on her. Where was she?