Summers On The H.M.S. Bellicose

by Jaya Mitai

"Lieutenant Summers."

The blue-clad officer didn't respond at first, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for the officer and the sailors to steady the rowboat before attempting to climb the ladder built into the hull of the frigate. The black hat of his office obscured much of his face, and a surprisingly silver ponytail danced softly in the twilight breeze blowing off the Spithead.

Midshipman DaCosta stepped back to allow the officer on board, his surprise evident beneath the stubble that seemed a constant these days, with the seas as rough as they'd been. They'd been under the impression that Admiral Summers' boy was much younger, no more than twenty, surely not as ancient as his hair implied.

He moved with a lightness and spring that took the midshipman by surprise, almost seeming to float up the hull and aboard the Bellicose before he had time to move to the side and he hurried to salute properly.

"Welcome aboard the Bellicose, sir."

The lieutenant finally glanced up, his eyes the lightest blue shade of a small thundercloud, wrinkles around them born of long hours in the crow's nest, ancient as Gibraltar. Yet his face was that of a very young officer, nineteen or twenty at most, his mouth bending almost naturally into a smile at the midshipman's hurried salute. Summers' surprisingly tall frame was more than imposing in the blue coat of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, and as his mouth straightened, his regal features reminded DaCosta very much of his father.

Summers nodded once to the midshipman, but his eyes were only for the quarter-deck and he hurried towards the still, straight form of Captain Blacksmith, at parade rest, his strange, sad eyes following the lieutenant as he crossed the deck.

It was only then that DaCosta noted that he hadn't been whistled on board.

The lieutenant didn't seem in the least put off by the cold welcome, hurrying up the ladder to the quarter-deck before removing his hat, revealing a head of hair as silvering as the ponytail had hinted. Summers' tucked the hat beneath his right arm and stood at attention, merely waiting, again showing surprising patience considering his high birth and station as an officer.

* * * * * * *

Captain Blacksmith kept him waiting a long time, watching the rowboat unload several of the sailors before hurrying back to port as the Bellicose remained where she was, anchored just outside Spithead. The crew was on deck, to welcome their new lieutenant, and remained absolutely still, well used to such behavior, then, Summers' noted. He'd have to get accustomed to this captain rapidly, if he expected to receive a good report. It was his father's reputation he carried on his shoulders, but it was a burden he welcomed, if it came with the navigational skill and tactical genius of his dad.

So far, so good. His midshipman's stint had come off without hitch, and he half expected the committee had given him his current office half in fear of the Admiral's wrath. He almost smiled as he waited on the still, elevated quarter-deck. Very few people had ever met the Red-Eyed Admiral Scott Summers, since he kept his officers and crew alive, and the Phoenix was the only frigate in the British navy that had a crew of voluntarily joined sailors rather than impressed or prison-coverts, so the sailors it took, it kept.

It was also the most loyal crew in Her Majesty's Navy, and more than a legend. The ship was only seen during battles and occasionally by supply ships. Few captains were brave enough to request permission to board her, and fewer to speak at ease in the Admiral's presence. Despite Scott's protests, the crew often exaggerated his behavior, both during battle and at times of peace. The most recent story had caught Nathan's ear quite by accident in the tavern he had left just last night. It involved the irate admiral having one of his officers keelhauled for attempting to punish the cook's mate for a weevil found in his hard roll.

And not just keelhauled, but rested and hauled again, and the process repeated until the officer drowned, somewhere during the fifth trip across the barnacled hull of the Phoenix.

Nate had resisted the urge to step in and tell the men they were mistaken, but now regretted it, as several of the sailors that had both been in the tavern and brought him to the Bellicose had climbed aboard, clearly part of her crew. The rest of the bunch continued to wait expectantly, most staring at Nate with a mixture of fear, worship, and disgust. A few refused to meet his eyes, while the majority gave him a polite nod. Several met his eyes challengingly, almost hostile, and he memorized their faces quickly before passing over them for the next. He'd learned as a midshipman that impressed sailors found in him a value far exceeding that of ordinary officers.

_That_ was a mistake he never intended to repeat.

Eventually Captain Blacksmith turned to him, studying him with eyes not befitting a captain of Blacksmith's reputation. Those eyes were large, soft, and exceedingly sad, dark in a tanned, hard face, thus very out of place. They seemed to take everything in, a liquid quality to them that gave the captain a perpetually weeping expression, as though on the verge of loosing tears. The hard, cold face was in direct contrast with it, and Nathan found himself wondering if the man was as contradictory in personality as in appearance.

Those dark, liquid eyes took him in from head to toe, then turned back to the crew dismissively.

"Get them back below," he announced, quietly, and the midshipman turned to the crew.

"All hands, get below! Enough gawking, we've a war on the 'morrow."

Obediently the crew proceeded, though rather noisily, and Nathan kept the corner of his attention on the seven men he'd singled out as aggressive. Unsurprisingly, they moved in a group towards the ladders, one talking quietly while a few others nodded. None were foolish enough to glance his way, and he mentally made note of their suspected leader as he continued waiting.

Blacksmith watched the crew go, then turned, and in a casual stroll wandered to the helm of the massive frigate. Nathan waited a moment, then followed him at a distance.

When the captain had reached the bow of the ship, above the magazine, he stopped, eyes obviously on the low-hanging, sallow moon.

"An omen," he murmured in a surprisingly quiet, almost gentle voice, and Nathan took several strides towards him, in order to better hear. He noted with some surprise that the other officers on the quarter-deck nodded to each other and then departed. Leaving him alone with the captain.

Here it comes, Nate thought, and adjusted his hat beneath his arm, fingers going unconsciously to twiddle the sixth button from the bottom of his waistcoat, the one his mother had recently sewn back on, just before his examination. For his part, the captain didn't seem to notice.

"We battle the French often, and needlessly. She knows our navy far surpasses hers." The captain paused, leaning on the bow rail in a slouch. "Tell me, Mr. Summers, why do you suppose she continues to fight us?"

Nate felt his eyebrows rising on their own. Another examination? Strange question, at that. He cleared his throat, ticking down the list of characteristics that made a man seem confidant of his answer. Back straight, support the voice, project, be sure of your words.

"I would assume, sir, it is because France does not wish to be submissive to the wishes of Her Majesty."

"So it is a matter of nationalism, these wars?"

Nathan kept still, kept straight. This was _worse_ than the examination, and he glared as his fingers playing with the button. Nervous habit he'd have to drop, and soon, before the hostiles in the crew noted it.

"I think that nationalism has to do with their militant nation, yes, sir."

"Has to do. You insinuate that there is more."

"Yes, sir. I believe France's natural antipathy towards Britain is more complicated than mere nationalistic tendencies."

Blacksmith turned, his eyes seeming larger as his face fell in the shadows of the twilight. "We established that, Summers. Humor me, sir, with your full opinion." The tone was condescending in the very slightest, but still gentle, and remarkably quiet, given what he had heard.

Then again, the stories circulating about his father should have taught him never to believe scuttlebutt.

His full opinion . . . ? France's nature hadn't exactly been something he had spent more than an hour contemplating. At a loss, he caught himself defying his list of confidence characteristics with an uncertain, "Well, sir -"

"Tonight, if you please. We have a battle early tomorrow, and I would like to get at least some rest this evening."

"I believe that France has a very strong national sense of pride," Nathan decided slowly. "I believe that our first skirmishes offended that pride, and France fights constantly on principle, much for the same reason that the British see it as our duty to put them down at every opportunity, and demonstrate the far greater power of our navy. It compares to two proud gentlemen starting a feud that leads families to hate one another for centuries."

Blacksmith's head tilted in a very heron-like fashion, and in the near darkness it was impossible to gauge his expression. At length, he spoke.

"Goodnight, Mr. Summers. Midshipman DaCosta will show you to your quarters. You will meet the officers early tomorrow morning, and the crew at your leisure. Learn the faces and names well, and you will earn their respect. Fail in this, and they will make life here for you more difficult than a French prison term."

And without another word, the Captain left the quarter-deck and his new lieutenant in the company of the yellow, sick moon.

* * * * * * *

The midshipman that had welcomed him aboard was waiting as he climbed down the quarter-deck, and nodded to him.

"This way, sir."

Summers followed the man below deck, past the sailor's quarters and a surprisingly large number of Marines.

"Why so many soldiers aboard the vessel? A frigate this large isn't built for boarding."

DaCosta ignored the question, not even having to duck beneath the body of the ship as Nathan hunched his way through the bowels of the large frigate. The officer's deck was smaller even than the Phoenix, and he'd had a terrible time with this one low beam -

He ducked through a doorway, noting the large amount of tarring done to the interior of the wooden ship. It really was excessive, and without a cargo of water or liquids, it seemed entirely unnecessary. He filed that question away as another, far more important one came to mind.

"Tell me, midshipman, what happened to the officer I am replacing?"

DaCosta's only response was a gruff, "Ask the captain." He didn't allow Nathan any more questions after that, prattling on about the ship. Officer's mess, sailor's mess, the hold, and various other incredibly obvious rooms to a trained midshipman.

Hardly reassuring.

His quarters were not surprising. A single hammock in the center of a room barely larger than a walk-in closet, a single dresser bolted to the floor, and a mirror, also bolted, to the wall. The ceiling was nearly five feet high, unheard-of luxury for the common sailor but of little comfort to an over six foot man.

At least _that_ was reassuring.

"I'll wake you for officer's mess. I don't expect you'll be used to rising so early."

Nathan didn't allow himself to bristle, but he turned, coldly, and stepped in front of the midshipman, effectively blocking his escape from the cramped quarters.

"And what," he said, very distinctly, "was that supposed to mean, sir?"

The midshipman met his eyes very neutrally. "I meant no offense, sir-"

"You surely did, sir, and let me make this clear. My previous captain was Foster. Have you heard of him, _sir._"

DaCosta met his eyes only shortly before dropping them, bringing up a thumb to scratch the side of his nose. "Yes sir."

"You would assume, then, I was not coddled. Wouldn't you."

"Aye. Sir."

"I would be used to rising early and bedding late, then, wouldn't I, since I served six months as his midshipman. Wouldn't I. Sir."

"Aye, sir."

"There will be no need to trouble you to wake me, midshipman. Have a good night."

"Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

The midshipman saluted smartly, stepping around Summers with the same neutral, absolutely expressionless expression.

And Summers knew it was going to be a long service.

* * * * * * *

The next morning found the majority of the officers supping on vittles that were far above the usual fare of the sailors, and included salted fish, fresh beef, real eggs, and moldless cheese. The bread was still reasonably soft, and he found the servings quite satisfactory.

With a battle upcoming, he would be surprised if rations stayed at this standard. When fresh rations were to be had, sea life was bearable. Two months at sea with no supply ship would see them chewing a mouthful of rice and bread too hard to eat.

Several of the officers again welcomed him with customary courtesy, a few nodding, and the rest ignoring him like one would ignore a slave or servant bustling around the table. The captain was nowhere in sight.

It wasn't long before he'd taken his food and retired with a polite nod, straightening his uniform as he made his way up the seven stairs to the quarter-deck, taking his place at the captain's left as Blacksmith oversaw the loading of the last of the supplies.

Some chickens in coops were being offloaded as the last small schooner floated beside the Bellicose, and to Summers' surprise, five women followed them on board, in varying heights and clothing.

"Captain, are those wives of the crew?"

Blacksmith watched them for several moments. "No, they're passengers, Summers. It will be your duty aboard the Bellicose to keep them happy and off my deck."

Summers felt his eyebrows lifting again, apparently by themselves. "Sir, we're going to battle the French ­"

"I'm well aware of our intentions in this campaign, Lieutenant."

"Taking passengers ­"

"Your opinion has been noted, Mister Summers'."

He resisted the urge to shake his head, clasping his hands behind him before he twisted the button off his pristine uniform.

"What shall I do with them, if I may ask, sir?"

The Captain turned that cold, hard face towards him, the liquid eyes seeming black gold set upon it. "Keep them happy. They're mostly women of science, they should be immersed in their reading. As soon as we clear the French and Spanish barricades on the mouth of the Mediterranean, we are to drop them off at ports in Greece, Egypt, and Italy." He paused a moment as a crew member passed by, coiling rope on his way to the foremast.

"You are to keep them as safe as humanly possible. I do not want them harassed by this crew, and should the blockade be more heavily armed than reports, we could be on this ship for months. I trust you're capable of protecting the interests of five women?"

Slightly surprised, Nate nearly jumped as a man shouted "Supply ship away!" He covered the tenseness with a shifting of his weight. "Aye, sir."

The captain ignored his movement. "The shortest is a chemist by the name of Priscilla Karpenter. She carries with her several of the Navy's top weapons secrets. See to it that her access to the ship is restricted to the topdeck and officer's deck."

"Aye, sir." Nathan took her in, a tiny thing, no more than an inch over five feet. Her stay in the officer's deck would be very easy, she wouldn't even need to duck. Her baggage was compact and not overly pretentious, and her hazel eyes were clear and very interested in the crew. Her honey-colored hair was tucked back in a loose but serviceable bun, her clothing simple and very efficient for a sea voyage. After shaking her head, she turned to the crewman with her trunk and began an animated discussion.

"The second woman you see is a historian, the Lady Aliya Marcosinovf. Of Russian royal descent. Her father was an archeologist in Egypt for some time, and she is to be taken as close to Cairo as the Spanish will allow. She speaks English with surprising ability, and Latin as well. I know your own studies tend into that region, you should have no trouble striking up a conversation."

Nathan could not see much of her around the hideous amount of luggage she had brought along. Conversation? This was hardly the type of job to give a lieutenant, even a newly active one.

"The tallest of them is a woman of birth by the name of the Lady Loreena." She was also the most busty by far, nearly coming out of the extraordinarily low-cut gown. She had brought a man with her, a tall, dark figure with a scimitar on his hip and several pistols beneath his coat. The man was topping six feet and screamed of protector.

"She is accompanied by her servant. I think accommodations will have to be made for him on the crew deck. See to it that she does not protest."

"Sir?"

Blacksmith ignored the question. "The second tallest woman is a lawyer by the name of Dawn Cooper. Her father is a general in His Majesty's Army, and she is to be taken to Italy without delay to argue a case for several Marines engaged in scandal there." The dark-haired woman was flashing remarkably green eyes as taking everything in with interest.

"A _woman _ lawyer arguing for His Majesty's - !"

"Do you have a hearing impairment, Lieutenant?"

There was a short pause. "No sir."

The lawyer in question was dressed in pants ­ pants! ­ and a white blouse that didn't so much as show off her curves, as in the Lady Loreena's case, but hinted subtly at what was underneath. She wasn't overweight, but not fit, either, more . . . voluptuous than anything else. Cooper had an air of confidence about her that surprised him, and turned to the quarter-deck, as if sensing his gaze.

The final woman to board the Bellicose was a fire-haired female with flashing green eyes, screaming attitude. The captain studied her a long moment before speaking.

"What do you make of Allisyn Lauren Charsdale?" Nathan had to assume that was the name of the challenging looking female. She carried her own baggage and appeared the least wealthy of them. She also had eyes only for the Lady Aliya Marcosinovf, and fought her way to the almost mousy woman's side. Marcosinovf blinked at her as she jostled beside her, then removed her spectacles and wiped them clean, saying something in a low voice.

"I would assume she is the servant and possibly thinks of herself as the Lady's personal attendant and guard."

"You would be correct. Note the color of her hair. Charsdale is a Scotts woman, Summers, and let me give you a bit of advice. Never bet against her, she can down more liquor than it would take to float this ship out of a bay."

"Sir?"

"You are not to become incapacitated for even a moment during the voyage."

Summers' fingers dug into his right wrist tightly. "Sir, if I may ask ­"

"That is all, Lieutenant."

"Permission to speak freely, sir!" He had to fight to keep his voice under control. What was going on on this ship?? No one was answering his questions, the midshipman was positively emotionless, the captain didn't appear to even want his input -

"Permission denied. You are dismissed."

* * * * * * *

It was nearly nightfall before he saw the captain again, and by that time he had seen to it that the women were all safely lodged on the officer's deck, much to the chagrin of the petty officers that were forced to take their hammocks to the sailor's decks. They would be allowed to sleep on the lower gun deck, with had more air circulation and was usually off limits except to the foretopmen and forecastlemen, but it was miles away from the five foot ceilinged luxury they'd left to their surprising cargo.

And it wasn't just Nathan. Even the Marine corporal and the sailing master had had no idea the five women would be coming aboard, and few would soon forget the meeting of the burly Master-At-Arms and that bodyguard. Nathan had rarely seen anyone take a pistol so casually or send a man of that size to the deck with so little movement. It reminded him of Tai, the diminutive Oriental man aboard the Phoenix that had brought his unique fighting style to the Admiral's ship, and taught him a bit of it under the table.

That small amount of training had come in handy more times than Nathan could easily count in two hands and two feet.

The giant bodyguard, to whom his lady Loreena referred to as Mr. Bishop, also had the distinction of being a Moor, of almost Othello proportions. He was obviously from Africa, possibly even a slave, a curious symbol tattooed over one of his eyes, giving him an even more exotic look. His English was impeccable, and had spent most of the afternoon cleaning and sharpening his blade in open view of the fuming Master-At-Arms, but Mr. Creed had not attempted to take the weapons again. The captain was said to have laughed himself sick upon hearing of the incident, and called for Creed later in the morning, so Nathan supposed the man had been given special permission to keep weapons on his person aboard the ship. Then again, he highly doubted any impressed sailors would have better luck disarming the ebony man than Creed had.

The Lady Loreena had caused an equal, yet fundamentally different, stir among the crew, and several midshipmen were now assigned to her person at all times. He had spoken with her several times during the day, urging her as diplomatically as he had known how to dress more conservatively, and had been met with musical laughter, a very childlike voice yet at the same time capable of more cynicism than one would have imagined.

"What do you take me for, Lieutenant? A Quaker?" Her full, painted lips had turned up in a very sincere smile. "Or perhaps it is the crew has never seen a woman before?"

"Not one of your calibre, milady," Nathan had managed around his mouth's abortive attempt at stuttering, and was careful to keep his eyes from her bosoms, to which she was obviously trying to draw them by playing lightly with the collar along her chest. Her smile broadened and he fancied something changed in her eyes. "I mean no offense, milady, but for your own safety . . . his Majesty's sailors are by far the best in the world, but they are still men."

"And I am still a woman," she had murmured with an enigmatic smile, and vanished back into her cabin. And not so much as added a thread to her nearly-dress.

The Lady Aliya had been far more tractable. She had entered her tiny cabin and exclaimed it was far nicer and larger than she had been led to believe. She had then managed to cram every single text she had brought with her into it and barely had room for her hammock. Allisyn Lauren Charsdale, for her part, had overseen the transfer of all the books, insisted that the Lady Aliya's clothes be kept in her quarters, built for a petty officer and much smaller, and then insisted that a second hammock be hung in Lady Aliya's room so she could bed with her. Lady Aliya had laughed, like tiny tinkling bells, and it had been that sincere, absolutely lovely smile that had convinced him to agree to it.

Besides, bedding the two women together would make it safer for them both.

Priscilla Karpenter had also been fairly docile, saying little and after paying _very_ careful attention to making sure her trunks would stay absolutely dry, she had gone to see the captain for a few minutes, and he had not seen her since. He was going to check on her if she did not join the officers for supper, and suspected from her silence that she was suffering from sea sickness.

The lawyer - he still couldn't quite get over the concept - had been by far the least charming of the women, though certainly not offensive. Cooper insisted on doing things for herself, and had spent a very long time on the decks watching the sailors and asking questions, many of which having to do with their opinions on the Articles of War. Some of the impressed sailors' answers had been bordering on treason, but she had desisted with a polite smile as soon as he had brought that to her attention and was now watching the ocean and writing in a diary. She seemed the least affected of all the ladies by the ocean, but the seas were calm yet and the winds still fair. Time would tell how seaworthy they were.

And as far as he could tell, those were his only duties. He eyed himself in the mirror, noting with distaste that he'd already loosened the button after only a _day_ aboard this ship. At least Captain Foster had been easy to read. The man was as volatile as a seastorm with the patience of a kraken. Yet he had always made his reasons and intentions clear. True, it was also because Nathan had been serving as his hammock-boy as well as foretopman and midshipman, and he knew it was his responsibility to teach young Summers the ropes. Nathan made his way to the quarter-deck. Scott had been pleased with his knowledge three weeks ago, which made all the late night watches and half-rations worth it, but there was something to be said for a captain that was fond of punishing but also took the time to explain what he found displeasing.

Captain Blacksmith was keeping many secrets from him, and it was going to severely impair his ability to function as first lieutenant.

Nathan left the quarter-deck, which he'd been pacing for the last half-hour, and proceeded towards the captain's quarters, knowing Blacksmith was there, and hadn't left for some time. The cook had brought him some luncheon, and the only other visitor besides Karpenter had been midshipman DaCosta. Master-at-Arms Creed watched Nathan leave the quarter-deck with not so much hostility as caution. It was obvious Mr. Creed had some misgivings about him and his capability to serve the ship, which the captain was not helping with his open mistrust. It was time to put a stop to this, and now. They'd left port hours ago, and he wouldn't leave the ship till they landed in Egypt, so there was no point in keeping ship secrets any longer.

He turned sharply to avoid running smack into DaCosta as he rounded the corner of the captain's quarter-hall, and the midshipman saluted smartly before dodging around him and continuing on his way, obviously on an errand. Nate was surprised he'd gotten the salute out of the man at all, considering his absolute lack of any emotion.

Nathan paused outside the captain's quarters, working up the nerve and forcing his fingers from drifting to the button. Instead, he knocked twice, firmly.

"Come." It was an almost harsh command, startling in its gravel quality, and Nathan opened the door swiftly.

"Captain."

Blacksmith was laying on his hammock, hands clasped at rest on his stomach, feet crossed at the ankles. The hammock was swaying slightly, as though he'd moved recently, or even just then settled down. There was only a half-hour before dinner would be served, so surely he wasn't thinking of taking his rest then . . .?

Blacksmith's eyes seemed smaller in the darkness, but no less liquid and fathomless. "I expected you sooner, Lieutenant. Yet you chose your time wisely. A short enough span that you can excuse yourself should our conversation become tense. Very cautious." He waved a hand casually before clasping them again. "Please, close the door behind you, Mr. Summers."

Nathan did, not turning his back to the captain, and at the captain's expectant look, locked it as well. He then took his seat by the table, carefully arranging himself around the half-twisted maps. The topmost one was actually the western border of Egypt, and he studied the plotted points a moment before dragging his eyes back to the captain.

Blacksmith's eyes almost twinkled. "Yes, our orders have nothing to do with that area of Egypt. We are to rendezvous with other frigates of the navy and attempt to destroy the Spanish Armada on their own shores, practically. Admiral Trevor believes the French will scatter as soon as the line is broken and abandon the blockade, and the Marines are to take any port city they wish on Spanish soil and use it as a supply port for our ships in the Mediterranean."

Nathan nodded, bringing his eyes back to the map. His father had strongly disagreed on tactics but been over-ruled by the Admiralty, and was one of the frigates that would join the Bellicose near the mouth of the Mediterranean.

"However, as your father also knows, that plan will result in heavy casualties. A single cutter can't possibly take on a frigate, but ten or so will be more than a match for three of us. Not to mention the cargo we carry."

If he wasn't mistaken, it looked as though Blacksmith intended to land on the southern coast of the mouth of the Mediterranean and drop off either Marines or the women, then continue into the southern side of the barricade and pick them up once they had broken through the blockade.

"The Phoenix and Scimitar will meet to the north, as expected, and we will try to bypass the battle entirely."

"Sir?" It sounded almost as though the three captains had planned this around the Admiralty orders.

Blacksmith's left foot began to tap quietly on his right. "You will be absolved of all blame, being an officer of inferior rank. You will follow every order I give to the letter and you will never reveal to the crew that I have altered the orders. Is that clear?"

Nathan flipped to the next map, one of the southern Spanish beaches, and the various port cities, among which the Marine general would be given choice. A creaking of the hammock drew his attention back to the rising captain.

"Yes, sir. Quite clear. Sir, what happened to your previous first lieutenant?" He tried to make it sound like he was distracted by the maps, and winced as he heard the underlying urgency in the question. He didn't know why it was so important, but the question simply wasn't leaving him alone, something just wasn't right here -

Blacksmith got to his feet slowly, stretching, and his back popped with startling volume. "I killed him, Mr. Summers. Is that all?"

Nathan met the captain's eyes unflinchingly, not at all surprised to hear the words. Killed his first lieutenant. Obviously not by execution, or the crew wouldn't have hesitated to tell him, so had it been murder? A disagreement that had gone too far? Attempted mutiny?

"Yes, sir," he heard his automatic reply, and rose, saluting smartly before opening the door for the captain. "I am going to check on Ms. Karpenter before dinner, with your permission."

"By all means, Summers. Those women are more far more valuable to me than the mission or the ship. If so much as a hair on their collective heads is damaged, you will spend the remainder of your life in my brig. Is that understood."

"Yes sir."

* * * * * * *

It was near the middle of the night when Nathan became aware that he was not alone in his cabin.

It was also about the time he was aware that not only was he not alone, the person in the quarters with him was leaning over him curiously, holding a shuttered lantern, and smelled much too nice to be a sailor.

He sat bolt upright, glad he had chosen to sleep in his uniform, and the lady leaned up and unshuttered the lantern a bit, casting some light on his face and making him squint painfully.

"Oh, dear me, did I wake you?" The voice held that distinct sarcastic lilt to it, identifying her easily as the Lady Loreena.

"It is nearly time for my rounds anyway," he lied swiftly, torn between pulling on his boots or standing in the lady's presence. Her cute, much younger laugh was soft and entirely too seductive for his liking.

"Don't bother with the boots, Lieutenant. You'll save me the trouble of taking them off."

And quite suddenly he was attacked by soft, full lips, the taste of the lip paint curiously sweeter than he would have thought. He'd never been with a woman of her breeding despite his own, and he'd assumed it would have been more bitter - He jerked back in surprise, chiding his mind for wandering, and she allowed him the retreat, hands going to his jacket, instead. She found the loose button at his waist almost instantly, and tsked.

"I could repair this for you, Lieutenant -"

"I'm afraid, milady, fraternizing on a British warship is illegal under the Articles of War unless between wife and husband." He paused to catch his breath and remove her hands, which were crawling way too familiarly to territory better left unexplored. "I'll accompany you back to your quarters." He shook his head, dizzy from his swift rising, and she had little trouble in freeing herself and forcing him back into the hammock.

"Do you feel fair, Lieutenant? You seem a tad warm -"

Her lips tickling the side of his throat was the last thing he remembered.

* * * * * * *

A commotion above deck, coupled with trickling sunlight on his face, finally managed to rouse him. He rose a bit stiffly, mind clouded for a moment before he snapped his eyes open and inspected his uniform.

It was still on him, as it had been last night, though in the mirror he noted a smear of color on the collar and hastily grabbed the brush to remove it. Dear God above, the woman had nearly . . . he could have been court-martialed . . . and why in the world did he have no recollection of taking her back to her cabin? Surely he had, though he remembered the dizziness.

He spared a glance around the room, and, noting nothing out of place, tore open the door and rushed onto the topdeck.

Only to find the Moor Bishop attempting to grapple with Charsdale, whose nearly feral grin stopped him dead in his tracks.

"What is the meaning of this?" Nate barked, a bit more loudly than he intended, but it didn't distract the fighters, and the Moor lunged at her, the smaller woman ducking just under him and striking him on the small of the back with her elbow in passing. The blow didn't seem to penetrate his shining, muscular frame, and he nearly caught her flaming hair before she removed herself from his reach.

The Master-at-Arms hurried to his side. "Sir, I attempted to break it up, but she insists on . . . playing."

"Playing?" He couldn't keep the incredulous disgust from his voice. "The man will tear her to pieces! Sir! Lady! I beg you, desist at once!"

"I won't hurt her," the Moor replied with an easy, tight smile, and she matched it.

"I shall make no such promise," she almost crowed, earning guffaws and cheers from the sailors. Nathan looked around almost wildly. The captain would be out here momentarily, where was the Marine corporal and the sailing master? This was their job, breaking up fights! Besides, he could hardly be justified in asking one of the men to manhandle the woman, no matter how she appeared to enjoy the challenge. He ripped off his jacket and tossed it to a mastman.

"Sir! Please step away from the lady."

Much to Nathan's surprise, the African did so obligingly, but the fiery female took advantage and attempted to knock him to the deck, forcing him to catch himself and retaliate with a swing that might have taken her fair head off had it connected. Nathan stepped between them as soon as they separated.

"I shall only ask once more," he said in as stern a tone as possible to the lady. Allisyn merely laughed.

"Then I shall play with you, instead."

The men guffawed even more loudly, and he dropped a defensive stance in return for one he knew women found charming. If only he could get her off deck without being forced to touch her or look weak before the crew -

He found his hand moving on instinct to block her slap, and her eyes brightened considerably.

"Please, ma'am. This is inappropriate behavior on one of His Majesty's warships -"

She kicked him solidly in the shins. "As inappropriate as that, good man?"

The deck howled with laughter and Nathan tried very hard not to favor it, instead catching another hand flying for his face and twisting it behind her back loosely, effectively trapping her without causing her pain.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm afraid I must ask you -"

"What is the meaning of this?!"

And Nathan's heart sank.

The crew silenced instantly, practically running for their positions, and Nathan released her at Blacksmith's thunderous look. It was the Master-at-Arms that spoke.

"The lady wished exercise, Captain, and challenged the Moor to a test of skill. The lieutenant was merely -"

"Sir!" the Captain snarled, walking across the main deck towards them. "I thought I gave direct orders that our guests were to be given every liberty, and I come topside to find you . . ." He fought for words, almost looking as though he was chewing on something repulsive, and Allisyn laughed sharply.

"He has not injured me, Captain. A perfect gentleman, and a bit disappointing at that."

The Captain visibly calmed his face, but his eyes were a fearful thing to behold. "Please, you must be tired after this . .. affair. I urge you to return to your cabin and rest." The look he gave Nathan was scathing, and Nate kept his parade rest stance and eyes forward, trying to look through those pools of black gold. "Lieutenant, I expected better of you. Could not the matter have been solved without physical action?"

No one spoke, including Nathan, and the captain turned in disgust. "I trust this shall not recur."

"No, sir." He'd throw the hellcat over the side, that's what he'd do -

"See to it that it doesn't." He marched away without another word, and not a single sailor met Nathan's eyes as he followed the captain at a distance to the quarter-deck and took his station.

There was a _reason_ the Articles of War prohibited women on missions, he fumed silently. They were worse than the prison-sailors!

It was going to be a long campaign.

* * * * * * *

Nathan was very quiet at supper that night, nodding politely to the officers and ladies there, not meeting either Loreena's smoky look nor Charsdale's challenging one, instead centering on the beautiful, oddly soothing face of the Lady Aliya. She met his eyes through her own thick spectacles.

"I apologize deeply for Allisyn's actions this morning, Lieutenant, I was lulled to sleep by the waves and unaware that she had left the cabin -"

"No need to apologize for me," Charsdale murmured to her mistress with a sharp look at Nathan. "He was hardly worth the effort."

"Oh, Allisyn," the other woman chided with the long-suffering patience of familiarity, and smiled quietly at Nathan. "You handled her rather well, I have heard. I thank you for your patience and assure you," and here she fixed the younger woman with a Look, "that it won't happen again."

"But the Moor was -"

"Allisyn. No."

"But-"

"NO."

The fiery woman sulked while the Lady Aliya smiled affectionately, and then glanced at Nathan with an almost longing look. The moment he caught her eyes she turned away with a blush. He blinked, going back to the salted beef and white beans. His stepmother had assured him that women would find him even more attractive than usual because of the uniform, but he'd never met women such as these in London. He would be sure to write these affairs to his father, that should get a few good laughs.

Priscilla began to ask a few questions about the magazine deck of the Master-at-Arms, not touching the food but not appearing sick, and Creed puffed up his chest and thus started a conversation that blissfully allowed Nathan to finish his vittles in peace. For her part, the lawyer Cooper merely ate delicately and excused herself quickly. It was by chance that he was also finished, and after excusing himself, went to follow her. The crew would have finished their food by now and she really shouldn't be wandering unaccompanied about the decks.

However, she appeared to be heading to her quarters, and he found himself curiously not calling out, merely following her. Would she keep to the officer's deck or go out topdeck when the sailors wouldn't be gathered there? And what of that diary?

She paused, and he ducked into a small opening in the wall, leading to the ladder going to the lower gun deck. He waited only a breath, then peered out, watching her in the act of turning back around before ducking into the Master-at-Arm's room, shutting the door quietly beside her.

Nathan waited several moments more, ducking back as soon as the door reopened, only a minute or so later. He heard her footsteps hesitate, then continue the way she was going, and he ducked back out in time to see her disappear into her own quarters. The click of the wooden peg slipping into place was the only sound that broke the rhythmic creaking of the hull, and Nathan slowly walked to his own quarters, also bolting the door.

He laid down then, knowing he had a long night ahead of him.

* * * * * * *

Almost a week had gone by without a sighting of either French or Spanish ship, and the crew was getting more restless by the day. Only the foretopman seemed calm, sprawled under the lee of the booms amidship between foremast and midmast, in the shade of the launch that was stowed there. Even the captain of the mizzentop, on starboard watch in the hot afternoon, seemed about to start pacing on his cramped quarters. They had expected to see resistance much sooner than this.

Then again, Nathan wondered if he was the only other sailor that knew the captain had already had course altered and was bypassing the coasts, out to sea at least forty miles further than necessary to be out of site of the beaches themselves and twenty miles from where most French positions were charted. It would be an error if they were in fact spotted and engaged.

Idly he wondered how the Phoenix was faring. He highly doubted that his own father would change the orders of the Admiralty unless there was a far more important reason, and he wondered idly if it had something to do with the women on board. Surely there was no reason for His Majesty to place a historian, a female lawyer, and apparently simply a lady of high bearing on a ship bound for war, even if it was imperative the chemist get wherever she was going. And as for the lady companion of Aliya . . .

He shook his head, wondering what it was about the positively mousy dark-haired Egyptologist that so attracted his attention. She was of equal intellect with most learned professors Nathan had met, and that was not an idle or insignificant boast. And she was hardly the most attractive of the women, that honor going to the lady Loreena, currently preening herself on the lower gun deck and flirting with one of the crew. Ch'Vayre, a Frenchman, the ringleader of the men hostile to Nathan, and he was hardly surprised the man was practically drooling over the woman. He had mentioned her behavior to the captain, but Blacksmith didn't seem that disturbed by it, calling it a "good exercise for the men." He hated to think how she would look after being dragged to the sailors' deck against her will.

The Moor was polishing his pistols and flashing a smile at Allisyn, who bared her teeth in return and sat in the lap of one of the midshipmen, Sean Cassidy by name, a great man, Scott to boot, with a voice that could compare to the Sirens and call angels from heaven. He had displayed that tenor beauty last night, and it had been a thing to behold. A student of music until his impressment nearly a year ago, he had urged several of the men into a quartet, but apparently the late lieutenant had been their bass, and they were having difficulty finding a man with a suitably deep voice and an equal grasp on the beauty of music.

As for the late Lieutenant, Blacksmith had not mentioned him since, and Nathan didn't press it. He was too busy baby-sitting the women and trying to keep the crew in line to bother the captain, who spent an inordinate amount of time in his cabin, allowing only his midshipman DaCosta into the room with him for extended periods of time. Obviously he was a sort of walking diary, then, to record the captain's wishes better than paper, perhaps even another crewmember in on the secret, which would explain his reluctance to answer questions as well as his emotionless caution in dealing with what he saw as an invader, a new officer yet to prove himself.

If only they'd see a ship, he could finally have the opportunity to show the crew what he was made of!

Besides being beaten on by that fierce woman. He'd been teased for a day, but only one, as the rather scantily clad female had challenged even the boomsmen to tests of skill and wiped the decks with them. She was fast moving up the ranks, and seemed completely taken with taunting him and the Master-at-Arms, whom she found no end of delight in teasing. He took it fairly well, for a Norseman, blonde and three times her weight. He never raised a hand, but he had occasionally cast longing looks on the Moor's scimitar, and received sympathetic nods in response.

On the part of Mr. Bishop, he and Creed seemed to be hitting it off fairly well, despite the initial tension between them.

In fact, the only woman that hadn't been the cause or part of some skirmish yet was Karpenter, and he was beginning to fancy that she had been distracting Creed on purpose to allow Cooper access to his quarters. She had removed nothing, and he had caught her in no other violation of officers' quarters, but she had been writing in the diary much more frequently, and he ached for a chance to read it. She kept it on her person at all times except when bathing, by sponge, without complaint, and then it was in plain sight before her.

Could they possibly be spies of some sort? Or even more intriguing, did the captain suspect the Admiralty of foul play or treason? There would be no reason for many of these women to be aboard, nor would his father disobey orders without a good reason.

And the other, far more chilling idea, was that Captain Blacksmith himself was a traitor, the lieutenant had discovered his plan, and had been killed. It would explain the secrets, and might be the reason the women had been taken on as guests on such late notice, as fugitives from His Majesty carrying secrets of academics and, far more serious, weapons to the enemy.

And for that matter, the chemist was far too quiet, her tiny frame not making any noise as she moved, locking herself in her room to work on her equations, talking only with the Lady Loreena and occasionally the Lady Aliya, keeping herself away from crew and officers. Surprisingly, at the moment she was on-deck, gesturing at the cannons and talking to Creed, who was openly leering at her.

And what of the Lady Loreena? He'd overheard the sailing master bragging how he nearly bedded her, and three other officers made the same claim, the _same night she had come to him._ He had been wondering if she had somehow managed to incapacitate him, since he remembered nothing, but he had not woken with any other symptom than stiffness, and it wasn't a surprise. And the other officers had all admitted they hadn't managed to get under her skirt, calling her a harlot and a tease but with such longing in their voices, and then the labels lacked malice.

He paced the quarter-deck, glad his thoughts were silent as the crew scrambled about, repairing ropes and attending duties that kept the ship healthy and afloat. The Bellicose was a good ship, well obedient to her helm and seeming to attract favorable winds. Her masts were strong and pliable, her booms solid and well-lashed. Her cannons numbered 83, with enough power to blast through a small armada herself without taking too much damage. Her hull was thick and well-tarred.

He'd meant to ask the captain about that extra tar.

Curious now, he gave the helm to the sailing master and left the quarter-deck, once again knocking twice, firmly, upon the captain's door.

There was no answer.

What if he brought his fears before the captain? He carried his sword, much like any other officer, and was allowed two pistols by the Master-at-Arms like any other elder officer. But if the previous lieutenant had come to the same conclusion, he too would have been prepared to be murdered for the knowledge, how had the captain managed it? And how would he justify it? Creed seemed of a fair sort, as did the sailing master and Marine corporal, but he wasn't sure senior officers would be given that panel of judges if the murder of the captain was involved.

If he killed the man, he would be facing the noose, and he knew there wasn't a man on board that was more loyal to him than the captain. Blacksmith commanded unbelievable loyalty from his men, given their reluctance to reveal the damning evidence of the murder of the lieutenant.

Or was it fear? Would he find support in the places he least expected?

He knocked again, firmly, and heard movement within. Yet the captain said nothing.

Nathan tried the door. Locked. He heard the wooden peg rattle in its place.

"Captain? It's Lieutenant Summers. I need to bring a matter to your attention."

More movement, still no answer. Nathan tested the strength of the door, found it to be extraordinary. He put his shoulder into it, yet the tarred oak didn't budge.

"Captain! If you are able, answer me!"

The noise stopped abruptly, and there was silence in the room.

Summers dashed back to the topdeck, looking wildly around for Creed. He was nowhere to be seen, and Nathan's eyes fell on the Moor.

"Mr. Bishop. I need your assistance with a matter," he called out as quietly and calmly as he dared, and as he expected, the alert African heard him and casually approached. A few sailors looked up, mildly curiously, and Nathan ignored them, seeming to wait patiently for the man, leaning casually on the shiprailing.

"Of course, Lieutenant," he said amiably, and followed Nathan belowdeck.

Once out of sight of the crew, Nathan simply led the man to the captain's door. "I need some help with the door, man. There is movement within, but the captain does not call out."

To his surprise, the Moor eyed his pistols quite openly before nodding, once. "As you wish, sir." And the Moor hit the door near the top with the side of his fist.

The wooden peg cracked with a sound like a rifle-shot, the door banging open with a startling swiftness, and revealed a sight that nearly caused the Lieutenant's knees to give.

Without sound he entered the captain's cabin, pistol drawn as he glanced about. This was impossible, the door had been locked from the inside, as was the porthole, lashed tight from the inside, and yet ­

And yet there wasn't a soul in the room.

And the captain was dead.

* * * * * * *

For a moment, Nathan merely stared in mute horror at the nearly blue face of Captain Blacksmith, and then he discarded his pistol and rushed over to the man, kneeling, checking for a pulse he couldn't find. The man had obviously strangled, spittle and froth on his face and shirt, and surprisingly, the room was not in the least disturbed.

Had the man not struggled? Cried out for help? Nathan blinked, fighting panic. He had heard motion, there had been someone or someones moving in the room, and he'd only left for a moment . . . yet how could someone have locked the room from the inside?

"Lieutenant . . ."

He remained where he was a moment, not moving, just thinking. He was technically not the senior officer, but he was next in line for command. Would the sailing master contest his ability to take command? Would the men even follow him?

And dear God, that would be asking for the impressed men to attempt mutiny, with the beaches of Egypt there for the escaping ­

"Summers."

"Please, shut the door."

The Moor obeyed quietly, slipping a metal peg from the writing-desk where the broken wooden peg had been, and Nathan didn't move a muscle as he heard steel being pulled from a leather scabbard.

"So they are fleeing from Britain."

The Moor said nothing, just came towards him with neither haste nor hesitance, and Nathan waited. Tai had taught him a very neat way to disarm an opponent from the position he currently wore, and he might get some answers out of the man.

Then again, could he beat the Moor in a test of skill? He was not as strong, the Moor had proven that, and shown amazing grace in his fighting. Still, there were a few disadvantages to the ebony man, and those Nathan would attack.

"Why now? The captain was more than willing to go along with your plan."

"Your games will not save you, Lieutenant. Give me the name, and your death will be swift."

The Moor stopped just outside striking range, and Nathan nearly cursed. He stood slowly, mind whirling as he took in the cramped quarters and the time it would take for him to draw his other pistol. No one would interrupt them, given that metal object locking the door, and would the Moor escape as the murderer had, by means other than the door or porthole? Oath! He calmed himself, counting on Tai's breathing exercises to keep his hands steady.

"Games, sir? I know not of what you speak."

The Moor didn't so much as move a facial muscle. "The name, Summers."

Nathan watched the Moor closely, watching sweat bead on the blackest of foreheads, a sheen appearing on the bared arms and chest of the man. He had not broke into a sweat on the deck, nor in his sparring with Allisyn. So it had to be a sweat of internal conflict . . .

"You want the name of the Admiral that ordered his death, don't you."

The Moor then allowed his surprise to show in the form of a raised eyebrow. "You are as sick of mind as your brother," he murmured, almost to himself. "You bait the man that holds your life on the sharp of his blade."

Nathan almost flinched at the comment, holding his hands out in a very non-offensive posture. His mind recoiled but recovered swiftly, straining to buy him time. The man had nearly admitted that was the answer he wished, which meant -

Which meant the captain had not trusted the Admiralty, as had neither his father, and somehow this Moor knew of that. "So the Admiralty is corrupt . . . but that leaves no reason for the captain to have taken the women aboard. Tell me, good sir, before you kill me, what is their importance?"

The Moor cocked his head to the side, the sweat evaporating but no more coming to take its place on his perfect, black skin. The tattoo seemed to be moving as the Moor blinked, and Nathan found himself almost mesmerized by it. The Moor abruptly lowered his scimitar, upper lip twitching but once.

"You heard a commotion, asked for my help in opening the door, and were struck upon the head by the fleeing murderer," he said softly, and moved far more quickly than Nathan anticipated. He dodged the blow partially, the fist glancing his temple but more than powerfully enough to sprawl him to the ground, disoriented. He held up a hand, desperately trying to parry the blow he sensed was coming -

And it didn't come. He heard the Moor knock the maps to the ground, the paper rustling like flame on the hardwood floors. He heard the hiss of the metal object being removed from the lock, tossed casually on the floor. Then the Moor yelled, crashing into the wall, and Nathan lowered his hand, faking unconsciousness.

Of course. The Moor was giving him his life until he decided whether or not Nathan was telling the truth. Out to sea as they were, there was nowhere he could go, no place to hide. He was contained, thus the Moor could use the time to decide his fate.

Unless he decided to have the man executed on the spot. African and a servant, it would easy enough to get away with having the man killed or locked in the brig for a fabricated offense. So there was the trust that he would not retaliate upon the Moor, in exchange for information.

A gentleman's agreement, then, and one he would accept. Though the blow would be repaid in full.

The crew came at the Moor's yell, the Master-at-Arms conspicuously absent, and he heard their feet on the hardwood floors, felt hands about him, turning his head to the side, where he supposed the mark of the blow lay.

"The lieutenant is alive! Call the surgeon at once!"

He wondered how the blow looked, thus how long he should continue the charade. He clearly felt his other pistol draw, heard it cocked, most likely targeting the Moor.

"He called me below to aid him, there was a struggle in the Captain's quarters. We broke open the door, and the Lieutenant was struck. I was shoved aside by the man, by the time I had recovered my bearing, the man was too far gone."

"We are to take a Moor's word for fact?!"

"Tell us, man, what did the murderer look like?"

"Calm yourselves! Calm yourselves at once and return to deck!" It was Creed, and he sounded furious. The babble of voices died down, and there was a sudden silence. Then -

"Logan, give me the pistol." Pause. "I gave you an order, man! Give me the pistol!"

"He murdered the captain, an' tried ta kill the lieutenant! Look at the blood!"

"The lieutenant will clear everything up, Logan. The Moor'll be locked in the mess hall until Mr. Summers recovers. If he is the murderer, he will not escape. Now give me the weapon."

There was a tense silence, and Nathan contemplated miraculously coming around in time to absolve the Moor of the charges. Logan was a short man, but burly, and of quick temper. The man could scent land miles out to sea, and the stench of dying flesh before he'd even entered a room. A remarkable sailor, one worth keeping. Surely Creed would not fire on him . . . ? He heard movement and the uncocking of the pistol.

"Now! Get back to the topdeck! Let the surgeon through!"

Nathan remained still, feeling the tickle of blood down his temple and wondering at a sudden feeling of nausea. How deeply had the Moor's blow struck, would he remember these events if he lost his senses?

"My Lady! Please, ma'am, there is blood, this is no sight for a woman -"

"My dear Mr. Creed, is something the matter? Has the captain been injured?" It sounded like the Lady Aliya, and there were more footsteps, too distinctive to be a sailor's.

"What is the meaning of this?! Why is my manservant being dragged away?"

"Lady Loreena, ma'am, I regret to inform you he may be a suspect in the untimely death of our captain."

Then the surgeon was touching him, and Nathan was distracted as the door was closed, leaving him apparently alone with the man. Nor was he able to fool the man into believing he was senseless.

"I see you're coming around, sir, be calm -"

Nathan opened his eyes slowly, surprised to find it more difficult than he would have thought. The surgeon was a man by the name of McCoy, and a kindly, older gentleman with spectacles that made him appear even more startled than his naturally bushy, high-set eyebrows did. He was dabbing a strong-smelling liquid on Nathan's temple, and a sudden sting made him gasp.

"Remain still, sir, you may have other injuries -"

"The Moor, is he well?" Best to keep his end of the bargain as quickly as possible, before Creed got carried away -

"Is he the man that attacked you, sir?"

Nathan shook his head, fighting the surgeon into allowing him into a sitting position. "No, it was a sailor, I didn't get a good look at him." He winced, trying to ignore the dizzy feeling. The Moor had gotten him far better than he imagined. Had that blow struck him squarely, it might have killed him! Had that been the Moor's intent?

"Sir, you're looking peaked, I must ask you -"

And the voice trailed into the strange void of darkness.

* * * * * * *

It was nightfall when he regained his senses, and to the tickling light of fire.

"If he doesn't wake soon -"

"You heard the sailing master. Until the case is cleared up, or Summers is judged unfit for duty, he is the acting captain."

"And we all know how well the sons of Admiral Summers captain -"

"Hold your tongue, man! He may awaken at any moment!"

He kept his eyes closed a moment, trying to compose himself. He had no idea the crew had known about his brother. About his rapid promotion by pushing his lineage, about his captaincy on the H.M.S. Chaos-Bringer. They called him Captain Stryfe, had his crew, and not a soul now remained alive to explain it.

He was dead, downed with his ship after a suicide-run at some French frigates two years hence. There were other rumors floating about, as there always where, that he survived by selling secrets to the French, was locked in the worst jail in all of Spain, had been carried away by the demons of the deep, or even married a cute French maiden and lived in luxury in a chateau in Dijon.

But one rumor was far more prevalent than the rest, and it was that the man had been certifiably insane. He hadn't known John that well, despite their being twins. His brother, the second born, the one that killed his mother, had always been more ambitious, and begged to be sent around the world for his military schooling. He had laughed, the last they'd seen each other, nearly ten years ago, still boys then, and John had clapped Nathan on the back with a genuine smile of affection.

"I'm off, brother. May we meet on the high seas!"

And then he was gone. Yet the tales that the seas had brought back to him were not of that smiling, happy twin, but of a terrible tyrant that was supposed to be even more cruel than Admiral Summers himself. Reports that left Nathan so sickened he'd almost been about to track down his brother to question him - when reports of the Chaos-Bringer's demise reached London.

He had been devastated, as had his father and step-mother, but the body had not been recovered, and no more than a plank from the launch was pulled from the sea. Other wreckage was found washed ashore some months later. Crew and officers were never found.

Since it was the Admiral Summers' son, Nathan had assumed the story had been carefully reworded with time, and with the Bellicose out to sea as much as she was . . . who had told the sailors of it? Captain Blacksmith to an officer, and an officer to a sailor? That would have been the only way, surely, but what officer is that stupid?

Unless they wanted to make him distrusted by the crew?

And where had the Master-at-Arms been, when he had gone abovedeck looking for him? Was he the officer that had told the crew? Perhaps as an attempt to keep the lieutenant distanced of the fact that the Admiralty was under suspicious of being corrupt and fearing that Nathan would take that as an affront to the reputation of his own father?

And yet the captain had openly insinuated it to him not four days after they left port.

"Do you suppose the captain had another ­"

"I said hold your tongue!" The response was hissed, vicious, and the intensity of it made Nathan jump, then open his eyes slowly, as though he had heard nothing of the conversation. Wonderful. They felt he was a brain-sick fool unfit for command. He prayed they had no meetings with the enemy's ships.

"Sir!" He recognized DaCosta's almost concerned looking face with a start. "How do you feel? The surgeon seems to think you should recover fully ­"

Nathan sat up slowly, eyeing his quarters. Still the first lieutenant's, and certain papers had been moved from one end of his dresser to the other. Had that been caused by a swell? Or perhaps Cooper had decided his quarters needed inspecting, as the Master-at-Arms had.

Wait. And hadn't Priscilla been speaking with Creed just before he'd gone to see the Captain?

He sat up slowly, not surprised to feel something pulling on his temple. A few exploratory fingers found a dressing on what felt like a cut nearly three inches in length.

"Sir?"

"Yes, midshipman, I heard you. The Moor, where is he?"

DaCosta hesitated, pulling the rough blanket from Nathan's legs. "He was locked in the brig, sir, Creed thought -"

A strange, supernatural anger stirring in Summers. "The Master-at-Arms thought wrong. Summon Creed to me at once." Wincing, he sat completely up, then doubled over in an attempt to locate his boots.

"Sir, you realize -"

"I gave you an order, sir, and unless my memory misserves me, the first lieutenant takes command if the Captain is incapacitated."

There was the slightest of pauses, where the other midshipman in the room, an American Frenchman by the name LeBeau, attempted to catch DaCosta's eye. DaCosta ignored him.

"Aye, sir."

Nathan watched him leave, then dragged his surprisingly sluggish eyes toward LeBeau, who was also readying to leave.

"LeBeau."

The man froze, his neat, red-brown ponytail almost bristling as he turned. He was one of Ch'Vayre's group, and he might as well pass along a message.

"Please inform Ch'Vayre that should he decide now is a good time to incite mutiny, that we rendezvous with the Phoenix in only a few days and there is nothing my father likes to see better than bodies hanging from the mainmast. Am I clear?"

He hated to use the Navy's fear of the Admiral for such purposes, but there was no way mutiny could be permitted, not now. Not until he found the Captain's orders, not until he could rendezvous with the Phoenix and the Scimitar and inform them of the death of Captain Blacksmith.

And what of the orders. Blacksmith was merely a captain, why so trusted by his father? He had never heard the Admiral mention his name, indicating they had a history together. Was the traitor in the Admiralty attempting to release the British Navy of three of her finest frigates, or was the man attempting to smuggle British secrets to the enemy with these five women?

And past what Blacksmith had revealed, going around the battle from the south, he had not been specific about anything else. If the plan was to drop off the women and Marines in Egypt and circle back up behind the Spanish and French, then the other two frigates would be depending on him. It made no sense! Two British frigates couldn't possibly defeat the reported number of ships! Even three would be hard-pressed.

Unless the Captain had been planning to use one of the chemist's weapons' secrets?

LeBeau nodded tightly. "Oui. Clear 'nough." He left the room swiftly, pulling the door shut behind him. Nathan pulled his boots on, glad for once he hadn't spend the extra half-pound to get silver buckles instead of nickel, glancing around the room. There was nothing else out of place, surprisingly, and as he rose and shuffled through his papers, he found them in order, nothing missing.

He had to figure out what was going on on this ship, and he had precious little time to do it.

The door banged open sharply, shoved with more force than necessary as well as being aided by the sway of the deck, and the Master-at-Arms entered a bit more slowly.

"Captain."

"Release the Moor immediately. I believe he is the reason the sailor did not kill me."

Creed nodded, then cocked his head to the side, watching Nathan. "Do you feel fit for duty, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. I appear to have no memory gaps and my balance and sight appears to be fine."

"That isn't what I meant, sir."

Nathan narrowed his eyes, and Creed matched the motion, using his foot to kick the door shut behind him. "Sir, are you absolutely sure there was another sailor in the room?"

Nathan glanced at himself in the mirror, not surprised to see both his sword and pistols were not on his person. A quick look back at the Master-at-Arms found the man carrying two pistols himself, one hand resting on his belt, only inches from them.

"Where were you, Mr. Creed? I was looking for you when I asked the Moor for assistance."

Creed took a step forward. "I ask you again, sir, are you certain there was a sailor in the room when you found the captain."

Nathan took a deep breath. How in the world would he know unless he was somehow a part of everything . . . ? He and midshipman DaCosta were by far the two closest men to the Captain . . . yet perhaps this was how the first lieutenant had been killed? No, the Captain had said he killed the man himself -

And as for blaming a sailor, fingering Ch'Varye in all this would save him a great deal of trouble. Then again LeBeau might retaliate, given the message he had just given the man. Oath! This was getting more complicated by the second.

Abruptly he was sitting on Jean's knee, watching his father pace about the large cabin that was the captain's on the Phoenix. "This is far too complicated," Scott murmured, drawing a hand through his brown hair, only to scrub the back of his head vigorously. "Xavier won't give the money unless we have the dinner on his estate, but the Lady Frost refuses to set foot on the property and is offering an equally large sum to His Majesty, and between them the Worthingtons consider it an affront that we haven't chosen their manor for the medal ceremonies -"

"Why not simply have it in the Officer's House?"

"We can't; Captain Fury guaranteed the Lady Worthington that it would be held in a 'mansion of splendor and wonder,' so naturally she assumed he referred to hers."

Nathan wrinkled up his nose, then scratched in with the back of his hand. That seemed very stupid. Why did adults have to be so silly? John and he had been taught to share, but this seemed very selfish, adults not wanting to play with each other because the party wouldn't be at their own house -

Jean gently pulled Nathan's hand away. "A gentleman uses a handkerchief, Nathan."

"I bet those people Father is talking about don't even _have_ handkerchiefs," he muttered, but finished around in his pocket for one. Scott's sudden, roaring laugh startled him, and he jumped in his mother's lap.

Scott leaned, both hands on the table before him, shaking with laughter, and Jean stroked Nathan's strawberry blonde hair from his forehead. "What an odd thing to say, Nathan."

Nathan played with the handkerchief, itchy nose momentarily forgotten. Emboldened by his father's reaction to his previous sentence, he continued. "I think that someone should tell the Lady Worthington that Mr. Fury lied to her, and then let the three of them pick a place that isn't their house, but they all like." Made sense. If John wanted to play soldiers in his hammock, and he wanted to play Guards and Thieves behind the cargo, they often compromised and took a game of tag to the maindeck.

Surely these adults could see the fun in that?

Abruptly Scott stopped laughing, and came over, kneeling in front of his wife and son. Without word he planted a kiss on his son's forehead, and exchanged a look with Nathan's mother, silent, yet saying everything.

Nathan dragged himself back to the present, and understood why Scott had laughed.

"As a matter of fact, Creed, there was no sailor. When the Moor helped me break the door, we found the room empty, the portal lashed from the inside, and the Captain was already dead."

Surprisingly, Creed didn't seem startled by the news, but he managed to look more thunderous. "And what about the wound to your head? Self-inflicted so your story would hold?"

Nathan glared, pacing for an excuse to put distance between himself and the huge, blonde Norseman. "The Moor locked us in, pulling his sword and assuming that I had killed the captain. Pressed for an answer, I asked if he wanted the name of the Admiral that had ordered the Captain's death, and he assented. Upon telling him I had no idea and was not the murderer, he fabricated the story and struck me to make it look as though actual event."

Creed relaxed visibly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Do you trust the Moor, sir?"

Nathan stopped, head tilting as he stared sideways at Creed. "First, tell me why you seem so unsurprised, and who killed the captain."

Creed's eyebrows lifted in consideration, his eyes less narrow but still holding a somehow, almost feral anger. "The captain suffers from . . . fits, Summers. They've been getting increasingly worse, particularly in the last few months, and when our previous first Lieutenant attempted to restrain the Captain in one such attack, the Captain . . . struck him a blow upon the head from which he did not recover." Creed tilted his chin down, eyes almost glowing in the near darkness.

"Blacksmith suspected for some time that the Admiralty had been somehow affected by the enemy, as his orders became more daring and containing less and less traditional tactics. Upon bringing it up, he was nearly court-martialed for treason. It was your father that contacted him, shortly afterward. Did Blacksmith tell you of our orders?"

Nathan shook his head. "He meant to, but we were interrupted. I trust he wrote them down somewhere?" However much Creed's story was beginning to enlighten him, the man wasn't to be trusted until he knew the reasons for the women being on board, and the Moor.

Creed puffed out his cheeks. "No, he didn't. Trying to protect us from charges of treason."

That sounded likely enough, as well. Nathan rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly weary. "Tell me, sir, how long did you intent to keep this information from me? I was beginning to think there was a curse aboard this vessel." He had heard of such fits, in which a person was suddenly tormented by a demon or some other evil and often screamed in pain, went into fits, and even was unable to breathe. It explained the movement and the Captain's inability to either open the door or call out.

It was also a very inconvenient event.

Creed cleared his throat. "There were many that assumed you were sent by the Admiralty to spy on the captain and report back to your superiors. Why else would such a prestigious officer be placed on a ship so likely to meet such forces?"

Nathan blinked. "To kill me, of course. As the Admiral's last living son, I would have risen quickly to Captain, and been unable to ignore." His smile was forced. "The same reason, I assume, the Phoenix was given this mission. A suicide run."

Creed nodded slowly. Then he fell into parade rest stance. "What orders, Captain?"

Nathan rolled his head on his shoulders, surprised at how tense he was, surprised he wasn't twisting that button right off his uniform. "Set an intercept course with the Phoenix and Scimitar. As soon as we spot them, signal both captains aboard."

"Sir?"

Nathan found himself smiling. "It will do my father good to take leave of the Phoenix for a few hours. He so rarely is invited to other frigates . . ."

Creed nodded once, smartly, then knuckled his forehead and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Nathan was in the process of gathering items to move to the captain's cabin when a wave of nausea sent him back to his hammock with a few choice curses, and in moments he was asleep.

* * * * * * *

"I strongly suggest we use caution -"

"Oh, Priscilla, you always do worry too much -"

"She has a point." That smooth, soft voice could only have belonged to the Lady Aliya, and it was affirmed as his eyes flew open.

"Ho, look! The lieutenant lives." Lady Loreena was bent over the man, dark brown eyes seeming to contain flecks of gold as she worked them over his face. "And somewhat more alert than the last time I had the pleasure of his company." He sat up suddenly, getting a very good look at the Lady's ample bust, ready to tumble from her low-cut, soft green velvet gown. He also caught a glimpse of a silver sparkle nestled between them as she finally, slowly, leaned up away from him.

"Good evening, Captain. We helped ourselves to your brandy, I hope you don't mind."

A quick glance around him revealed all five of the ladies, in various states of dress, and the Moor, a tall, formidably shadow in the corner, simply watching him. He was still in his lieutenant's quarters, and his gathered items appeared untouched.

"What is the meaning of this, ladies?" He struggled into a sitting position, surprised he had not removed his shoes. "This is hardly appropriate -"

"Hush." Charsdale inspected the side of his head critically. "Your surgeon is very fine, Summers. What do you think of the man? Trustworthy?"

Nathan pulled away from her, but found himself confronted by Priscilla on the opposite side. "The captain was poisoned, is why we ask." She held up a glass vial, full of blue liquid. "I took a sample of his saliva, tested it. The man was given a poison that would mimic the symptoms of the fits he was chronically affected by. Such a poison would be difficult to come by. Do you trust the surgeon McCoy?"

He extracted himself from the two, but Aliya rose and blocked his escape without seeming to do so on purpose. "Please, Captain, it is imperative we find the murderer as soon as possible, for you are the next likely target."

"Who are you?" By this time he was fairly certain she was no simple historian, and how would Karpenter have been allowed access to the body of the captain without the Master-at-Arms approval?

Unless she had seduced him?

"You know my name," Aliya said with a winsome smile. "However, besides historian, I am a diplomat. It is essential that we arrive in Cairo by the end of the month, and bargain with the Egyptian officials for a supply base on their northwesterly beaches, a port for our ships operating in the Mediterranean. Miss Cooper is representing the Navy on such matters, while I His Majesty. The Lady Loreena -" and said maiden smiled softly, "is a special sort of guard assigned us by His Majesty, in case for some reason, Bishop is separated from us." The Moor didn't move.

"Priscilla is a chemist, and carries with her some of our less powerful secrets, the currency in which we will bargain with the Egyptians. And Allisyn here is my own servant. No offense to the Lady, but I would rather have someone I had known previously to protect me." The fire-haired woman grinned ferally and nodded to the Lady Loreena, who nodded in return.

"Why did you feel it necessary to search the officers' quarters?"

Cooper raised one sculpted eyebrow. "We know that the Admiralty has most likely placed one or more of their own lackeys aboard the vessel. I even went as far as to assume you were the one. I searched the cook's, the cook's mate, the Master-at-Arms, and all the midshipmen's quarters."

"Which is why I paid you that extra-special visit," Loreena purred in his ear, her voice so remarkably childlike he wondered how she could possibly be a bodyguard for a living. And one of His Majesty's? That fairly guaranteed the woman was an assassin.

And who more likely to kill the captain?

"Did you carry poisons aboard my ship?"

She blinked. "Of course. But nothing that would cause convulsions. Besides, the captain was our only known ally aboard . . . your ship." A faint smile at how possessive Nathan seemed. "We have everything to lose by his death."

"Did the Admiralty know of your boarding the Bellicose?"

Aliya spoke, calmingly, removing her spectacles. "They knew that your father wished to build a supply port in Egypt, and I think several of them are Spanish loyalists, not French. Seeing the danger threatened Spain, they attempted to fight the proposition and were outvoted. They believe we are aboard the Scimitar."

It was beginning to take form in his head. Just recently had the Spanish agreed to aid France, probably just before the proposition was made to have a supply port near the mouth of the Mediterranean. That Spain would not have risked it without some informants high in the chain of British naval command made perfect sense. But sending women and not a single male besides the Moor with them . . . and why a female there to represent the British navy? They'd be laughed out of the capitol!

"Please, ladies, how do you expect to strike such a deal with the Egyptians? Forgive me, but -"

"We're women," Aliya finished with a smile. "Yes, we're aware of that."

"As is every man in my crew, milady. Surely -"

"We are to be accompanied by officers from the Phoenix," she murmured. "To be wives, of course, but I speak the languages, as does Cooper." The woman nodded once to Nathan. She was still in pants, too.

"As for Priscilla, it was her husband that constructed the weapons she carries in her head. No one would suspect wives of officers to know much of anything. We are going more as spies than anything else."

"And the Moor?"

"He's our companion, to lessen your crew's talk of our separate traveling while in port."

How had Captain Blacksmith been intending to rendezvous with the Bellicose in order to pass the women over to the officers? And if His Majesty suspected the Admiralty of corruption, why was nothing done about it besides this? How would this direct disobeyance of orders incriminate the Admiral or Admirals sympathetic to Spain?

"What interest have you in the Master-at-Arms?"

Loreena shrugged. "He has access to all the firearms on the ship, thus should be taken under suspicion. And he didn't like me," she pouted. "We had to let Priscilla talk cannons with him to allow Cooper access to his room.

"What about just before the captain died?"

The women exchanged looks, and Priscilla frowned. "He struck up that conversation with me, unfortunately, and I found it difficult to excuse myself from his presence. I believe he thought I was attracted to him, from our conversation during dinner that one night."

That made perfect sense. If there was a womanizer aboard his ship, it was certainly going to be Creed.

Nathan nodded slowly. "How is this supposed to attack the Admiralty?"

Aliya looked troubled. "There are spies placed around the Admirals in question, but the only evidence this would create is if they admit it to each other in a fit of rage, and it is overheard. Otherwise . . . there is no way to prove them guilty."

It made more sense than he would have liked, and even if they were lying, he intended to see the Phoenix long before they reached shore, and it could be straightened out then. Playing along with them seemed to be the most likely way to avoid being murdered.

"Very well. Captain Blacksmith did not leave a copy of his orders, and I have already ordered our course altered to rendezvous with the Phoenix and Scimitar before we meet the barricade. If your story checks out, we can transport the officers aboard this ship, and the Scimitar and Phoenix will decoy the Spanish and French fleet to allow us passage."

He watched each woman carefully, though he tried not to make it obvious. The chemist merely nodded, seeming relieved in a very reserved sort of way. Why Creed would have turned down Loreena for such a timid, submissive thing was beyond him, but she had a certain beauty about her, and her sad, large eyes. Loreena merely nodded to him, a smile playing about lips he now suspected were coated with a drug rather than paint. Aliya smiled at him and then turned away with a slight blush, and Allisyn grinned impishly at him. Cooper just watched him coolly, her green eyes dancing in the flicker of lantern-light.

The Moor looked implacable, as always, but surprisingly, knuckled his forehead as Summers left the cabin.

And then a cannon rocked the relative peace of midnight.

* * * * * * *

Nathan barely made it to the quarter-deck before the second cannon-shot, firing grape, struck the topdeck, sending sailors flying with yells of pain. The Master-at-Arms was shouting to the Marine corporal, who was instructing his men to aid the sailors in loading the cannons. The moon was blue, large in the clear sky, and not seventy yards away he saw the unmistakable line of a Spanish cutter.

Creed barely glanced at him as he took his place by Nathan's side. "Came out of nowhere, sir, we had no warning whatsoever!"

Nathan glanced at the stars, the magnificent, darkest of blue skies, the stars like tiny holes in the thin curtain of night. Without paper he stared at them, trying to get even a grasp of his position. They were near the Spanish coasts earlier that morning, but the winds had been unsteady all day, he should have checked their position hours ago! Where was the sailing master?

"DaCosta! Summon the sailing master to me, immediately," he shouted, and then Creed was throwing him out of the way as more grape struck the quarter-deck. For a moment, the world was nothing but light and sound and screams, and when it cleared, the huge mass of Creed was turning him over.

"Captain!"

Nathan nodded, struggling to his feet as another blast came frighteningly close to their aftmast. He could feel the ship vibrating with their own cannons, and their range would greatly exceed the thirty cannon cutter. Yet how many more where in the water?

The sailing-master, Richards, hurried up the ladder, careful of the mess that was the aft side of it. Lucky the shot hadn't taken out the magazine.

"Where are we, precisely?"

The man huffed and puffed a moment. He was tall and as ill-proportioned as any man Nathan had ever seen, and as a result he often became winded more easily, but was capable of feats of acrobatics that left the other sailors in awe.

"Just . . . twelve or so miles from the Spanish midcoast, sir. I tried to tell you earlier . . .but the surgeon said you . . . weren't to be disturbed -"

Nathan made a disgusted noise. "What were you thinking, man? Why didn't you alter course!"

Richards blinked, swallowed, and tried again to speak. "Captain . . . I never . . . received orders in the . .. first place. Blacksmith never told me of our destination!"

Summers slammed a hand down on the rail. This was flonqing wonderful. They'd practically sailed into Spanish port! He left the sailing master to the helm, jumping from the quarter-deck to the topdeck, dodging sailors and rope, heading towards the topsail on the mainmast. He needed a good look and he wasn't going to get it on the quarter-deck.

With a speed not matched by the younger midshipmen, he scurried up the mast, using the foot ropes to shimmy out a ways from the main mast, counting on that room to allow him time to jump to the next if the mast was cleaved. The mizzentop would have been a better vantage point, but far more likely to take a hit.

The Spanish cutter was attempting to limp away, and past her he could see several other ships already engaged in combat. He pulled his spyglass, centering on the brighter cannon-fire. It was a British frigate, that much was obvious. She had a cutter to both sides, trapped between them, but seemed to be holding her own well, still overmatching them by twenty cannons. Beyond her, closer yet to the shore, another British frigate was taking on three cutters, trying to outmaneuver them in the fair winds and broadside the largest of them.

Nathan blinked, glancing around in all directions. He didn't see a French ship anywhere. Just six cutters against three frigates. Carefully working his way back to the mainmast, he slid down one of the support lines. Signaling the sailing master, he ducked into the Captain's quarters.

The maps had been taken up from the floor, held down by a silver candleholder and a large book. He shuffled through them until he found one of the Spanish coast, and he stretched it out as Richards entered.

"Our position, as best you can tell me."

The sailing-master eyed the map a moment, pulling a protractor from his belt. A few quick calculations, a few mutters -

"There, sir."

Not ten miles from the opening to the Mediterranean Sea. Nathan's mind reeled. How had they gotten so close to it, why had he not been told! Why hadn't the Captain warned him sooner about the plans! So much distance in only a week and a half!

Which meant the two frigates out there were probably the Phoenix and Scimitar, and they'd been ambushed.

With a curse he raced out abovedeck, fairly leaping onto the quarter-deck. "Helmsman! Twenty degrees, starboard side!"

The man echoed, "Twenty degrees, starboard side!" and the boat took a sharp turn, following the limping cutter towards the other two frigates. He was not at all surprised to see Loreena on the maindeck, as well as the Moor, having a heated discussion with the Marine corporal.

Loreena motioned for him, but he shook his head. They didn't matter, if the officers they were meant to travel with were killed. Aid had to be brought to those frigates. And soon. The night was cold, the sounds of battle would doubtless drift the miles to the waiting barricade, if they hadn't already spotted it. Thirty miles on a clear night was not that difficult to see, and they were far, far closer than that.

The sails caught the fair wind, speeding them forward, and Nathan again raised his spyglass. The furthest frigate appeared to be losing, trapped in a horseshoe by the three cutters, and they were laying into her heavily. He winced as he saw her foremast topple to the upper gun deck. She was still too far to identify, and he turned to the closer of the two.

It was the Phoenix.

She was doing fairly well, still repelling both of the cutters flanking her, her mainmast still straight and sails full of wind. One of the cutters had lost both her masts, and he watched with some concern as the crew began to abandon her for several launches. The Phoenix didn't have enough Marines to board the cutter, had she taken a sinking blow? She didn't seem to be listing, or low in the water, but surely -

With a sickening boom, his world turned upside down.

He regained consciousness quickly, in time to realize the quarter-deck had given, and he was, not surprisingly, back in the captain's cabin, joined by half the quarter-deck itself.

Shaking his head, he leaned up, wondering how many more blows to the head it would take before he was completely senseless. He was really wracking them up, it seemed -

The door shuddered, and then there was silence.

"I'm alright," he called out, getting swiftly to his feet and trying to move the debris before the door. He had the sinking feeling that the Spanish were abandoning that cutter to make her a fireboat, and despite the winds, she was too close for the Phoenix to dodge her -

The door shuddered again, and nearly knocked him across the room as it dislodged the last planks of wood and opened. Nathan recovered his feet quickly.

"Good man! The Spanish cutter, has she -"

DaCosta was standing in the doorway, pistol drawn, eyeing him quite steadily even as he entered the room. His hand, however, was shaking badly, and the mouth of the pistol danced wildly in the vicinity of Nathan's chest.

"Calm yourself, DaCosta," Nathan began, holding out a hand, but the midshipman sneered.

"I'm calm enough, sir. You were shot before the deck gave way, no one will suspect a thing -"

The Bellicose rocked with a sudden impact, and Nathan clearly heard a gun go off as he was thrown off balance, looking up to see -

To see Allisyn tucking a pistol back into the folds of her dress.

"Hurry, Captain. You're needed on deck." And then she vanished, without word. He froze only a moment before climbing over the debris and DaCosta, taking the gun from his limp hand as he went. That answered the question of the killer on board. How many times had the midshipman brought the Captain meals in his cabin? He must have known about the fits, known it would be the perfect way to kill the man.

But it didn't answer the why.

He had barely reached the maindeck before the glow of the flames reached him. They'd set the cutter aflame, and she was headed directly towards the Phoenix.

"Sink her!" he bellowed, voice carrying over the sounds of battle. "Sink that cutter!"

"Captain," a midshipman by the name of Guthrie hollered, from the lower gun deck, "we've taken a shot to the hull, sir! She's taking water!"

"Oath," he muttered, casting a look around. The Scimitar was going to be lost, she had been stripped of all three of her masts, and she was listing heavily to the right. The Phoenix had sunk one of the cutters, and the other was limping towards the shore with the other defeated cutter, leaving the three left on the water to do battle.

"Logan! Sam! Take twelve sailors and four Marines in the launch, start hauling survivors out of the water! Corporal! Sink that fireship!"

The flaming cutter was taking heavy hits from the Bellicose, but she wasn't gaining water fast enough to suit Nathan. It was slowing her down, perhaps the Phoenix could get out of her way . . .?

One of the remaining three cutters took off for the shore, apparently badly enough damaged by the now quarter-sunk Scimitar that her captain felt it wise to pull her out. Two cutters would be no match for two British frigates, no matter if slightly battleworn, but if the fireship took down the Phoenix. . . Hastily Nathan pulled out his spyglass, scanning the horizon, but the flames engulfing the Spanish cutter were too bright, they impeded his vision. He could only hope the French didn't send reinforcements, and that no more cutters lurked on those waters.

"Recover a sail from the Scimitar," he bellowed to the launch, already in the water. "We'll need it to plug the hole!"

"Aye aye, sir!" Logan roared back, and then the Marines were aboard, and pulling swiftly towards the sinking Scimitar.

Nathan could see the Phoenix was already bringing poles to bear, to repel the fireship as she approached. At her current rate of speed, it looked like the cutter would clip the Phoenix's aft, possibly even the magazine, and if that caught fire, the ship would be lost. One of the remaining Spanish cutters was attempting to slow the Phoenix by attacking, not broadside yet but coming to bear quickly.

The other cutter was headed straight for the Bellicose.

Nathan lost track of the Phoenix quickly in the battle that ensued, caught up in the screams and the cannonfire, the maneuvering and the orders. He sidestepped a rope just before it would have snapped up his ankle and hauled him high into the air to his death, and the furled topsail came crashing down around him like a suffocating blanket. Miraculously, he was uninjured, and dragged Richards from underneath the heavy canvas amid the screams and the still-bright light of the fireship.

"Go aid the helmsman!" he shouted, and Richards nodded, limping slightly towards the ruined quarter-deck and the helmsman, trapped there and fighting the wheel against the strong currents trying to drag the Bellicose to shore.

Then he spared her a look.

The Phoenix was battering the Spanish cutter into the sea, and she had obviously outrun the fireship, which was headed harmlessly out to sea. The cutter attempting to attack the Bellicose abruptly changed course, heading for the safety of the shore after taking relatively little damage, but Summers shook his head at Richards. They would not pursue.

Somewhere aboard the Phoenix, a man called out, and the Marine corporal bellowed back a reply. Nathan glanced at her a moment before picking the launch out of the darkness, still hauling bodies from the water.

"Creed." The Master-at-Arms was by his side instantly. "See to it that the launch returns safely. Signal the Phoenix that we need to talk. Keep an eye out for French ships, we're too near the barricade for them not to have noticed. I'll be in my quarters."

"Captain's quarters?" His voice was only slightly questioning. Even if half the quarter-deck was in the Captain's quarters, the maps were still there.

"No, Mr. Creed. My quarters."

And he turned and headed below-deck, in search of the five passengers.

* * * * * * *

Less than a week passed before the port of Cairo found itself the host of two of His Majesty's frigates, the H.M.S. Phoenix and the H.M.S. Bellicose, flying flags of welcome and bearing small gifts for the officials that came out to pick up their honored guests.

The ships themselves seemed in fine condition despite having passed directly through the bulk of the reported French/Spanish barricade, seeming to have taken no further damage, in fact. When asked, Admiral Summers was said to have laughed and proclaimed, "They went running back to harbor with all the courage of a Spanish conquistador," and Captain Summers said, with a ghost of a smile, "Funny, I didn't notice them at all." The fact that only four of the Admirals were responsible for the falsified reports of ships in these waters would be enough to bring them under suspicion, and possibly suspended or even court-martialed.

It had also been painfully obvious that the cutters had had orders for the Scimitar to be taken out, hence the uneven plan of attack. The women would have been lost, the interpreting skills and weapons secrets with them. Had the women been aboard her, they might very well have lost them.

The Spanish ambassador immediately denied there had ever been cutters on their western coast, nor that a barricade had been formed, and for the most part, the French were completely quiet about the entire affair. They were not bothered in their sailing across the Mediterranean, and landed without incident near Cairo. The Admiral had been very intelligent in his choice of officers, and the ladies complimented them beautifully.

Cooper had not yet disembarked, watching Nathan with something akin to surprise as he paced the newly rebuilt quarter-deck. "You do not join your father?"

Nathan didn't answer, leaning on the railing, watching the Phoenix. The wind was coming from the east, pushing back his silvering hair and making his ponytail occasionally rustle on his dress blue coat. The tranquil sounds of the sea lapping at the repaired hull of the Bellicose seemed to be lulling him, and his tanned face squinted in the rising sunlight. He heard her climb the stairs the to quarter-deck, but said nothing as she came to lean on the railings beside him.

"Shilling for your thoughts?"

He shook his head ruefully. "If DaCosta was the man responsible for murdering the captain, and he most likely was, that still doesn't answer why."

Dawn nodded, watching the commotion on the coast. "Does it matter, now?"

"I don't know."

She nodded again, green eyes sparkling as she smiled at him. "You still having trouble with the concept of women being as important to this mission as men?"

He snorted. "I still have a problem with you wearing pants." He said it with a smile, in a teasing sort of way, but she still managed to take offense.

"Women should not wear pants, then?"

"Not women with a shape such as yours, and not on my ship, milady."

She laughed, not the bubbling, almost girlish laugh of the Lady Loreena, already disembarked and flirting outrageously with the poor officer she'd been paired with, nor the quiet laugh of the Lady Aliya, who had nearly turned crimson as a lobsterback when he had kissed her hand. It was a laugh all of her own, and a very beautiful one.

And she leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"One at a time, I shall win you over," she murmured, and he heard her leave the quarter-deck, watched the native Egyptians gawking at her as she left the Bellicose and took the arm of her assigned husband.

Allisyn was going crazy, trying to watch the camels to which her mistress's things were tied as well as glare at the officer taking her onto his arm, and the Moor was not having much better luck, being ooed at and bidden on by many of the pier-keepers. He didn't seem to be taking offense. Perhaps he knew the language, and the worth they would place on him.

Nathan knew he would not be so calm under such circumstances. The Moor felt his gaze, glancing at him and knuckling his forehead, before accompanying Lady Loreena and the others.

Where was the chemist?

He left the quarter-deck, signaling the acting lieutenant to take the helm, and ducked down to the officer's deck, stopping only briefly to knock on her door before entering.

Several of the sailors were helping her with her things, Creed hauling the largest trunk himself and with a grin so goofy it almost made him look comical. Nathan sidestepped to allow the Master-at-Arms to pass, entering the room and attracting the attention of the chemist.

"Are you nearly ready, milady?"

She nodded just once, refusing to meet his eyes as she buttoned a small purse and strapped it to the folds of her skirt. "Yes, captain. I enjoyed our voyage, thank you for your consideration in dealing with us." She kept up the façade only until the sailors had gone, then glanced at him once, almost curiously, before moving past him into the hall.

On impulse, he grabbed her arm. Something was just not right here . . .

"If I may ask, who is your real husband? Why did he not accompany you?"

Her smile was slight, and she freed herself easily. She didn't answer till she was nearly at the deck ladder.

"You are."

And then she had floated up the ladder and was gone.

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