

By Kamery Solomon

Praise for Swept Away

"Amazing! The best way I can think to describe it is Pirates of the Caribbean meets Outlander! There is action, adventure, romance and so much more! You will not be disappointed!"

~Heather Garrison, Amazon Customer

"Kamery Solomon never disappoints a reader in her ability to tell a great story. She has proven she's not a one trick pony and capable of writing across genres. Highly recommend reading any and all of her books."

~Lisa Markson, The Paranormal Bookworm

"This book has so many twists and turns that will keep you reading all night long. I love the characters and the mystery. The author does a fantastic job weaving every part in this story that will leave you wanting more. I highly recommend!"

~Laura Collins, Amazon Customer

"I was pulled in right away and I did not want to put the book down, nor did I want the story to end . . . a must read!"

~Holly Copper, Amazon Customer

"Marvelous, wonderful, awe-inspiring; these are just a few words to describe just a fraction of the awesomeness that is this book."

~Julie Engle, Amazon Customer

"This is a book I will read time and time again."

~Angie Angelich, Bookeepsie

Other Books by Kamery Solomon

Forever

Hell Hall (A Halloween Novella)

The God Chronicles

Zeus

Poseidon

Hades

Adrastia

Exoria

Dreams Novels

Taking Chances

Watching Over Me

The Swept Away Saga (A Time Travel Romance)

Swept Away

Carried Away

Hidden Away

Stolen Away

Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story)

The Lost In Time Duet

Finding Freedom

Click here to read now!

By Kamery Solomon

Happily Ever After Publishing - Arizona

Copyright © 2015 Kamery Solomon

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Published by

Happily Ever After Publishing

Arizona

Smashwords Ebook Edition

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This book is available in print and ebook format.

Table of Contents

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Sneak Peek—Finding Freedom: A Time Travel Romance

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Carried Away (The Swept Away Saga #2) Sneak Peek

Acknowledgements

About The Author
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For the Romney Family

Buried treasure.

It's quite possible no two words, when placed together, incite the imagination of a person so greatly. Immediately, visions of rugged men, tanned from months at sea, bodies bearing scars that tell of a lifetime of battle, their clothes hanging slightly tattered around them, fill the mind of the believer. They imagine old, locked chests carried between sailors, over sandy beaches and into dense forests where the air is so thick that moisture clings to their every movement. Perhaps, just before burying their booty, the pirates decide to have one last look, cracking open their vault and revealing piles of gold coins, strings of pearls, and bright gemstones that spill over the lip of the case, tumbling into the pit below. And then, the buccaneers hide it all there in the dirt, under the leafy greens of the tropical paradise. A map is drawn, where "x" marks the spot, and then tucked away. Maybe the men will come back for the treasure, maybe they won't. Years later, some poor lad will find the map and go on an adventure rife with danger and suspense, winning the final outcome of a better life with more money than he could ever possibly use or want.

At the same time, no two words paired together have caused more eye rolls and explanations of disbelief. People don't partake of such adventures, and anything remotely like that kind of endeavor rarely happens. Surely, buried treasure does exist, but not on such a large and grand scale.

Or does it?

At one point in my life, I would have called myself a skeptic. Lost gold only brought trials to my mind, family issues, and a hate I didn't quite understand. But now? Hidden fortune tells me a story of danger, death, a love that conquered all time, and the greatest adventure of my life.

Tapping the toe of my shoe against the tiled floor, I checked my phone once more, frowning as I looked at it. He was more than an hour late. What a great way to start our unfortunate time together.

In all honesty, I should have known better. If what Mom had said about Dad and his punctuality was even remotely true, I ought to have planned to tell him the plane was arriving two hours earlier than it actually was. It'd been so long since I'd seen him, though, I couldn't remember if she'd been exaggerating or not.

The issue was this: my father was legitimately, one hundred percent crazy. He spent all day digging in the ground, looking for some lost treasure he was convinced lay just beyond his reach. Each night was spent planning to do the same thing when the sun rose again. Because of this obsession, he won himself a divorce after three years of marriage and shared custody of his only child—me. He used to come visit me in Arizona every spring, before returning to his stupid quest, but that all stopped after my tenth birthday. Becoming so involved in the search, he slipped further and further from us, spending more time away, quitting his day job, and eventually disappearing from our lives. We wrote every now and then, but there wasn't all that much to say. It'd been twelve years since he last visited and the basics of what we'd said to each other over that time could probably fit on a piece of notebook paper.

Something had changed when Mom got sick, though. Suddenly, she wanted Dad and I to talk more, to really know each other. She instigated a few video calls, insisted I write letters about school, and even invited him to my high school graduation. He hadn't been able to make it, saying something came up about a swamp he was swimming in. I think.

"Why are you defending him?" I'd practically demanded from my mom, not wanting to admit I was hurt he'd missed my big night.

"He's your father, Samantha," she answered simply, just like she did any time I asked why I had to stay in touch. "I spent so many years keeping you from him, wanting you for my own. When I'm gone, I want you to have a parent to go to, even if it's someone who believes in buried treasure."

"He's the one who stopped wanting to see me! That stupid hole in the ground is more important to him than I ever was."

"That's not true. I—I asked him to stop coming," she replied softly, sadly.

Shocked, I stared at her for a moment, feeling guilty when I noticed the slight paleness to her skin and the way each breath seemed to hurt. Her light brown hair had been curled for the occasion, brushing past her shoulders, the red fabric of her dress hugging her skinny form. "Why would you do that?"

"You used to get so excited when he talked about that treasure. I just knew that if he kept coming and telling you those fanciful stories, one day you would go with him when he left. I didn't want that for you. There is so much more in store for you than spending your life trying to dig up something that doesn't exist." Tears in her brown eyes suggested to me she'd only done what she thought was best, but in that moment I felt a rage like I'd never known toward her.

"But that wasn't your choice to make! If that's what I wanted to do, then you should have supported it! You're always telling me that everyone should be free to make their own decisions, even if we don't agree." Hands balling into fists, I yelled at her, my own hot tears building up. "I spent years feeling like my own father didn't love me. And now, thanks to you, he probably doesn't, because he hasn't seen me! No wonder he didn't come to graduation!"

"I'm so sorry, Sam," she said, her voice shaking as a single tear slid down her cheek. "I just didn't want you to—"

"What? Be like him? Would you hate me then, too?"

"I don't hate your father," she snapped, a nerve obviously hit. "He's a good man. He was a good husband and father, too, before that pit entrapped him. He spent every dime we had trying to figure it out, and even after the money was gone, he kept going. It's a miracle our finances ever recovered. He's the one who stopped spending time with us. He was obsessed. And he probably still is, since he's not found one thing of worth on that island, yet, just like all the men before him. It's not healthy! I was tired of being second best, of feeling unloved. Another woman didn't replace me, I was replaced by a hole in the ground that people have tried to get to the bottom of for two hundred years. Can you really blame me for not wanting to stay with him? For not wanting you to be sucked in by that as well?"

Her chest heaved as she spoke and, fearfully, I suddenly realized how worked up she was becoming. Rant finished, she began coughing, and small flecks of blood came from her mouth. Hurrying to her side, I helped her to lie down, grabbing a bottle of water from the bedside table and offering it.

"I'm sorry." I cried softly as she drank. "I don't know what came over me. I'm just upset with him, I guess. I feel a lot like you said—like the pit is more important than me."

"It's not," she said, placing her palm against my face. "You're the most important person I've ever had the privilege of knowing. There are great things in store for you, Sam. I'm proud of you."

She lived for another four years, just long enough to see me graduate from our local university. I thought she was still in remission, but it turned out she'd known the sickness was back for a year and refused to go through chemo again. Instead of telling me, she planned a two-week vacation to Hawaii that September and invited me along.

"Samantha Greene, you're the most beautiful woman on the beach." She laughed, watching as I tried to build a sandcastle.

"Whatever," I scoffed, shoveling more wet dirt into the childish pail. "If anything, you are. All anyone ever tells me is how much I look like you, therefore, you are the prettiest one here."

She laughed, long and hard, until the terrible, hacking cough I knew so well started. When she uncovered her mouth, there was blood on her hand.

"Mom?" I couldn't even stand to ask the question, but I didn't have to. The answer was in her eyes.

"Oh, Sammy," she said mournfully, her voice catching. "I simply wanted to end with some happy memories."

That February she was gone, like a whisper on the wind you thought you heard, but weren't really sure of. She was asleep in her bed and I'd gone to get myself a glass of water. As the liquid poured into my cup from the faucet, it was if the air in the house suddenly changed and I knew she'd left. Hurrying back to the room, I found her with a small smile on her face, her body finally spent from the battle it'd waged.

When she first became sick, we took care of the sad details of what would happen after her death together. Insisting that she didn't want to be stuck in a hole for all time, she asked to be cremated, so that her ashes could be spread and she would see the world. That request, along with a sneaky little note left in her will, was what had landed me here in Maine, waiting at the tiny Seaport airport for my father to pull himself out of the hunt long enough to come pick me up.

Sighing, I glanced down at the urn resting on top of my luggage. It was red, her favorite color. "Oh, Mom," I muttered. "Why did you want me to spread your ashes with Dad? You must have known that would mean I had to come here. Did you really want to be so close to that stupid Treasure Pit?"

Personally, I would've much preferred to keep her with me. She was all the family I had and it was comforting to feel like she was still so close, but the last thing I wanted to do was dishonor her final wishes, so here I was. Originally, I'd called Dad, a feat that took much more effort than it should have—owing to the fact that I hadn't spoken to him by phone or video since graduating high school—and told him what happened.

"Was she in a lot of pain?" he asked quietly.

"I'm sure, but she really tried to hide it. I think Mom wanted everyone to remember how she used to be, not as the sick, dying person she became." A long silence followed and I waited, somehow knowing he would speak when ready.

"Thank you for telling me," he finally said, his voice sounding somewhat choked. "I wish I could have been there. When is her funeral? I'd like to come, if you don't mind."

"That's the thing." I sighed. "She wanted to be cremated and for the two of us to spread her ashes together. I didn't know if you wanted to see her before she was . . . you know."

"Oh," he replied, shock obvious in his tone. "I would, truly, but I don't think I'm going to make it in time before—uh—she, well . . ."

"I understand." He had a point there. They could preserve her body, but not for very long. "When can you come to spread her ashes?"

"Maybe in a couple months?"

Sucking in an angry breath, I paused, trying to keep from exploding at him. "A few months! Dad, you've got to be kidding! Is that pit really so important you'd put off a dying woman's last wish? Because that's what this is. She didn't even tell me herself, she wrote it into her will."

"It's not that," he rushed to reply. "It's just that, well, I don't have enough money. I spent the last of what I had on some new equipment, recently. My next payment doesn't come in for a while and a lot of it is already tied up in other things. There's a couple guys coming out to survey the island before we start up again this season, too. If I leave now, someone else will come in and take my permit or the land owner will grant permission to another to come dig. I can't leave my team high and dry, not when we're so close to getting started again. I could try and cash out some stocks, but that would take a lot of time and I'm not sure that they would approve the request. I didn't know about Lucy or I would have come before she passed, I swear."

"You are unbelievable." He couldn't see me rolling my eyes, but I was pretty sure he heard it in my voice.

Checking my phone again, I pressed my lips into a thin line. He was now an hour and a half late. At this point, hiring a cab and renting a room for the night sounded like a good idea. Grabbing the extended handle of my rolling bag with one hand, and safely tucking the urn into the crook of my opposite arm, I started for the door, eyeing the few taxis waiting by the curb outside. Just as I was about to pass through the exit and into the spring air, I heard someone call out.

"Sammy! Samantha!" Turning, I saw my dad running up behind me, apology written all over his face. "Sorry I'm late! I lost track of time and then the car had a flat—look at you! You've grown into a woman!"

Having finally reached me, he gave me an awkward hug, apparently not knowing if such an action was acceptable or not. Studying him, I realized he resembled most of my memories; tall, with wispy blonde hair that stuck up off his head, as if he'd just been caught in hurricane force winds. His face was well tanned from years of being outside, with blue eyes that sparkled whenever he smiled. I'd inherited his thin lips, but thankfully none of his apparent clumsiness.

"Hi, Dad," I said, smiling tightly.

The old car smelled musty, almost like it had been left with the windows rolled down for a long time and the sea air had taken its toll on the brown fabric seats. If anything, the aroma matched the battered appearance of the outside. Paint spots had worn away from sun exposure, giving the yellow vehicle the look of peeling skin. A few good scratches marked up the sides, and there was a chip in the windshield on the bottom, passenger section. A tree shaped air freshener hung from the rearview mirror. It was this final item that I stared at, watching the piece of cardboard swing ever so slightly as we traveled down the road. The silence between us was so thick I felt like I could reach out and touch it.

Outside, the coast went by, beautiful and foreboding at the same time. Everything was so incredibly green, unlike anything I'd seen at home in the desert. There was something to be said for having all that water right here to liven things up.

"So," Dad finally said, shattering the quiet surrounding us. "How was your flight?"

"It was good," I answered again, having already told him at the airport. "Long."

"Quite a way from Arizona." Pursing his lips, he fell silent. It was painfully obvious we didn't know what to say to each other. Getting down to business would be best for both parties.

"I was thinking we could spread Mom's ashes tomorrow morning. Does that work for you?"

"Yeah." He nodded, tapping his fingers on the wheel, as he appeared to ponder. "I have a meeting tomorrow night with the crew, but I'm free for the majority of the day. I cleared my schedule to be with you." Glancing at me, he smiled his old, familiar grin, the one that made the skin around his eyes and forehead wrinkle massively, and his dimples appear suddenly. "I know it's not the best of reasons for you to visit, but I'm glad you're here."

"Thanks." Truth be told, I wasn't all that sure if I was happy to see him or not. He'd always been so preoccupied with the Treasure Pit, I was surprised it hadn't surfaced in the conversation yet. Then again, that was most likely what his meeting with the crew was about. "I'm glad we can honor Mom's last wishes."

Opening his mouth, he sat there gaping for a second before finally closing it, apparently deciding against whatever he'd been about to say. After a few minutes, he took another breath, ready to try again. "I don't have a very big house," he started," but there's a sleeper sofa in my office. I was thinking I could stay in there and you could have the bed."

"I'm not taking your bed." I laughed, certain he hadn't said what he wanted to before. "It's your room. I don't mind sleeping in the office."

"Are you sure?" He sounded so hesitant, like he was afraid for me to see what was in there. "All of my work stuff is stacked around."

"Isn't that what an office is for?"

"Yes, it's just—well—I know you don't approve of my work at the pit. I don't want you to have to stare it in the face the whole time you're here." He shrugged, his face somewhat red, and it occurred to me that he was embarrassed to talk about what he did.

"Dad," I said softly, my annoyance instantly diminishing. "I may not agree with how you spend your time, but it is your time. The Treasure Pit is part of who you are. I came out here expecting you to talk my ear off about it. You don't need to feel badly for being yourself." Surprisingly, I meant every word of it. Mom and I may have thought he was a fool at times, and I certainly had my share of resentful feelings, but he was still my dad. If I was going to believe anyone could do whatever they put their mind to, he was going to be included in that, no matter how awkward I felt about it.

"Really?" The amount of surprise in his voice almost hurt my feelings. "I thought you would have shared your mom's opinion on the matter."

"We didn't talk about it very much."

Quiet filled the car once more, and I turned my attention to the fading sunset. There were no pink or gold colors in the sky, like there were back home. Everywhere I looked, all I could think of was how different this place was. It was nice, an escape from the life without Mom that waited for me back in Arizona. The circumstances of my visit were dreary, but it was a welcome respite from all that had been going on. Here, only Dad knew I'd just lost my mother. There wouldn't be scores of people stopping by, offering to help. My neighbor wouldn't be calling every other day to suggest I join a grief-counseling group. Friends wouldn't glance at me apologetically whenever we were together. I wouldn't have to wake up each morning and wonder what I was going to do with all of Mom's things, or if I was going to keep the house.

"I still loved her," Dad said very suddenly, a soft mourning present in his voice. "I always did. We couldn't make it work, though. Not with both of us wanting such different things. Over the years, we talked less and less—you know that—and she simply . . . drifted away, you know? If I'd known how sick she was . . ." His voice trailed off, his eyes glued to the road, the smile he'd worn moments before completely gone.

"Don't beat yourself up, Dad." His confession surprised me some, but when I examined the memories I had of him, it did make sense. My parents had always gotten along better than most divorced couples I knew of. At the time, I thought it was because they hardly spoke to each other. Now I wondered if perhaps Mom had always loved him as well.

"I should've fought harder for her," he continued, coughing back emotion. "I should have proven I could be there when she needed me most. I wasn't before and it cost me dearly. If she'd told me she was dying, I would have come."

"She didn't even tell me," I offered, trying to help him feel better. Talking about our feelings was the last thing I'd expected to do, but it was strangely cathartic. "I only found out when she started getting bad and couldn't hide it from me anymore."

Glancing at the urn in my lap, he smiled softly, but this time it held none of the happiness it had before. "She was always looking out for everyone, especially you."

"She was a wonderful mother."

Finally, we turned off the main highway and onto a regular city street. The sections of town we'd passed so far weren't all that big, and this place was no exception. I didn't even seen any chain hotels, just a few bed and breakfast type places.

"This is it," he said, pulling into the driveway of a tiny, one story home. It didn't look as beat up as the car, but was obviously old and in need of some tender love and care. The lawn needed mowed and there were chinks in the sidewalk path leading up to the sun bleached front door. The brown paint on the walls was cracked, but not too badly. Still, Dad smiled as he gestured to the whole of it. "Home sweet home."

Sliding out of my seat, I smiled as he offered to take Mom from me, handing over the urn to him with ease. Our conversation had made me more than confident that he would take good care of her. The rest of my things were in the trunk and I quickly grabbed them, following him to the front door.

If the outside of the house was rundown, then the inside was immaculate. Pieces of art were displayed on the walls, leather furniture waited welcomingly, and various cool knick knacks were on display on bookshelves and the mantel of the fireplace. Straight across from the front door was a wall with a cut out window, revealing a small kitchen and dining table. A hall that broke off to the right concealed the rest of the house.

"It's not much," Dad said, moving to set Mom on the mantel. "But it works for me."

"I like it," I replied, smiling widely. "If I'm being honest, I was expecting much less based on your car and the outside."

"Really?" He chuckled, plopping down onto the couch, eyes sparkling. "Well, I guess you have me there. They could use some tuning up, but appearances don't bother me. Except for here, that is. I want to feel comfortable at home."

"How did you afford all of this, if you don't mind my asking? I was under the impression that you were practically a beggar. No offense."

"None taken," he laughed. "I actually do make my own money, though. When I'm not out on Oak Isle, I run an eBay store that sells odds and ends. I've also gotten pretty good at stocks, if you can believe that. I managed to get an early bid in on some oil shares, which worked out supremely well. Most of my income comes from there."

"The stock market. Are you serious?"

"Of course I am." He chuckled again, seeming to enjoy my disbelief.

"Doesn't that all get used up on the island? I mean, Mom always made it sound like you two were dirt poor."

"Oh, we were then," he agreed. "I didn't have the financial know-how I do now. Sure, most of the money gets used in the excavation, but I do have a little for myself now and then. You caught me at a bad time. I haven't cashed in on anything recently and everything I did have was used up."

"How much do you put into The Treasure Pit out of what you're earning?" I asked, not sure he was really telling the truth.

"Most of the funds come from backers. But my own money? I'd say I probably spend at least, oh, five million a year?"

"Excuse me?" I all but shrieked. "You mean to tell me that you're making millions a year? Like actual millions?" He continued to grin like an idiot, watching me process what he'd said. I had the sneaking suspicion he was really enjoying my awe. "Did Mom know?" I finally asked when I was able to quit gaping at him.

"Of course! I asked her if she'd like some of it, kind of like an interest tax on the alimony payments I'd made after our divorce. She turned it down, though. Never did tell me why."

"I can't believe you spend that much treasure hunting," I said, still stuck on the five million. "That's more money than I'll probably ever have in my whole life, combined."

"That's not true," he said with defensive humor. "When I die, you'll inherit everything—the money, the stocks, the house, all of it. You can do whatever you'd like with them. The money was never that big of a deal to me. It made things on Oak Isle easier, with the hunt and all, but that was it."

Stunned into silence, I stared at him. I was getting everything? Mom had left me all she had earned from her teaching job as well, which wasn't millions by any means, but more than I thought I could ever need right now. What was I going to do with all of this as well?

"I hope that's okay," he added quickly, seeing my expression. "I don't have anyone else to leave it to and I was hoping it could stay in the family."

"Dad." The word barely squeaked out, my throat having tightened and mouth gone dry. "That's a lot—too much even. I don't know if I can handle it." I hardly knew him at all. It would be like getting a gift from a stranger.

"I probably shouldn't have sprung it on you like that," he apologized, standing. "We'll talk about it later, yeah?"

Flabbergasted, all I could do was nod, swallowing hard.

"Here," he said, taking my bags from me. "Let me show you to your room. I apologize for not having it fixed up. Like I said, I was thinking I would be the one staying in it." Leading me down the hall, we stopped at the first door on the right. Straight across from it was a bathroom and at the end of the hall I could see the bedroom through the open door. "Let me know if you want to trade." The tone of his voice was serious as he turned the handle, opening it to reveal his office, which was a mess of papers and everything he needed for his work.

Entering the space, I immediately saw the couch he had mentioned, shoved against the wall by the door. The rest of the room was lined with bookshelves and maps tacked onto the walls. In the center was a large table, with several chairs around it. It was covered in all sorts of charts, order forms, books, and even more maps.

"This is where I have my meetings with the crew. The mess doesn't bother me much because it makes sense to me, the way it's laid out, but I feel bad putting you in here with all of it."

"It's fine," I reassured him, taking it all in. "It actually looks pretty interesting."

"Oh? Has the treasure bug bit you, then?" He laughed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stood in the doorway, glancing over everything.

"Not exactly." I smiled, sitting down on the couch. "I don't really know much about this place, except for what you told me when I was younger, and anything you wrote in your letters." And Mom's ranting about how crazy this all is.

"Feel free to check out anything you want," he encouraged. "Just be sure to leave it where you found it or I'll never find it again. Also, the couch folds out, like I said, but you'll have to move the table back some for it to fit." He paused for a moment. "I have to ask one more time; are you sure you're okay with staying in here?"

"It's totally fine, really."

"I guess I'll leave you to get settled then." Grinning, he turned and walked back down the hall, into the kitchen from the sound of it. "Do you like chicken?" he called back, his voice traveling easily through the small structure.

"Sure."

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Staring at the urn on the mantel, I ate cereal for breakfast the next morning while Dad ran to the store for something. It'd been so comforting to have Mom with me, even if it was in this form. Now that it was time to spread the ashes, the air seemed to hold a heavy sadness. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

"Hi, Mom." My food finished, I set the bowl down and rose from the couch, moving to stand next to her. "I'm sure you already know, but I love you so much. I don't know if I'll really have time to tell you goodbye later. Having Dad there will be great, I'm sure, but I wanted to have one last minute with you by myself." The urn remained silent, of course, but I easily recalled how her smile looked, the way her teeth always seemed so much bigger when she was grinning. Smiling myself, I continued. "Speaking of Dad, I think we could get along fine. When I was on my way here, all I could think about was how you'd always said he wasn't ever concerned with anything that wasn't his treasure hunt. I thought I was coming to meet up with the man who abandoned his wife and child . . . but he doesn't seem like that at all. I guess people can change, right? Maybe it was best to push me to spend more time with him."

A car drove by on the street outside and I paused to make sure it wasn't Dad. When I felt I could go on undisturbed, I took a deep breath, hating that she would be completely gone after today. "You don't need to feel bad for keeping us apart. I wasn't angry with you for it before, not really. And I'm not angry now. All that time was time I got to spend with you, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I wish I had more of that time." Choked up, I hesitated, clearing my throat and blinking back tears.

A car door slammed outside and I quickly stepped away, grabbing my dish from where I'd left it and hurrying into the kitchen.

"Sam?" The front door opened and closed, disturbing the silence of the house.

"I'm in here," I called, checking my face in the blurry mirrored finish of a spoon. As far as I could tell, I looked fine. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Yeah." Appearing in the doorway, I immediately noticed a bouquet of flowers in his hand. "They're tulips," he explained unnecessarily.

"Mom's favorite." I smiled, surprised at his sentiment.

"I thought we could leave them with her, kind of like a going away present. Is that okay?"

"I think that would be wonderful. I don't have a place in mind, though. Somewhere pretty, of course, so she can enjoy the scenery."

"I know just the place," he replied. "It's the perfect spot."

"Okay. I'll just go freshen up real quick and then we can go." The words sounded wooden, like I wasn't the one actually saying them. This was it. It was really happening.

Leaving the kitchen, I went into the bathroom in the hall, hoping to at least pass as presentable for the occasion. I was wearing a black, long sleeve shirt and jeans, which I'd originally thought was too casual, but it then occurred to me that spreading ashes in a dress might not be the best idea. I wanted the ability to move freely and over a large area if I could. My brown hair was curled and I'd donned light makeup. The earlier conversation with the urn seemed to have left my nose a bit pink, but it would do. Sighing, I really studied my reflection. There were things from Mom I could definitely recognize in my face, like the way my nose wrinkled when I laughed. I hoped that would always be visible to me, a part of her I could keep forever.

"You ready, Sammy?"

"Yeah," I stated, stepping away from the counter. "I think I am."

When I came into the living room, Dad had pulled the urn off the shelf and was cradling it in one arm, the flowers in the other. "You okay?"

Smiling tightly, I nodded, slipping my coat on and reaching out to take Mom from him. "I'm holding up. So, where is this place we're going to?"

Grinning, he turned and opened the front door for me. "You'll see in just a bit."

We drove in silence, myself thinking of all the wonderful times I'd spent with Mom. Even when she was sick, she'd been such a light to me. Countless memories of the times she'd taught me, inspired my love for learning, and grown my empathy for others played through my mind, her laughter whispering in my ears.

After about twenty minutes, we pulled off onto a side road and parked. "It's just a short walk from here," Dad explained, opening my door for me. Leading the way, I followed as he went down an old path that curved over a small hill, revealing the ocean. When we reached the summit, he gestured to the rocky shore below. "Your mother used to come to this place and tell me that one day she would sail away from this very spot and see the world. I would always laugh at her—where were we going to get the money for a boat? Was she going to learn how to sail? Why not just fly? But she was adamant. Eventually, she did go, but not in the direction she wanted to. She left with you and went home to her family in Arizona. I thought, since I messed so many things up when we were together, that maybe I could finally give her this one thing."

"Dad," I said, a little overcome. Any reservations I'd been feeling about spreading her so far from what I considered home had melted away as he spoke. "This is the only place to leave her. Thank you for telling me."

"Do you think I could have her for a few minutes? To say goodbye?" He gestured to the bottle in my arms, a hopeful look on his face.

"Of course." Handing it over, I watched as he walked a few steps away, his head bent as he told his lost wife farewell. After a couple seconds, I turned away, wanting to give him some privacy, as I'd had earlier. It didn't feel like I'd said a proper parting to her, but I didn't know what to say. Surely she would still be with me, as she'd promised before her death.

"Here, Sam. Thank you." Turning around, I saw Dad holding the urn out, his face reddened and eyes a little watery. "I'm sure you want to say something before we continue."

"Actually, I talked with her while you were gone this morning." Taking the urn, I walked down to the beach, unscrewing the lid as I did so, my heart racing a million miles a minute. Mom was really going to be gone after this, spread across a place she'd once loved. Had I really said enough of a farewell? Thinking of her last year and how the cancer had hurt her so badly, I finally smiled. "Follow your dreams, Mom. See the world, be happy, be healthy, and be free." Turning the urn over, I tossed the ashes onto the shore and into the ocean, where she could be carried away to the lands she never got to visit. Beside me, Dad lobbed the flowers into the water as well.

Standing there for a while, neither one of us spoke as we watched the bouquet move farther and farther from us. A strange sense of peace filled me and I suddenly knew I was going to be okay. A lifetime still lay ahead of me and my mother wouldn't be gone from it, her memory left behind to guide me. She had given me everything and would continue to do so, no matter where I roamed.

"Thanks again for bringing me here," I finally said to my dad. "It really was perfect."

"It was the least I could do." He shrugged, watching the water in somberness. After a few more minutes of silence, he took a deep breath, which sounded very much like the precursor to something important. "Listen, Samantha, I was wondering if you'd like to stay a while longer. I know you were only planning on doing this, but I'd like to spend more time and get to know you better, if I can. We haven't really visited the past few years and I've royally sucked at being a father. That, and I know you lived with your mom in Arizona and I feel bad letting you go back to her empty house."

"How long were you thinking?" I asked warily. Staying longer meant I'd be around while he was working and I wasn't so sure I wanted to see that side of him. So far, I had only good memories of this meeting and it would be a shame if that were to somehow be ruined.

Shrugging again, still not looking me in the eye, he licked his lips. "As long as you want. Who knows, maybe you'll like it here and decide to stay. That would be fine with me, too, honestly."

"Dad, I'm a grown woman. I have a bachelor's degree and a job. You don't have to invite me to live with you and take care of me now. I can do it."

"I know you can," he replied, blushing furiously. "That's not what I meant, either. I simply thought it would be nice to spend more than a few days with you."

Mom had said she wanted us to spend more time together, and I was on an extended leave from work so I could take care of family things. No one was really waiting for me to come back. But an indefinite stay? Was that something I really wanted to do? What if I agreed and was ignored while he worked? That would just make me feel worse. What if my job decided I was away for too long and I lost it? What if I ran out of money while I was here and couldn't get back? On the other hand, Mom probably would've pushed me to accept. Hadn't I been thinking what a nice escape this place was anyway? So what if I had to put up with a little treasure talk? At least then I'd be able to find out how it was possible to spend five million dollars a year digging a hole.

Taking a deep breath, the decision made, I answered before I could change my mind. "You know what? I think I will stay. I'm not sure how long, and I'll have to see if I can get my flight refunded, but I think it could be good for us to be together."

"Really?" He finally turned to me, his eyes lighting with excitement. "You mean it?"

"Why do you always ask me if I'm serious?" I laughed. "Yes, I mean it."

Happily, he pulled me into a tight embrace. "Everyone's going to be so excited to meet you!"

"What do you mean everyone?" Suspicion pricked at me and I suddenly wondered if he had another family here, or a woman he was seeing. Hadn't he told me there was no one else?

"I told the guys you were coming to visit. They'll all be at the meeting tonight, but I didn't know if you'd want to come to that. Now that you're staying longer, they'll get to meet you for sure."

"Oh. I didn't know I was allowed in your meeting tonight." Foolish relief flooded through me and I scolded myself for becoming so possessive so suddenly.

"Of course you are! You can come to anything you'd like while you're here." He was grinning like an idiot by this point, suddenly snapping his fingers as an idea came to him and he released me. "You need a real room. I'll talk to the guys tonight and see if we can have our meetings somewhere else so I can pack up that big table and give you some space. I might be able to borrow some money to see if we can get you the essentials, like clothes and stuff. When my next payment comes in, I'll pay the loan back and save more out so we aren't tight in the future." He was babbling, obviously excited that I'd agreed to stay, and I didn't interrupt him.

There was a strange thrill of excitement at the thought of staying and trying something new. Stories he'd told me as a child of pirates, knights, and a treasure so large it wasn't to be believed swirled faintly in my mind. At the same time, I heard my mother's disapproving voice, whispering that he was a lost soul, obsessed with finding something that didn't exist.

Looking over the papers that lined the table in the office, I smiled faintly to myself. It seemed like so much work had been done here. How was it possible that no one had found anything, yet? Well, that wasn't exactly true. People from previous work companies had discovered things like pieces of chain and markers on the island, none of which could be explained. But, none of it had been worth anything. Surely that would make everyone realize there wasn't anything here? "This is a lot of research," I conclusively said to Dad, who was sitting in the chair at the head of the table.

"It is. There've been a lot of people here trying to figure the puzzle out."

"So, I've gone over it all here, but I want you to explain to me again. Just exactly what's out there on Oak Isle?" Sitting in the chair next to him, I readied myself for another excited retelling of his obsession, hoping to hold on to a few more of the facts than I had when he told me the story in the car this morning.

"Right. So, the year was seventeen ninety-five. A couple of teenaged boys and their sister were out playing on the island when they noticed this huge depression in the ground. Now, that was about the time governments had finished putting an end to piracy and privateering, so these kids, having heard all these wild tales, immediately think of buried treasure, right? They run home, grab some shovels, and start digging. Two feet down they hit a layer of stone, which they pull out with their hands, and they keep tunneling. At ten feet, they hit a layer of oak logs, which had been embedded into the walls of this hole. Same thing happens again at twenty feet, and thirty feet. By then, they realize they're going to need a little more help to get to the bottom. But they never do! Over time, lots of different people come and try to do it themselves. It's been more than two hundred years and not one soul has made it to the bottom, yet. When one company hit ninety feet, they triggered a booby trap and the entire thing flooded. No one's been able to figure out how to empty it or stop the water from flowing into it since."

"And do we know where the water is coming from? The ocean, I presume?"

"You got it. About fifty or sixty years ago they started speculating there was a whole labyrinth of flood tunnels under the island, but we don't know exactly where they are. All of the tunnels might come together into one, and then split into five separate fingers in Pirate's Cove on the east side of the island, but we can't seem to pinpoint the openings to those to make sure." He appeared so excited as he spoke, curiosity burning in his eyes. "Whoever built this would have had to do it at least a hundred years before those kids first found it and started excavating. It's a creation of engineering genius."

"Do you know who built it?" I already remembered the answer, but was still trying to cement it all in my head before the meeting started.

"Not a clue. Though, everyone has their own theory. A few of the guys even have bets on what's down there."

"And your theory?" I hadn't been able to present him with this question, yet, and I smiled as I asked, interested as to what he thought he was searching for.

"Well." He chuckled. "It'll probably sound a bit farfetched at first, but after all of my research, this is the only explanation I can think of—the treasure of the Knights Templar."

"Huh?" I queried, completely thrown off. "I thought that was a mythical thing all on its own."

"It is and it isn't. We know that they had a massive fortune, but no one has ever found it. What happened to it? Where did it go? After all of my research here, I feel pretty positive that this is where it ended up."

"Do you mind explaining that to me?" He was even crazier than I'd thought. What had I gotten myself into here?

"Think about it," he replied eagerly. "The Knights would've had the man power to build something like this. They were said to be protecting a treasure they believed was too great for one man alone. This would have been the perfect place to hide it and keep it from everyone."

"But didn't the Templars die out before the Americas were even discovered?" My brain was desperately trying to think back to my history classes, searching for anything that may have been mentioned about the New World and the Knights. "You know, 'in fourteen ninety two—"

"Columbus sailed the ocean blue,' yes. But—and this is the exciting part—it's already widely accepted that the Vikings were here long before he ever was. They've even discovered dwellings that prove it. I think the Knights traveled to the New World with the Norse, to protect them and to discover new lands in the name of Christianity."

"And while they were here, they dug a giant hole in the ground and left a bunch of treasure in it?" Did he not hear how outrageous he sounded?

"Not then, no." By this point he was sitting on the edge of his seat, rifling through some papers in front of him. When he found the one he wanted, he pulled it out of the stack and handed it to me. It looked to be a scan of an old picture, detailing some ancient Indian drawings.

"There's a theory that Henry Sinclair of Scotland, whose family were very notable Templars, made a visit to the New World in thirteen ninety-eight. These petroglyphs are from the Native Americans who lived here at the time. They tell the story of a white, bearded man who came to them from across the sea. He taught them many things and planted strange new trees on an island nearby. I don't think it's a simple coincidence that oak trees are not indigenous to Oak Isle. They've also found the ruins of what seems to be the foundation of a medieval style castle not far from town. No, I think they dug the pit while he was here, but I don't think they left any treasure in it. He was searching for a place to hide it, so he wouldn't have had it with him then. Other Knights would have returned later and done the hiding."

"So you've based your theory on alternate histories and conspiracy theories. Seems legit." The amount of disbelief in my voice might have offended him, but he just shrugged it off.

"It's one of many explanations. To me, this is the most believable. I'll explain it to you more over time, so we don't overload your brain." Taking the picture back, he placed it back in the stack of papers.

Well, at least now he had returned to being legitimately insane in my mind. And the rest of the crew had hypotheses too? I'd agreed to stay with a bunch of nut jobs.

"You're right," an unfamiliar voice said from the doorway. "You don't want to overload her brain with nonsense!"

Turning, I saw another man, who appeared to be a very handsome thirty-something. His dark hair was cut short and spiked. On his wrist I noticed a tattoo of a skull and crossbones. He wore a plain black shirt and jeans, the whole ensemble looking more like he hadn't left the style of his twenties, yet. His smile was just as bright as any I'd seen before, though, and I instantly had the impression that he was a wonderful man.

"Mark Bell," he said, grinning. "Crazy treasure hunter, number two. I'm guessing you're Sammy? Michael here hasn't been able to stop talking about you the past few weeks, he was so excited you were coming."

"Really?" I smiled, looking back at Dad, his face reddening furiously.

"Oh yeah," Mark continued. "Just about drove us all insane."

"You mean, he just about drove you insane," another man said, appearing behind him, still in his coat. He was older than Dad, probably in his early sixties, with white hair and a bald spot on his crown. "I'm Scott, Scott Williams, sweetie. Very pleased to meet you."

"Thank you," I replied happily, watching the two of them enter and take their seats across from me. "It's nice to meet some of Dad's, uh, friends?"

"You have to be friends to work together on something like this." Mark laughed. "Otherwise you'll end up fighting and breaking off into different companies. That's happened in the past, you know. Made one hell of a mess for those involved."

"I see we beat the Ray brothers here, like usual," Scott butted in conversationally. "You haven't met them, yet, have you, Samantha?"

"Um, no." They both appeared so normal. So did Dad, for that matter. It appeared impossible they could all believe there was really a massive amount of buried treasure just off the coast.

"Kevin and Eric are always late," Dad explained, smiling warmly. "They run a restaurant a short way up the coast and close early for meetings. They can never seem to gauge how long it will take them to clean up and get here."

"A restaurant?" Surprise was evident in my tone. "That sounds . . . ordinary. Is that a bad thing to say?"

Laughter filled the room as the men looked at me. "We all have pretty normal jobs, actually. I'm a teacher over at the university," Mark chuckled. "Eighteenth century history, to be exact. That's why I got this bad boy," he said, slapping the design on his wrist. "The Golden Age of Piracy, baby. It's good stuff."

"So, I'm assuming you think there's pirate treasure at the bottom of the pit?" That made sense. He did seem like a guy who was all about the lost booty.

"I work at the bank," Scott added before Mark could answer. "As a teller. It's nothing fancy, but it pays the bills. It's helped us get some backing for the project every now and then as well."

"Sorry we're late." Turning back to the door, I saw who I thought were the two brothers, both wearing green shirts with their restaurant logo on it and black jeans. "We had a bit of a rush right before closing. Hi, I'm Eric."

The first brother, who didn't appear all that much older than me, came over and held his hand out. He had light brown hair and super tan skin that made me think he didn't spend a lot of time inside his restaurant. His brother, who was a twin from the looks of it, also came over to shake.

"I'm Kevin." Smiling warmly, he took the chair next to me while Eric sat in the one at the end of the table.

"You guys don't look old enough to own a restaurant," I confessed, staring between both of them. A general murmur of laughter bounced around the room at my comment, the group relaxing together.

"It's our family restaurant, actually," Eric replied. "We run it during the week while our parents are downstate. They take care of it on the weekends while we do this."

"The Rays have some stock in the company," Dad explained softly. "Kevin and Eric got their parents hooked on the story with their own theories and plans, so they donate a portion of their monthly earnings to the pot to help fund everything."

Nodding, I took in the whole group again. They all seemed like your average men, despite being where they were now. There must have been something convincing on Oak Isle that was making people believe the fanciful stories about it.

"Shall we get down to business then?" Dad asked, leaning back in his chair. "First things first; you've all met my daughter, Samantha. She'll be staying with me for an indefinite amount of time, which means we need to find somewhere else to have our meeting so she can get comfortable in this room. Does anyone have any ideas?"

"How about the restaurant?" Eric piped in. "There's enough space there and then we wouldn't always be late."

"I think that sounds good," Scott agreed, nodding.

"Fine by me." Mark looked almost bored, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Do you have a back room we could use?" Scott added thoughtfully. "I wouldn't put it past McCrery to press his face against the glass, trying to see what we're doing."

There were general murmurs of agreement and insulting phrases whispered among them. "Who is McCrery?" I asked, confused.

"Duke McCrery," Dad answered bitterly. "He's the leader of another company trying to get the rights to dig on Oak Isle. He's a very underhanded man. I wouldn't trust him with anything."

"No need to be nice about it, Mike," Mark spoke in disgust. "The man just about got us all killed. I'm still waiting for a hit man to come and take me out."

"What happened?" This was turning into quite the treasure-hunting tale.

"It's not quite that dramatic," Scott said, waving Mark off. "There was an accident with one of the pumps last summer that could've resulted in a very unfavorable situation."

"That line was cut and we all know it," Mark replied vehemently. "And I'd bet the right half of my body that it was Duke who did the cutting."

"All right boys," Dad interrupted. "Do you have a back room or not?"

"We do," Kevin answered.

"That's settled then. I'm also wondering if I can borrow some money to get essentials for Sammy while she's here."

"I can pay for myself," I interrupted. "You don't have to get anything for me."

"I would like to, though," Dad said, smiling. "I haven't really been able to take care of you before. It would make me feel better if I could do it now."

"Are you sure?" I pressed. "Because I really don't want to be a problem. I have the money if it's going to make things tighter for you."

"We'll see how it works out." He grinned, his mind apparently made up.

"I'll talk to the bank," Scott continued, folding his hands on the table. "You know they aren't very good about letting stocks out, though. I wouldn't hold my breath for anything if I were you."

"I figured it couldn't hurt to ask," Dad shrugged. "I might be able to get a small amount cashed out on my own."

"You've been very good with them. Hopefully that will work in your favor."

"Hopefully. So, down to the nitty gritty then. It's been a few months since we've done any real work at the pit because of the ice and snow. Let's discuss our plans for this season." Dad opened a notebook and picked up a pen, ready to take notes and I settled back into my chair, interested to hear what they all had to say.

The group, which I learned was officially called The Oak Isle Treasure Trove Company, decided to hold off on any real work at the island for a week or two more. They'd been waiting out the cold season, when the ground was harder to dig through. The early spring had definitely been operating in their favor, but it seemed they weren't quite ready to tackle the pit again.

In the meantime, Dad was able to cash in one of his stocks earlier than he thought and we were saved the trouble of having to pull back money. True to his word, the long table was taken out of the office and replaced with an old dresser and daybed we got from a secondhand shop. I used my own money to help and buy some more clothes, already missing the warmth of Arizona. Everything had worked out perfectly for my stay, as if the universe had been planning it all along.

As the weeks passed, I found myself more eager to see what was really on Oak Isle. Dad tried explaining his theory to me in more detail, but it just seemed too farfetched. He had good points, obviously, and certain things fit perfectly into the puzzle, but I wasn't sold.

Finally, the day they'd agreed to survey the island arrived. It was time to craft a solid plan of action. I couldn't help the excitement humming through my veins as we drove across the manmade dirt road that connected the island to the mainland, my mind trying to conjure all the wonderful things that could possibly be hidden here under the earth.

"Here we are," Dad said, pulling up alongside an older building, which appeared to be housing some machinery. "Are you ready?"

"Sure." I grinned, knowing he could feel the emotions rolling off me. Unbuckling, I opened the door and breathed in the sea air. There was a bite to it, but nothing like when I'd first arrived. Unlike Arizona, Maine definitely had four distinct seasons. It warmed up fast—and cooled down just as quickly.

This part of the island had been cleared of all foliage, with two other, smaller buildings resting at the edge of the plant line. The dirt road we'd come in on ended here, in a circle drive. Grass covered the ground, the trees adding to the greenery with their leaves. And off to the side of the road, marked by scaffolding around it, and a sign, was The Treasure Pit.

"That's it?" I asked breathlessly, stepping forward hesitantly.

"Yes," Dad answered, the same tone of awe and elation in his voice. "Go ahead and look. Be careful. They just uncovered the opening after the winter and it could be unstable. We have to check all the rigging before we can get to work."

Nodding, I moved to investigate the mysterious pit, suddenly feeling whatever it was that drew men in and gave them the need to find out what was at the bottom. A quick check of the wooden platform told me it was steady enough to stand on. It was built around the edges of the hole and had been left uncovered through the off-season. In the middle of the square floor was the opening, which was about ten feet across. Handrails had been constructed around it, as well as a gate that blocked the ladder down into the cavity. Carefully, I approached the gap, peering over the rails to the watery depths below.

"She's something, isn't she?" Mark moved beside me and glanced inside, eyebrows furrowed as he looked. "We're going to get that water drained this year. I can feel it in my bones. Something is going to happen and we're going to get it."

"Hey you two!" Dad waved us over. Scott and the twins were already with him. The two younger men appeared to be the ones who came out early and uncovered everything.

Joining the group, a general feeling of adventure was almost palpable between us. "What's the plan?" I asked with more enthusiasm than even I expected.

"Well, we've got two options," Dad started. "When we stopped last season we'd been doing a lot of work in the swamp."

"Swamp?" I interrupted.

"It's on the opposite side of the island from the main road," Mark explained.

"We think it could hold a secondary entrance to the pit," Scott also offered.

"We tried draining it last summer, but it didn't work," Eric said.

"If we had a bigger pump, I bet we could get it this year," Kevin added.

"This is true," Dad agreed. "But we also didn't find anything in there to merit going back to it. Sure, there've been a few odd rocks here and there, but not anything worth mentioning. I think we should focus our energy on getting the Treasure Pit pumped out and finding whatever's at the bottom."

"We'll have to do a lot of work in Pirate's Cove if we go that route," Scott cautioned. "The flood waters will need to be stopped somehow."

"We could try building another dam," Kevin suggested, adjusting the sunglasses he was wearing so they wouldn't slide down his nose. "We found the one the original builders made. We should be able to make a better one with our modern day technology."

"You found an ancient dam?" These men never ceased to amaze me.

"We had the wood dated. It came from around fourteen to sixteen hundreds." Eric smiled widely at me, apparently enjoying all of my questions and reactions.

"I agree on checking out the cove, but not on building the dam." Dad rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring out at the pit. "I think we should get the water down far enough to plug up the water trap on our own, with something that we know will hold and stay dry. Then we won't have to worry about anything breaking and flooding between here and the dam."

"We might be able to do it with the new pump." Scott motioned to one of the buildings that held a big truck and machine.

"What about the swamp?" Mark interrupted. "We've gotten several hits from metal detectors there. Sure, we haven't found anything yet, but that doesn't mean nothing is there."

"If you can bring me something solid, then we'll focus more attention on it," Dad concurred. "I want to exhaust every option there is to make sure we all look for what we want. Understood?"

The men agreed and I found myself nodding along, although I didn't really have any idea what all they were talking about. By the end of the meeting, I knew Mark was working in the swamp, Scott was doing something about the drains in Pirate's Cove, and the twins would be working with Dad on emptying the pit.

"Sammy, why don't you go with Mark," Dad suggested as he headed for the new pump. "Make sure he doesn't drown out there."

"Okay." Running my hands through my hair, I walked over to Mark's car, where he was examining a metal detector in his trunk. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Not a problem." He laughed. "Hop on in."

We drove a few minutes away, down the road on the opposite side of the island. Soon, the swamp came in to view, a triangle shape that couldn't have been bigger than the area we were just in.

Catching sight of his tattoo once more, I remembered I'd never been able to finish my conversation with him on his own Treasure Pit theory.

"So, pirates, huh?" I asked as we got out of the car. "That's who you think did all of this?"

"I do," he confirmed, popping the trunk and pulling out not only the metal detector, but a wetsuit as well. "But not just one set of pirates, oh no. I think it was a whole slew of them. A sort of bank, you know? They found one in Haiti not too long ago. This island is so complicated, I don't think anyone but a pirate would go through that much trouble to keep his gold safe."

"But it would have taken at least a hundred men to build something like this. And they wouldn't have been able to do it in a few days either."

"Well, there's roughly twenty eight men to a crew, based on the size of the ship. Let's say, since these pirates were obviously good at what they did, they'd have nice sized galleons. You'd only need three or four crews to have enough men. And if you traded off turns digging, say one crew works for a month and then switches with another, it would take a few months to build all this. They'd still be able to go out and pillage and plunder, but they'd have the security of knowing that they had this place to come back to." As he spoke, he stripped his shirt and jeans off, revealing bike shorts. He quickly covered himself with the wet suit, pulling it on expertly.

"I thought pirates didn't trust anyone." I watched him with interest, wondering just how in depth he was planning on searching today.

"Ah." He chuckled. "You've just landed on the main disproving point for my theory. Everyone argues that exact thing, but I don't think it's true. Most pirate ships were run by voting. For instance, the crew picked their captain and the ones in charge, or they helped to decide where to scout and what prizes to take. I think all of the crews could have voted to do it together. After all, they did find a bank in Haiti, as I just said. So, we know it happened in other places. Why not here? This island is further into the bay, making it invisible from the open sea. This coast was a hotbed of pirates back in the day. I could easily see a couple crews wanting to hole up here and work together to lessen the load."

"Is that a waterproof metal detector?" I finally asked. "What exactly are you planning on doing?"

"I'm going to walk into the swamp, poke around, and see if I find anything." He shrugged, picking up his scuba gear and moving to the water's edge. "That's about all you can do here."

"Do you need me to do anything?"

"Not really." He sounded apologetic. "If I'd known I was coming with company, I would have brought the boat, so you could go out, too."

"That's okay," I replied, smiling. "I'll just wait here. Make sure you don't drown, like Dad asked."

He laughed loudly at that, shaking his head. "I don't come up on time once and he acts like I'm going to die every time after. I'll tell you what, Samantha, your dad sure is concerned with the welfare of his team. That's a good thing, though. He's a born leader. I'm glad we have him. If anyone's going to find the treasure, it's going to be him."

"Here's hoping."

One whole month had passed and not a single thing was found on Oak Isle. While banging my head on a rock repeatedly sounded like a good idea, instead I quietly started to look for flights home. Dad didn't know what I was doing—I didn't want to upset him any more by adding my departure to his Treasure Pit stress—and it felt like I was betraying the whole group. We went out to work several days a week, concentrating on the weekend so the twins could come as well. But, the six of us weren't enough to solve the mystery it seemed. Something always went wrong, whether it was the pumps stopped working, hoses burst, or the pit just flooded faster than we could empty it.

Then there was always the nagging feeling that this wasn't what Mom had meant when she said I should spend more time with Dad. Was she somewhere thinking I was a fool as well? Was she rolling her eyes at me for agreeing to help? Were there hauntings in my future when she would appear to me and condemn me for taking her advice too far? Suddenly, I imagined her ghost appearing to me in bed, waving a finger in my face as she condemned my soul for searching for treasure. Rolling my eyes, I grimaced, not comfortable thinking of her as a ghost somewhere, lost in space. But what else could she have meant? Surely, she didn't want us to just have coffee together and then part after thirty minutes, set for the next few years.

No, most of all, what was bothering me was hearing all of the crazy ideas about what was under the ground. Templars, pirates, and even the Revolutionary War had been mentioned in passing. How did grown men, all of which having had at least graduated high school, actually believe that these outlandish things had happened? And then there were the myths surrounding the island. Apparently, there were ancient Indian spirits who watched over it in animal form and would sabotage workers if they got too close to figuring it out. I was also informed that the Devil's dog lived here, with its fiery red eyes and deathly bite. Mark swore up and down that he saw the ghosts of two pirates row up to the shore and carry a trunk into the woods. A person in town told me that no one was going to find anything until all of the oak trees had been pulled up and the island was as it used to be. Perhaps the most disturbing of all the myths, though, was that the pit required a "blood sacrifice" before any treasure would be found. Not just one sacrifice either, but seven. That one scared me the most—six people had already died here in their attempts to solve the islands riddle.

"What are you thinking about?" Scott asked, interrupting my grim thoughts as we stood on the beach of Pirate's Cove, metal detectors in hand. There was an odd piece here and there, but so far nothing of value.

"Nothing really," I sighed, waving the device over the spot in front of me.

"Flights back home are expensive?" A small grin graced his face for a second as he glanced at me, before returning to his work.

"Does everyone know?" That would be just great if Dad knew and wasn't saying anything. I'd feel like an even bigger jerk.

"Oak Isle isn't an easy place to work," he replied in a contemplative tone. "For more than two hundred years, no one has found anything that would prove there's treasure here. And yet, we keep going. Why? It's hard to say. It could be stubbornness, faith, or even downright stupidity. But everyone wants to quit at some point, I believe. Some of us have become accustomed to the look a person gets when they're ready to throw in the towel."

"I don't know how you do it. You spend all of your time out here, or thinking about this place, and you have nothing to show for it." The confession hung in the air for a moment as he examined something on the ground his detector had registered.

"The pit is here, isn't it? That alone is enough for me to know that someone did something at this place. There may not be a treasure, but I would like to understand it. I don't think of my time spent here as wasted. Instead, I think of each day as one step closer to finding out the truth."

Remaining silent, I followed after him as he moved on, scouring every inch of the sand. The warm May sun shone down on us, making me think of other things that were much more fun to do on the beach. Waves lapped against the shore softly, lulling me into a peaceful state as we walked.

"You know, Samantha," he spoke again, squatting down to examine another item on the ground. "If I were you, I wouldn't throw the towel in just yet. Give it a little more time—one month isn't so long to be looking in the grand scheme of things."

"There's nothing here!" There it was, the exclamation I'd been aching to say for days now. "How can so many men, over two hundred years, not find anything after working and working and working? Everyone here is just wasting their time, hoping to strike it rich while they funnel their money into a hole in the ground. There's probably been more cash spent trying to find out what's down there than whatever's there is actually worth. Come on, Scott! You're a grown man! Do you really believe that there's a massive pile of treasure down there?"

To my surprise, he laughed, sitting down on the beach, removing his hat, and rubbing the bald spot on his head. "I do, actually."

"You're serious? What are you, a pirate man or a Templars?" Sitting beside him, I tried to breathe out my frustrations, already feeling bad for having released them.

"Neither." He continued to beam, obviously not upset by my outburst. "I think there's Spanish gold down there, things that the conquistadors took from South America when they came to explore. They would have feared pirates, naturally, so they hid the loot where no one would find it until they could come back for it."

"But no one ever came." I sighed. "So that theory makes no sense."

"It does if the ships that hid it were lost at sea. No one would have ever known what became of them, or where they carried all of the treasure. It was a new world, full of mystery. For all Spain knew, they could have been killed by Indians and written off as lost."

Groaning in disbelief, I covered my face with my hands. They were all crazy. I'd known it when we first met, and now I knew for sure.

"I just don't understand how you all keep believing after days and days of nothing," I muttered.

"No one does. Like I said, it could be a lot of thi—"

"Scott! Sammy!" Dad's voice burst into our conversation, his form running down the beach excitedly, arms waving in the air like a maniac.

"What is it?" Scott called back, rising to his feet.

"Come quick," Dad yelled again. "To the swamp!"

"The swamp?" Rising to my feet, I brushed the sand from my pants and tried to think of what could have gone wrong. Mark had never found anything, but somehow still managed to convince everyone to let him try and drain the swamp again. It was a huge, muddy mess at the moment. "Is something wrong?"

"No!" The smile on his face probably could have been seen from space.

Shocked, I didn't even realize that we were running all together then, excitement so thick between us I felt like I would drown in it.

"What is it? What did we find? Is it the door?" Scott asked breathlessly.

"Door?" I struggled to remember anything that had been said about a door before.

"The marsh is triangle shaped, which suggests that it was man made. For years, people have wondered if we're not supposed to go in to the vault through the pit, but through an entrance in the swamp," Dad explained, slowing until he was only at a fast walk. "But, no, it's not a door."

By this point, we'd reached the car he'd driven over and parked at the tree line. Scrambling inside, we took off, flying down the dirt road to the middle of the island and whatever find was waiting. When we arrived at our destination, Mark and the twins were already there, knee deep in muck, heads bent excitedly over something in Mark's hands.

"Bring it over here," Dad said, waving them to dry land.

"It's a coin," Eric practically shouted at us, scrambling to follow so he could continue looking.

"Let me see," Scott demanded, holding his hand out.

"Scott is really good with old coins," Dad muttered to me. "That's why I wanted him to come right away and look at it."

Shock continued shooting through me as I watched them all. If they'd found a coin, and it proved to be an old one, this would be the first thing of value ever found on the island. There would be legitimate proof and reasons for them to continue the search.

"There's a lot of wear on it," Scott spoke as he examined it. "It's definitely been in there for a while, I can't say how long for sure. What's this?" Rubbing his thumb over the edge of the coin, he brushed away more of the mud before a sharp intake escaped him.

"What is it?" Dad asked excitedly.

"It's a date," he replied almost reverently. "Sixteen eighty three, it looks like to me."

Mark began whooping and hollering, dancing around the edge of the swamp like a boy who'd just had his first kiss. The twins were clapping each other on the back and hugging, excited howls coming from them as well. Dad even fist pumped the air while I simply stood there looking confused.

"Here, Samantha," Scott said, motioning me over amidst the celebrations. "Have a look." He handed the coin to me, a truly joyful smile on his face.

It was about the size of a half dollar and unevenly shaped into a circle. It didn't look like any coins I'd seen around before. Where Scott had rubbed, I could clearly see the date, as worn as it was. "I don't understand," I spoke as I looked at it. "Why is the date so significant?"

"It marks the coin as a piece of eight," he explained. "It was a common form of currency used in Spain for several hundred years. If that is the year it was minted, then it would have had to been dropped here by someone around that time."

"Pirate gold," Mark crowed from behind us. "They loved those coins!"

"I know," I replied, still in shock. "And you're certain that it's real?"

"We'll send it off for testing," Dad butted in. "But I don't see how it could be fake, knowing where it was and how long it took to find it."

"It was in the mud," Kevin explained to me. "The metal detector started going off so we jumped in and went through it."

"It went off in a few other places too. We need to get back out there and see if there's more." Eric was practically bouncing with excitement, slapping his hands together in anticipation.

"I agree." Dad was obviously elated, but he was switching back into commander mode. "I think we should stop all activity at the pit and focus on just the swamp for a while. Agreed?"

There were several more whoops from Mark at this as everyone else approved. All I could do was continue to stare at the coin in my hand. They made plans around me and separated into groups to get to work and I just stood there, looking at it.

"You coming, Sammy?" Dad asked, walking back to his car with Scott.

"There's actually something here," I whispered to myself. "They found something. A real something."

"Sammy?" Jerking out of my trance, I looked over to Dad, who was standing next to the car with my door open for me. His face shone so brightly with happiness, I couldn't help but smile back. "You still ready to quit?" he asked me, chuckling.

Tightening my fist around the coin, I stared past him and out over the bay, feeling the weight of the silver in my hand. "Not a chance."

Another month passed, with three more coins found in the swamp. Each of them had been sent off for dating and other tests to make sure they were legitimate. Tonight, we would finally discover the truth of them, at our weekly meeting.

The twins' restaurant—or rather, their parents' restaurant—was a nice, small pizza place with a cozy feel to it. There were booths and tables together, situated across the checkerboard tile like any other parlor I'd been to. Towards the back of the room, the counter blocked the opening to the ovens and preparation area. The few times I'd been here for meetings had left me eagerly anticipating the next time we would come and eat while we discussed work.

It was amazing to me that I'd been able to stay so easily. Before, work meant going to the university library and helping students all day. Now it meant excitement and adventure. With the way I'd taken to everything since finding the first coin, it was no wonder Mom had been afraid I'd skip out on her and throw myself into the pit like Dad had. Still, I'd expected at least a little flak from someone about staying. But, no, the university had filled my spot easily, promising to keep me on for however long I wanted. It probably wasn't hard for them to find someone to work my shifts with all of those people looking for jobs. Millie, my strangely energetic, elderly next-door neighbor, had agreed to keep watching the house, having already received a key from me when I left. My friends all wanted to know what it was like to search for buried treasure. Not one person had said anything negative to me. I halfway wondered if it was because I'd just lost a parent and none of them wanted to tell me anything bad.

Lost in my thoughts about home, I followed Dad back behind the counter, through the kitchen, and into the back room, where Scott and Mark were already waiting, pizza in hand. The twins were just finishing up cleaning the oven.

"Evening," Scott mumbled around his food. Beside him, a package that appeared to hold all of our coins sat on the table, making me practically hum with excitement.

"Have you read any of the statements, yet?" Dad asked, taking a seat.

Shaking his head no, he tried to catch the cheese hanging out of his mouth with his fingers. "Wanted to wait till we were all together."

Taking my own seat, I drummed my fingers on the table, feeling extremely jittery.

"Mike!" Eric suddenly appeared in the doorway, alarm on his face. "Duke McCrery just parked outside and is coming up to the door!"

"What?" Mark practically yelled. "What the hell does he want?"

"I don't know, but he's got a man in a suit with him."

"Great," Dad mumbled, standing up and following Eric to the front of the store. The bell on the entrance rang and a distinctly western accent started speaking loudly.

"Howdy, Michael," the deep voice said. "How are you this evening?"

"There's no need to be polite," Dad answered grimly. "I can see your lawyer standing next to you. What is it you're trying to pin on me now, Duke?"

Curiosity getting the better of me, I rose from my own chair and went out to see what was going on. Mark and Scott followed suit. There was indeed a lawyer out there, a black briefcase that matched his suit held tightly in his hand as he pushed the rim of his glasses up his nose with the other. He looked nervous, but that may have been because the man next to him was absolutely fearsome. Duke McCrery appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, and was almost positively from Texas, based off the way he spoke and the clothes he was wearing. It felt like I was home in Arizona looking at his cowboy hat, button up white shirt, jean pants, and his boots. It wouldn't surprise me if there were spurs hiding back there somewhere as well. Every inch of him looked like the classic cowboy.

"Well now," Duke spoke again, grinning wide. "I've just bought out your company, Michael, and I've come to take over the meeting."

"Excuse me?" Dad's eyes narrowed as his arms folded over his chest.

Waving his arm at the lawyer, who immediately set his briefcase on the nearest table and opened it, pulling out a stack of papers, Duke took a seat, relaxing like he was at the beach without a care in the world. "I bought out all of the shares you already sold and all of the ones that were still available to buy. I'm now the largest shareholder in your little company, which makes me the boss. I'm going to have to ask y'all to step down and let my crew go to work, seeing as how you don't have a say in the matter."

At this point, the lawyer stepped forward, handing what appeared to be a detailed copy of every one of the purchases to each member of the group. Everyone except Dad had gone a pale white as Duke spoke and now they were all shifting uneasily, not knowing how to handle the news.

"You bought out each share except for the ones we held personally?" Dad asked.

"Yes, sir." Duke laughed. "How do you like them chickens?"

"You are not the largest shareholder," Dad interrupted him forcefully. "I am. Since that leaves me in charge, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Excuse me?" All appearance of friendliness instantly disappeared from Duke as he sat up, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Did you not hear what I said?"

"I did." Dad nodded as he carefully folded up and ripped the report given to him into pieces. "I started this company, though. When I did, knowing there would be some conniving skunk like you who tried to weasel their way into things, I set the shares up so that no one would ever own more than me. I've always been the majority shareholder, and I always will be. If you want to run this company, you're either going to have to buy out me—which will never happen—or I'm going to have to be dead."

Duke's face turned a dark red color as he listened, his jaw working furiously as he ground his teeth together behind closed lips. "You're lyin'."

"Wanna bet?" Dad's grin was so happy, I almost felt bad for Duke. Then again, I didn't really understand the whole feud and what had happened between them so far. No one had ever told me and I'd never asked. "I imagine when you were out buying stocks from all my backers, you came across a set that had an unidentified amount that was held by an anonymous donor."

At this, Duke stood, slamming his fist on the table in a fury. "Come on, Malcom," he growled to the lawyer. "Our business is finished here."

At this, Mark started outright laughing, the smile on his face having grown larger each second Dad was speaking. The twins had thrown their papers away as well, while Scott simply stood there, a piece of pizza in his hand that he must have gone back and gotten at some point. The two shamed men left the building and Dad turned around to look at us all, sighing heavily.

"Don't celebrate just yet," he told Mark, motioning for us all to follow him back to the office. "If McCrery has bought out all of the other shares we're still in deep trouble."

"Why?" I asked, taking a seat at the table again. "If you hold the majority all the time, there's nothing he can do, right?"

"We don't want him to own anything," Dad explained. "I wouldn't put it past him to show up again in thirty minutes with a court summons, accusing us of cutting him out of something he's paid money in to. We need to contact our donors and buy back their loyalty again."

"It's not really loyalty if they're willing to sell off for more money, is it?" Everyone laughed at my comment, and the air in the room lightened some as eyes fell on the coin box once more.

"It's not," Dad agreed, "so we'll just have to be the higher bidder. But, for now, we have more important things to discuss. Scott?"

"Right," Scott spoke. "Let's open up these coins!" Pulling the individually sealed bags out of the box, he kept one for himself, handing the others to Dad, Mark, and the twins. "Sorry, Samantha," he said, smiling. "Not enough to quite go around."

"That's okay. I just want to know what the verdict is," I replied with a laugh.

"Let's find out." Dad eagerly pulled open his sealed bag, the other men following suit, and the room fell silent as they read over the reports. "It's real!" Dad laughed, pulling the coin out and looking at it like it was his own child.

"Mine, too," Scott confirmed, grinning from ear to ear.

"Same," Mark crowed, looking like he was ready to jump up and start dancing again.

"Ours is as well," Kevin added excitedly. "Four coins all from the sixteen hundreds! Can you believe it?"

Elated babble filled the room as we all took the time to peruse the coins, this time with an added reverence of knowing that they were all real and very old. Once everyone had examined each one and a good thirty minutes had passed, Dad called us all to order. "I know we're all excited and that these came from the swamp," he said, holding his hands up for silence. "But I think we need to start focusing on The Treasure Pit."

"Why?" Mark asked, surprised. "The swamp is the first place we've ever actually found something. Why stop now, when there could be loads of coins down there?"

"The amount of time and money we're spending to pump out the bog because it keeps refilling is adding up. I think, if we're going to continue putting that amount of effort into it, we should do it somewhere where we know we're going to find more. These coins were in the swamp, yes, but will we find any more? No one can say."

"But there's still the fact that we found something there," Mark argued. "I don't think we should give up on it because you want to dig in the pit some more."

"It's not just that," Dad said, his voice lowering considerably, even though we were the only ones around. "I think I've finally come up with a way to keep it from flooding, besides covering any tunnels we find. It's a method that's never been tried before, but I need some extra money to get it going."

"And you think this method will work better than the others?" Scott asked skeptically. "We haven't ever had much success in getting the water level below ninety feet."

"This will do it," Dad insisted. "I'm sure of it."

"What is it?" I asked, not sure on why he wouldn't tell us.

"Not here," he said quietly. "Not after Duke has been here."

"What, do you think he put spy microphones all over the place?" I laughed, but stopped as soon as I realized they all thought that was a possibility. "Are you serious? He didn't even come any further than the first table."

"He comes in to eat once a week," Kevin explained. "As soon as he found out we were meeting here."

"That is insane." How many crazy things could one person believe?

"It may be," Scott agreed. "I'd rather be safe than sorry."

"Okay then." I shrugged, deciding to let them be crazy on their own. I'd find out what this method was eventually.

"You're sure this will be better than working in the swamp more?" Mark sounded skeptical, but he seemed to be open to the idea.

"I do." There was raw honesty in Dad's voice as he answered and a look in his eye that said he truly believed whatever he had planned would work. After a moment, Mark nodded and extended his hand to shake.

"I've always trusted your judgment," he said. "We'll stop searching in the swamp for the time being."

The smell of fried chicken filled the air of the kitchen as Dad and I cooked dinner the next night. It was a comfortable routine we'd established in my time here. Some nights he would prepare the main entrée and I would make a side salad or steam some vegetables. Other times, like tonight, I did the majority of the cooking and he handled the side dish. It was carrots and rice tonight.

"So," I started conversationally, "I've been meaning to ask you, how do you buy stock in your own company anonymously?"

His laugh bounced around the room as he sliced the vegetables. "It's pretty easy to do with online trading. Of course, the broker and the company know who I am—they would even if I wasn't the owner—but it's very easy to list it all as a secret. I did it exactly for this reason, too. I knew that someday, someone would try to take it from me. Oak Isle is a very coveted piece of land. We have a deal with the owner now, but I bet Duke's been trying to get him to end it as well. With our discovery in the swamp, I imagine Ralph—he's the guy who owns the island—won't budge on our deal."

"I guess that's nice security," I chuckled. "Do I get to hear what your big plan to drain the pit is now?"

Glancing over, I saw the grin that graced his face so easily. "Not tonight. I want to show everyone tomorrow. You up for a bit of a road trip before?"

"Where to?"

"Just upstate, to the next city. I need to stop by and pick up some drills."

"I guess that'll be fine. Do we have time to do any shopping? I'd like to grab a few more outfits and some new tennis shoes. The ones I have now kinda got destroyed by the swamp."

"No problem," he answered, shrugging. "I'm sure there's a mall or something there."

Dinner passed quickly as we discussed our plans for the next day, a slight excitement to our speech.

The next morning found us in the car, windows down as we sped across the highway to Crawfordsville. Dad was humming along to the radio, lost in his own thoughts as I watched the coast. Everything here was just so . . . green. I still couldn't believe it. The desert did get colorful at times, but nothing like this. It was like my whole adventure here had turned into some kind of make believe paradise. By the time we were in the city, I'd decided that maybe it wasn't so bad Dad wanted to leave me everything. A life on the coast could be my type of life.

"Do you want me to drop you off and go to Beman's by myself?" Dad asked as we passed through town. "They're going to drive the drills out after us, so it needs to be the last thing we do."

"That's good with me," I replied, smiling happily. "I shouldn't be too long."

"Awesome." He turned into the parking lot of a strip mall and let me out, promising to be about thirty or forty minutes. With my wallet in hand, I made my way to the chain shoe store on the end, hoping to find some good work shoes that could withstand the island.

Forty minutes later, I found myself sitting on the sidewalk, a couple shopping bags around me, as Dad pulled up. On the main street, I could see several large drilling trucks heading out of town.

"They knew where to go." Dad laughed as I slid into my seat.

"Of course." I smiled. "The Treasure Pit has probably given them lots of business over the years."

"Yeah, I'm still glad I came, though. There were a few things that needed ironed out and we would have had to send them back if they'd come the way they were set up. What a waste of money that would have been, eh?"

"Well, I got some actual work boots and pants, so I'd say the trip was a success." We drove through the lot and pulled back onto the street, an excitement that wasn't present before in the car filling me to the brim. "Would you please tell me what the plan is?" I finally blurted out. "I've been dying to know."

"Fine, fine." He grinned, waving his hand. "I'll tell you." He paused for a moment to take a drink out of his water bottle and adjust the sunglasses on his face. "Okay. The pit has a flood tunnel in it somewhere, right? Every time we get down to eighty or ninety feet, water pours in and no amount of pumps we've used can get it out. So, I got to thinking. What if instead of drilling in the actual pit, we put some holes down around it in several places and pump out of those? The water isn't getting a chance to make it all the way to the pit then and it won't flood as bad. I'm guessing we'll have some liquid in the bottom, but only a few feet instead of hundreds."

"That could work," I agreed, nodding. "But we don't know exactly where the flood tunnel is, do we?"

"We don't. That's why we have to drill a couple holes—so we can pump out any water we hit. If we can locate the actual tunnel this way, then we can go back and block it off completely, get rid of it at the source."

"What if there's more than one?"

"Then we'll do the same thing." He looked so happy, so sure of himself as he spoke. It wasn't a mystery that his crew followed him so willingly. The way he explained his plans, the sound of his voice tumbling over itself in excitement, made anyone feel like he could rule the world if he wanted to. He had characteristics that reminded me of Mom as well, something that made me more pleased to see him each day.

"You know, Dad, I think you're actually going to do it. You're going to solve the Treasure Pit. I don't know when or how, this could be it, but I know you're going to do it. It doesn't seem possible for you not to. You were made to be part of it."

"Thanks, Sammy," he said in surprise. "That means a lot. I have to admit, I was a bit apprehensive about what you would think of all this over time. I'm sure your Mom wasn't very supportive of it. I was worried you'd feel like you'd let her down somehow by being here."

"No. She wanted us to spend more time together. I'm sure she would have been happy about all of it, even if we hadn't found anything."

"Well, you're my good luck charm, Samantha. We didn't find anything until you were here. The superstitious side of me says it has something to do with you." Smiling widely once more, he glanced over at me as I laughed.

"If you say so."

The four drill trucks had parked in their assigned spots and were readying to begin, one at a time, in case something went wrong or the ground shifted. After the holes were finished, the trucks would then switch out to their pumping gear and get to work. The whole crew was standing on the scaffolding around the pit, waiting anxiously for a sign of anything. It was a long process, and one of the trucks ended up having to move because they were hitting rock, but eventually, all four of them were pumping water out.

"Four different tunnels," Scott said in awe.

"Or a couple big ass ones," Mark stated, arms folded as he watched one drill closely. "I wonder if any of them feed into the swamp, with the way it keeps refilling itself."

"The bog is fresh water," Dad answered, shaking his head. "We know that this is salt, from the ocean."

"How long until we can get down there into the pit?" I butted in. "Will it take long to drain?"

Glancing down into the hole, Dad shrugged. "We'll have to look in the morning and see how it's doing. I can't tell any difference right now."

"I'll check that the hoses are draining fine," Scott offered, stepping off the scaffolding and heading in the direction of the runoff. "Make sure we aren't spewing anything into the ocean that shouldn't be there."

"Thanks, Scott," Dad called after him, raising a hand in farewell. "Well, Sammy. Ready to call it a night?"

"Let's go home and sleep so we can come out here and find out what's going on." I laughed.

"Treasure bug," Mark smirked, stepping down as well. "It's got you good!"

"As long as it gives me a treasure worth the trouble, I'm fine with it." I grinned.

"See you tomorrow," he said to both of us, walking over to his car.

"Does anyone need to stay and watch the pump?" I asked, suddenly wondering about the work crews.

"It can run through the night on its own," Dad explained. "The crews will go back to the shop, save two guys to help make sure everything is working right. They're staying at a hotel here. We'll come out first thing and check on it all. Hopefully, we'll have an empty hole to dig in!"

"Grab that rope and see if you can help the machine get it up!"

Dad was yelling at me from the bottom of the pit, but I was having a hard time hearing him. Finally, after shutting off the machine that was helping to haul mud out of the bottom, I realized that the levy had gotten stuck. Grabbing the rope he'd pointed to, I flipped the switch back on and pulled with all my might. Thankfully, everything started moving as it should again. Looking down into the hole, I could see Dad sloshing around with his shovel.

Two days earlier, we'd come out to find the pit empty, save three feet of water that was constantly leaking in. For the first time, we'd been able to dig below ninety feet—further than anything but a drill had been able to do before—and block off the flood tunnel. The morale of the whole crew could have powered an entire city.

"Hey, Sam," Mark grunted, climbing out of the pit from the extra ladder we'd hastily put together. He was covered in mud from head to toe, but the grin on his face couldn't be beat. "Can you believe it? I was just in the bottom of The Treasure Pit. Without a wet suit!"

"I know." I beamed at him. "It feels great! I can't even imagine how it must be for all of you. I've hardly been here at all and I feel like walking on air. All of your hard work is starting to pay off. That must be amazing."

"It is." He nodded, crossing the scaffolding to the small table I'd set up to hold drinking water and cups. After gulping down a few swallows, he wiped a dirty hand across his mouth and stared up at the sky. "Every day has been a beautiful day, you know? Take that you stinky old curse!" At that, he flipped the sky off and stuck his tongue out.

"What curse would that be?" I snickered, watching him with interest.

"Something always goes wrong. No matter how great it's been, no matter how you prepare, something will happen. So keep your fingers crossed, sound good?"

Doing as he asked, I crossed my fingers as I snickered, moving to help Scott unload the giant bucket of mud we'd just pulled up.

"How's it going up there?" Dad called.

"Good," I yelled. "Let me get this mud taken care of and I'll come down to help again after I send the bucket back."

"Sounds go—" He was cut short by a strange rumbling around us. It sounded like a rockslide, but from far away.

"Get out!" Scott screamed, grabbing my wrist and yanking me away from the pit.

In slow motion, as I was pulled away, I saw Dad scrambling for the ladder, throwing himself on it and climbing as fast as he could. Then I was looking at Scott, who had terror written all over his face as he pulled me to him, flinging both of us off the scaffolding. The rumbling sound got louder, the ground moving beneath us, one of the pumps sputtering and sliding, and then I was face down on the ground, a mouthful of dirt suffocating me. A ringing filled my ears as time continued to slow down, finding me struggling to get to my feet.

My brain couldn't comprehend what I was seeing as I turned around. Dust was heavy in the air, one edge of the scaffolding broken and hanging down into the pit. The opening was larger than it had been before, having caved in somewhere underground and dropped the top several feet. The water pump on that side had fallen into a depression as well, balancing haphazardly on the edge of the solid ground and the mulched earth underneath. Poking way up out of the ground like some type of imagined skyscraper, the ladder we'd been using to get in and out was busted.

All around me, I heard coughing and swearing, until the ringing in my ears came to a sudden stop.

"Dad!" I screamed so loudly that it felt like my throat tore itself open in that very instant. Scrambling to my feet, I pulled myself up onto the piece of scaffolding that was still in place and looked over into the pit, my heart pounding. As much as I didn't want to see what was down there, I knew I had to look.

All of the work we'd done was gone. Fresh dirt and mud had filled the hole at least halfway up. Everywhere was a mess. Broken scaffolding bits were poking out here and there, small bits of rock crumbling into the bottom.

And there was no Dad.

"Oh my god," I whispered, feeling the same shell shock as when I'd seen my mother's dead body. Repeating the phrase, with shaking hands, I pushed away, crawling across the platform until I fell back onto the ground. I realized then that I hadn't been the only one looking, as Scott stumbled down next to me, Mark swearing hatefully behind us. "We have to get him out," I insisted to Scott, looking at him with wide eyes. "He could still be alive! There could be an air pocket and he only has a few minutes left!"

"Samantha, he's buried," he explained with a shaky voice. "We can try to dig him out, but without the pump—"

"The ground crushed the ladder straight across," Mark said, coming up next to us. "There's no way it could break like that and not have been hit with a good amount of force." His jaw was working furiously, his eyes blinking rapidly, and I suddenly realized he was trying to keep from crying.

"Oh no," I moaned, scooting away from the both of them. "Oh no no no no no! Please! There has to be a chance!" In a spurt of decision, I dashed past both of them, jumping back onto the platform and making my way to the edge.

"Sam!" Eric appeared out of nowhere, grabbing me around the waist and pulling back from the opening.

"Let me go!" I screamed. "Someone has to help him!" In the hours that followed, to me it seemed that all I could hear were my screams caught in the trees, slamming themselves against the earth that had taken from me the only family I had left.

The funeral was small. Only a few people came, though they seemed to have really loved Dad. The Ray's restaurant fed us all afterward, everyone avoiding the fact that we'd dug him out of the ground just to put him back there.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Samantha?" Scott asked quietly as I sat staring at the pasta in front of me.

"I want to keep searching in the pit," I answered strongly, the thought that'd been lodged in my mind finally breaking through. "My mom wanted me to come here and spread her ashes with him. He wanted to find the treasure. I fulfilled her last wish and I want to do the same for him."

Staring at me, it was clear he hadn't thought Oak Isle would rise in the conversation at all. Floundering for words, he glanced around the room, almost as if he were expecting a camera crew to jump out and yell "surprise!" When it didn't happen, he looked back at me seriously. "Samantha, I don't think you understand what you're saying."

"Oh, I do," I responded, nodding furiously. "I inherited all of his stuff—including his secret stocks. He told me it was all coming to me when I first got here. I have everything I need to keep going. Please, Scott, I need to do this. With or without your help."

Mark, who'd been standing not too far away, nodded at me as I spoke. Good, there was at least one person who knew what to do. I didn't think it would take much to convince the twins either, since they'd been so helpful during it all. For some strange reason, I felt like I needed Scott on this, like I couldn't do it without him. Finally, he sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

"All right. I'll do it."

"What's the problem?" I growled, not liking the look on the drill man's face.

"The ground isn't stable enough yet to bore through. You just had a cave in, which means you should be on high alert around here."

"I don't have time to be on high alert," I snapped, instantly regretting how harsh I was being with him. "I'm sorry, this just isn't a good day to be told I have to hold off."

"What's up, Sammy?" Mark asked, walking over to see what was going on and catching the last piece of the conversation.

"McCrery is suing us," I stated, looking up at the sky. "He's saying that because Dad's stocks were anonymous, they can't be transferred to me. They have to be put up for public sale."

"What?" His eyes about bugged out of his head, his skin flushing a dark red with rage. "That little!" Turning, he cussed under his breath, kicking the dirt repeatedly. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know. The company and the broker both know that he owned them. They have to have his name listed somewhere as the owner. All I know is I'm not going to give up. Now, can we please get to drilling?"

In the two weeks that followed, one problem after another arose. I could feel my own superstitions growing, finding myself wondering if McCrery was going out every night and messing things up. By the morning of our court date, I'd all but driven myself insane staying in Dad's house, trying to figure out how to solve every issue that had been thrown in my lap. Scott, who'd been helping me go through everything, arrived to drive me to the courthouse.

"How are you holding up?" His voice was soft, but held an authority that instantly calmed the more aggressive of my nerves.

"I'm sorry," I answered softly. "I'm doing the best I can. I don't know how this is going to turn out."

"I know you are. Your dad is proud of you, no matter what happens today."

And so, it was with the whole crew behind me that the judge ruled in favor of McCrery and ordered us to stand down on our operations. I would have gone to jail right then, after seeing the grin on the devil's face, if it weren't for Kevin grabbing me by the arm and marching me straight out of the building.

My bags were packed, airline tickets on the counter, and the keys to Dad's house left with Scott. I didn't know what to do with everything that was here, not if I couldn't use it to finish Dad's life's work. According to the clock on the wall, I had thirty minutes before my cab would be here to get me, so I sat down and turned on the television, the evening news filling the room.

"We go now to a tiny island in Maine," the female reporter was saying, "where the discovery of a lifetime is about to be made." The film flipped over to something that had been filmed earlier in the day and, to my disgust, Duke McCrery filled the screen.

"We managed to pump out the pit by pumping around it instead of inside," he was explaining. "When we uncovered the flood tunnel, we put a seal over it so it wouldn't be an issue anymore. After that, we dug down some more and used a sonar camera to see if we can get a better idea of what's down there."

The reporter's voice came on over the picture then. "As you can see, the camera picked up several items that look like chests, inside of a type of vault. If these images are correct, the treasure of a lifetime is about to be unearthed."

"We only have a few feet left to dig," Duke spoke again, motioning to the work crew digging furiously behind him. Tomorrow, we'll have news crews from all over out here for the reveal. We're about to make history."

"Not on my watch," I growled, an idea forming in my mind.

Thick, dark mud squelched beneath my feet and I felt a thrill go through me, determination taking even stronger root in my chest. So far, so good. I'd made it to the bottom of the pit without anyone catching me. How long would it take to dig to the treasure? Thirty minutes? Hours? All I knew was that I didn't have time to waste—not if I was going to beat McCrery to his prize.

Unhooking from the ropes I'd rappelled in on, I felt around for the bag I'd also carefully lowered down. The dark canvas brushed against my fingers and I quickly pulled out a green glow stick, breaking and shaking it to activate the light. Suddenly, the area around me was visible and I took in the excavation site that should have been my father's.

The walls were reinforced with metal beams, some small tools leaning against them. The ground underneath me was soggy and obviously hard to work through, covered in sludge. Glancing up, a deep sigh brushed past my lips as I stared at the faraway sky. It was now or never.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the only remaining item besides more glow sticks. The collapsible shovel felt strangely heavy in my hands as I brought it to its full size, like it was unwilling to do what we'd come to perform.

The metal tip dove into the muck, sliding through with some hesitancy. When I pulled it back up, I dumped the pile into the waiting suspended box, luckily already emptied by the crew. With each load I dropped into the case, my heart beat faster and faster, partly out of fear of being caught, but mostly out of excitement for what I was about to see.

It took almost an hour to clear the dirt down to the top of the "vault" as the news had called it, by which time I'd shed my sweater and was in a full on sweat from the amount of work. My white tank top was striped with filth and sticking to my skin, but I couldn't find a moment to care. With the timber finally cleared, I set to prying it apart, hacking at the wood until it broke. It was loud business, but graciously quick, the lumber already rotted from centuries of being buried.

Breaking another glow stick, I tossed it into the cavity, almost shrieking as it landed next to what appeared to be a skull. The way it was laying suggested that the rest of the skeleton was here as well, buried under years of mud and muck. The skull wasn't really what held my interest, as amazing a find as it was. No, it was the piece of gold next to it, bright and shiny as the day it was made.

Gingerly, I dropped myself down into the box, wishing the glow stick lit more than just the immediate area, and began feeling around the mud surrounding the find, hoping to come across some type of container still hidden. Why would there be only a skeleton here and no treasure? Finally, I hit on something harder than the ground, but softer than rock. Excitedly, I dropped to my knees and began feeling around with my hands, unearthing the front of a wooden package—a treasure chest.

Awe filled me as I wiped my fingers over the front of it, feeling the gold lock on the front, an elaborate "O" engraved on the pieces. It appeared to be a type of puzzle lock, only revealing the design when it was put together correctly. I'd never seen anything like it in person before. In the middle of the lock was a very clear cross—the cross of the Knights Templar.

"He was right!" I laughed, not able to fully believe my dad had been right about one of the world's greatest mysteries. All those years I'd wished he would just leave it alone and he'd been right. "If only he was here to see it."

A moment of sadness overtook me as I examined the legacy I'd been left. As the mourning turned to anger, I grabbed the box in front of me, accidentally pulling the entire front off it. Inside, an old jar sat, a lid screwed onto the top. "How about this, McCrery," I muttered. "I'm going to find out what's here first." Taking the jar, I twisted the top off, wanting nothing more than to know exactly what was hidden here in the Templar's treasure. Suddenly, a cracking sound from above brought me right back, my eyes desperately trying to find the culprit of the noise. If I was caught . . .

Nothing greeted my straining eyes and I turned back to the jar, hurriedly trying to see inside. It looked like it would fit in my canvas bag, if not I would have to risk tying the ropes around it and carrying it up with me in its fragile state.

Sweat clung to me, as I started looking for other things that might be hidden here, dripping in my eyes and causing me to rub muck across my face whenever I tried to wipe it away. Even with all of the added moisture, I still felt the first drop of water hit me.

It was like a gentle kiss, brushing through my hair and spreading across my scalp as I looked up in alarm, knowing there were no rain clouds in the sky. The mechanism holding back the floodwaters was coming apart, shaking against the sides, the gates leaking the salty liquid down the walls in silent advancement. With a shock, I realized that the water was already starting to pool in the bottom of the vault, dripping through the opening I'd hacked.

Frantically, I dropped the jar, stepping on the skull in my haste as I jumped up, grabbing the edges of the opening and squirming my way out of the vault. With a deafening crack, the floodgates above burst open and a torrent of water rained down on me. Cold seeped through my skin, filling my lungs with its sudden force, twisting around my hands and stealing the rope I'd climbed in on. Desperate, I tried to reach for it, but the need for air had me swimming for the surface instead.

It was like trying to swim straight up a waterfall, which was essentially what I was doing. My chest burned, begging me to take a breath, but I couldn't get to the surface. Finally, my head broke the rapidly rising waterline and I sucked in all the air I could manage before I was pushed back under.

Reaching for something, anything, I could grab and pull myself up on, my hands brushed over the muddy walls, nails digging into the pit that was killing me. The water pushed in every direction, confusing me when it came to knowing up from down. I felt like I was being sucked through a stone wall, my jeans ripping open on a jagged rock that cut through my leg. The salt stung the wound as I flailed, my eyes going dark and lungs about to burst as I slipped further and further from the surface.

"Is he dead?"

"It's not a he, you dolt! Can't ya see her breasts?"

"I've never seen a lady in trousers before, savvy? What do ye reckon? Is she a castaway?"

"If she is, she's shark bait, for sure. See the cut on her leg?"

"Aye, her legs are about all I can look at, besides her bosom!"

My head was pounding and it felt like I was about to vomit everything I'd ever eaten in my life. But even through the pain haze, the tone of the men's voices was setting off alarms in my mind. I wasn't safe, not around them at least.

"What's amiss over here? Why aren't ye scallywags on board yet?"

"It's O'Rourke," one of the men close to me muttered. "Leave it to the Old Salt to spoil our fun. Imagine if she's a whore? Wouldn't that be lucky?"

"Doesn't matter if she's a whore or not, I'll take her to my bed!"

The men hooted with laughter and I decided I'd played dead long enough.

"You'll take me to bed if you want to lose an appendage!" I growled, rolling over and stumbling to my feet.

"Blow me down!" the man closest to me exclaimed, skittering away.

Reeling, I grabbed my head with one hand and my injured leg with the other. Standing had not been the best plan. I couldn't run away even if I wanted. Everything around me was spinning out of control as I tried to stagger away from the group.

"Ha! The lassie's three sheets to the wind," one of the men snorted.

"What are you talking about?" I asked in confusion, feeling like rolling over and dying in that moment. My thoughts felt muddied as I tried to remember the last thing I'd been doing.

"I asked what's going on over here?"

Vaguely, I was aware of another man joining the group, but I was too preoccupied with keeping my feet and clearing my vision to try and see all of them just yet.

"We found the woman passed out on the shore, Quartermaster. We didn't—ah—quite know what to do with her."

"Oh, aye? I know ye lot, and ye know that I don't stand for rape among the crew. Now leave the lass be!"

The man's voice was gruff and had an accent that I couldn't place at the moment, but it was obvious that he carried the authority over the other men.

"Aye," came the mumbled responses.

Unable to keep it together anymore, I fell to the ground—which was sand, I suddenly noticed— and cradled my face in both hands.

"Are ye okay, mistress?"

It was the authoritative man, his voice soft and much nearer to me than before.

"Uh," I choked out. "I think so. My head hurts pretty bad. And my leg."

"Aye, ye've a nasty cut. Do ye mind tellin' me what happened to ye?"

"I think . . . I drowned," I answered truthfully. Slowly, memories began coming back to me, of water choking the life out of me, of being swept along an underground tunnel that led from the pit to the sea. I'd lost consciousness before making it out, but, apparently, I'd made it out alive.

Gingerly, I raised my head, blinking several times in the bright sunlight. As everything cleared, I took in the sounds of waves on the shore, the breeze brushing past me, and a marine smell. My vision cleared after a moment longer and I saw the ocean in front of me, the sandy beach flowing seamlessly into it, and a giant ship anchored not far off, sails pulled in, along with a rowboat making its way to her hull.

"Wow," I said, shocked. "I've never seen a ship like that out here except for reenactments! Are they doing one today? I didn't even know they did them anymore, to be honest." Turning to look at my companion, I laughed as I took in his outfit. "Are you one of the performers?"

Wearing a white, collared shirt, with a red, button jacket open over the top of it, the tails of the coat hung down over his black pants, which were tucked into his leather boots. A thick belt, holding a pistol and sword, was buckled around his waist. Tan skin and short, dark hair finished the look, granting him an air of a time long ago.

"You did a great job," I said appreciatively. "I've never seen such work put into a costume before."

"Costume?" he asked in a puzzled tone, the look on his face matching. "I've no idea what ye're talking about, woman."

"Oh! You must be a—what do they call it—a method actor! That's why all of you were talking like that, right? That's awesome! Good for you guys!"

Yeah. Go ahead and compliment his job choice while you bleed to death. Grimacing slightly, I adjusted my leg, trying to assess the damage. He continued to stare, a blank expression on his features.

Laughing, I watched the man's face. He truly was amazing at his craft, my words seeming to mean absolutely nothing to him.

"O'Rourke!"

A much older man came ambling down the shore towards us, clothed in the same manner as the man next to me, a stream of curse words flying from his mouth as he adjusted his privates. Behind him, another man strode furiously, his grey coat flapping in the breeze.

"Yes, Captain?" The man next to me turned, stepping ever so slightly in front of me.

"Explain to me why Mr. Oswald is now demanding that we pay him twice the amount for his wine?" The Captain huffed, his bloodshot eyes about to pop out of his head. Even from this distance, I could smell the alcohol on him, as well as the stink that only comes from not bathing for a very, very long time. His white wig sat precariously on his head, revealing several patches of ratted gray hair.

"It's the same price ye've paid for the last year!" Mr. Oswald argued, stopping a few feet away to wag a finger in the Captain's face.

"Yes, O'Rourke," the Captain growled. "Mr. Oswald says you've been paying twice as much for a year, and that ye're the one who brokered the deal."

"Yes, sir," O'Rourke confirmed. "That is our current deal."

"And why," the Captain glowered, "did ye agree to do such a thing?"

"Mr. Oswald, ah, came across some questionable activity of yerself last year. I took care of matters myself."

"Christ, boy, do ye not know how to be a pirate?"

Turning decidedly, the Captain pulled the gun from his waistband and pointed it at Mr. Oswald.

"No, wait!' O'Rourke yelled, raising a hand to stop him.

The shot rang out loud and clear and I jumped, clapping a hand to my mouth. Mr. Oswald just stared at the two of them, dumfounded, as a bright red stain began to move across his shirt. As if in slow motion, his body crumpled underneath him and he fell to the ground with a silent thud.

"There. Now there's no blackmail and we've got a whole store of free wine. See how that works, boy?"

"Yes, Captain," O'Rourke said stiffly, his tone suggesting he didn't particularly like being called that.

"May God have mercy on his soul," the Captain said.

"May he indeed," I muttered, still looking at what was very obviously a real dead body.

"Who are you?" The Captain barked and I jumped again, my mind not accepting the things around me. Maybe I really had died? Or was in a coma and dreaming?

"Ach, just a lassie walking on the beach, Captain. Nothing to worry about."

"Aye? Bring her along then, will ye? I could use some good company among you lot."

"Excuse me?" I asked.

O'Rourke grunted in distaste. "It's frightful bad luck to bring a woman aboard, Captain."

"Avast ye," the Captain said seriously. "Ye take her aboard or I'll bring the cat o' nine tails against ye myself. Savvy?"

"Aye, Captain." The growl left his barely moving lips as O'Rourke turned and grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet.

"Good, good. You go out now, I'll join ye after a quick drink." The captain turned away from us then and began to hobble back from where he came. Apparently, there was civilization somewhere, close enough for him to walk to at least.

"Well, lass," O'Rourke stated, following the captain with his gaze as well. "I'm afraid ye're going to have to come with me."

"Excuse me?" I asked, trying to wrench away from him.

"Ye heard the Captain. Apparently, ye're going to become part of our pirate crew."

"Like hell I am!" I grunted, kicking him with the foot of my injured leg.

"Ouch!" he hollered. "Would you stop that?"

"Let go of me," I yelled, pulling against him as hard as I could.

"It's for . . . yer . . . own . . . good!" With a massive grumble, he grabbed me around the waist with his free hand and hauled me over his shoulder.

Pain seared through the cut on my leg and I cried out, punching him in the back. "Put me down!"

"Be quiet!" he commanded harshly. "I'm trying to help ye, ye witch!"

"I'm not a witch!" I replied vehemently, struggling harder, kicking my good leg against his front, without much success.

"Argh!" he yelled in a very pirate like fashion.

"Oh, shut up," I half laughed back. "You're not fooling anyone with that pirate jargon. Put me down."

"Trust me. The last thing ye want to do is walk on that leg. By the looks of it, I'd say ye're lucky ye're not feeding the fishes as we speak. The sea took a good bit of blood from ye. And as for fooling, well, I'd say I'm doing a fine job convincing ye that I'm anything but what I clearly am. Ye'd think ye'd never seen a buccaneer before, and ye livin' here of all places!"

"I don't live here," I answered, finally going limp as another wave of exhaustion swept over me. "I don't even know where 'here' is."

"Is that so?" he asked in a non-believing tone. We'd made it to the waterline by then and a rowboat was waiting, another man in costume standing by, oars in hand.

"Look," I sighed. "I told you. I almost drowned. One minute I'm trying to get my head above water and the next thing I know, I'm lying on this beach being verbally assaulted by you and your mates. I appreciate that you're all dedicated to the show, but I'm really freaked out by the murder we just nonchalantly witnessed—now would be a good time to tell me that was all special effects, by the way—and the fact that you're still carrying me and refusing to give up the act is very upsetting."

He set me down in the boat, giving me a stern warning look that I took to mean not to move, and then took a seat in front of me, picking up his own pair of oars.

"Well, ye are on the beautiful shores of Acadia. The island ye woke on is a favorite of the Captain's for meetings and such."

Nodding as he spoke, I stared at the island we were leaving. It was covered in oak trees, appearing to be completely separate from the mainland next to it. Acadia. So I was in the same place I'd been, it just looked . . . different.

"We'll get ye on board and have a look at that leg," O'Rourke was saying, our extra rower apparently just along for the ride. "I think we have a crate somewhere with clothes more befitting of a lady."

"What, no Spanish gold for you and your crew?" I joked.

"I don't follow?"

"Isn't that what pirates do? Rob ships of their gold?"

A loud, hearty laugh broke from his mouth and his green eyes sparkled as he watched me, obviously entertained by what I'd said. "Wouldn't that be grand, aye?" he asked his partner, who was also laughing. "We take what goods we can get, lassie. Sugar, tea, booze, silks. It's a rare day that ye find a vessel laden down with Spanish gold."

"Could ye imagine?" the other man finally said. "A whole ship's worth of gold. I'd buy me own island down south and never leave. All the women and rum ye could want."

"It's a dream," O'Rourke nodded.

"Toss down Jacob's Ladder," the other man yelled as we came up next to the ship.

"Are ye all right to climb aboard?" O'Rourke asked skeptically.

"I'm fine," I snarled, grabbing the bottom rung of the rope ladder that'd been thrown down to us.

Grunting, I attempted to pull myself up, my body weak from my nighttime ordeal, and failed miserably. Ignoring the outright laughs from behind, I tried again, successfully making it up one rung. It took longer than I was willing to admit, but I finally made it up the side of the ship, fresh blood slowly leaking from my wound, and stumbled onto the deck.

"It's the whore!"

Immediately, I was greeted by a mass of men in varying states of disarray. Some of their clothing was torn and dirty, a great many of them were missing teeth, the stench was enough to kill a cow, and I was pretty sure I saw a peg leg in there somewhere.

"Back off," O'Rourke ordered, coming aboard behind me. "She's for the Captain only!"

Cries of disapproval rang out, but the crew disbanded, going back to whatever they'd been doing before we arrived. Some were playing cards, while others drank happily from a barrel.

"Come on," O'Rourke stated, beckoning for me to follow him. "Let's get yer leg fixed up right, aye?"

He led me across the deck of the ship, moving slow enough for me to keep up. He was right—walking really was the last thing I wanted to do right now. Finally, we went up a staircase and through a door, into what I assumed to be the Captain's Quarter's. It was a hall, though, leading back into the ship, with two rooms in front of us, the smaller of which we entered.

"Here, lassie," he said, motioning for me to sit on the bed built into the far wall.

"Stop calling me that," I mumbled, more annoyed with the pain I was feeling than anything else. "I'm not a dog."

"Aye? I hadn't noticed."

"Ha ha," I replied dryly.

"Lassie doesn't mean dog, ye know," he suddenly said seriously, opening a cupboard on the wall across from me. "It only means "young girl." Surely ye've been called that before?"

"Not exactly," I muttered. "I can't be that much younger than you. I'm only twenty-three. What are you, twenty-four?"

"I was born in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and seventy."

Laughing loudly, I rolled my eyes and smiled smugly. "Right. That makes you how old?"

"Five and twenty," he answered, staring at me quizzically, a spool of thread and a needle in his hands. "Did ye perhaps hit yer head during yer accident?"

I didn't answer. My brain refused to accept what he was saying to me, and with good reason. There was absolutely no way it was sixteen ninety-five. No way. This was a prank, or some weird dream I was having. Maybe I had hit my head and this was my way of coping with what was happening to me. Maybe, right at this moment, I was still drowning, and my oxygen-deprived brain was trying to give me something to make it feel better.

Remaining silent, I became semi aware of him making preparations to sew up my leg. He didn't really seem to know what to do with my jeans, so he just pushed them aside, shooting me a look that was suspicious at best. A grubby cloth was used to wipe it somewhat clean. It was only as he lowered the needle to begin the stitching that I suddenly felt the need to say something.

"Hold the needle in a flame first," I blurted out.

He froze, looking at me in surprise. "Why?"

"It'll help kill the germs," I explained, silently wondering if the world knew what germs were in the seventeen century.

"Germs?"

That was a big nope.

"Just do it," I sighed. "It'll help me feel better."

Giving me another odd look, he drove the needle down into my leg sharply, ignoring my request and causing a quick gasp to flee from my lips. Thankfully, he'd anchored his legs against mine, sitting on a stool in front of me, and was able to keep me steady. "Why are you helping me?" I asked as he worked. "To get me ready for your Captain?"

"Ach, no!" he exclaimed. "I'd as soon as leave ye alone on the island than have yer bad luck on deck."

"Then why did you bring me out here?" I asked in surprise.

"Yer leg needed tending."

"Good guy pirate, huh?" I wrinkled my nose at him, feeling like I was being held captive more than being assisted. "So you'll be taking me back to shore when you're done then?"

"No." He finished the stitches and tied off the string, releasing my leg.

"What do you mean no?" I demanded, standing up shakily.

"Ye heard the captain. I'm not one to disobey a direct order."

"Uh, no, I'd like for you to take me back. Right now!"

"I will do no such thing," he replied coolly. "Ye're going to stay here and that's final."

Panic flooded me and I looked around anxiously. I had to return to the island and figure out how to get home. Whether that meant waking up, or actually having to travel through time—again—I needed to do it right away. There was no telling where I'd get carted off to if I stayed here.

"Please?" I asked, a slight hint of begging to my tone. "Don't make me stay." Maybe I could appeal to his nice side.

"No such luck, lassie. Ye're on board for a while, I'm afraid."

Suddenly, white-hot rage and fear filled me and I reached out, slapping him hard across the face. "Take me back this instant," I demanded.

"Listen here," he said angrily, grabbing me by the wrists. "Do ye not understand what I'm trying to do for ye?"

"I'll not be served up like some dinner dish to your Captain!" I screamed. "Let go of me!"

"Stop shouting!" he yelled back. "I've half a mind to teach ye a lesson and take ye here myself!"

"Do it," I dared him. "Then you can always remember what a monster you are!"

Face burning with rage, he shoved me back, stinging my leg as I fell onto the bed. "Stupid woman!" he scolded, his voice going very quiet. "The Captain was so drunk, ye might be lucky and he'll forget ye're even here! If I were ye, I'd pray that be the case. He's not kind to his women. He beats them something fierce, one almost to death since I've been under his command."

My mouth gaped like a fish as I stared at him, trying to find words to express what I was feeling. "You brought me aboard a ship not only to be raped, but beaten as well? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Argh!" he groaned in anger and frustration. "A pox on ye, ye witch! I'm trying to help ye!"

"By locking me in his room to wait for him? How is he going to forget I'm here then, huh?"

"This is my room, ye fool! I'm tryin' to hide ye!"

"I'd much rather go back to the island, if you don't mind," I said in a clipped tone. "Thank you for your help, and the medical assistance, but I'd rather not risk a beating."

"I'd just as soon beat ye myself," he replied snidely. "Ye're not to leave this room until I say."

"Watch me," I shot back.

"Woman!" Looking as if he were about to explode from anger, I was sure my snotty smile was driving him further into the red. With a sudden decisiveness, he moved forward and very strongly pressed his palm against my wound.

"Ow!" I cried, scrambling back further onto the bed to get away from him.

"Stay here," he said sternly. Turning on his heel, he marched right out the door, slamming it shut behind him. After a second, I heard the turning of the lock and knew I was trapped in this nightmare.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up . . ." My muttering was barely discernable to my own ears as I stared out the tiny side window over the bed, watching a small boat with the captain on board row out to us. My fingernails dug into my palm painfully, drawing blood before I finally stopped. Biting my tongue yielded the same result. What was going on? "Okay, Sam," I said, speaking at a normal volume to try and calm myself. "Think. You've woken up on the beach and everyone is insisting it isn't the twenty first century. What explanations could there be for this?" The vessel outside was coming up alongside us, sliding out of my view. What if he remembered I was here? "One, I'm drowning and the lack of oxygen is causing me to have extreme hallucinations." My voice was a little shaky and my leg was burning, but I was keeping it together so far. "Two, you're dreaming. You spent too much time listening to Mark and his theories. Three, Mark is a jerk and is hiding somewhere waiting to laugh at me. Or, four—" Oak Isle sat across the water, but something was different about it. There was more to it than I'd ever noticed, like it was larger or something. The trees weren't the same as they'd been just a few hours ago. Most of all, I couldn't see any buildings on the mainland. It was like the entire city had disappeared. Every now and then, I thought I caught a glimpse of a little house, but my eyes were straining so hard I couldn't tell if they were really there or not. "You've really gone back in time."

How could I even think to add that as a rational option? Any moment now, something was going to show up—a plane in the sky, or a car—and everything would be okay. There was no need to entertain crazy ideas.

Then again, I'd just seen a man murdered. There was no denying that. He'd been shot almost right next to me, like it was no big deal at all. Was I being taken along because I was a witness? A troupe of actors commits a crime, so they take the only one who can recognize them with them? That seemed even crazier than going back in time for some reason.

On the other side of the door, I could hear muffled orders being shouted and scurrying footsteps going every which way overhead. The ocean rocked the ship gently, causing my stomach to turn slightly. Sighing, I abandoned my spot at the window and curled up in the corner on the bed, taking care to not bump my injured leg on anything. By the time night fell I'd be able to see lights on the shore. Then I could laugh at myself for thinking I'd gone back in time.

The door outside banged open and I flinched, wondering who was coming in—O'Rourke, or the rapist captain. Either way, I wasn't going to let either of them touch me without a fight. Thankfully, whoever it was went into the bedroom next door.

The next several hours were spent in the company of my growling stomach and the lip I repeatedly bit to try and wake myself up. As the sun started to set, the ship began sailing out to the open ocean and panic flooded me. Knowing that the captain was on board now made me too nervous to call out, though. Darkness enveloped us and, desperately, I searched for the lights on the distant shore. There was nothing there, not even a soft glow in the sky marking where civilization was.

Vaguely, I was aware of the door opening behind me, closing softly after whoever it was had entered.

"There's no lights," I croaked out.

"I expect anything but a bonfire wouldn't be seen from this far out to sea," O'Rourke stated, not moving from the entrance.

"Where are we going?" All of my energy was being put into not spiraling out of control. If there were no lights, there was no city. If there was no city then this couldn't be the twenty first century. I didn't know how I'd done it, or why for that matter, but I was lost in a different time.

"We'll be stopping at port in La Coruña, where ye'll be getting off, mind ye. If ye survive that long."

"Spain?" I turned away from the window, pushing myself into the corner once more without looking at him. "How long is that exactly?"

"Two months, if the wind is good. Three if not."

"Awesome." I kept my gaze on my hands, fingers brushing over each other as my brain screamed a torrent of different emotions. Water pricked my eyes and I sniffed, trying to remain calm in a situation that made it practically impossible. Only when O'Rourke cleared his throat and stepped in my direction did I look at him. Instantly, my mouth popped open in surprise at the beautiful gown in his arms. The fabric rustled against itself quietly as he pulled a chair out from the desk and laid it across the seat.

"I thought ye'd like something a little more comfortable and—ah—" He looked me over, apparently not sure of what to say about jeans and a tank top. "Well. Ye'll look more like a lady, savvy?"

"Thank you." I was shocked, to say the least, but immediately grateful to have something other than my salt encrusted clothes to wear. My pants had rubbed sore spots on my thighs every time I moved and I was more than ready to change.

"I'll leave ye alone to dress, but I'll be just outside the door to help with yer lacings." He smiled and I felt my heart flip oddly at the sight, the breath catching in my throat as I watched him. He didn't seem to notice, turning and leaving the room just as quickly and silently as he'd come.

Glancing down at the clothes, I filled with horror, realizing immediately that I had no idea how to put any of it on. Besides what I'd thought was just a dress—which was actually just one of several skirts—there looked to be a slip, socks, a jacket, and a few other things I didn't recognize.

"Uh." I didn't know what to say. Did I open the door and tell him I had no idea how to dress myself? Running my hand over the fabrics, I tried to find something like underwear, but there was only the slip. In my mind, I seemed to remember something about underclothes being a more modern thing. Great.

Torn between embarrassment and fear, I paused between the chair and the entrance, not sure what my next step would be. Finally, I simply sighed and opened the door, greeting a very surprised O'Rourke. "Hey. I'm sorry, but I've never worn anything like this before. Where I'm from doesn't really get all that fixed up." Well, that was true.

"Ye've never worn a dress before?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes," I corrected him. "But not one like this."

Eyebrows raised, he stepped around me and crossed the short distance to the chair. I didn't think he exactly believed me, but was grateful that he was being nice enough to help instead of hurting me again.

"First the shift," he spoke, a hint of laughter in his voice as he pointed to the slip. "Stockings—ye've worn stockings, aye?"

"Yes," I replied ferociously, blushing a dark red.

"The stays go over the shift and the skirts, laces in back. I'll help ye get them tightened." He tossed the corset onto the bed as he spoke, a strange gleam in his eyes. "Do ye need any more assistance than that?"

"I can manage," I choked out, feeling scrutinized. The last thing I wanted was to be naked in front of anyone.

Smirking, he strode out the door, closing it with a soft click. Still blushing furiously, I stared at the dress, feeling like I was on another planet. I might as well have been, for all I knew about this time period. Tears filled my eyes again and I blinked hard, trying to steady myself. Crying and being afraid would do me no good at the moment.

My jeans and tank top didn't feel like such a great loss, but I fervently didn't want to part with my panties or bra. The dress was an off the shoulder design, though, so I reluctantly took the bra off and laid it on the bed. Quickly, half expecting O'Rourke to burst back in the room at any moment, I grabbed the slip and pulled it over my head, groaning as I realized it was practically see through. Dressing as fast as I could, I slid the skirts on in no particular order, saving the one that matched the corset for last. Finally, I pulled the loose garment over my head and covered my chest, a sigh of relief escaping me. After a few moments, it became clear that I really did need help with the laces, so I opened the door again. Without a word, he entered and motioned for me to stand by the chair. As soon as I did, he began tightening the strings, tugging them painfully tight and nearly squishing my breasts out the top. A gasp shot through my lips and I grabbed the chair to remain upright.

"Is something wrong?" He laughed softly, not stopping his assault on my torso.

"No," I coughed. "I've just never worn one of these—"

"Before. Aye, I thought as much." He continued to chuckle, his fingers moving quickly down the line. After everything was tied and tucked away, he held the matching jacket out for me.

"How do you know so much about dressing women?" I asked, sliding into the finishing touch.

"I don't. I know how to undress them." Stepping back to survey me, he didn't make any comments on my wild blush and awkwardness. "Well, lassie. Ye look like a proper lady now."

"Thank you," I replied, uncomfortable. "It's a very beautiful dress."

"Aye. It would have caught a pretty fair sum at market. Alas, we'll just have to find another way for ye to make up the cost." Winking at me, he folded his arms across his chest, drawing my attention to his broad muscled width. My heart hammered as I stared at him, trying to decide what he meant by that and praying with all my might that it wasn't what I thought. "Ye'll want to stay in here most of the time. Captain Rodrigues usually retires at sunset to drink and doesn't wake until late morn', but I wouldn't risk it if I were ye."

"Why are you helping me?" I suddenly blurted out. "First you kidnap and hurt me, then you bring me beautiful clothes and tell me when to stay hidden. Why?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he asked, shocked. "Ye're a lady, aren't ye? Not a whore?"

"I'm not a whore," I growled, instantly angry at the casual way he asked.

"I didn't think so," he replied coolly. "I may be a pirate, but I know how to treat a lady. My ma saw to that. It'd be a dishonor to her memory to throw ye to the dogs in this crew. Ye're here because the captain wants ye and he's the biggest dog of them all. Mind ye, if ye give me any reason, it'll happen."

The threat hadn't been said in a menacing manner, but it was there all the same. Do what he said and I'd be safe. Otherwise, I was surely scheduled for several terrifying acts.

"If ye do manage to make it out on deck," he added conversationally, "make sure ye bring a cloak. It's been frightfully cold and wet this season. I'll bring one down for ye later, along with some shoes."

Swallowing hard, I nodded, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed. Actually, it was more like falling on the bed as I tried to accustom myself to the number of heavy garments on me. When I glanced at him again, I felt the strange sensation in my heart as I studied him over.

He didn't appear much older than me, around his mid-twenties like he'd told me earlier. His skin was tanned, which I assumed was from being at sea, a few thin white scars noticeable on his hands and arms. Short black hair brushed around his chiseled face, leading down into sideburns. There was some facial hair, not enough to be a beard, but sufficient to give his features a dashing look. His green eyes seemed to burn with a dangerous fierceness, though, causing me to turn away as soon as I met them.

"Wait," I said, stopping him from turning the handle and leaving. "Will there be any dinner?"

"I'll bring ye some later, after the captain's received his share." Twisting the knob, he looked out into the hallway, checking to see if anyone was there.

"Ireland," I blurted, covering my mouth in horror as I realized how loud I'd spoken.

"What?" he hissed, closing the door quickly and glaring at me.

"Your accent," I explained. "I couldn't place it earlier, but I just realized. You're Irish, right?"

Grinning broadly, he stepped away from the exit and folded his arms. "Noticed that, did ye? I'd wondered if I still had it."

"I did," I replied, nodding.

Bowing low in a mocking manner, his gaze burned into my eyes. "Tristan O'Rourke at yer service."

His poking fun made my blood boil, so I stood and curtsied, giving him the most scorching look I could manage. "Samantha Greene. Pleased to meet you."

"Evening, lassie."

Spinning around in shock, I backed up alongside the wall, the weight of my skirts pressing against me. Hopefully they were hiding my shaking legs.

Captain Rodrigues stood in the doorway, a crooked, drunken grin plastered on his face. His wig had disappeared, revealing patchy gray hair underneath, tufts of which were longer than others. Bloodshot eyes devoured me hungrily, and I desperately looked everywhere except at them. His black buckle shoes were scuffed, there was a run in one stocking, and the long ebony coat was missing several of its gold buttons. His frame seemed small in the opening after seeing O'Rourke standing in it. Even the wood of the ship appeared dingier than it had before, as if it were mirroring the dirty, smelly man before me.

"C-Captain," I stuttered, terror ripping through me at the sound. O'Rourke had only been gone about an hour and I hadn't expected anyone but him for the rest of the night. Apparently, the captain remembered I was here after all. I'd never been in a situation where rape was a possibility—at least not to my knowledge—and a part of my brain was screaming at Tristan for not keeping me safe like he'd promised. Who were we kidding, really? It was almost impossible to think I could spend three months on this ship and not be seen by the captain.

"Captain!" O'Rourke suddenly appeared behind him, a quick flash of anger crossing his features before being masked by unconcern.

"O'Rourke, why didn't you remind me we had a lovely lady on board?" The captain's voice was grainy and swoopy, probably from all his drinking. It didn't appear he'd stopped once he was on board either. I felt like I was on display in the dark purple and gold dress, the way he continued to stare and lick his lips.

"I was merely waiting for ye to finish yer meal, sir," O'Rourke stated calmly.

"Nonsense, nonsense," he replied, waving for me to come towards him. When I didn't, he laughed a throaty chortle, bloodshot eyes narrowing. "Come, lassie. We'll take supper in my quarters together."

Frozen, filled with fear, my gaze flicked to O'Rourke for an instant. He gave me the smallest of nods, his mouth pursed tightly. My emotions, which had been flying all around trying to figure out how we were going to respond to the situation at hand, suddenly settled on fury and I marched forward, repressing the urge to shiver as the captain took my hand.

"There now. That wasn't so bad, was it?" The captain chuckled his dark guffaw again and pulled me into the hall, wrapping my arm around his. "O'Rourke, bring our supper to my room. We'll take a turn around the deck while ye get it ready."

"Aye, Captain." There was a slight edge to his voice, but it was gone as soon as I tried to decipher it. Without another word, he passed by us and went off to follow his orders.

Holding tightly to me, Captain Rodrigues towed me in the same direction, but up the stairs to the deck instead of off into the bowels of the ship. As we came out into the fresh air, an involuntary sigh escaped me, my eyes growing wide as I really saw the ship for the first time.

It was just like any other pirate ship I'd seen in movies, but more grand somehow. Everything was in order, put away in its spot, gleaming under the light of the moon. At certain points, lanterns were lit and I could see crew members milling about. The thick ropes were practically majestic, holding it all together. White sails were out, full of wind, pulling us across the water. Here, at the highest place on the deck, it almost gave me the feeling of flying. Cool air brushed over my skin, chilling it slightly, and spray from the ocean would land on me every now and then.

"Beautiful isn't she, my Adelina." It wasn't a question, merely a statement, so I remained silent, allowing him to lead me past the helm, where a crewman was minding the red wood and gold inlaid wheel, and down the stairs onto the lower part of the deck. Here, the floor was open to the level below and there were several men sitting around, drinking and playing cards. We didn't take the next set of stairs down into the pit-like place, though, instead walking around it towards the front of the ship. With each passing moment, I wished I'd had the cloak O'Rourke had said he'd bring me, or at least the shoes.

"Where do ye come from?" Captain Rodrigues' hand was tight over the top of mine, like he thought I might run.

"Uh, America, Captain." Why hadn't I thought up a story by now? I couldn't very well tell everyone I was from the future. Though, he was so drunk he might believe me.

"Where?"

"The back country?" I hadn't meant for it to sound so much like a question, but he nodded all the same, accepting my answer.

Nervous, I turned my attention to the sky, silently exhaling at the number of stars and their brightness. A shiver shook me some and I unconsciously moved closer to him, immediately wishing I hadn't.

"Are ye cold, my dear? Here, take my coat." He released me and began to shrug out of the tattered cloth.

"Oh, no thank you, I'm fine!" I rushed to say, a fresh puff of stench wafting off him as he moved.

Without any warning, he suddenly turned and slapped me across the face. I cried out at the sting, tripping and catching myself on the edge of the boat, two tears of pain dropping down into the salt water churning beneath us. Before I could even raise a hand to my marked face, my left arm was grabbed forcefully and I spun around, yanked against Captain Rodrigues with surprising strength.

"If I offer ye my coat, ye take it," he growled, all traces of the bumbling drunk idiot replaced by the fearsome man in front of me now.

"Y-yes, sir." The words stumbled over themselves as every cell in my entire body yearned to jerk away, yet my brain screamed to hold still. Face burning like I'd been hit with a brick, I felt a small drop of blood running down my cheek from where one of his rings had cut me.

"If you ever tell me no again—"

"Captain!"

Relief washed over me at the sound of O'Rourke's voice, a surprising amount of what I thought was ire in his tone.

"What?" Captain Rodrigues snapped, jerking me around behind him as he turned to look.

"Yer meal is ready." The anger I'd heard before was gone and, glancing at his expression, I could see a tiny smile, as if nothing in the world were wrong.

"Ah! Come, mi amor," he purred, his Spanish roots showing through. "Let us eat."

Tugged along behind him, I took a moment to place a hand on my aching cheek, wiping the tiny bit of gore away. Much to my surprise, O'Rourke fell in step behind me and covertly offered me a handkerchief. It took all I had to not break down and cry. All of the day's events were starting to solidify in my mind and become real. And now I was off to dinner with a man who'd already drawn blood from me.

O'Rourke didn't leave when we entered the Captain's Quarters, which were much bigger and fancier than the little room I'd been locked in all day. The back wall was a giant window, looking out over the water, with a grand desk in front of it, in the middle of the room. There were bookcases with filled shelves, and on the left hand side was a massive bed, with curtains that hung down around it from the ceiling, covering the majority of the frame and its red blankets. The dinner had been set up on the desk, with chairs sat around it like a table. To my surprise, there were three chairs instead of just two.

"I thought I could serve ye tonight, sir," Tristan spoke, answering the unasked question. "That way ye could spend yer time getting to know the lady."

"A fine idea!" Captain Rodrigues laughed jollily at that, dragging me over and planting me in one of the chairs. "Wine, if you please, Mr. O'Rourke."

"Of course, sir." He grabbed the bottle and poured a healthy serving into the captain's cup, followed by just enough of a taste for me. "Cook's made some chicken for ye tonight. It's the fresh one from the island today."

"Excellent." The captain ripped a wing off the bird on the platter in the middle of the table, shoving it into his mouth and removing the bare bone with the most hellacious of manners, following the act up by downing his entire glass of wine in less than five seconds. Without asking, O'Rourke filled his glass again before turning to me.

"Would ye like some fruit?"

Glancing back at the captain, who nodded me on eagerly before taking another swig of his wine, I plastered on my best fake grin. "Yes, please. Thank you."

"Enjoy it now, lassie," the captain said through a mouthful of food. "It won't last long out here. We've got a few animals on board, but they won't be much. By the time we get to Spain, ye'll be dying for fresh food."

"I'll keep that in mind," I answered tightly, taking the grapes offered to me.

The night continued in the same manner, O'Rourke filling Captain Rodrigues' wine goblet the second it emptied. The later it got, the more slurred his words became, until he wasn't making any sense at all. Finally, in the middle of draining yet another glass, he slumped over, dead asleep in his plate.

"About time," O'Rourke grumbled, finally sitting in his seat and pulling the chicken to him. "The old cod can drink three times his weight before even feelin' tipsy. I thought we were going to run out of wine before he'd go out."

Looking at the five empty bottles and my untouched glass, I swallowed hard. "You were trying to get him to sleep?"

"I told ye I'd protect ye, didn't I?" he replied after swallowing what was in his mouth. "If it weren't for that dolt, Thomas, he'd have never even remembered ye were here in the first place and we wouldn't have had this problem."

"Thomas?" Relief and confusion were flooding through me, as well as an increased burning in my face where I'd been cut. Raising a hand to the wound, I flinched, the tenderness warning me to be careful as I checked it.

"A rigger." Staring at me, he said it like I was supposed to know what that meant, but I was still lost. "He did it just to see ye again, I'm sure. The whole of the crew was talking about the lass on the beach today. When they realized I wasn't going to say anything to our captain here—" He poked the sleeping mound with his fork, earning a loud snort and shrug from Rodrigues. "Thomas took it on himself to remind him that there was a lady below deck."

"How kind of him," I replied dryly, watching him finish off the piece of chicken he'd taken.

"Here, let me look at yer face," he said, suddenly changing the conversation and scooting his chair over by mine. His fingers brushed across the cut and my skin rippled with gooseflesh, my heart flipping strangely again. While he was engrossed with my cheek, I allowed myself to examine him once more, wondering how a man who could lock me in a room and purposefully hurt me at one minute be taking care of me the next. A strange desire to reach out and touch his face filled me, but I kept my hands to myself, holding still as he prodded around my wound. "Well, yer going to have a nice bruise," he stated conversationally. "But the cut isn't bad. It'll heal over fine and ye won't have a scar." Fingers lingering on my face, he finally looked me in the eye. I didn't know about him, but the air in the room suddenly felt electric. It was like I couldn't breathe as he watched me, his gaze captivating my own.

Another loud snore from our companion interrupted the moment and he broke away, standing quickly and moving for the exit. "Come on. Ye look like ye could use some sleep. How is yer leg?" Opening the door, he waited for me to rise and exit the cabin as I assured him I felt much better after his care. Moving past me to open the entrance to his own quarters, he nodded. "Ye'll be safe in here tonight. The crew will think yer with the captain. I'll keep anyone who comes a lookin' away."

"Thank you." The sincerity of the phrase surprised me and I turned to stare at him, smiling softly as his head bobbed, his hands closing the door and locking it once more.

There was no wind. The ship sat in the water, drifting wherever the sea felt like taking us, the sun beating down in uncharacteristic warmth. It'd been three weeks since I'd been taken aboard the Adelina and almost every single day of that time had remained cold and wet. It was hurricane season, they'd told me, and I lived in fear of the day that we would be sunk by a storm, but the crew didn't appear to think that a little rain was that much to worry about—yet.

Every evening, I attended dinner with Captain Rodrigues, accompanied by O'Rourke, and watched him drink himself into unconsciousness. It seemed like he should have caught on to what was happening, but after a few days I concluded that he really was that drunk all the time. Not that I was complaining any.

Currently, a chair had been brought up for me to sit on the main deck, as well as a pretty fan to help keep me cool. My arm was getting sore from waving it back and forth, in an attempt to stave off the stench of all the men. The heat definitely helped me remember that they didn't like to bathe, for whatever reason. Anyone watching me would have thought I was dying of a heat stroke—which wouldn't have been that hard to believe considering all of the material I was wearing—but, no. I was simply trying to keep from gagging.

Unfortunately, I hadn't been able to bathe myself either. My hair felt like a greasy mop and I felt that I was always covered in sweat. Today I had a plan, though.

The captain had drunk himself silly the night before, got up this morning, and proceeded to do the exact same thing, never even leaving his room. O'Rourke—who I'd learned held a station called quartermaster—was second in command and promptly took control, ordering the men about despite the fact that we couldn't go anywhere. He appeared to be in a good mood, judging by the fact that he had me set up here, and it seemed as well a time as any to ask him for a favor.

Rising from my chair, ignoring the catcalls and leers from a few of the crew who stood on the lower deck, I easily made my way up to where the wheel was, watching O'Rourke speaking with the man who normally did the steering. The captain had introduced me to him about a week ago as Adam Kelly. They were laughing about something and I smiled, enjoying this side of him. Some days he was downright mean, others he was more than cordial. He'd kept his word to keep me safe, though, so I was always grateful to see him.

"Ah, Miss Greene," he said, turning as I approached them. "Lovely weather, isn't it?"

Kelly laughed again, grinning at me stupidly. His white, billowy shirt had sweat stains on it and I tried not to recoil from the stink he was emanating.

"It is." Raising an eyebrow in question, I glanced at them both, trying to figure out what was so funny about the weather.

"Ye looked like yer trying to fly away, waving that fan like that." The two of them started laughing again, Kelly flapping his arms like a bird.

"Yes, the stench of the men on this ship is quite overpowering," I replied coldly, feeling great satisfaction as they both stopped in surprise. "It's a miracle that you all don't just kneel over and die from the smell."

"Really?" O'Rourke seemed genuinely surprised. "I've never noticed it. It just smells like a ship to me."

"Of course it does. You're used to it, aren't you? Thank heavens it's only sweat stink, I don't think I could handle bodily function smell."

"Huh?" Kelly stared at me strangely, not understanding what I was saying.

"She means she's happy the sea is the privy," O'Rourke chuckled. "So am I, to be honest." He took a moment to survey the ship, a thoughtful look on his face. "Well, if ye think the smell is that bad, I can think of one way to remedy it. Mr. Kelly?"

Kelly grinned widely, nodding. "Aye. There's no wind. Perhaps it will come if we do."

"Ye superstitious old dog," O'Rourke chortled. "Fine. It'll help with the cabin fever." He strode over to the railing and yelled to the crew below. "Let the wind wait for us! Take a swim, lads!"

Loud laughter answered from all around and suddenly, the crew was climbing out of the woodwork, jumping overboard and splashing into the ocean. Shocked, I looked over, watching them swim around happily.

"How will they get back?" I asked, turning to him with wide eyes. "What about sharks?"

"They're sailors, lassie," he chuckled. "They'll climb the ladder back in. Now, I'm supposing yer wanting a bath as well?"

The expression on his face made me blush and I nodded. "Yes, please."

"I'll have some water boiled for ye then and the tub brought to yer room. Do ye need anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Good." He grinned once more, removing the belt that held his pistol and knife. With a loud holler, he ran for the edge of the boat and dove right into the water.

Smiling in surprise, I watched them all, just as a slight breeze kissed my face.

"Is this a hurricane?" My stomach dropped again as the ship lurched over yet another monster wave, water pummeling against the wood and sloshing through any openings available. Everything that I'd previously thought was waterproof was now proving not to be. Even the room had water splashing around in it, seeping in through the ceiling and disappearing through the floor. A pot had been put out to catch the majority of the bad leaks, but it didn't really seem to be helping. The candle that was lighting the room flickered dangerously close to going out every two minutes. My skirts were soaked, as well as the socks and shoes I'd been given. The ocean water was cold and I felt there was no escaping it, like we were being swallowed bit by bit with each attack from the outside.

"No." O'Rourke had joined me in the room at the first sign of bad weather, informing me that everyone who didn't have to be on deck was ordered to stay below. Unfortunately, he'd been no help in reassuring me, since the storm had caused him to be massively seasick. When I wasn't worrying about whether or not we were all going to end up at the bottom of the ocean, I was fearful of being puked on. "My apologies," he said again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after emptying the contents of his stomach into a bucket once more. "Ye'd think I could handle it after all these years at sea, but no. It's as if Manann saw fit to make me a pirate, but at the same time wanted to punish me for it. He's a god of the sea," he added, seeing the confused expression on my face. "From the old religion."

"And you practice the old religion?" At this point, it seemed like anything that would get my mind off of certain death was a good thing.

"Ach, no," he laughed. "I'm a Christian. My family used to practice, when the old religion was accepted and not viewed as witchcraft. That was generations ago, though, before we had to leave Éire."

"You don't live in Ireland anymore?" That was surprising, given his accent. Hadn't he said he wondered if he still had it? "Where are you from then?"

"I grew up in La Coruña," he answered, pausing for a moment after to dry heave into the bucket clutched tightly in his hands. After he was sure nothing was coming up, he spoke again. "My family had to leave Éire after the English invaded and took control. My grandfather was king of our lands and fought very hard to keep them. In the end, we were driven out, no better than beggars."

"Excuse me, did you just say your grandfather was a king?" To say I was shocked was an understatement. "Why are you living as a poor thief?"

"As I said, we lost everything. I've never even been to Éire, save to stop at a port now and then. When we were driven out, we fled to Spain, where I was born. Trust me, lassie, having a grandfather for a king means nothing if he's not on a throne."

"How awful for your family, to have everything and then nothing." I was talking to myself mostly, steeling my stomach as another wave hit us, leaving me feeling like we'd been rocketed halfway to the moon. More water rained down on us.

"It's not bad. I enjoy the sea. If I'd been a prince, I probably wouldn't have been allowed to sail as much. This life is the one I would have picked, methinks." His skin flushed suddenly and he turned to his bucket, streams of swear words flowing out between heaves. I didn't blame him. A storm like this made even the most sea hardy men empty their stomachs. I considered it a small miracle that I'd been able to choke it all back up to this point.

"Why a pirate?" I asked suddenly, curiosity filling me. "Why not join the navy or a merchant ship?"

"Where do ye think we got this galleon?" He grinned widely, leaning against the wall and hugging his bucket tightly. "We stole it from the merchant we signed up to work for." Laughing, he shook his head, as if it were one of his favorite memories. "The poor man never even saw it coming."

"Oh." I didn't find the story nearly as amusing as him. Had they killed the man? How long ago did they steal it?

"As for being a pirate," he continued, not noticing my frown, "I look at it as my own little way to get revenge on the English. They steal from me, and I steal from them. Everything else is simply an added bonus."

"You think that taking the lives of other men is an added bonus?" The sour taste in my mouth had grown rapidly and it wasn't just from seasickness. "You look at murder as sport!"

"Calm yerself," he replied amicably. "We don't murder if we don't have to. All ships boarded have the option to join the crew. We have to make some money, ye know. If we don't steal, there's no food for us to eat."

"You don't have to steal to eat," I replied ferociously. "You—all of you—could have an honest man's job. You choose to come out here and pillage and murder!"

"Careful." The warning in his tone was heavy and I clamped my mouth shut. "There are men on this ship who live for the kill, that much is true, but there is more here than meets the eye. It'll do ye good to keep yer opinions to yerself, when ye have no idea what yer talkin' about." His eyes had narrowed dangerously and I remained quiet, suddenly feeling like I'd made a great error in jumping to accusations.

Silence settled in between as the storm continued to beat against the ship, lightning flashing outside the window, but the sound of thunder was lost among the waves. My stomach abruptly turned for the worst and I shot up off the bed, slipping across the floor and tearing the bucket away from him. It seemed like forever before I finally finished heaving and gingerly handed it back, quickly aware that he'd been holding my hair that'd come loose from the ribbon I'd tied it with.

"Thank you. Sorry I stole your bucket." My voice was hoarse and barely audible above the noise around us, but he smiled softly all the same.

"We can suffer together." Eyes twinkling with humor, he smiled. "Maybe Manann will take pity on ye and call off the storm."

The sun rose, greeting us with abnormally calm seas and sunny weather, thank heavens. However, it also appeared the storm had made Captain Rodrigues rethink how much he'd been drinking, for when he emerged from his cabin the next morning, his hair had been covered with a nice wig, his clothes weren't tattered, and he was refusing anyone who offered him a drink of anything. Much to my horror, he was also insisting I join him on deck for another stroll.

"Do I have to?" I asked O'Rourke quietly, staring at my intertwined fingers resting on top of my red skirt as I sat in his room. "Will he beat me if I don't?"

"He is sober this morning. I do not know what he'll do." His voice was solemn as he stood in the doorway, his hand grasped tightly on the hilt of the pistol resting at his hip. "We have another month, yet, before we see Spain's coast. I will continue to do all I can to protect ye, but . . ."

"You can't go against a direct order," I finished for him.

"Not unless I want to be hung up with the sails, or thrown overboard, no."

"I understand. Thank you for your help, Mr. O'Rourke." Rising, I smoothed my shaking hands down my skirt and took a deep breath, closing my eyes as I steadied myself.

"Call me Tristan," he said so quietly I almost didn't hear him. Clearing his throat, he continued on, louder. "I'm sorry, Miss Greene. I'll try to stay close, should ye need anything,"

"If I'm going to call you Tristan, then you'll have to start calling me Samantha," I replied with a laugh. "Or Sam, for short. That's what my friends call me."

"Sam," he said, trying it out, his gaze locked on mine. "I like that."

"I'll see you later then, Tristan?" His eyes lit up when I said his name and I snickered, blushing some. Finally, taking another deep breath, I squared my shoulders, held my head high, and brushed past him in the doorway, taking the stairs to the upper deck.

"Ah, Miss Greene! It is a pleasure to be seeing you this fine morning!" Captain Rodrigues was almost a different man entirely, from the way he held himself, to the cunning intelligence in his eye. Gone were all notions of a drunkard or madman when I studied him now. He was even somewhat handsome, though he was probably old enough to be my father. All of this did nothing to ease the icy knot in my stomach and the thoughts of what might be awaiting me later on.

As I took the captain's arm, giving him what I hoped was a friendly smile, I caught a glance of Tristan coming up top, his eyes dark with an emotion I couldn't place. He does what he must to survive, I thought, not holding any malice against him for not keeping me from the captain completely. And so will I.

As we took a turn around the surface, a realization dawned on me, blocking out all that Captain Rodrigues was saying. Here I was on a pirate ship, where the men were just doing what they had to do to live. Yes, they could have endured in other ways, but this was their path. Things were bleak, death was imminent, and this was all they had. This ship and his title were all that Tristan had. If he could bear to do what was necessary for his good will, I could do it too, as repulsive as that sounded.

"Sails!" The cry caused everyone onboard to look towards the crow's nest and sent Captain Rodrigues scrambling to the side, his spyglass held up to one eye.

"Get ready, boys," he yelled in delight. "We've got some hunting to do!"

A massive roar of delight sounded all around me, and the deck suddenly became a flurry of movement. Men were running every direction while the captain barked out orders, sails were opening to full capacity, tarps were being raised and tied along both sides of the ship, making it impossible for anyone to see how many of us there were unless they were above us. Ladders were brought out and set up in the pit, making temporary pathways that would lead them right to the side and onto the other ship. Large nets with grappling hooks were left in places on deck while other men grabbed weapons and painted their faces. Through all of this, I stood in shock, not knowing where to go or what to do.

"Sam," Tristan hissed in my ear, grabbing my arm tightly. "Come with me!" Leading me across the boat, we went down a staircase I hadn't seen yet, passing the level the pit opened onto. There were several cannons on this floor, which men were loading and readying as the ship gained more speed. Glancing up, I could see that the black flag had been raised, marking us as pirates. Tristan didn't stop, pulling me down further, onto the next deck, which I'd never even seen. It appeared that this was where the rest of the crew slept, on hammocks that were stretched every which way. There were some personal belongings here and there among them. Still, we didn't stop, moving down to the final story that was always below water level.

"Stay here and hide," he ordered me firmly, pushing me down onto the ground, water seeping into my clothes some. "Don't come out, even if it sounds like the fight is done. I will come for ye when it's safe."

"What if you die?" My voice squeaked in fear and I wanted to slap myself for asking such a question. The full force of it hit me then—men were going to die today—a lot of men. Tristan could easily be one of them. He would be gone and I would be alone here. I was terrified.

Observant eyes missing nothing, he immediately noticed my distress and knelt down, lightly cupping my face. His eyes searched mine for a moment, the pad of his thumb rubbing over my cheek as he reached up with his other hand and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. Heart caught in my throat, all breath escaped me as we leaned towards each other.

"I won't," he stated softly, resting his forehead against mine for a second before standing again. "Stay here and don't move. Do ye understand?"

"Yes." I swallowed hard, trying to calm my racing heart and focus on what he was saying to me.

"Ye will want to run and there is nowhere to go. Ye are safest here. Do ye hear me? Do not leave this spot, Samantha Greene!" His voice held a commanding authority I'd never heard from anyone before in my life. I nodded, fisting my hands in my skirt.

"I will be right here waiting for you," I confirmed, giving him the strongest look I could muster.

Staring at me only for a second longer, he turned on his heel and hurried back up the stairs, closing the hatch on the deck above and plunging me into darkness.

A shiver that didn't have anything to do with the icy water I was sitting in tore through me and I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, praying we both made it out of this alive. I hadn't had much time to look around, but I was pretty sure I was in the cargo hold. I'd seen lots of barrels and wooden boxes around me before the light was taken away. Reaching out to touch one, I felt some kind of bark shoved between each cask, probably to keep them from bumping against each other and breaking. What was it that Mark was always saying pirates used to protect cargo? There was loads of it on Oak Isle. Straining at memories that seemed to be from another lifetime, I finally settled on it.

"Coconut fiber," I said aloud, hoping the sound would help steady my nerves. That was right. There were no coconut trees around Oak Isle for hundreds of miles, that's why it had been so strange to have so much of the natural fiber there. Feeling around, I could tell everything had been tied down as well, the pirate's loot one of their most precious commodities.

The footsteps above me had ceased, which meant the whole crew was probably on the gun deck, waiting to attack. Another shiver ripped through me as I settled back down, crossing my legs and wishing the bone in my corset wasn't pinching me so fiercely. It was nice to have something to distract me a bit.

Suddenly, a loud boom sounded and something cracked through the ship above me. I knew in an instant that it was cannon fire and I shoved my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming. Another shot rang out, smashing through the deck above me and I threw my hands over my head, laying down in the water. Responding cannons shot from our ship and I could hear them hitting their target as well. With a great lurch, the two vessels collided side by side. There was a few seconds silence and then the world exploded with sound.

Guns were firing, men were shouting, footsteps were pounding overhead, and things were falling into the water right outside. I didn't want to think about how those things could be bodies—Tristan's body in particular—so I covered my ears with my hands, humming loudly to myself.

In reality, the fight probably only lasted a few minutes. Down in the bottom of the ship, with no light and only my ears to guess what was going on, it felt like hours. Each little sound left me wondering if the ship was sinking, or if the merchant ship we'd attacked would send men to come take the goods around me if they won the battle. I could practically taste the terror coming from me, so thick it seemed I could wrap myself up in it. Tears streamed down my face as I lay in the water, my body pressed against the wood of the ship. Every bone ached to get up and flee the fight, but I stayed put as asked.

The silence that followed the war was worse. I took it to mean that we had indeed won, but what was taking so long? What if everyone had died and the two ships were destined to float away together, with no one to guide them and myself trapped in the bottom? I'd sobbed so much by this point I was beginning to hyperventilate, every inch of me shaking as I tried to hold it together. Lying in the cold water of the hull didn't help matters either.

After it seemed a lifetime had passed, and I'd managed to stop crying, the hatch opened above and three men came down, two of them carrying something between them. The third man came straight to me, though I didn't think any of them had seen me yet.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay," I rasped out, fresh tears washing my face as Tristan knelt in front of me. It was all I could do not gasp aloud.

Covered in blood, some of it was splattered across his face, mixing with the black dirt he'd rubbed on before the attack. His shirt was ripped and I could see he'd been grazed by something, due to a small trickle of blood running down his arm to the cuff around his wrist. "Aye. I am, too, lassie."

"I can see that," I laughed pathetically, crying harder. "Can I get out of here now?"

"Come with me," he answered gently, offering his hand and helping me to my feet. Without a word to the men carrying the stolen cargo down, he led me up the stairs and into the light. Immediately, I could tell that a cannon had definitely crashed through the hull here, mostly from the gaping hole in the side with a view of the ship we were tethered to. When we entered the gun deck above, I stopped short, closing my eyes in horror. The other cannon blast I'd heard had come through here, hitting several men. There were other bodies that looked to have been shot as well.

"Samantha." Tristan's voice was soothing and commanding at the same time as he tightened his grip on my hand and pulled me through the carnage. I heard laughter coming from up above, as well as sounds of celebration from other men.

"How many?" I asked quietly, sick to my stomach.

"We lost six," he answered, knowing exactly what I was asking.

"And the other crew?"

"Two joined up."

There was a cautionary tone to his voice that caused me to not press further, but the queasy feeling intensified. Only two? If the crew of that ship was anything like this one, that meant there was almost thirty dead men on it. It was all I could do to not vomit right there.

"The rest are being left with the ship. It will be up to them if they live or not." Glancing at me over his shoulder, he squeezed my hand reassuringly, and I instantly felt the relief that came with his words.

"They aren't all dead?"

"Fifteen of their crew didn't survive. Captain Rodrigues was persuaded to let them go so they could spread word of his terrors. He likes the idea of being infamous very much."

"Thank you," I whispered, knowing it was him that did the convincing.

"The captain has been sampling the whiskey we found on board," he continued, adopting a business like tone. "Ye've been given leave to spend the evening in yer quarters." At that he turned and grinned widely and I felt my spirits rise even higher. "I'll be bringing yer dinner once we've settled and started on our way."

Reaching the door to my room—his room—he opened it, leading me inside and helping to settle me on the bed. Everything appeared untouched here, like I hadn't just experienced a pirate battle.

"I'd change out of that wet dress if I were ye," he stated, waving to the closet where the other two dresses I'd been given were stored. "Ye'll catch a cold if ye stay in that. Shall I stay and help with the laces?"

"Uh, please." I blushed, fingers fumbling over the buttons on the front of my jacket as I took it off, revealing the corset underneath. Turning so he could undo the laces, I stared at the wall, trying not to think of my racing heart or his fingers on my back. All too soon, he was finished.

"I'll be back later," he told me again.

"Maybe we can eat together?" I asked hopefully.

"Aye, that'll do." Smiling, he turned and opened the door.

"Tristan, wait!" Hurrying across the room, I flung my arms around him and hugged with all my might, my face buried into his chest. "Thank you. For everything."

His arms came around me as well, holding me tightly as he rested his chin on top of my head. "It was nothing." Sliding his hands down my back until they rested on my hips, he pushed me away slightly, looking into my eyes, a smile on his face. Once again, my breath caught and my heart pounded wildly as I realized he might be about to lean in and kiss me.

Tilting my head up, I held on to my grip around his waist, feeling the heat of his breath brush across my skin.

"I have work to finish," he said abruptly, pushing me back further until we were no longer touching.

"Okay." Confusion stabbed at me, but I let him go all the same, trying to figure out just what I was getting myself into here.

Flinching, I tried to remind myself the sounds above were only the crew moving things around, not more cannon fire come to destroy us. With Tristan gone, there was a nervousness that flooded me, an agitation that pricked over my skin as my ears strained to hear what was happening. As far as I knew, we hadn't been cut loose from the other ship yet and the looting was still going on.

I'd finished changing, choosing the blue dress with the corset that tied in front, and was now seated at the desk, eyes closed. It seemed so strange, I had no part in the actual battle that happened and was so affected by it. It was like every single cell in my body was acutely tuned to the space around me. Was I safe? Would I remain safe as time went on? Was there somewhere else to hide if I needed to?

Among all of the thoughts that dealt with this time period, I was also painfully aware of how much I wished to be home. In the weeks I'd been at sea, I'd not come to terms with the fact that I had no idea what happened to me. Was I ever going to make it back to the island, let alone my own time? If I didn't know how I'd gotten here, how was I going to get back? Were the vault and Treasure Pit even there, or had they not been built yet?

Then there was Tristan. It felt stupid, thinking that maybe we'd found each other for a reason. Sure, he'd been protecting me for whatever purpose, and I'd thought he was going to kiss me on more than one occasion, but that didn't have to mean anything. He was a pirate. They were notorious womanizers, bloodthirsty brutes, and greedy men. Where was there any proof that he wasn't any of those? He'd told me he was a thief trying to get back at an entire country. He'd just laid waste to a whole ship for its cargo. The very first day we'd met, he told me he knew how to undress a woman. I didn't know why that bothered me so much, but it did. I couldn't think about anyone in his arms without grinding my teeth together. But leaving him behind felt like a terrible thing to do, even though I hardly knew him beyond those issues.

Maybe I'd imagined our moments, made up the thoughts that, perhaps, he liked me. He was a handsome man, it wouldn't be the first time I'd daydreamed about being carried off romantically. In college, I'd acted like a schoolgirl, doodling my name paired with the teacher's assistant in my history class. There hadn't been anything there on his end. This was just like that, I was sure of it.

It was several hours before I was pulled out of my musings by a knock on the door. When Tristan entered with a plate of food, I couldn't help the smile on my face.

"It sounds like a party out there," I commented. Once we'd abandoned the other ship, the men had instantly started singing, some of them playing instruments, others clapping along. By now, I was sure they were all stinking drunk with glee and whiskey.

"Aye, they're telling stories to each other." Tristan chuckled, setting the platter on the desk in front of me and seating himself on the bed. "The half of which are in no way true."

There was a loud bang outside as something fell and I jumped, still disturbed by the earlier actions of the day.

"Are ye all right, lassie?" Glancing at me in concern, he didn't press further when I merely nodded. "Here, then." He pointed to the dish, which was holding some bread and porridge. Having long run out of fresh fruit and meat with a crew this size, I wasn't surprised to see staples that traveled well and were easily made on board. "It's not much, but I did manage to snag us some of the whiskey." Pulling the bottle out of his jacket, he grinned deviously and placed it on the table.

"Thank you," I mumbled, trying to calm myself again, wringing my hands in my lap.

"Have some, Sam," he said gently. "It'll help with the nerves. Ye've never been part of any fight, have ye?"

"Not like that," I confessed. "I've not ever seen anything like that."

Pouring me a healthy dose of alcohol, he moved in understanding, sighing.

"I didn't do so well after my first time," he admitted. "It was different, mind ye, because I was part of the fight and not just listening, but I had the night terrors for weeks after."

"Listening was bad enough." Taking the glass from him, I swallowed a huge gulp and coughed, not used to the burn.

"I believe ye," he replied sympathetically. "At least for me, I was out there. I knew what was happening. I can't even imagine what it must have been like to have to guess and hope that everyone made it out alive. Well, I still wished everyone would make it out alive. I was there to see some of them not, though."

"When was it?" I asked, allowing the sound of his voice to wash over me and relax the tension in my muscles.

"Hmm? Oh, three years ago. It was our first hunt after stealing the ship. I didn't really have a part in that, since Captain Rodrigues was the quartermaster then. He basically knifed the old captain and got voted in as the new one. He was a good leader at the time, before he let it all go to his head."

"You voted him captain?" Surprise was the least of the emotions I was feeling. How could all these men knowingly agree and choose such a monster to lead them?

"Aye, that's how the ship works. We vote on most everything. Positions among the crew, where we stop to rest, when to clean the ship, that kind of stuff. I was voted quartermaster almost two years past. The captain has a large say in most of it, save the positions on board."

"I don't understand. If you don't like him, why not vote him out?" It sounded like something as simple as a reality show, a "vote him off the island!" type of thing.

"Captain Rodrigues is fearless in battle," he answered seriously. "We've never lost a ship we've aimed to take. The men will never vote him off, not with the money he's supplying to them. He's a drunkard and foolish to boot, but when ye find a man who can lead ye in battle, ye don't let him go. What if we were to vote him out and we all died on our next hunt? Or the ship got away? No, they'll keep him for as long as he wants to stay, and that's forever."

"You're practically running everything the rest of the time," I argued. "Why don't you start seeing if they'll vote you as captain?"

"That's a slippery question to ask." He laughed, pulling a bowl of porridge toward himself. "On the one hand, I don't think I want to be captain. There are other things in my life I would like to pursue." His eyes met mine for a second and I felt my face flush at the flirtation. "On the other hand," he continued, "as captain I could better ensure the safety of all the men, the ship would be better managed, and I'd have real power to change things and do what I thought was best. But, it's not anything I want to think on. Something drastic will have to happen for Rodrigues to ever be voted out."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll die in battle." Horrified, I clapped a hand over my mouth, realizing I'd said my feelings out loud. He didn't seem to mind, laughing loudly and throwing his head back in glee.

"Ye are a spitfire, Samantha Greene! Remind me to never be on yer bad side."

"I didn't mean—all I meant was—oh, good grief." Covering my hot face with my hands I grimaced, feeling upset by my own words.

"It's fine," he chuckled. "I knew yer meaning. He's not the man he once was. Maybe the crew will change their minds one day."

Silence filled the room as he took another bite, and I stared at my hands in my lap. The men outside were loud and rowdy, a rousing chorus of a song detailing the things that should be done to a lazy sailor being sent out into the night. It seemed unfathomable to me that they were all so fine after what they'd done, after their friends had died in the process.

"What happened to the men who died?" I asked quietly, the image of their bodies burned into my mind.

"They're in the infirmary, getting stitched in." He cleared his throat, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry, stitched in?" The phrase wasn't one I was familiar with, but I had a vague idea of what it could be.

"Aye. The old sails are tied around them and stitched shut, so they won't wash away."

"Because you bury them at sea," I added, nodding. That made sense. I'd also seen it depicted in movies.

"The captain will want ye to come, I'm sure. Hopefully he'll have the sense to not drown his hangover with more whiskey until after it's finished."

"Do you want me to come?" A flash of excitement shot through me at my daring, but was quickly followed by embarrassment and dread. Now was definitely not the time for flirting.

He stared at me for a moment, chewing his food as he brushed his hands off and leaned back some. "Aye, I do."

Voice practically smoldering, the sound of him made a shiver of anticipation go up my spine. In that second, it appeared very clear to both of us that we were alone and would probably remain so for the majority of the night. The thought made me anxious, but I continued to stare back, licking my lips quickly as all the moisture in my mouth seemed to vanish.

The look in his eyes intensified at that and he leaned forward, his hand sliding across the table toward me. "I've had too much whiskey," he whispered hoarsely. "Forgive me, I must go."

"It's fine," I replied simply. "I mean, it's fine if you want to leave. I'm feeling tired myself." Liar. It felt like my entire body was going to burst into flame if he didn't touch me. But the moment had passed, and I didn't want to ask him to stay when he wanted to leave.

He remained in his spot, staring at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, like he'd just run a marathon. Finally, he shoved himself to his feet, tipping his head in my direction and practically fleeing towards the door. "Evening, Miss Greene."

The entrance shut quickly behind him and I let the breath I didn't know I'd been holding loose, slumping down into my seat as much as my corset would allow. Electricity crackled in the air of the room and I fanned myself, wishing I wasn't wearing so many layers. "Another moment, come and gone," I said to myself, wondering if I'd imagined he might like me. Maybe he could tell I liked him and left whenever he thought there was a possibility of something happening.

Another loud roar of celebration sounded outside and a song began anew, much to the delight of the crew. Sighing, I rose from my seat and began undressing. There would be little chance of me getting any rest tonight with all the noise, but I intended to do my best.

The next morning found us all on the right side of the ship, five bodies wrapped tightly in sails waiting to go to rest. From the looks of it, everyone had a massive hangover, but they were all somber, sad even, as they readied themselves to bid farewell to their fallen mates.

Four men stepped forward, lifting one of the canvas draped bodies onto a plank and grunting slightly as they hefted it into the air above their shoulder. As they slid it down the plank and over the side of the ship, Tristan, in a voice loud and clear, spoke the name of the man. "Jonathan Keys!" The next body was picked up in the same manner, followed by the remaining three. The sea had claimed the last man—the body that was not present— during the battle. A sword was flung in the water in his honor, and his name was called just as loudly and proud as the men before him.

As the proceedings ended, the men slowly drift away one by one, the sadness I expected to see on the previous night coming about here. Eventually, even Captain Rodrigues retired to his cabin without another word, leaving me with Tristan and an order for more whiskey.

"Beautiful, ain't it?"

"Hmm?" I turned my view from the coastline to the man who'd spoken to me, finding him winding rope into its place, a grin on his face. It was one of the riggers, a man named John Butler. He was a small man, but surprisingly strong, as well as kind, though his few missing teeth gave him the appearance of a terror.

"Spain," he continued, nodding in the direction I'd been looking.

"Oh, yes. It's very pretty." We were far enough out that I couldn't really see La Coruña itself, but the coastline was gorgeous—green, like Maine—and I wondered if it would dim any as the year continued, the cold coming to sap us all of our strength. Then again, it was already pretty cool, so maybe it would keep its bright colors through the winter.

Pulling my cloak tighter, I resisted the urge to shiver, feeling both grateful to be so close to freedom from the captain and afraid to be left on my own. Tristan had spoken with me about his plans after helping Captain Rodrigues drink himself into a stupor the night before. Everything had been very business-like, which also made me feel sad for some reason.

"I have family outside the city," he'd said, cleaning up the mess of food. "Ye'll stay with them for a bit until ye can figure out a plan. I'll take ye myself, so there's no problems along the way. My cousin will be glad to have ye, I'm sure of it."

"Thank you," I'd replied stiffly, not wanting to plan my leaving of him, but not wanting to stay on the ship any longer. We'd done the unthinkable—keeping me from being raped or having to willingly sleep with the captain—and I didn't want to push my luck on the issue. I had a feeling if I stayed, it wouldn't be long before I was forced to do something I'd regret.

At the same time, though, I needed to get back across the Atlantic to Oak Isle. It seemed unlikely I would be able to buy passage on a ship, so while he was busy explaining everything about his cousin's house and how wonderful it would be for me, I was formulating a plan of my own.

"We'll be going ashore in two hours' time," Tristan said, coming beside me and interrupting my thoughts of the night before. "The captain wishes to see ye before then." There was a hint of warning in his voice, but I smiled warmly, not concerned. It was all part of the plan, after all.

"I'll go to him now, then," I answered conversationally, earning an eyebrow raise from him.

"I won't be joining ye," he added under his breath, apparently trying to warn me once more of the dangers of being alone with the captain.

"I know." My voice was cheery as I turned and headed for the stairs to go below deck. "Bring us a bottle of whiskey, will you?" Nerves rifled through me as I walked, a tiny bit of fear cutting at me as I thought about what I was about to do. There was no going back now, though. If I didn't do this, I would never make it home. Reaching the captain's door, I knocked loudly, letting myself in at his command.

"Ah, Miss Greene!" His face lit up as he stared at me, hunger in his eyes. "Thank ye for joining me."

"It was my pleasure, Captain," I answered smoothly. "I hope you won't mind, but I asked for a bottle of whiskey to be brought to us, to toast a successful crossing and your good health."

"Wonderful!" He clapped his hands together, rising from his desk and coming around to meet me. "Perhaps we can toast to our final meeting together as well, hmm?"

Trying hard to not roll my eyes, I smiled, curtseying to him slightly. "That would be wonderful." The man had probably been so drunk the last two and a half months that he couldn't remember if we'd slept together already or not. Either way, it was going to work out for me.

The part of me that was uncomfortable tried to voice its opinions once again and I shoved it away. I'd spent a lot of time in the company of pirates. It was no surprise that I was about to employ dishonest and unfair methods to get what I wanted.

"I'm sad to be leaving." I sighed, hoping that I was doing a well enough job to fool him. "I'll be missing you." Batting my eyelashes, I shot him a small smile, moving around the room to examine his collections.

"My dear," he cooed, "I shall miss ye, too. If ye like, ye do not have to leave, mi amor. I will tell the crew ye are staying."

"But won't they be angry? I was under the impression that they didn't like me." I ran a finger over the spine of one of his books on the shelf, slowly, glancing at him over my shoulder.

"I am the captain," he laughed. "They will do whatever I say, they have no choice."

"You wouldn't want to get voted out," I pressed, moving from the bookshelf to the window. "No, I'd better go, so you can keep your station."

"Mi amor," he crooned again. "So beautiful and so thoughtful. Come, let me show ye my appreciation." Holding his arms out to me, he sat in a chair closer to the door, practically devouring me with his eyes.

Taking a breath to steel myself, I strode over and sat on his lap, wrapping my arms around him as he slid his around my waist. Immediately, his lips where on my neck, and his teeth grazed over my skin. Repressing the urge to shudder or vomit, I tilted my head, giving him easier access.

There was a knock on the door and Tristan burst in eyes blazing, a bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in his hand. "Captain," he said through clenched teeth, watching as the man leaned away from my neck, but tightened his hold around my waist.

"Mr. O'Rourke," he stated. "Leave it on the desk." Reaching up, he ran a finger down my neck, whispering Spanish sweet nothings into my ear.

Going red in the face, Tristan did just that, storming past me without even looking and setting the bottle down roughly. "We'll be at port in two hours," he said to the captain, who ignored him.

Trust me, I mouthed to Tristan as he glanced back at me, his posture rigid. Before I could tell if he'd seen or not, he turned and left the room, closing the door somewhat harder than normal. "Would you like a glass?" I asked Captain Rodrigues, turning my attention back to him, no time left to worry about Tristan.

"Maybe later," he breathed, placing a hand on my chest. "There are more important things to do at the moment, mi amor."

I was going to slap him if he called me that one more time.

Smiling firmly, I started massaging his shoulders, feeling for the point that I wanted. It had been several years since my women's self-defense class, but I was confident I remembered everything correctly. When I found it, I pressed hard, pinching with all my might despite his immediate protests. Finally, he faded into unconsciousness, the pressure point having taken all it could handle.

Disgusted, I got off his lap, leaving him a sleeping lump on the chair. Not knowing how long he would be out, I quickly moved to his wardrobe, pulling it open and rifling through the clothes inside. Just as I'd expected, he had many to choose from, ranging from the more extravagant to the rattiest pieces of clothing I'd ever seen. Tristan's clothes would have been preferable because of smell alone, but he'd moved his belongings out of his room while I was occupying it. There was no way I would be able to sneak into the crew's quarters and take them from him. Quickly, I grabbed a long brown coat, a pair of matching pants, a billowy white shirt, and a hat, along with a pair of boots and stockings.

The captain was already starting to rouse, his eyes rolling around in his head as he tried to make sense of what happened. Panicked, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and hit him over the head, knocking him out once more. Nervous that I'd done serious damage to him, I accidently dropped the bottle and it broke into several pieces, spraying alcohol all over the floor. His chest was still moving, though, so he was alive.

"Sorry," I said, unapologetic. "I need you to stay out until I'm gone." Turning back to the closet, I sorted out a few more things, finally taking two more pairs of stockings and hoping they would do the job.

We were undisturbed for the next two hours, Tristan's voice barking orders across the deck as the men brought the ship into port. Finally, when I knew it would be time for someone to come and get me, I glanced at the captain's unconscious form and let myself out. When I came on deck, the men were already climbing into the long boats and rowing to shore.

"Tristan," I said, smiling brightly, the stolen clothes hidden under my skirts.

"Miss Greene," he answered tightly. "I have a few more business things to take care of. Mr. Abby has agreed to take ye to shore and get ye to a nice inn for the night. I will send directions to my cousin's house, as well as word that ye will be arriving tomorrow." He waved a hand at two crewmen who were rowing away, shouting at them for shirking their duties.

"You're not taking me?" I frowned, suddenly aware he thought I'd been doing something besides stealing clothes and sitting by the window for the past two hours.

"No." He turned his back to me then, heading down the stairs into the pit.

"Tristan," I called, hurrying after him. "Nothing happened. I took care of it."

"I'm glad ye're well," he breathed. "We need to get ye ashore. Mr. Abby?"

A man on the upper deck nodded, calling me up to him. "We must be going, Miss Greene."

"Are you mad at me?" I asked, grabbing his arm as he went to move away.

"Mad?" He turned to look at me, the hard emotions on his face softening some. "Ye'll be safer here, Sam. Ye need to get off this boat. I can't protect ye anymore. There are too many things I can't tell ye, things ye wouldn't understand. But, here, on land and away from the sea and its scum, ye'll be far from harm." Resting a hand on my waist, he leaned in and kissed my forehead, his fingers gripping me tightly. "Go to my cousin's. He'll keep ye safe and that will be well with me."

"You're still trying to protect me." I laughed, holding on to his arm to keep him from going. "Why?"

Eyes searching mine, a small smile played on his lips. "If yer still here when we make port again, I'll find ye and tell ye." He pushed me away then, waving James Abby down and telling him to take me.

"Thank you," I said with the most sincerity I could. "For everything."

"Safe travels, Samantha Greene." Grinning widely, he nodded to me, and then turned, disappearing into the ship.

Mr. Abby and I went back to the upper deck, climbing into one of the long boats, and were lowered into the water with a few other shipmates. Everyone was so excited to be going ashore, several of the men making crude suggestions about what they were going to do with their leave time, but all I could feel was an emptiness. With each stroke of the oar, the Adelina and her quartermaster got farther and farther away. The sense of loss was almost overwhelming and I turned away, focusing my attention on the shoreline.

There were camps set up among the rocks, pirates roving to and from the settlements. Further up, the town began, a beautiful city. I could see the steeple of a church among the buildings, smoke rising from chimneys, and the sounds of people going about their day reached my ears.

"Welcome to La Coruña, Miss Greene," Mr. Abby said, jumping out of the boat and into the shallow water to help pull it onto the shore.

"Thank you." Awe filled me as I took everything in, relishing the fact I was seeing something no one in my time would ever be able to.

"The inn is not far," he continued, missing my total devotion to looking at everything. "If ye'll come with me, I'll make sure that ye have a nice room and meal for the night. Mr. O'Rourke told me he'll be sending someone with instructions on how to get to his cousin's, so I'll let the innkeeper know that as well."

"What all is here?" I asked, following him haltingly. "I would love to see the city."

"I wouldn't if I were you," he chuckled. "It's not safe for a lady to be out on her own here, not unless she's a whore looking for a job."

"Well, then." Shocked by the harshness of his words, I fell in step behind him, keeping close so as to not be left.

The inn, which wasn't far at all, was a three-story building full of people, food, and loud racket. Loopy on alcohol, the patrons were an unnerving sort to be around, and I felt a sudden discomfort at being left here on my own. Within minutes, I'd been secured a room in the hot place, ushered upstairs, and left there, without a single person in the world to turn to.

The beautiful dress, marked by salt-water spray, whiskey, and sweat, lay on the bed, seeming sad somehow. The blue fabric had helped see me through my months at sea and I was disappointed to have to leave it behind, all except the corset that was. It had done nothing but pain me the entire time. The only thing that was good about it was the memories of Tristan's fingers on it, unlacing it for me in a way that made me pleasantly wild to think about now. But, there would be no more Tristan to help untie me, and no need to wear it any longer.

Trying to get a feel for how I looked without the assistance of a mirror, once again, I reached under my shirt and tugged at the stockings tied around my chest, making sure that they wouldn't come loose unexpectedly. Tying my breasts down had not been the most enjoyable part of my day, by far, but I was fairly certain they wouldn't be noticed right off, if at all. The wrap held well and I readjusted my shirt, tucking it into the long brown pants. Knowing that Captain Rodrigues had most likely worn these without underpants made me fiercely wish I had my panties, but I'd gotten rid of them long ago, before we were even a month at sea, since there was no way to really wash them and keep them from stinking of sweat. I couldn't exactly go out and get new ones, so I would just have to make do. The boots didn't fit perfectly—apparently there was no such thing as shoe sizes in this time period—but they weren't so big I couldn't walk in them.

Sliding into the long jacket, I did my best to hide that I didn't have a belt, not because the pants didn't fit, but because I had no weapon. A man from now would have at least had some kind of pistol or knife, but I had nothing. Making a note to get something as soon as possible, and blanching at the thought of having to steal from someone else, I grabbed the large hat and placed it on my head, letting the brim cover my face some. That, coupled with the fact that my hair was worn down and long, should disguise my true identity from most everyone passing by. I'd braided a few strands as well, like I'd seen some of the pirates do. By all accounts, I should look like a man. At least I hoped I did.

Mr. Abby had returned the night before, as promised, and delivered the instructions on where I was to go. He informed me the Adelina would be leaving port this afternoon, but couldn't be bothered to share where to or why so soon. Apparently, Tristan hadn't appreciated my time spent with the captain—which he was making wrong assumptions about, it appeared—and I was being left completely on my own. That was fine by me—I would have better success with the crew out of the way and no one to possibly recognize me.

The plan was simple; dress like a man to keep the perverts away, hide on a new ship, get off in the Americas, and make my way back to the Treasure Pit. It would take time, certainly, but it was the only way I could think to get back to where I needed. History classes had taught me about The Triangle of Trade, a route ships used to deliver goods between countries, and I intended to use that knowledge to the best of my ability. America may not be the first stop, but it would come eventually. Silently, I cursed myself for majoring in English instead of history. This would have been much easier if I'd known what was going on around me! Being in Spain, it was clear they were at war with the English and French—it was all anyone wanted to talk about—which didn't sound surprising. No one in La Coruña seemed concerned by it, though. Apparently, the armies were in France at the moment. Besides that, I knew absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip. It was incredibly frustrating.

Sighing, I knew it was time to leave the room and start the next part of the journey. However, I found it hard to vacate the comfort of it, knowing it would be a long time before I sat in front of a fire again, or laid on a feather bed. The room itself was tiny, with wooden walls that did nothing to keep sound out, but it felt like home for some reason. Glancing at the dress on the bed, I felt a pang of longing for Tristan, wondering if he would ever hear that I didn't make it to his cousin's house. Would he worry about me? Would my disappearance faze him at all? There was no way to know. Right now, he was probably making plans to permanently fix the damage to the ship that had been hastily mended after their hunt. He would be working, taking care of things. Why should he stop to think about me?

Thinking of Tristan and how he was moving on spurred me into action, and I left the room, keeping my head down and trying to remain unnoticed. Anyone who did see me didn't look twice, and I smiled to myself, pleased that I didn't look out of place.

Quickly, I exited out onto the street, blending in with the crowd and heading toward the dock, where a few merchant ships were waiting. I'd heard talk that pirates secretly ran them, but they kept the trade legitimate here and were always left alone. In my mind, one of them was better than trying to sneak onto an actual pirate ship. Merchant ships would have lots of goods, things I could easily hide in below deck. Hopefully, there would be food to eat. I knew there'd be whiskey to drink, or at least some form of alcohol. If I could make it to the next port, be that America or somewhere else, I could jump ship to stay safe. The plan seemed shaky at best, and one hell of a bad idea, but there was nothing else to do.

There were three ships at the dock, one of which was settled in for the long haul, a large gash running through the side of it. Of the other two, the word was one was late leaving because of an issue with the crew and the other was set to leave with the tide. Each looked like they would do for what I wanted; I just had to decide which was the lucky one.

Picking wasn't hard. Getting on board was another story entirely. There were literally no options for doing it, unless I wanted to hide in the cargo itself. Glancing around, I surmised it was either already on board or in a warehouse somewhere, so that wasn't a possibility. Resolved to figure something out, I sat on the dock and watched the coming and goings, waiting for an idea to come to me. There was a man guarding the plank leading up to the ship, as well as a few armed men on board who were making rounds across the deck, surveying every point. I couldn't blame them, with the city as full of pirates as it was.

After about an hour or so, a group of sailors passed by, laughing loudly and talking about how they were about to set sail again, finally, on the ship I'd picked. If I didn't get on soon, I would miss it and who knew what would happen then.

"Señorita?"

Without thinking, I turned and froze, cursing myself for giving my gender away. A priest stood behind me, holding a suitcase in one hand and a bible in the other. His brown robes brushed the ground, toes peeking out from underneath, and his black hair was shaved into a bowl cut. The look on his face showed mostly curiosity, though there did seem to be some horror at my outfit in there as well.

"Yes," I said through clenched teeth. "How did you know?"

"I live with men, señorita, and you are no man. These drunk sailors can't tell the difference, but I can, easily." He grinned, shrugging as he continued to stare at me, unaware I was obviously not comfortable with the attention he was giving me. Then, like a light bulb switched on, his eyes widened and he looked around, as if he expected someone to be watching us. "You want on the ship, no?"

Cautious, I nodded slightly, wondering if he was going to out me and call down all the powers of heaven to help me repent of my misdeeds.

"Come with me," he stated, heading toward the ship. "And keep your head down, señorita."

Surprised, I did as he said without question, feeling like I was about to be shoved in the harbor for merely being a woman in men's clothing. What exactly was he planning to do with me?

When we reached the gangplank, the priest started arguing with the sailor guarding it, waving his hand at me dramatically. Finally, after several minutes of conversation I didn't understand, the sailor threw his hands up and motioned us on board, rolling his eyes and continuing to mutter in Spanish. Knowing better than to question what just happened, I followed the priest, hiding my face as he'd instructed. Finally, we reached a room that apparently belonged to him and he ushered me inside, closing the door quickly behind us.

"What did you say to him?" I asked curious.

"I told him you were my translator, that you didn't speak to anyone but me, and that you must board with me if I am to convert the heathens of the lands we are about to visit. He wasn't too happy about it, but I managed to convince him with some extra blessings."

"You bribed a sailor with blessings?" My eyebrows rose in surprise and I laughed, taken completely aback by the little round man.

"The Lord will forgive. After all, I was helping a soul in need. Tell me, señorita, why did you need on this ship?" Placing his bag on the bed, he sat down next to it and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his long sleeve.

"I'm trying to get home," I explained. "But I don't have any money. I was kidnapped by pirates and—"

"Pirates!" he exclaimed, his face brightening considerably. "How exciting! You must tell me everything!" At my shocked look he chuckled, and rested his hands on his shaking belly. It was a full minute before he'd gotten control of himself, and then he leaned forward, beckoning, like he wanted to tell me a secret. "You know, when I was a boy, I wanted to be a pirate. To see the world and not bend to anyone's will but my own! But, alas, it was not meant to be. My father sent me into the service and I became a priest instead. Sometimes I still wonder what it would be like, to be my own person, not living a life in the servitude of our Lord and Savior." His eyes widened at that and he hastily crossed himself, uttering a word that I assumed was asking for forgiveness. "I did not mean I dislike serving the Lord," he explained. "I do."

"It was another time," I offered, hoping the tone of my voice would let him know I understood.

"Sí," he answered, nodding. "I am Father Torres, señorita. Alfonso Torres. And you are?"

"Samantha Greene." I reached over and shook his hand, smiling warmly. "Pleased to meet you."

"It was by God's grace," he said humbly, looking toward the heavens. "I am sent to help you, child. You will stay here in my room with me and the crew will never know that you aren't a man. Now, tell me all about these pirates!"

Father Torres turned out to be the exact opposite of what you would expect from a priest. His sense of humor was sharp, keeping me laughing every day with his stories from the church he'd lived at the past several years. He also appeared to be an excellent food critic, constantly moaning and complaining about the meals prepared in the ship's galley loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear. Despite his feud with the cook, the rest of the crew seemed to like him, never bothering him much, or me, for that matter. Aside from bringing an extra hammock into the room for me to sleep in, they gave us a wide berth, working efficiently together without having to worry about us. Every Sunday, the Father would give a small sermon from the helm of the ship, wrapped in a heavy brown cloak that blended with his robes. I didn't always understand what he was saying—my Spanish extended to being able to ask where the bathroom was and how to say yes and no—but it was clear that he was a very moving preacher. The sailors would call out phrases and halleluiahs when he spoke, all of them enraptured by what he said. Two of these sermons had passed before we were warned that we were coming close to pirate territory again and to stay on our guard.

Thankfully, because of this, someone saw fit to arm us both with a gun and sword. The gun, called a flintlock, only held one shot, which meant if we were going to fire it, we'd better be sure that we were going to hit what we were aiming at. The sword, a simple cutlass, was easy enough to hold. I had a feeling that using it would be a different story entirely.

In the quiet moments I had to myself, I wondered if the Adelina was in this pirate territory somewhere, Tristan ordering everyone around and moving on with his life like I'd never been a part of it. I knew it was foolish, to keep thinking of someone I would never see again, but I couldn't help it. It felt like I'd lost part of myself with him, somehow.

The night after Father Torres's second sermon, he suddenly flipped out, yelling out a stream of Spanish as he stormed from our room, waving his hands in all manner of directions. We'd just been served our dinner, so I imagined he was upset about what he was being fed again. Following him out, I waited to see what the commotion was. After a few minutes, the cook appeared on deck and began yelling back, various rude gestures being exchanged between the two of them. It was all I could do to not laugh as I wondered if Alfonso was any good at fist fighting. Finally, the cook threw his hands up in the air and stated something in the foreign language, taking his leave of the argument.

Turning back to me, Father Torres straightened his robes and beckoned to follow before heading off in the direction of the galley. Making sure my face was mostly hidden by my hat and hair, I quickly obeyed, feeling nervous to be left on my own unless I was in the safety of our room. The crew didn't seem fazed by the argument they'd just witnessed, most of them turning back to their beds and their food covered plates.

The galley was below the gun deck on this ship, next to the crew's quarters, which was basically a mass of hammocks hanging around everywhere. Unlike our room, it was open to everything around it and next to the staircase, so the smoke from the fire could rise up into the open air. A few beams that held the upper deck up rested in the galley, making it feel more like a ramada at a park than anything else. It offered a small amount of privacy, just enough that I felt I didn't have to constantly be watching my own back.

"Feeding us la basura . . ." Father Torres was mumbling to himself as he sorted through the ingredients laid out across the small, square counter space, an unhappy look on his face. The fire was in the middle of the square, a few coals and logs that were always kept closely watched when they were lit. "Look at this, señorita! All this dried fruit, ingredients to make bread! Salted meat! What does he feed us? Porridge! And not good porridge at that!" He continued to mutter phrases in his native tongue that I was pretty sure a priest wasn't supposed to be saying.

"I'm assuming you won the fight?" I asked, amused. Leaning against a beam, I folded my arms, smiling as I watched him sort everything into groups.

"That bilge-sucking crook of a cook told me if I thought I could do it better, then I should, while he sits on his fat ass and does nothing. In other words, a trade of duties." His hands worked furiously over the inventory, and I could practically see the lists he was making in his head.

Raising an eyebrow, I cleared my throat, not knowing how to respond. "And your reply?" I finally asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

"I wished him many sores from inactivity," he answered gruffly, grabbing the bag of flour and a bowl.

Snorting, I glanced over my shoulder at the men, the cook having disappeared somewhere among them. "I bet he liked that," I chuckled. "So, what now? Are you making a second dinner for everyone?"

"No, no, señorita," he laughed, shaking his head. "Just for us. Tomorrow, we will feed the crew." Rolling the sleeves of his robe back, he set to making whatever he wanted us to eat, a content grin on his face.

"Excuse me?" I was caught off guard by the statement, even though I had no problems in helping him. I just didn't know if I knew that much about preparing food in this century versus my own. How different could it be, really?

"We cook!" Motioning for me to join him, he went back to mixing ingredients, the lump in the bowl starting to somewhat resemble bread dough.

Before long, I was set to work making a stew with a package of beans he'd found. Every thirty seconds it seemed he would make a derogatory statement against the cook, along with what sounded like a few swear words.

"So, Father," I began after he calmed down some, "Tell me more about life at the abbey." The bread was baking on a stone in the fire and the stew was starting to boil.

Smiling widely, he turned, resting against the counter as his eyes obtained a faraway look, certainly playing memories I couldn't see in his mind. "It was beautiful, señorita. Always flowers, always good smells. When the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening, I felt more at peace than I ever have anywhere else. Only the sea has given me a greater view of the sun. I do miss the library, though. So many books! One could get lost studying the words of the Holy Father, or stories from those who came before us."

"Do you have a favorite story?" I smiled, enjoying his retelling of it all. He'd never told me about the library, and I had a sudden longing for the university library of my own time, the smell of the books, and the perfect feeling of learning and enjoyment around me.

"Oh, sí, señorita!" His eyes lit up at this as he clapped his hands together in excitement. "It is a play by an Englishman name William Shakespeare. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

"Yes, I've heard of him." I laughed. "I've read everything he's written, in fact. I like him very much."

"Sí, sí, muy bien! You'll have read my favorite then, Romeo y Julieta, no?"

"Of course! It's probably his most famous of all his shows, don't you think?" Grinning, I stirred the soup briefly, excited to have something I actually knew quite a bit about come up in conversation. The crew was steadily ignoring us, so there was no reason for me to remain quiet and tucked away.

"Such a tragedy," he sighed, a hand covering his heart. "If only the letter had reached him in time!"

"It's a bit depressing," I agreed, "But that doesn't make it any less good. It's not my favorite of his works, though."

"No? What is then?" He seemed totally enraptured with what I was saying, like he was just as happy as I was to have someone to talk with about things like this.

"A Midsummer Night's Dream," I stated, smiling widely. "There was always something about a man having his head replaced with a donkey's that I found supremely amusing."

"Fairies." He rolled his eyes, crossing himself and making a sign to flick away evil. "It is good the little sprites cannot be on the ship, so far away from their forest home!"

"What about water goblins?" I couldn't help egging him on, laughing at his superstitions and getting a feel for what was good and bad here. At my question, he peered around hastily, muttering in Spanish and flicking his fingers a few more times.

"If you ask me," he continued, looking around as if he expected a tiny winged creature to suddenly burst out of the woodwork. "The only good thing about fairies is that they've brought love to those who need it at times, like in your play. Other than that, they're evil things that should be destroyed!"

"Why, Father," I spoke in mock surprise, "I believe you are a romantic at heart!"

"Sí, señorita." He grinned at me, before turning to check his bread, poking the top with his finger decisively. "Love is everything. For God so loved the world that he gave his Only Begotten Son. Everything we have been given, will give, and will receive is because of love. It is the most powerful tool on the earth and the source of everything The Lord does for us. I would be a fool to dismiss it as easily as others."

"Have you ever been in love?" I knew I was prying, but I couldn't help it. He was one of the nicest men I'd met during my entire time here. I imagined he could have easily married, if he weren't tied to the church.

Pausing for a moment at my question, he smiled sadly. Finally, he cleared his throat and went back to his work, pulling the bread from the fire and dumping it out of its pan. "In love? No. In lust? Sí, señorita. But that is what repentance is for, no? I turned myself to God and begged for His forgiveness of my thoughts. To this day, I pray I never fall in love, for that will be the day I break my vow to our Lord and damn my soul to hell."

"Surely, God doesn't want you to suffer because of love?" Shock was strong in my voice as I stared at him with wide eyes. "If He truly loves you as much as you say, He should want you to be happy."

Laughing, he turned to me, waving a finger in my face. "He does. But it is my job to prove I love Him enough to do what He wishes instead of my own will."

"I've never heard it put like that before." Smiling, I let his words sink in. Was all this happening to me because of love, because God wanted me to learn something?

Tristan. His name came into my mind unbidden, the memory of his face floating before my eyes. At the same time, burning rejection shot through my veins. I couldn't love a man I barely knew! Besides, I was never going to see him again. Maybe, if things had been different, if we'd met in the right time, things could have happened. But not here, not like this. Sighing, I shook my head and turned back to the soup, pulling the bowl out of the fire and setting it on the counter. You are never going to see Tristan O'Rourke again, I told myself firmly. Let the past be the past and focus on getting back to your own time.

It became clear the next morning, after Father Torres made breakfast for the crew, that they much preferred the ship's new cook to the old. With each muttered compliment to himself, and every jab to the previous man, Alfonso's smile widened, until his face looked like it was ready to split in half. Keeping to myself, my hat covering my countenance as always, I enjoyed the morning with him, happy to know he felt so validated.

It was in the afternoon when the cry came, pulling all attention to the ship that had appeared on the horizon behind us. It was like all the excitement and happiness of the morning melted away as we watched it gain ground. The captain was shouting things to the crew, Father Torres hastily translating to me under his breath.

"Stay calm, it may not be pirates," he translated, eyes on the same target as everyone else. "If it is, we will not go down without a fight! We are proud Spaniards! Let them try and take what is ours from us!"

"Why do they insist on fighting?" I groaned quietly, trying to ignore the racket from the crew as they agreed with their leader. "If they would just surrender, the pirates would let them go and only take the goods with them."

"Capitán thinks it is dishonorable," he explained. "He will not lay down and let himself be robbed without fighting back."

"Perfect."

Suddenly, a black flag began to rise on the ship we were all watching—it was a pirate vessel and they were coming for us. A roar of elation mingled with fear rose from the crew as they began to scramble about, readying themselves for battle.

"Come, señorita." Grabbing my hand, Father Torres hurried us across the deck and into our room, locking the door behind us. Fumbling, he pulled out the gun and sword he'd been given, motioning for me to follow suit. "If it takes a turn for the worse, the crew will hide in a hold below deck. The pirates will know to look there. We will be able to defend ourselves here, where only a few would look. If they take the ship, they will come in searching for goods. That is when we need to be worried."

"You know a lot about pirates and their boarding habits," I added nervously, my hands shaking as I gripped the gun tightly.

"We will be all right, señorita," he said encouragingly. "Remember, you are a man. No fear!"

Laughing in spite of myself, I settled down into the corner, pointing the flintlock towards the door. I wouldn't be seen immediately from this angle, whereas Father Torres was standing in front of the entrance like a bull ready to charge, gun and sword held in position.

It didn't take much longer for the vessel to catch us, shots being fired from our side as they neared. For an instant, I was brought back to when I'd hidden in the hull of the Adelina, wishing I knew what was happening. Now that I was on the other side, I kind of wished I was back in hiding.

The ship jerked as the pirates came up along side us, the wood of both vessels scraping across each other with a grating sound. The men on board our side were shouting and firing their guns, but I knew the pirates wouldn't be deterred.

Something hit the deck hard and the world was suddenly much louder on all sides, as the thieves boarded our vessel with speed and ferocity. Metal was meeting metal outside, screams of death and triumph raining down on my ears. Somewhere in my mind, I registered that the red liquid running under the door was blood, but my adrenaline was picking up, readying me for whatever was about to come through that entrance.

Father Torres was an unmoving block, his gaze trained on the latch of the door, waiting for even the faintest hint of movement. It occurred to me he was ready to give his life to protect me, and I didn't know why.

The world was starting to slow down again, as it had when Dad died. My senses told me that any second now, someone would break through and I would need to act, or watch Alfonso die. That wasn't something I was ready to let happen and my fingers tightened around the pistol, the shaking of my hand lessening some.

Finally. There were footsteps right outside. All other sounds melted away as I watched the shadow of a man, barely showing through the space between the door and floor, stop, seeming to consider the closed space in front of him.

The wooden entrance smashed open, splintering some as it bounced off the wall, and a pirate ran in screaming, his gun aimed right at Father Torres. Without another second's thought, I fired my gun, screaming as I did so. The bullet grazed his shoulder and he jerked, turning his attention to me immediately.

My breath caught in my throat as he shoved a charging Father Torres into the wall, knocking him out cold before raising his gun to me. My voice was caught in my throat, my body unmoving, his fingers moving to pull the trigger.

"Tristan!" The name finally tore from my lips and I struggled to my feet, my hat falling off and revealing my face.

Freezing, recognition washed over his features, his mouth popping open in surprise as he stared at me. Then as quickly as he'd entered, Tristan left the room, grabbing the door and slamming it shut behind him. There was a scraping sound outside and I suddenly realized that he had slid something in front of the door, barricading us inside.

Trembling, I tried to swallow, only succeeding on the third try. My brain was scrambling to make sense of what was happening and why I was still alive, but nothing was clicking together. Eventually, I landed on one thought and cringed.

I'd shot Tristan.

I didn't think he'd blame me, but that didn't make me feel any better. Once I'd processed that thought, I then settled on the fact that the crew of the Adelina was boarding us. No wonder it sounded so fearsome out there. Finally, I caught sight of Father Torres and my body kicked into action.

Hurrying to his side, I felt for his pulse, worried that he might have been crushed to death from the force of hitting the wall. The rhythm was there though, steady and strong. He was simply unconscious and would probably have a terrible headache when he woke up. Smiling softly, I thought of him charging our attacker again, so fearless. It wasn't any surprise that he'd dreamed of being a pirate, not with the way he'd acted when faced with battle.

Sitting down next to him, I groaned, running a hand through my hair. Would Tristan leave us here? Would another crewmember find us? What was going to happen if we were discovered and dragged out on deck? Would Captain Rodrigues kill everyone left? Would we be asked to join up? More importantly, was I going to be recognized for who I really was? Something told me the captain might not be so happy with me, given the nature of our last meeting.

The fight continued on outside. As it grew quieter around us, I assumed the crew of the merchant ship had tried to take safety below decks, just as Alfonso said they would. But, guessing from the whoops and hollers I was hearing below, the crew of the Adelina hunted them out. Eventually, I knew that it was all over. All I could do was pray that Tristan had some sort of plan.

"What about this room?" A voice outside the door made me jump, the barricade shoved out of the way by whoever was speaking.

"I've got this one," Tristan's voice answered. "You help with the cargo. We want to be out of here as soon as possible, before anyone else comes and tries to take it from us."

"Aye, sir!" Footsteps marked the leaving of the crewmember and the door swung open, revealing Tristan once more.

Glancing over his shoulder, he entered the room, closing the door behind him and securing the broken latch the best he could. When he was satisfied that it would hold well enough, he turned to me, an unknown expression on his soot-covered face. There was blood on his clothes and skin, the spot where I'd grazed him bleeding freely. "Ye, stupid, stupid woman!" he growled.

With two strides, he crossed the room, hauled me to my feet, and, wrapping his arms around my waist, crushed his lips against mine. Caught off guard, I gasped, my hands gripping his biceps as he continued to assault my mouth. "What do ye think ye are doing?" he asked, not giving me any time to answer before he was kissing me again.

It felt like my entire body was on fire; I would simply die right there if he were to release me and the flame went out. He tasted like metal, the dirt on his face rubbing across mine, his skin melding with my own as I let him carry me away.

"Why did ye not go to my cousins?" he asked between kisses. "Ye would have been killed if I'd not been the one who found ye!" His lips brushed against mine again, the strength of his attack lessening some. It was starting to feel more like a feather brushing across my skin as he kissed my face, holding me tightly to himself. I couldn't hardly breathe, let alone answer any of his questions. He only jerked away some as my hand traveled up his arm, lighting on his wound. "Ye shot me!" He sounded surprised, to say the least, but there was definite pride in his voice as well. "I'd not have pegged ye as one to shoot back, lassie."

"Sorry," I finally breathed, feeling like I could collapse into a warm puddle and never move again. There was a stupid grin on my face and I laughed, not knowing how this had happened, exactly.

He stared into my eyes for a moment, clutching me against himself, the world around us lost. "Ye make a very pretty man." He snickered. "I didn't recognize ye at first. I would have shot ye clean through if ye'd not said my name." At this, he glanced over at the door, his grasp tightening painfully before letting go completely. "We need to get ye off this ship. Put yer hat back on and make sure it covers yer face."

I leaned against the wall, trying to gain control of my own humming body, drinking in his image like I was thirsting to death.

"Sam!" he hissed, snapping his fingers in my face. "We need to get ye outa here before someone else sees ye and realizes who ye are!"

That managed to jolt me some and I stood up straight, blinking furiously. How was he so focused after a kiss like that? Stumbling, I crossed back to where my hat was and put it on, holding my head down to hide my face.

"Good. Now, don't speak and follow me." Moving to the door, he listened for sounds outside before cracking it an inch.

Father Torres began to stir on the floor and my senses jerked to the present moment. "Wait!" I whispered. "I'm not leaving without the Father!"

"What?" He gave me a look of confusion and disbelief, but I stared back defiantly.

"I'm not leaving without him," I insisted. "I'll stay here if you don't help me wake him up!"

Huffing, Tristan glanced at the form on the ground, back at me, and then bent down, shaking Father Torres roughly by the shoulders. "Padre," he spoke.

With a flash of movement, Father Torres jumped to his feet, swaying dangerously, and raised his fists, bewilderment in his eyes.

"Get behind me, señorita!" he commanded, sizing up Tristan. "I won't let any harm come to you as long as I'm alive!"

Tristan chuckled at that, folding his arms as he watched with interest.

"It's okay, Father," I quickly explained. "I know this man. He's going to help us."

Alfonso paused in his disorientation, staring at me skeptically. "Are you sure?"

"He's the pirate that helped me before, the one I told you about. Remember?"

Turning back to Tristan, his fists slowly lowered, but there was obvious distrust in his eyes.

Behind us, the door popped open and we all turned to find Captain Rodrigues standing there. "What's going on in here?" he demanded.

A brief silence met his statement, my heart practically stopping at the sight of him again. He was about a million times scarier covered in blood.

"Uh, we've got two joiners, Captain," Tristan answered. "I was just finishing searching them."

"Joining up, are you?" He stared at the two of us hard, causing sweat to break out on my brow. Then, a huge smile spread across his features. "Well, then. Welcome aboard the Adelina!"

"Names?" The ship's record keeper didn't even look at me as he waited for an answer, his quill pen ready to scratch my name down as a member of the pirate crew. It was so hard to keep from shaking, knowing that as soon as I opened my mouth my soprano voice would give me away.

"He is mute, señor. Samuel is the name. Sam, for short." Father Torres nodded at me, a small smile on his face as he answered in my place.

"Samuel what?" the man snipped, giving the appearance of hating his job. Slumping down into his chair further, he scratched my new name onto the paper, pausing as he waited for the rest of it.

"Smith," Father Torres offered, apparently picking a name out of thin air.

"And what does Samuel Smith do on board a ship other than remain silent?"

"We are cooks, señor. Sam doesn't need his voice to make food and is therefore a most excellent chef, I assure you."

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Smith," the recorder replied in a deadpan voice. He didn't appear to care much for what I could or couldn't do. "You will be given a hammock and weapons, if ye should need them. Do yer part and no one will have any fuss about ye."

Choking back the thank you that automatically rose to my lips, I nodded, backing away from the table. Father Torres gave his name as well, looking calm and collected. I, on the other hand, was sure I appeared a cowering fool, trying to stay in corners where no one could come up behind me.

"Samuel." A hand touched my arm and I jerked away, spinning around to see who was speaking to me. A breath of relief escaped as I saw Tristan once more, still dirty and bleeding some, but he looked to have taken care of his bullet graze already. "Follow me, I'll show ye to the galley." Without glancing back he turned and headed in the direction he wanted, not even checking to see if I was following.

Hurrying to catch up, I fell in step behind him, memories of my last voyage on this ship flashing through my mind. It was a mess, having just gone through battle, but I was surprised to find some happy memories mixed in with the fearful and sickened ones. There was the spot I'd watched the sun set every evening, and over there was where the water would splash up just so, bathing whoever was standing there in a soft breeze of spray, the smell of the ocean filling them even more.

At first, I thought he was taking me somewhere to talk, but as we went down a deck to the crew quarters, I suddenly realized he was indeed taking me to the galley. There were other pirates scurrying about and I didn't dare ask him what he was doing. When we finally did reach the kitchen, which was almost identical to the one on the other ship, he pulled the flintlock pistol out of his waistband and held it out to me, handle first.

"Ye'll want to ready that before ye plan on using it," he spoke wisely. "Do ye know how to do that?"

Peering around to see if there were any other men close by, I shook my head slightly, taking the weapon from him.

"Here," he said softly, stepping closer. Pulling a small cord from around his neck, he revealed a tiny pouch that had been tucked under his shirt. With his free hand, his fingers brushed over mine, as he grasped the gun, holding it steady. "First, ye'll want to prime it, aye? That's pouring the gunpowder into its spot." As he spoke, he poured the black powder out of the bag and into the gun, all the while his head leaning towards mine. "Then ye'll close this here, and use the rod to load the bullet in, aye?" He shut the opening the powder had gone in and then pulled a small rod out of the gun, from underneath the barrel. He used it to stuff the rest of the powder bag down inside, the bullet still in the pouch. "Then ye'll aim, cock it, and fire. Mind ye, if it doesn't go off the first time, wait a few seconds and try again. Don't go pointing it at yer face, either. Savvy?"

Nodding, I carefully took the loaded gun from him, holding it awkwardly. He stared at me for a moment and then moved, reaching down and pulling something out of his boot.

"Keep this knife with ye as well. I'll teach ye how to use it later." He smiled knowingly as I took it, and a rumble that sounded like suppressed laughter escaped him.

Father Torres appeared, moaning as he leaned against the counter. "All is well, se—Samuel?" He glanced at Tristan, obviously not trusting him one bit even though he'd managed to keep us from being shot or harmed.

Nodding, I slid the knife into my own boot and the gun into my waistband. It felt strange there, a terrifying constant reminder of the danger I was in.

"I must thank ye, Padre, for taking care of Samuel. It is most appreciated." Tristan sounded like he might burst into a chortle at any second, but he held his peace, motioning to a few food items before taking his leave.

Alfonso sniffed, obviously not pleased with what he had to work with, and set to sorting through everything.

"What can I do?" I whispered, moving closer to him.

"Stay quiet," he mumbled back, frowning at the state of the flour. "I will handle everything. You need not worry, señorita."

"When will the food be ready?" We both turned at the gruff voice, Alfonso looking like he was ready to strangle the man for his rude tone.

Dirty and blood covered, like most everyone else, the man gave a sneer that instantly alerted me to the fact that he thought he was better than the both of us. There was intelligence in his eyes that made my insides go cold, the feeling he gave off warning those around he wasn't to be trifled with. His black hair hung in his face, the tips of it brushing against his cheeks as he stared us down from behind it. "Well?" he barked again. "Are you going to answer me or not?"

"It will be ready when it is ready, señor," Alfonso replied stiffly. "And not a moment sooner."

"Is that so?" Brushing his hair out of his face, the man grinned wickedly a second time, one hand playing with the knife hilt sticking out of his belt. He stepped forward, drawing it out slowly, looking it over like a lover, his tongue darting out from between his lips as his eyes reached us once more. With an exaggerated slowness, he moved across the space until he was right in front of me, the blade inches from my throat. "You'd best rethink how you talk to me, Padre. The whole crew's already heard that your friend here doesn't need his voice box. I'm betting no one would be opposed to cutting it out for him if they thought they were being insulted or dishonored."

I was doing my best to hold my ground against him, the way I imagined any other man or pirate would have done, but I could feel the tremble in my knees and the racing of my heart. My breath was coming out in short, heavy spurts, my mouth clamped closed to keep any sound at bay.

"If you kill Mr. Smith, your food will be ready no sooner. Later even, I would imagine."

I couldn't see the look on the father's face, but I could distinctly hear the smugness in his statement. Perhaps it was his desire to be a pirate when he was younger, but the man seemed to have no fear in any situation unless it involved the salvation of his soul.

The pirate continued to stare past me, the educated look in his eyes working overtime as he thought. Finally, he lowered the knife, laughing as he stepped away. "I guess we'll have to find out if that's true or not later."

Swallowing hard, I watched as he turned and walked away, swiping a bottle of alcohol off the counter as he went.

"Don't mind him," another man said, coming down the stairs and onto the deck. "He's just sour because he was able to bully the last cook into feeding him a captain's share."

"Where is this old cook?" Alfonso asked, turning back to the food. "There's none but scraps here."

"Dead." The somewhat familiar man shrugged, motioning above us like that was a good enough explanation. "He tried to tell the captain we didn't have enough food to make it to the next port, but Captain Rodrigues insisted we come out for this ship. Said we could take food from there."

"I suggest you start sending men to get it then," Alfonso said seriously. "Unless you all want to eat spoiled oats until next port."

The man hooted, wiping his hands on his pants and extending one to shake. "John Butler."

"Alfonso Torres. This here is Samuel."

"Yes, the mute," John mused, rubbing a hand through his short, blonde hair. "I've heard. Sorry about yer tongue, mate. Were ye born not able to talk?"

"All men are born unable to talk," Alfonso snorted. "No, Samuel had his tongue cut out by aborigines in South Africa, when he was a member of His Majesties' army."

Turning to look at him, I raised an eyebrow, wondering where on earth he came up with that story. What if someone asked to see my severed tongue? Or challenged me to a fight, thinking I was military trained? Staring hard at him, I tried to convey with my eyes that he needed to stop, but the story was taking on its own life through him.

"Twenty savages there were, all around him! But Samuel wouldn't surrender, not with their chief's daughter watching. You see, they had fallen in love and he meant to rescue her from the beasts she lived among."

Oh good grief, I thought, rolling my eyes and stepping away from him. John Butler seemed like he couldn't decide if he was being told the truth or not and more men were gathering behind him to listen, pausing in their various duties as the story grew. Seizing the chance to slip away, I moved to the main deck, intent on getting some of the food that Alfonso wanted.

Captain Rodrigues was up top, sorting through some of the cargo they'd stolen, while the man who'd written my alias down stood next to him, marking things off a list. A pair of men were still moving back and forth between the ships, walking over the temporary gangplanks with ease. With a sickening twist of my stomach, I once again realized that Alfonso and I were the only two people to survive the attack.

"What are you doing, Mr. Smith?" Turning, I stopped my path towards the vessel and pantomimed eating, pointing vigorously and hoping they would catch on. The log keeper nodded curtly, turning back to the captain, who hadn't even stopped. "You two, help empty the kitchen," he ordered to the other men, scratching another item off his list.

The men did as they were told without complaint, heading back over and disappearing from my view. With a hesitant sigh, I climbed on the plank and quickly crossed the open water, ignoring the blood splattered across the walkway.

The ship was even gorier than I remembered. Bodies of men who'd been alive merely hours before, now lay crumpled on the ground. The crew of the Adelina had made quick work of their slaughter, and lost some of their own in the process, but it was hard to feel anything but disgust for them in this moment.

Gingerly, I made my way to the galley, pausing to let the other two men up the stairs with their load before I finally made it down. They had seized the majority of the food, carrying it in two barrels, so I grabbed what was left and followed after.

With a heavy heart, I stared at the carnage around me, and I tried to put it from my mind. I didn't like that Tristan had been involved in this. It was like an ever-present warning, though, that he could turn on me at any time.

As I crossed the gangplank, the men who'd helped with the kitchen crossed back over, for reasons unknown to me. Setting the food down with the rest of the haul, I turned back to the broken ship, feeling for the families of the men on board. The two shipmates returned just as smoke began to rise from the wreckage, fire burning every trace of the murders that had just occurred.

The cold sea air brushed over me and I shivered deeper into my blanket, my hammock swaying with the waves. All around me, everyone who wasn't on watch slept, the sounds of snores and mumbled phrases reaching my ears every now and then. Beside me, Father Torres rocked in his own bed, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. My senses jumped at every creak, my heart racing a million miles a minute as I contemplated survival here.

Alfonso had, belatedly, realized the mistake in his story when I returned below deck and was instantly assaulted by demands to show my stump of a tongue. His quick wit had him weaving another tale that gave an excuse for why I didn't like showing it, but some of the crew hadn't appeared that impressed by any of it. Somehow, I just knew that I was going to end up in a fight because of all of it and I would have no idea how to take care of myself.

The floor squeaked next to me and I held my breath, waiting to hear anything else that would prove I was only paranoid. There was a rustling sound, and suddenly a hand clapped over my mouth, another pair of hands seizing my shoulders and holding me down. The tip of a knife swam into view as I struggled, thrashing about silently.

"Show us yer tongue," a voice laughed softly, instantly hushed by another.

"Shut up! Do you want to wake everyone?" It was the man who'd threatened to cut out my voice box.

"They all want to see it, too," the other mate argued, sounding put off.

"I'm telling you, he's got his whole tongue, you dolt. They made the entire thing up."

"Why would they do that?"

My struggling was reaping no benefits and I haltingly fell still, my breath puffing through the fingers of my assailant.

His face finally came into view in the dark, a fuzzy outline of a shape behind the very clear image of his blade. "I intend to find out." The tip of the metal pressed down against my cheek, digging into my skin without drawing blood. "Tell us, Samuel. Why would you lie about having a stump for a tongue?"

Trying to pull my shoulders free without slicing my face, I struggled again, desperately wishing I were flexible enough to kick him in the back of the head. The other man laughed, a low sound that barely reached my ears.

"I'll kindly remind ye that what yer doing could mean yer life." Tristan's voice carried dangerously in the darkness, but was full of threats both men seemed to hear, the three of us freezing immediately. "There is no torture or wounding among the crew here. If ye believe Mr. Smith is lying, ye may accuse him in front of the whole crew, as is accepted. If ye continue further, I'll keelhaul ye myself, Thomas Randall."

The knife remained against my skin for a moment, Thomas deciding what would be done. Finally, it was slowly pulled away, and the hands holding my shoulders lifted.

"Excuse us, O'Rourke," the man I recognized—Thomas Randall—said. "We were only curious. It's of no matter."

"Be on yer way then," Tristan ordered. "And don't let me find ye back here again."

"Aye, sir."

The two men then left as silently as they came, myself still in bed, trying to stave off the panic that had flooded me seconds earlier. Wrapping the blanket tighter around myself, I hid my face, trying to rub away the tingling spot where the knife had been.

"Come with me, Sam." His voice was so gentle I almost didn't hear it, moving toward his own quarters. Following obediently, I did my best not to bump into anyone, trailing so closely I almost stepped on him, as if I were afraid he was going to disappear.

When we reached the solitude of his room and the door was closed behind us, a huge breath of relief gushed from me, and I leaned back against the entrance, sliding to the floor as I removed my hat.

"Whiskey?" Holding out a glass, he poured a good amount of drink into it before letting me have it.

"Thank you," I croaked, my voice shocked by its sudden use. The alcohol did wonders in warming my vocal chords and I drank it greedily, wincing at the fiery taste.

"Now," he spoke, settling down onto the bed. "Why don't ye tell me exactly what it is ye think yer doing back at sea?"

Grimacing, I looked down, not sure how to tell him, or what to include for that manner. "I'm simply trying to go home," I finally said. "I have to get back to Oak Isle."

"That's not yer home." Shaking his head, he poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp. "I'd have remembered a lass like ye. No, ye've never even been in those parts until we picked ye up and carried ye away."

I didn't know if I was supposed to be flattered by his comments or not, but it didn't matter. Somehow, I had to make him realize I really needed to return, and not just for silly reasons. "I'd just moved there," I offered smoothly. "I lived much further west before."

"The only thing west of Acadia is wilderness and Indians. I highly doubt ye were living with those savages, though it would seem that Samuel has spent some time among them." He broke out into a wide grin, chuckling with a bright sparkle in his eye. "I'll give the padre one thing; he can tell one hoot of a story."

"You mean he can tell a story he didn't think through," I grumbled. "I'm going to have to keep my mouth shut forever, or risk being found out."

"Aye, or be accused by someone like Thomas." He took another swig of whiskey, setting the glass down somewhat hard on the desk when he was finished. "Watch out for him, lassie. He's not one to be trifled with."

"I know." I didn't remember having ever seen Thomas before, but now that I'd met him I was sure he was the same man who told the captain of my presence when I'd first been taken prisoner. So, not only had he threatened me at knifepoint twice now, but he'd tried to get me raped. If those actions were any indicator to his character, Thomas Randall was someone I never wished to see again, let alone be stuck on a ship with.

"So," he said after a moment's silence. "Am I to assume if I drop ye at port again, ye'll sneak onto another ship as a man?"

I grinned in spite of myself and blushed, wondering if I was imagining the small amount of awe I'd heard in his voice.

"That's what ye were doing, with the captain, then? Stealing his clothes? Blimey woman, I thought ye'd gone to his bed willingly! I could hardly look at ye when ye came out. I wanted to be mad at ye forever, but when ye started speaking I couldn't do it. I'll hope ye forgive me for not taking ye to my cousin's like I promised. It looks as though it would have made no difference."

"You were mad at me?" He was staring in a way that made my entire body tingle and I found myself rising, moving toward him like we were two magnetic forces, drawn together unconsciously.

"Yes. I couldn't stand the thought of his lips on yer skin when—when I knew it should have been my lips and my lap ye were cradled in." Rising from the bed, he closed the distance between us, wrapping me in his embrace and brushing his mouth against mine.

My entire body trembled as I held onto him, drinking in everything that he was giving me. His touch was instantly soothing, melting away all of my other thoughts and troubles until there was only us.

"Why did ye come back?" There was a hint of mourning in his voice as he pulled away, resting his forehead against mine, his fingers playing with the hair that brushed down my back.

"I told you. I need to go home," I sighed. "And this is the only way I know how to do it." He smelled of the meat we'd had for dinner and iron, his shirt dirtied from earlier in the day.

"It'll be dangerous, keeping ye right beneath everyone's noses. Are ye sure ye can handle it?" Pressing his face into my hair, he nuzzled my ear, his teeth grazing over the lobe as he made his way down to my neck.

"I'll be fine," I murmured, my mind not really on the state of my affairs on the ship. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I tilted my head to the side, giving him better access to where his lips were dancing across my skin. A small groan escaped and he bit me softly, brushing my hair out of the way.

My heart pounded in my chest and all I could think about was how perfect this seemed to feel, like I was made to be touched by him. In all my life, each of my romantic endeavors, I'd never experienced this. It was suddenly very clear to me how wars were fought over passion like this, families torn apart, and lives ended.

At the same time, there was fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of knowing what lie ahead in the future, fear of being stuck here, and fear of being sent back through time. It didn't seem possible to be terrified of both outcomes, but I was. All I knew was that when Tristan touched me, I knew I was safe and would remain so as long as I was with him. I trusted him completely, despite knowing so little about him.

And what was I to him? Did he feel the same as I did whenever we were together? Doubt whispered it was all in my head, but my heart and my body told me he felt it, too. Something was drawing us together.

"Tristan?"

"Hmmm?"

"What is this? Between you and I, I mean."

Pulling away, his burning eyes stared into mine, a hunger I'd never seen him display before present in them. "I don't quite know. But I intend to find out."

"Show us yer tongue, eh, Smith?" Several men laughed at the jeer as I turned all of my attention to the soup I was ladling out. Two days had passed since Father Torres got carried away and there had been almost nonstop pestering from the crew. Every moment I had was spent in the galley, the one place that I could sort of keep my distance from them.

"They're testing ye," Tristan had said. "Looking to see how far they can push ye. Don't give an inch, lass, or they'll be all over ye like flies on something dead."

I did my best to keep to myself, ignoring anyone who questioned me, silently fuming over the whole ordeal. The story had been retold by some of the men—exaggerated to the point of me taking on a whole native army with just my fists and only leaving five of them to tell the tale—and the hype continued to build. Reason told me that it wouldn't be much longer before someone managed to learn the truth.

It was evening now, and they were gathered in the pit after dinner, listening to Father Torres tell them the story of Romeo and Juliet. His love of reading and ability to weave a tale together had already earned him favor among the crew, with many requests for entertainment throughout the day. He didn't seem to mind much, but he did apologize profusely for my story.

The majority of the group hadn't seemed to have heard the story yet, which wasn't all together too surprising. It had only been written around a hundred years before, and they didn't strike me as the theatre going, reading type. Alfonso was beginning to tell them of the secret wedding, when a hand rested on my shoulder and I turned to find Tristan. Motioning for me to follow, he slipped away into the dark of the ship, moving down the stairs to the deck below.

After a few moments, I trailed after, slipping away easily as the men hooted and called out obscene phrases—Romeo and Juliet were experiencing their wedding night. I went below deck on the opposite side of the ship, moving through the hammocks as I searched around for him. He was waiting for me on the other side in the galley, tucked back under the stairs where we would be able to see or hear anyone coming.

"How are ye holding up?" he asked, holding his arms out to me.

"Fine," I mumbled. "It's not anything I can't handle. I've been ignoring them, like you said."

"Hm." He rubbed my back softly, pulling at the ends of my hair as I rested against him, my hat hiding everything else from view.

The crew was in an uproar about something above, but everything felt perfectly peaceful between us here. There was only the light from the dying galley fire and the stars peeking through the opening above, and his warm arms around me. No need for words, no need for anything really, other than each other's company.

After about fifteen minutes, the story was winding to a close up top, and I sighed, knowing that it was time for us to part again. "I don't like this," I grumbled. "Acting like I don't know you. At least before it was okay to talk with you when I saw you. Now I can't talk to anyone, which isn't that easy to do with some of the things I've heard these men say."

"It won't be forever." He smiled, tilting my face towards his and kissing me softly on the lips. "We'll figure it out." Looking past me, he suddenly froze, his expression going blank in surprise.

Turning, I stiffened as well, catching sight of John Butler, his mouth gaping open and eyes practically popping from his head. For a second, we all remained still, staring at each other. Then, abruptly, John turned and ran, darting through the galley and into the hammocks. Tristan was after him in a second, myself hot on his heels, heart pounding in fear and anticipation of the capture.

John was weaving through the space, only a few steps ahead, slipping just out of reach. As he neared the stairs, Tristan suddenly hurdled the last bed, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and clapping a hand over his mouth.

"It's not what ye think," he hissed, pulling him away and into the dark corner.

John promptly bit his hand, succeeding in freeing his mouth as he struggled to disentangle himself the rest of the way. "I'd have never guessed ye fancied men, O'Rourke," he growled, his feet slipping across the floor in his struggle.

Ripping my hat off, I got right in his face and slapped him hard. "I'm a woman!" The fierceness in my voice surprised me, as well as the other two it would seem. Tristan was grinning at me like an idiot and John had resumed his shell-shocked gape.

"A woman?" His whisper didn't seem certain, but he'd at least stopped struggling.

"Yes," I confirmed. "And if you'll come with us, I will explain."

At my nod, Tristan released him, his hand going to the knife in his belt, as if he expected he'd have to gut poor John at any moment.

"Yer the woman we took from Acadia." John spoke slowly, quietly, glancing above us, the racket from the crew growing. From the sound of it, they were demanding another story.

"I am."

"But how?" He looked between the two of us, confusion emanating from every inch of him.

"Follow me," Tristan ordered. "Both of ye." Slinking back up the stairs, we followed him past the crew and into his quarters, locking the door behind us once we were all in. "Captain's sleeping, but keep it down. We don't want anyone hearing this."

"I'll say." John leaned against the wall, looking me over. "The crew would eat her alive if they knew she was down there with them."

A low snarl came from Tristan and I stared at him in shock, seeing him pull his knife out and point it menacingly in John's direction. "Don't ye even think of telling them, John."

"I won't," he rushed to say, holding his hands up.

"You were going to before," I reminded him. "Weren't you? That's why you ran when you saw us."

"Well, yes," he answered uncomfortably. "But that was when I thought ye were a man, miss."

"And it makes a difference that I'm not?" The logic didn't make sense to me. There had to be some other reason that my being a woman would have changed his mind. I highly doubted it was for my own safety, knowing how the men reacted whenever women were brought up.

"I was only going to tell the other members of the Order—"

Tristan hissed, stepping closer with the knife, silencing John in an instant.

"What order is this?" I asked intrigued.

"It's nothing," Tristan replied smoothly. "Just a slip of tongue. If the crew thought I was attracted to them, they'd toss me over. Uncomfortable, ye know?"

"Yes," John agreed. "That's all I meant."

Looking between the two of them, I knew I was being lied to. There was something else they weren't telling me. The weight from it was practically crushing us, the secret hanging in the air just out of my reach.

"We might be able to work this little slip up to our advantage," Tristan mused, changing the subject easily. "Assuming ye'll do yer part, John?"

"What exactly are ye thinking?"

Staring at me, Tristan grinned, and I felt an uneasy knot begin to form in my stomach.

The sun beat down on us, the cold wind filling the sails and plowing us through the water, ocean spray soaking the deck every few minutes. I was sitting in the pit, as instructed, trying to ignore the jabs and calls from the crew.

"Open yer mouth, Smith!"

"Show us yer tongue!"

"Where's yer aborigine love now?"

All of this and more was continually shouted at me by passersby and those stationed on deck. Somewhere on the ship, John Butler was readying for his part in it.

This better work, Tristan, I thought bitterly, keeping my face out of sight.

"It will work perfectly," he had assured me the night before. "The crew wants to know what yer made of, aye? So we'll show them."

"By staging a fight?" I asked incredulously. "I've never even been in a real fight! They'll know I'm a pushover they can take anything from if they'd like, is that what you want?"

"That is the joy of staging the fight, lassie," he explained. "Ye will win. We'll make it look good, John?"

"Aye, sir," John agreed. "They'll never know I threw it in the first place."

"I don't even know how to hold a sword or knife!" Looking for any excuse to avoid getting up in front of the men, I latched onto the first thought that came to mind. Neither of them seemed fazed by my confession, though.

"Here," Tristan had said, coming to my side and motioning for me to pull the knife out of my boot.

What followed was about an hour or so of me stumbling around, trying to get close enough to swipe at him. It was painfully obvious there was no way I could even pretend to win the fight. Even so, both men agreed that it was the thing to do, hoping it would be convincing enough to fool everyone else.

So, here I was, waiting to win a pretend fight that would convince no one I should be left alone. Fantastic.

John's voice floated over the top of the crew. It sounded like he was going for the stinking drunk approach, his low, slurred speech calling for me to settle the mystery once and for all.

Here we go, I thought, rising from the barrel I'd been sitting on and pulling the knife from my belt. Turning, I immediately saw that the majority of the crew had gathered round, John already in the middle of the pit, a knife in one hand and a stupid look on his face. For a second, I wondered if he really was drunk.

"Samuel Smith," he spat out, swaying slightly. "Show me yer tongue!" The men guffawed and I tightened my fist around the handle of the blade.

"Ye'll need to draw blood," Tristan had coached me the night before. "They won't believe it otherwise. A knick on his arm won't be enough, either. No, best to slice across the chest."

"Won't that hurt him, though?"

"I'll be fine, miss," John had reassured me. "Just don't cut too deep, aye?"

"I'll do my best," I gulped, nodding.

"Are ye scared, Sammy?" He was taunting me now, trying to give me a good reason to fight without being held responsible by the crew. Fights among new mates were common, I was told, as they established their place in the order of things. Anything more than that would have to be met with a hearing from Tristan, who couldn't allow feuds to be waged on board. Anyone who thought it went too far could bring me to trial and then I would be in even worse trouble.

"I'll tell ye what, Sammy," he continued, hiccupping halfway through the phrase. "Ye beat me in a duel, and we'll all leave ye and yer tongue alone. Aye?" The crew roared its approval at this, the anticipation of a brawl eating at them forcefully.

That was my cue. Stepping forward, I stabbed toward him and he jumped out of the way, the crew bursting into sound around us. We'd rehearsed a few of the steps, but I couldn't ever get them perfect, so I moved back and forth, not knowing how to proceed. John stabbed at me and I moved just in time, feeling the blade glance over my jacket. The racket from the crew made it hard to concentrate and my hand shook some, my blood pumping furiously. After a few more feeble stabs on my end, I finally saw the opening he was giving me and I dashed forward, cutting him clean across the chest.

Dropping to the ground in surrender, he held up his hand for me to stop.

"To much whiskey!" someone in the crowd yelled. "He can't stand!" A roar of laughter rippled through them as John stood, holding his chest, looking like his pride had been gravely injured.

"We can't have that, can we?" Thomas Randall shot out of the crowd, grabbing me from behind and wrestling the knife from my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan tense, rising from where he'd been sitting to watch. John's eyes widened, but all he could do was back away.

"Sammy," Thomas said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's open your mouth, shall we?" Releasing his hold on my arms, his fingers scratched at my mouth, shoving their way past my lips and against my clenched teeth.

Digging my nails into the backs of his hands, I tried to pull him away, but he wasn't budging. Panic threatened to override me, but, as I glanced at Tristan again and saw him give the slightest of nods, an instant calm filled me instead.

In Arizona, I'd taken a self-defense class with a few other girls in my major. It was a weekend thing, but it had helped us feel so much better about being out on our own. Having never used it after that, some of the knowledge had faded away, leaving scraps for me to sort through at times.

With an attacker on me at this very moment, the information flooded back, and I jumped into action. Moving swiftly, I swung my elbow down into his stomach, hitting him as hard as I could. Caught off guard, he doubled over, hands leaving my face. I wasn't done there, however, slamming my foot down on top of his. He yelped in surprise, bending forward right into my fist that was aimed directly at his nose. Just as I'd been taught in class, he jerked back and I used the remaining downward swing of my punch to nail him in the groin. The groan from the crew was instantaneous as he grabbed himself, tumbling away. It was only seconds before he was back on his feet, charging at me. Without even thinking about it, I fell to the ground, grabbing my knife, and swung it up toward him, cutting a long line across his cheek.

Surprised, his fingers brushed his face, the blood dripping off him and splattering on the deck beside us.

"You little shit!" He spat, trying to slow the flow with his palm. "You'll pay for that!"

"That's enough," Tristan called, stepping out from among the crew. "Ye've had yer fun, now the lot of ye leave Mr. Smith alone."

"Aye, sir," came the mumbled replies. Some of the crewmembers were staring at me with a respect I'd never seen before, others with speculation. Thomas was giving me a look that surely meant death, but he slunk off all the same, hand pressed against his face.

"Mr. Smith, please don't make fighting a habit," Tristan added coolly. "That's not how we operate here."

Nodding, I straightened my hat, thinking a quick prayer of thanks since it had somehow managed to stay on during both fights, and took my leave of everyone still watching.

We made port a few days later, at a city known for not checking a ship's credentials when it came to buying and selling goods. The plan was to stay for bit, recuperate from all our time at sea and celebrate the capture of two ships—the one I'd been on and one other. The crew seemed generally ecstatic about this, many of the men speaking fondly of a brothel they planned to spend the whole time at. Captain Rodrigues appeared to share their sentiment, joining in on the conquest stories. It made me feel sick to hear them talk of the things they'd supposedly done. In the end I kept to myself as everything was unloaded, until I was among the last to leave for shore.

"Not eager to get laid, eh, Samuel?" one of the men joked as he climbed into the long boat that was about to be lowered down. "That's okay, there's plenty o' whores to go around!" All of the men laughed at that, their excitement bringing a small smile to my face despite my disgust. In all fairness, the women they were talking about did have sex for money, so there wasn't really that much for me to fuss over. If the months I'd spent here had taught me anything, the seventeenth century was nothing like the twenty-first. I'd come to accept the fact that there was nothing I could do about customs and tastes that seemed purely archaic to me.

Sighing, I turned from the long boat, having a strange feeling that if I were to depart with that group I would find myself carted off to the brothel with them, unable to voice my thoughts on the matter. Tristan was on board somewhere, overseeing all the unloading with the record keeper. I'd never seen them completely empty out the ship before, which was a massive undertaking that gobbled up hours of time. After it was all on shore and stored in the warehouse, Tristan would then go make the payment arrangements with the dock master and the merchant seller.

All of this information had me feeling like I was most likely on my own for the evening. Father Torres had left as soon as possible, wanting to go to church and confess his sins. I had the sneaking suspicion that he liked being a pirate and felt he needed forgiveness for it.

I made my way to the stairs, intent on staying in my hammock for a time, thinking it best to avoid any of the men on the island. As I neared the officer's quarters, the sound of a voice coming from Tristan's room made me pause. It was definitely a man's voice, one that sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. Curiosity getting the better of me, I stood outside the door, listening to the conversation.

"You can trust me," the voice was coaxing. "No harm or ill will come from telling me where it is."

"Ye know I can not tell ye." Tristan sounded ruffled. "It's against my orders. The Grand Master would have my head if he knew I was even admitting I know where it is!"

"You didn't admit it. We all know you know it, you're the one that does the hiding. All we do is protect it on the way there, make sure you have an alibi when you slip away. We're a team, Tristan! Don't hold this back from us."

"I will not tell ye," he replied forcibly. "And that is the end of it. Do not ask again, or I'll be inclined to share these little conversations, savvy?"

"Don't make us enemies." There—the sharp tone of the voice had finally aided me in placing its owner. Thomas Randall was in the room, and he apparently wanted something Tristan had very badly.

"We're not enemies, Thomas." Tristan sighed. "As ye said, we're a team. And a team must trust its captain. Ye are no captain."

"I could be," Thomas snarled. "I could get this whole crew to vote me in, and then you'd have to do as I asked, or I'll make sure you never see Oak Isle again."

"Yer on shifty ground, Thomas," Tristan growled. "Be careful what threats ye make, and to whom. I won't be shoved around by an English dog who thinks he owns everyone around him."

I flinched at his tone, remembering his intense dislike of the English as a whole. Thomas was indeed pushing his limits.

"At least I'm not an Irish bog-jumper," Thomas spat. "From a family that fancied themselves royalty in a land that never belonged to them."

Sounds of a scuffle immediately started, grunts coming from both men as things were bumped around. I halfway wondered if I should go in and interrupt it, but this was none of my business. I wasn't even supposed to be hearing the conversation. It was best to let Tristan take care of himself—he was more than capable of doing it.

Slinking away, wide eyed, I descended halfway down the stairs and sat down, sorting through everything I'd just heard. Thomas wanted to know something, but Tristan was forbidden to tell him by the Grand Master.

"Stupid!" I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock, looking around to see if anyone had heard me. Thankfully, I appeared to be completely alone. Excitedly, I stood up, turning in a circle before realizing I didn't have anywhere to go and sitting back down.

Why didn't I see it before? John Butler had said something about an order, which was interrupted by Tristan and hastily written off as meaning the whole crew. Thomas said they were part of a team, a group that was protecting and hiding something. Tristan had used the phrase Grand Master himself. Most of all, they were referencing Oak Isle specifically.

My father's image swam before my face as I remembered him telling me his theories about the Treasure Pit. "The Knights Templar," he'd said with excitement. "They were the only ones with the man power that could have done this. All of history points to them being the creators. The Grand Master would have organized it all, a whole army of men at his disposal to carry it out."

Grand Master. The box I'd found in the vault had a Templar's cross on the lock, along with the letter "o."

O'Rourke.

Tristan was a knight, and he was hiding the treasure of Oak Isle. It all made sense! That's why he was there the day I'd washed ashore, and the reason he hadn't fought to leave me behind when the captain ordered me taken along. He was trying to protect the secret that was there!

The startling revelation showed Tristan in a whole different light. He wasn't a bloodthirsty pirate, bent on killing as many men as he could for their gold. He was a knight protecting the treasure of kings! He was part of one of history's greatest mysteries. He held the answers to Oak Isle.

Could he hold the answer I needed to get back to my own time?

It felt like I was coming out of my skin, all of the new information swirling around in my head like a hurricane. How many of the other men were in on it? Obviously John and Thomas were, so there were at least three of them. I'd received the impression that Thomas didn't get along with either of them, so there must be even more Knights on board, secretly transporting their treasure from the Old World to the New.

Frowning, I suddenly realized the weight of the threats I'd heard Thomas spouting out before. If he were to control the ship, Tristan would be forced to tell him what he wanted to know, or abandon his mission from the Grand Master.

Thomas is a cunning devil, isn't he? The thought settled in my mind for a moment, his sneering face burning behind my closed eyelids, the cut I'd given him during our little fight having scarred him. I'd made a powerful enemy that day, for sure.

The longer I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Thomas wanted to know where the Treasure Pit was. If Tristan was the one doing the hiding, then no one else knew how to get in to it. They were operating on a need-to-know basis. There was something in Thomas's tone that made me think he knew where the treasure was, but not how to get to it. Perhaps the pit was already there and he didn't know how to get past the booby traps? But that didn't make any sense; it would have to be dug out and refilled each time more treasure was hidden, and Tristan couldn't do that all by himself. No, there had to be another way into it.

Thinking over everything I knew about the pit, I was soon lost in my own time, remembering things we'd discovered and trying to tie them in with what I was learning now.

A door slammed open and shut above me and I jerked out of my musings, looking up at the bruised and bloodied face of Thomas Randall.

"What are you looking at?" he hissed, storming off in the direction of the remaining long boats.

The door opened and closed again and Tristan appeared at the top of the stairs, his lip bleeding and one eyebrow slightly swollen. "Mr. Smith?" he asked in surprise. "I thought ye'd gone ashore with the padre hours ago."

Shaking my head, I tried to keep my excitement to myself. Was I looking at him differently, I wondered, now that I knew what he really was?

"Aye, come with me then. We'll get ye some supper."

Rising, I joined him on the gun deck, ascending the stairs to the uppermost deck and getting in a long boat with him. Thomas appeared to have taken off on his own, his figure rowing steadily towards shore, anger rolling off his jerky form.

"It was nothing," Tristan said, dismissing my look of curiosity. "Just a little misunderstanding, is all. Here." He handed me a rope and motioned for me to begin letting it slide through the pulley, at the same pace as he did on the other side. Within a few moments, we were in the water, each holding an oar, setting off towards shore.

"Are ye doing all right, Sam?" I knew instantly that he was speaking to me as myself from the tone of his voice. It had gone soft, caring even, and he stared with a look that said he saw something he liked very much.

"I'm fine," I said, clearing my throat. It was always hard to pick up talking right away after being silent for so long. "Would you like me to take care of your face?"

"It's just a bloody lip." He shrugged, grinning lopsidedly and laughed. "Thomas got the worse end of it."

"I saw that," I agreed, entertained. "What was your disagreement about?"

"Nationality and patriotism."

"I'm glad you put him in his place," I said forcefully, earning a raised eyebrow from him.

"Are ye then? Ye do surprise me, lassie. Firing guns, winning fights, taking an interest in the affairs of men. It is most unlike any other woman I've met, to be honest."

"I'm not that different. Most women are like me, at least where I come from anyway. I imagine there's a lot of women here who are the same as well, they just have more tact than I do and are better at hiding their interests."

"Hmmm." He watched me carefully, slowing his rowing, lips pursed.

"What?" I snickered, matching his speed again. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm trying to decide what it is ye are. Ye say there are other women like ye here, but that just isn't true. I knew right off that ye were different than any I've come across before."

"And why is that?" I chuckled, enjoying the freedom I felt around him.

"Well, for starters, yer hands don't look like they've seen much work in their lifetime. That says to me yer a lady, only just required to do hard work. But, then ye didn't know how to do any of the things a lady would, like getting dressed." He cleared his throat and I blushed, remembering how stupid I'd felt looking at all the layers of clothing I was supposed to wear and having no idea how to put them on.

"So, then I thought maybe ye were a witch. Ye made my head feel funny and my heart race with yer spells. But if ye were a witch, why not just curse the old captain and get him to leave ye alone?"

"I'm not a witch, you're right." I grinned, actually enjoying his musings. It was nice to know he'd been thinking about me all this time, even if it was to figure out what I was lying about.

"Are ye an mhaighdean mhara then?" He looked serious as he asked, but I had no idea what he was saying. Something of my confusion must have shown on my face because he laughed, clearing his throat. "A sea woman, lass. A siren?"

"Oh!" Realization dawned on me and I laughed, hard. "A mermaid, you mean?" Giggling strongly as he nodded, I felt tears gather in my eyes and reached up to wipe them away.

"It makes sense," he argued, smiling all the same. "Ye were on the beach, calling out for help. Ye'd been in the sea. Ye were hurt. Yer clothes about drove the men insane, they hid so little of ye."

By this point I was gasping, not believing that he actually thought that it was a real possibility. "I'm not a mermaid," I said between breaths, trying to regain control again. "I'm honestly just a normal girl. No magic or anything." My nose twitched at the lie—there had been some type of magic involved in my getting here—but nothing like he was imagining.

"There's something," he insisted. "I'll get the truth out of ye eventually, one way or another." His eyes flashed dangerously and I felt my stomach dip pleasantly, as I instantly caught on to his flirtations.

"Where are we eating?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Somewhere where I'll finally be able to listen to yer voice for more than ten minutes at a time," he sighed. "Thank the heavens."

"Where are we going?" I asked, walking through the streets of the city with him. We'd come ashore and immediately went in the opposite direction of the brothel, where there was quite the rambunctious party going on. Ours wasn't the only crew docked for the night, and it showed from the amount of men inside the sex-powered inn.

"To a friend," he replied simply, looking me over. "He will be quite amazed to see a woman dressed as ye are."

I wanted to ask him so badly if this friend was a Knight as well, but didn't want to reveal what I knew. If he'd wanted me to know, he would have told me. As far as Tristan was concerned, I still thought he was a greedy pirate with a score to settle. It seemed better to just wait until he divulged the information to me, if he ever would.

"What is this friend's name?"

"Brian O'Riley. He was a friend of my father's, before he passed."

"Oh, Tristan." Unconsciously, I reached out and took his hand, squeezing gently. "You never told me that your father was dead."

Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled tightly and pulled me closer, glancing around. "My mother, too. We probably shouldn't touch each other like this until we're out of public sight, though, aye?"

Nodding, I released him and stepped away, rubbing a hand over my face. Both parents dead. That was something we had in common.

A homesickness filled me as we walked the rest of the way in silence, the buildings around me washed out by the memories of my parents. The wounds were still so fresh, their losses so hurtful to me. I'd shoved them out of the way here, trying to survive and learn a new way of life. Now that I was settling in, I was reminded far too often that I was an orphan.

Finally, we left the city itself and journeyed down a dirt road, heading toward a few small firelights in the distance. As we neared, I could see that it was actually a nice sized house, with a stone fence around the perimeter and laughter coming from the inside. Tristan entered the yard with ease, taking my hand and pulling the hat from my head.

"Ye don't need to hide yer sex here." Smiling warmly, he leaned in and kissed me quickly, a hint of nervousness in his actions.

Moving up the steps, he knocked strongly on the front door, clutching my fingers tightly. After a moment, it opened, an older woman in a green dress staring at us questioningly. Half a second later, she was screaming as she launched herself through the opening and onto Tristan, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheeks repeatedly.

"Oh, Tristan, Tristan!" she cried, grabbing his face and looking at him. "Yer home! Brian? Brian! Tristan is here!" She yelled into the house, turning back to us with one of the happiest smiles I'd ever seen. It was then that her gaze landed on me, my hand grasped in Tristan's. "Oh dear," she said in shock, a hand going to her heart. "And who are ye, my dear?"

"This is Samantha Greene, Seanmháthair," Tristan explained. "I've been helping her to get home."

"I see," she replied skeptically, looking me over with obvious astonishment and distaste. "Why are ye dressed as a lad, might I ask?"

"It's a long story," I answered, smiling tightly.

"Well, we love stories in this house," she said encouragingly. "Come inside and we'll get ye cleaned up and lookin' proper. Ye can tell us all about it over dinner, aye?"

"Thank you very much," I said, beaming brightly. "That sounds wonderful."

She turned and hurried down the hall, calling something to someone I couldn't see.

"Who is that?" I whispered to Tristan, stepping over the threshold with him.

"That's my seanmháthair—my grandmother."

Surprised into silence, I focused my attention back to the woman, watching her elegantly twisted white hair bounce around as she walked down the hall, heading for the stairs and barking out orders in a language I didn't understand. With an awe I hadn't expected, I realized I was looking at a queen. She'd been forced from her home and left a beggar, but somewhere along the way she'd obviously gotten back on her feet.

"After my grandda died, she married his best friend, Brian. He's taken good care of her, aye? She wasn't happy to move so far from my family in Spain, but they did what they had to. I always stop and see them when we make port here."

"Who all is here?" I asked, wondering where the laughter I'd heard before came from.

"Some friends, I imagine. The servants, too. They don't keep slaves, but Seanmháthair does enjoy having help."

"Oh." I was at a loss for words. He'd brought me home to meet the only family he had, a meeting I'd never expected or imagined.

"Come with me, lass," his grandmother called, turning from her spot on the stairs and motioning for me to follow. "The bath is being drawn as we speak."

"A bath," I moaned, smiling happily. "Thank you so much."

"There's one for ye too, lad." She nodded to Tristan. "Wash that stink off ye!"

"Aye, Gran."

We trailed her up the white stairs, coming onto the second floor where she ordered Tristan into a room to the right. There were three doors here, and a hallway leading to the left, where it sounded like my bath was being drawn as well. "Dinner will be ready in two hours," she told him sternly. "I'll have ye lookin' like a proper gentleman, not the sea rat ye do now, ye hear me?"

"Aye, Gran," he answered again, chuckling. "I hear ye. I know how to wash myself, don't worry."

"Hmph. Clean up that cut. I'll have Brian save ye some tobacco for the bruise." She stared at him hard for another second before shooing him away, grabbing my arm and leading me down the hall.

"Poor lass," she said conversationally. "To be stuck on a ship with the likes o' that crew. Ye must be dying to be yerself again."

"You could say that," I agreed, excited for the bath she'd mentioned. "It's definitely been a culture shock."

"I can imagine!" She laughed loudly, stopping in front of the door at the end of the hall. "I'll leave ye be to get undressed. I have to check on dinner, of course, and explain to the guests what's going on. But, then I'll be back to help ye wash, aye?"

"Oh, you don't have to," I rushed to say, but she held a hand up, silencing me.

"Ye are a guest in my house. Allow me to tend to ye properly."

Blushing under her strong gaze, I nodded, letting her to open the door for me. As soon as I'd entered, she shut it, her footsteps disappearing down the hall.

My mouth popped open at the ornate room I'd been left in. There was a huge four-poster bed to the right, opposite a roaring fireplace that took up most of the wall to the left. Straight across from me was a large window, boasting views of the city and shoreline, though most of it couldn't be seen in the darkness outside. Two women were filling the large tub sitting in front of the fireplace, sweat running down their faces and soaking into their dresses from the effort it took. Behind me, another girl entered, carrying two buckets of her own that she dumped into the basin.

"Do ye need help undressing, miss?" she asked, turning to me uncertainly, eyeing my pants and greasy hair.

"No, thank you," I replied, watching them all look at me. Suddenly, it dawned on me why they were waiting around. "Oh!" Embarrassed, I turned my back to them and began to undress, folding my clothes up and setting them on the floor next to my boots. Tristan still had my hat.

Completely naked, I folded my arms across my chest and moved to face them, grimacing as I tried to smile in a friendly manner. While I wasn't used to seeing people I'd just met in the nude, they apparently were, gathering up the buckets and moving past me, the last of them picking up my clothes, wrinkling her nose at the smell before leaving the room. With nothing else to do, and not wanting to be standing completely bare in front of an open window, I crossed the room and climbed into the tub, sighing as the almost boiling hot water covered my skin and set to work on my sore muscles.

After a few moments of bliss, there was a knock at the door and Tristan's grandmother entered, alone, smiling happily. "How are ye feeling?"

"Hot water does wonders for the soul," I mumbled, and she laughed, coming to sit by me.

"That it does. Would ye like me to wash yer hair for ye now?" She stared at me expectantly, graciously keeping her gaze on my face and not on the rest of my body.

"I don't want to offend," I started carefully, looking for any signs of annoyance from her. "But I've never had anyone wash my hair before, not since my mother, anyway. I'd feel terrible letting someone like you do it for me."

"Someone like me?" Her eyebrow raised and I instantly saw that I'd worded it wrong.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that! It's just, well, Tristan told me a little of his family history. I'd feel uncomfortable knowing a—a queen was washing my hair. I feel like I should be washing yours for you."

She blinked, her face going blank for a second before she burst into mirth again. "Lass, I'm no queen. I haven't been for forty-five years now. But, even when I was, I knew how to take care of a guest." She set to work then, as if that settled everything, scooping water out of the tub with a smaller bucket she'd brought up and dumped it over my head. As she began lathering the rough soap into my hair, I groaned, relaxing back and letting her do as she would.

"Yer mother's dead," she said as she worked. "That's what ye meant, aye? How long has it been?"

Counting the months up in my head, I sighed, closing my eyes. "Almost a year. It feels like she was just here yesterday."

"I know the feeling," she said sympathetically, moving from my hair to my shoulders, rubbing the knots away. "It's been thirty years since my husband passed and it still feels like yesterday sometimes. And yer father?"

"He died a couple months ago."

She remained silent, her touch softening some. After a few moments, she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Ye've not had an easy year, it would seem."

"No," I laughed, feeling the hot prickle of tears gathering in my eyes. "I haven't, I guess."

Silence fell between us as she filled the bucket again, helping to rinse out my hair several times before she offered me the soap so I could wash the rest of my body. As I did, she rose, moving to the window and looking out over everything there was to see.

"Ye know, Tristan has never brought a woman with him when he's come to see us before. Yer something special to him, aye?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "He's been my protector this whole time. He might just want to keep me away from the crew when I don't need to be around them."

"Maybe." She continued to stare out the window and I watched her, trying to guess what she was thinking. "I've never seen him hold a lass's hand either, not since his ma." Turning, she smiled at me before moving toward the door. "I'll send one of the girls up to help ye dress in a bit. Take yer time washing off."

"Thank you," I said again. "Um, I'm sorry, but I don't know your name. I'm assuming it isn't Gran, or that word Tristan used that I can't pronounce."

She chuckled, opening the door wide and looking down the hall. "Dierdre O'Riley. But ye may call me Gran. Everyone here does." Moving swiftly, she exited the room, calling to someone about the food, and I was left alone once more.

My solitude didn't last long as the three women from before returned, one intent on helping me dress while the other two emptied the bath water. Drying off, I watched them, feeling slightly guilty for having put them out.

"Are you ready to dress, miss?" Turning, I examined the gown laid out on the bed for me and groaned at the sight of the corset.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I answered, crossing the room and picking up the slip.

Thirty minutes later, I found myself trying to breathe as I gazed at the pretty yellow skirts, decorated with blue stitching. The corset was dyed to match, hugging me painfully tight, but still beautiful. The jacket was more or less just yellow sleeves that hung off my shoulders, with white lace that flared out around my elbows.

The woman who'd helped me dress now fixed my hair, twisting it to the side and pinning it, using the heat of the fire to help dry the damp strands. Finally, I was announced presentable and told I could join the family downstairs at dinner. As if she'd been waiting outside the door for this statement, Gran reappeared in the room, appraising me thoughtfully.

"Ye look beautiful," she said happily. "Like a proper lady."

Smiling, I remembered the time her grandson had said that to me, happy to know where that particular phrase had come from.

"Thank you. The dress is wonderful."

"It was nothing," she said, waving her hand in dismissal. "I've had yer other clothes sent for wash, though. I imagine ye'll be needing them again, unfortunately."

Self-conscious, I nodded, feeling the blush rise in my face as she continued to stare at me like she was contemplating buying me.

"Come then," she ordered, motioning for me to follow her. "Dinner is waiting."

"And there she was, sitting in the corner, holding the gun she'd just shot me with. I swear, it's the truth!" Tristan laughed with everyone at the table, glancing at me over the top of his wine glass as he took a sip, a happy sparkle in his eyes. He was dressed in his finest, in a long, black coat, white button up shirt, knee length pants, stockings, and buckle shoes. He'd shaved his face as well and had his hair trimmed back to its normal length.

The dining area was lined with large windows, showing views from all around the house and out into the garden. They were set into the white walls, pictures and tapestries hanging between them. It was a long room, with the stretched out table in the center, loaded with flowers and our feast, which was being served to us course by course. Gran sat at one end, her husband Brian at the other, with Tristan and myself seated in the middle with their other two houseguests.

"I hadn't realized it was him when I fired," I continued, smiling at the interested faces around me. "I was just trying to stay alive."

"Brave girl," Gran replied proudly. "I would have done the same."

"Now, that's not true, Gran," Brian, a tall man with big owl eyes, said. "Ye would have taken the lot of them out single handedly and still had time for tea afterward."

The table roared with merriment and she did as well, raising her glass to toast her husband before drinking deeply.

"So what then?" The man who asked was one of the members of company for the evening, named Mr. Allen. He was a heavier man, with spectacles that rested precariously on his nose, his wispy white hair slicked back.

"Before I could decide, the captain saw her, but he didn't recognize her. So I said she'd joined up. That's how she became a man on a pirate ship."

"You never told us how you ended up on Oak Isle in the first place," Brian butted in, looking at me curiously. "Just what were ye doing there?"

"I was on a walk from the mainland," I replied, smiling. "It felt like as good a day as any for a swim, but I guess the ocean had a different mind for me."

He nodded, seeming to accept my story. At the same time, I wondered if he was a Templar as well, checking to see if my tale held true. In any event, dinner continued on without interruption, another narrative starting up once mine had finished. As things began to wind down, my stomach full from the delicious meal, I sighed happily, simply enjoying being a part of it all. Tristan, who was sitting directly across from me at the large table, grinned, gesturing with his head toward the garden outside. Nodding slightly, I wiped my mouth with the cloth napkin in my lap.

"If ye'll excuse us," Tristan announced, rising. "Miss Greene and I need to discuss future plans to get her home."

Standing as well, I beamed at everyone and moved around the table, thanking the men who'd risen as I left.

"They like ye," Tristan said comfortably as soon as we were outside and away from prying ears.

"You think so?"

He took my arm, wrapping it around his own as we walked through the cool night air, following the wall line. The grass underfoot was soft and smelled sweet, flourishing in the southern climate. Everything felt so completely relaxed, like we hadn't a care in the world.

"Gran would have told ye outright to go away if she didn't like ye," he chortled. "I've seen her do it before, to a minister who wouldn't stop pestering her. But ye," he stopped, turning to look at me as he pulled me up against him. "She likes ye. I can see it in her eyes."

"I guess that's good," I laughed, leaning on him. "She is a wonderful woman. Very strong, I imagine."

"Ye don't imagine anything. She's the strongest woman I know."

Gazing up at the sky, I exhaled, taking in all of the stars. "I've never seen so many before," I said, changing the subject. "They're beautiful."

"They are, aren't they? Sometimes, when we're at sea, I go out on deck and just watch them, wondering where they came from."

"From far, far away I would think," I answered quietly, continuing to stare.

"Sam," he said uncertainly, after a few moments. "Will ye tell me more about yerself? I want to know ye, like I know the back of my own hand."

Caught off guard, I peered into his eyes, seeing the honesty there and feeling my insides melt. "My parents are dead," I whispered. "My mom was sick and my dad died on Oak Isle."

Confusion flitted through his features, but he didn't interrupt me, his mouth tightening as I continued.

"I don't know how I got here. I shouldn't even really be here. I was trying to finish the work he'd started and I got trapped. I was drowning. When I woke up, you were there. I need to go back so I can finish what he started, so I can get to the people who will be missing me."

"What if I asked ye not to?" he questioned hoarsely, showing the first signs of fear I'd ever seen in him. "What if I asked ye to stay here?"

"With your gran?" I asked, surprised. Why would he want such a thing? To keep me from the treasure he knew was out there?

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "To stay here with me. To not go home. To not finish yer family's work. To let the people who miss ye continue to do so."

Pulling away, I stared at him hard. "Why would you ask me to do that?" My heart was pounding, aching to hear what he had to say, but my brain was screaming to not listen, to run away before I was in deeper than I could handle. I barely knew this man. Sure, he was keeping things from me, but at the same time I wanted to stay as long as he would let me, as long as I would allow myself.

"Samantha," he breathed, turning from me to look at the wall. "Yer going to think I'm crazy." He laughed to himself, running a hand through his hair. He seemed to be battling over what to say, so I remained still, not knowing what to do or where to go. Eventually, he turned back to face me, taking a deep breath. "When I first saw ye—no." He moved away again, rubbing his jaw, and sighed. Finally, slowly, his words began to flow, my attention anchored on the back of his head.

"When my da was alive, I asked him how I would know if I'd met the right woman, like he did with my ma. They were the perfect pair, the two of them. I've always wanted that, but didn't ever think I would find it or could even have it." He spun to look at me then, a hard edge to his expression. "I have secrets, lass. Ones I can not share with anyone, for all our safety." He bit his lip, hesitating to go on, but the decision had already been made. "He told me that I would feel it when I met her, that I would just know. And I believed him. There have been times when I thought I felt what he was talking about, but now I know for sure I have."

"Really?" I felt breathless and afraid, like I couldn't stand on my own two feet while he spoke like this, and at the same time like I knew what he was talking about.

"I saw ye there, on the beach, those men all around ye, and it was like—like my soul had been screaming out in agony my entire life and I never knew it until I looked at ye. Because it stopped the second I saw ye." Swallowing hard, he inched toward me, hesitation in his eyes. "I knew I had to help ye, to keep ye safe, because ye were different. Special. Do ye understand my meaning?"

Did I? Was love at first sight something I believed in? Could I believe that he loved me and knew so little about me?

"It's not just that," he continued when I didn't answer. "It was watching ye brave the captain every day. Hearing ye tell me what ye thought instead of keeping it to yerself. Watching ye leave and thinking I'd never see ye again—god, it felt like I was dying—and then finding ye at the end of my pistol. Yer so brave, Samantha! Ye've been living among scallywags and murderers for weeks now and never even blinked! I watch ye with them and live in terror of the day they discover yer a woman, because I'll kill them all if they lay a finger on ye. And then, I bring ye home to meet my family and ye fit right in, making them laugh and fall in love with ye in minutes. How do ye do it? How do ye make me feel like this if ye aren't a witch or a sea woman sent to drive me insane? I feel crazy and out of my mind, but the whole time my soul says I am at peace. I have found the one who completes me." He stared at me in earnest, haltingly reaching out for me, his breath coming in short puffs.

A single tear rolled down my cheek and I saw him freeze, not knowing what else to say or do. Surprised, I reached up and wiped it away, looking at it on my fingers in awe. My heart was shattered, completely dashed against the hard truth of his words. No one had ever spoken to me with such honesty before or made me feel the way Tristan did right now. My own core was echoing his words, saying he was right, that we completed each other. He had saved me multiple times and here he was declaring I was saving him. There was so much that we didn't know, that we couldn't share with each other, but it didn't matter. Not now, maybe not ever.

"Are you saying you love me?" I finally choked out, looking back at his face.

"Oh, aye. I am. I love ye very much." He smiled softly at me, petrified in place, waiting for some sign from me.

Another tear rolled down my cheek and I laughed, wiping it away quickly. "Do you trust me when I say that I have things I can't tell you? You told me that you had secrets, but I could trust you. Will you do the same for me?"

"I would do anything for ye, Samantha."

"I have to go home," I replied mournfully, my happy tears turning to those of sorrow. "I can't tell you why, but I do."

"I see." He pulled away some, looking down at the ground. "I understand. Forgive me." He hesitated for a second again, before moving past me, back towards the house.

"I love you, too," I whispered as he passed by, reaching out and brushing his fingertips.

Stopping, he took my hand and dragged me to him, crushing his lips against mine, fingers pressing into my back as he held me to him. My breath, my heart, my everything stopped as I kissed him in return, tasting and falling into him like I'd never done before.

"Ye shouldn't have told me," he said breathlessly against me. "I could have convinced myself otherwise before, but now I will not be able to do anything other than follow ye to the end of the earth."

It was sad, to see the sliver of land fading away as we moved farther out to sea two days later. I'd enjoyed being a woman again, showered by kisses and affection from Tristan, so much so that Gran took to escorting me everywhere in order to keep an eye on us. I would miss her, as well as my ability to talk freely, while I was on board the Adelina.

As far as silver linings went, Tristan was a huge one. Glancing down into the pit, I could see him talking with a few of the men, laughing over some story they were sharing. Just the sight of him made my heart soar and my skin long to be touched by him again. How far would we go next time? I'd never told him I wasn't a virgin. Would that upset him? My forced silence left me with a lot of time to think things over. It was too soon for sex I felt, but boy did I want it at times. What did they use as birth control in this time period?

Shaking my head, I put the thoughts from my mind. We hadn't even done anything more than kiss and here I was, thinking just like another member of the crew. They'd returned from their shore leave happy and a little less lustful than normal, their desires having been thoroughly satisfied for the moment. That didn't stop them from sharing bedroom stories, though, the bragging turning into everyone's top form of entertainment in the couple hours since we'd set sail.

Captain Rodrigues had coaxed another woman on board with him this time around, drunk as a skunk and sputtering every other word to anyone who would listen to him. The woman, who I was certain had taken more than a fair amount of money from him, didn't seem to mind the fresh bruise around her eye, drinking from his bottle and acting just as obnoxiously. Some of the crew had muttered against this, but no one said anything to them directly, instead turning to Tristan, who ran the ship as efficiently as always.

He glanced up at me then, his smile spreading as he caught my eye, but he quickly moved on, not wanting to attract any attention.

"Sam," Father Torres said, coming up beside me. "It's almost time to start cooking. Are you ready?"

Nodding, I pushed away from the side and followed him around the pit and down the stairs, past the gun deck, and into the galley.

"I trust your leave was enjoyable?" He began pulling things out, setting them into groups as he normally did.

Unable to tell him what had happened, I simply nodded again, recognizing the ingredients he was picking and knowing what we were making. I started helping him, measuring things out and mixing them together.

"I stayed at the church for most of it, myself. I hope you didn't mind?"

I shook my head, smiling at him from underneath my hat. Why would I mind?

"Good," he chuckled. "I didn't think until later that you might have needed assistance." Lowering his voice and scooting closer, he looked around for eavesdroppers before continuing. "You were with Señor O'Rourke, no?"

I confirmed the best I could, taking the spices he offered me.

"Good, good. Señorita, would you tell him something for me? No one would be watching for you to speak with him, everyone thinking you're mute. But, I did see something when I came back from the chapel, last night."

Furrowing my brow in question, I also glanced around, checking for anyone nearby.

"It is Thomas Randall. He was calling the men to arms, saying it was time for a captain who wasn't always slobbering drunk and handing his duties off to the quartermaster. He was urging them to consider a vote, with him as their candidate."

My insides went cold at his words and I frowned, concern filling me. So he was making good on his threat to try and take the captaincy. That was something Tristan needed to know sooner rather than later, but I wouldn't be able to tell him until tonight.

"The men I'm not so sure about," Alfonso continued. "Some of them seemed to agree, but they didn't appear to think he was the best choice for their vote. If you ask me, Señor O'Rourke is the best choice, on this ship or any other."

Showing my agreement, I sighed softly, wishing I could just talk with him and tell him about the conversation I'd overheard between Thomas and Tristan. I wasn't altogether sure on how he would respond to it, so maybe it was better I couldn't in the long run.

"Señor O'Rourke told you he loves you."

My head snapped back to Father Torres, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

"You are shining like a star," he laughed. "And he is beaming like the sun. Something happened while we were at port, that much is certain."

Shaking my head and rolling my eyes, I turned away, but not before smiling. He emitted a loving sigh, muttered something that sounded like a Spanish blessing, and then returned to his cooking, humming to himself.

The evening passed quickly after that, the crew eating dinner and falling easily into the normal routine of the ship. As the night deepened, snores started to rise around me from the hammocks, and I gingerly slipped out of bed and worked my way up the stairs, going to Tristan's room and knocking softly on the door. It sounded like the captain and his guest were having a good time already, so the need for quiet wasn't all that urgent, but I remained so all the same.

Light spilled through the crack as Tristan peered out, motioning for me to enter as he checked the deck for anyone watching. "Were ye seen?" he asked, closing the door and locking it tight.

"No." I smiled, pulling my hat off and moving to the other side of the space, happy to be able to just look at him for more than five seconds at a time.

"Good." He grinned back at me, crossing the room and pulling me into his arms, pressing his lips against mine.

Each time he touched me felt like the first, somehow. My heart would race, my skin flush and rise into gooseflesh, my breath speed up, and I would feel like I was floating away in his embrace, lost to the outside world.

Grabbing me up, he swung around and sat on the bed, resting me on his lap and running his fingers through my hair like he often did. "Ye're so beautiful," he mumbled, never stopping the kiss. "And sweet." Catching my bottom lip between his teeth, he nibbled gently, his hands leaving my hair and sliding down my sides to my belt. Gingerly, Tristan untucked my shirt and ran his fingers over my stomach underneath.

Shivering, I sighed in satisfaction, tilting my head back and grabbing onto his shoulders. "I need to tell you something," I whispered.

"It can wait," he muttered, nuzzling my neck. His fingers continued to play with the skin under my shirt, creeping up until they reached the edge of the wrap around my breasts. He traced the fabric there, kissing my collarbone, his breath causing wonderful sensations across my body.

Pushing my fingers up into his hair, I kissed the top of his head, languishing in the complete relaxation and trust I felt with him.

"It might be able to," I agreed, tugging softly at his hair. "It's about ship gossip."

"Then it can definitely wait," he laughed, brushing over one breast and then the other, feeling for the spot where the cloth was tied. "I've been waiting for this moment ever since Gran decided to be an escort."

My quiet laughter stopped short as he found the tie and pulled it loose, sliding the fabric down around my waist in one motion, his hands instantly returning to their prize. My back arched into his touch of its own will, my body pressing against him as he continued to kiss across my shoulder, massaging me gently. He groaned at the contact, wrapping one arm around me to keep us close, his face dipping down lower, rubbing over my shirt.

Suddenly, he rolled over, laying me across the bed and covering me with his body, his fingers sliding up my skin, pushing my shirt out of the way. "Is this all right?" he mumbled against my stomach, kissing me along my bottom rib.

"Yes," I halfway moaned, pushing against him again.

His hands covered my chest once more and he kissed upwards, layering the caresses between my breasts and up my neck, stopping to nibble on my ear as he settled once more.

"Have ye ever done this before," he whispered, tightening his hold on me.

Hesitating, not wanting him to stop, I bit my lip, trying to decide how to tell him. "I have," I finally said. "More than once, but only with one other person."

"Hmmm." He didn't seem fazed by my confession, covering my mouth with his own, tasting the inside with his tongue, pressing himself against me, showing me how much he wanted me.

"It doesn't bother you?" I asked, worried, holding him tight.

"Why would it? I've done it more than once, and with more than one person. Yer not judging me, so I'm in no place to do so to ye." Dipping his head low again, he moved his hand, gathering what was underneath into his mouth, sucking gently.

"Sails!" came the cry from outside.

Groaning, he reluctantly slid off me, pulling me to my feet. "What are they doing? It's the middle of the night. We can't attack a ship in the dark."

"No, but I'm guessing we can catch it, right?" I sighed, redoing the wrap around my chest and tucking my shirt back in.

"I suppose so. Hide below deck when it's time to fight, aye?"

"I will," I promised,

"Come here," he growled, grabbing me around the waist again and planting a kiss on my lips. "Another time, eh? I'll be going mad with want just from tonight."

Blushing, I laughed, looking down at the floor.

"I love ye, Samantha," Tristan mumbled softly, picking up my hat and placing it on my head. "Be safe, for me."

"You too."

He started opening the door and the news about Thomas Randall flashed back into my mind.

"Wait!" I whispered, coming up behind him and closing the door. "Father Torres overheard Thomas trying to rally the crew to vote for a new captain. He said he didn't think very many of them liked the idea, but he wanted you to know."

"That bilge-sucking rat," he muttered, clenching his hands. "He thinks he can get his way by being captain? I'd like to see him try."

"Be careful around him," I cautioned. "I have a bad feeling about all of this. Something isn't right."

"Yer right about that, lassie," Tristan huffed, opening and closing his fists over and over again. "He's up to no good. I'll keep an eye on him. Now, best for ye to start appearing on deck with the other men."

Nodding, I waited for him to open the door, slipping out while no one was looking. There were several men about, all trying to catch a glimpse of the ship in the dark. If that were any indication, it looked like I would be getting no sleep tonight.

"Three cheers for Thomas Randall!"

The cry went up, met with a chorus of approval, the men shouting out in glee for their hero, the most daring man on board for the last two hauls.

Thomas himself stood in the center of the pit, basking in his newfound glory, a smug smile of accomplishment laid across his features.

The two ships we'd taken since leaving port had been massive. As instructed, I'd waited until the last moment to go and hide, no one noticing my disappearances. When the fight was done, I'd make sure to rub dirt on my face and a little blood from the splattered deck before joining the crew like I'd been there the entire time. Unfortunately, someone else had been there the entire time, and he was using it to grow the crew's favor.

Thomas Randall had been a beast to contend with on both raids, fighting harder and longer than any other man on board. He killed the most of the opposing crew, and he uncovered the largest of the haul, announcing it to everyone like he had climbed into the earth and discovered it himself.

The crew was devouring him. The captain was being painted as a drunk more often, some of the men even flat out refusing to follow his orders. Tristan was keeping it all together by a thread, threatening them all with painful punishments if they didn't keep up on their parts. We could feel them slipping, though, turning to the bloodthirsty Englishman and his devious plots.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they mutinied tomorrow," Tristan sighed, looking at me over the fire in the galley. "If he were to ask them to do it, they would."

"Maybe they just need someone to show them a better path," Alfonso suggested, shrugging. "You've led them well for years, Señor. Perhaps they forgot in their excitement."

"It's not hard to forget the people who've actually supported you when someone else is offering you something that sounds better," I replied quietly. "He's lying to them to gain their favor. Expose him!"

"I'll have to catch him in a lie first, lass." He paused for a moment, thinking. "I suppose I could challenge him to a duel in the pit, end it once and for all. But if the crew backs him as much as they appear to, it won't matter if I win or lose. They'll save him before anything can happen."

"There is no order here anymore," Alfonso agreed. "It must be fixed."

"Sails!"

Feet hurried across the decks above, cries of excitement reaching us down below.

"Hunting time!" a man crowed, whooping in delighted glee.

"Another one?" Alfonso asked.

"We've not been sustaining damage from our other hunts, so we can do more without going to port." Tristan shrugged, pulling the pistol out of his belt and checking to see if it was loaded. "You know what to do, Sam."

Nodding, I took out my own gun, following him above and joining the mass of excited men readying for a fight.

"We'll have her in ten minutes, Captain!" cried the man checking the ship's speed.

"You heard him!" Captain Rodrigues roared, spitting on everyone in the vicinity. "Get ready for war, ye mangy dogs!"

"Victory or death!" Thomas shouted, enticing the crew much more than the captain had.

Slinking backwards, I began my usual route to safety in the hull, weaving through the men and looking as battle hard as I could.

"Stations!" Tristan yelled from above, taking his place on the top deck, waiting to toss the grappling hooks over when the time came.

The men were closing in, falling quiet as they readied for the haul. I was almost to the stairs, where I could slip away unnoticed and wait it out.

"Where do you think you're going?" A hand grabbed and yanked me forward, shoving me into the midst of the group. "No fun down there, Mr. Smith," Thomas smiled, releasing me. "The battle's up here."

I froze as he turned away, knowing there was no way for me to back out now, not without alerting everyone to the fact I was trying to skip out. He'd effectively condemned me to fighting this time.

Fear threatened to overturn me as I looked around, trying to catch Tristan's eye. He was focused on what he was doing, crouched down and waiting for the signal to move.

Fumbling, my hand gripped the handle of my pistol and I pulled it out, loading it haphazardly. It seemed that everyone could hear the beating of my heart over the sound of the canons being moved into position and the hatches opening. We were just behind the other ship now, coming up alongside them. Shots were starting to fire from the other crew, one of which hit a man up top, causing him to hiss and drop his gun.

"Steady," Tristan said softly. "Not yet."

Oh no, I was going to hyperventilate. I could feel my breathing increasing, terror filling every part of me, my hand shaking as I held the loaded weapon.

"Victory or death, milady." Freezing, Thomas's whisper washed over me like a cold wave and I could feel the color run out of me. Turning, I saw him leaning away, a knowing smile on his face.

I'd stopped breathing entirely, everything moving in slow motion as I watched him, cocking back his gun and turning to face the front. The men around me suddenly seemed like one, an organism bent on destroying anything it came in contact with. And I was part of it. With a sucking sound, everything popped back into real time and I felt the moment arrive.

"Now!" Tristan yelled, standing up and throwing the grappling hook and net over the side. Cannons fired from our end and the men started scrambling out of the ship, war cries on their lips, bloodlust in their eyes. I was shoved forward, up the ladder, and into the gunfire.

The movement was one made by the masses, myself climbing over the railing of the ship and jumping onto the nets with the other men, struggling up, gun in hand, blood spraying me in the face as the man next to me was hit in the neck. He fell into the water as I reached the top, rolling over onto the new ship.

It was chaos. I could hardly see from the smoke of gunfire and blood flying about. Each man had someone on him, the pair fighting to the death. A cry pulled me from my hasty observations and I saw a man running toward me, blade in hand. Fumbling, I aimed the gun and fired, but nothing happened.

He continued to charge, his blood curdling scream terrifying, and I dove out of the way, scrambling to my feet before slipping on the wet planks of the deck. He fell as well, slashing at me, cutting clear up my arm. The wound stung, shocking me into the situation even further. Next to me, a dead body fell, catching the swing of his sword.

Kill or be killed.

My fear started to melt away, instincts taking over, and I stumbled to my feet, cocking the gun and firing once more. This time it went off, hitting my attacker in the chest and dropping him like a rock. Behind him was another, raising his own gun to me and I charged, reaching him in time to shove the barrel away. We struggled, wrestling and falling to the deck, his hand around my throat, the other trying to beat me over the head with the pistol. Kneeing him in the groin, I felt for the knife in my belt, yanking it out and stabbing him several times over.

My vision went fuzzy then, the blood dripping from my arm at an alarming rate, and I didn't bother getting up, instead rolling off the body and collapsing on the deck.

The last thing I saw was a wash of red and an unfamiliar face falling to my level, looking at me in death.

My eyes fluttered open in the light, trying to understand where I was and why my whole body hurt so badly. Someone was saying something—two people?—but their words didn't make sense, not yet.

As I stared at the brown ceiling, feeling the sway of the ocean, I let myself be lulled back into peace, not caring what had happened or why.

Eventually, images began to return, scenes from the bloodbath I'd taken part in. We'd massacred the entire crew of the prize ship, not even stopping to see if any of them wished to surrender. A nagging voice in the back of my mind said that Thomas had been the one responsible for that.

Two men were dead because of me. I was a murderer—a bloodthirsty brute, just like the rest of the crew. I'd shut off my brain and let my body fight instead of using common sense to realize what I was doing was wrong. So, why didn't I feel worse about it?

I'd fallen . . . what happened after that? It seemed like I'd lost consciousness for a while and then . . . what?

"Sam?" Blinking, I turned my head toward the sound, a blurry face coming into view. I blinked again, harder. This was a face I should know.

"Samantha, love, can ye hear me?"

Tristan. That's who that was.

Looking to the other side, I blinked again, recognizing the outline of Father Torres and his bowl cut.

Straining, I decided that I must be in Tristan's room, wrapped up in the bed. Everything was sore and I didn't want to move, but the ocean's waves were jarring me, twinging muscles that I would have preferred to never move again.

"Sam. Are ye awake? Can ye hear me?" Tristan sounded anxious and tired, like he'd been up too long. Faintly, it occurred to me that he probably had been, using his down hours to watch over me. How long had it been since the attack?

"Yyyyeesss," I finally slurred out, feeling like I couldn't make words properly. "What—happen?"

"I'd like to ask ye the same thing," Tristan growled. "What did ye think ye were doing, woman? Ye almost got yerself killed!"

"Not . . . my . . . fault," I managed to get out, my head still fuzzy. "Thomas . . . pushed."

"Thomas Randall pushed you into the fight?" Father Torres asked sharply. "Why?"

"Think he . . . wanted me . . . dead."

"Over a cut on his face?" The tone of his voice was very disbelieving. "He's a petty man, señorita, but to sentence you to death for that?"

"Thomas Randall would sentence a man to death for his shoes, if he thought it was worth it," Tristan stated bitterly. "Did ye do anything else to get on his bad side, Sam?"

"No." Frustration started to punch through the haze, the words connecting in my brain quicker, but painfully. "He called me . . . milady. He knows."

The world was starting to spin around me and I struggled to sit up, crying out as my arm throbbed and gave out.

"Ye were cut, Samantha," Tristan explained, taking my hand gently. "Almost bled to death. If I hadn't seen ye and carried ye back, ye probably would have."

"I stitched you up myself, señorita," Father Torres added proudly.

"I'm sorry."

"Hush now, don't be sorry," Tristan cooed, brushing the hair away from my face. "Ye did good, lass. The whole of the crew saw ye fighting. Ye stole Thomas's target right out from underneath him!"

"I did what?" I asked, confused. All I wanted was to go back to sleep and be left alone.

"One of the men ye killed was the captain. Thomas was gunning for him and ye stabbed him to death before he got a chance. The whole crew is talking about it. He's none too happy."

"It's his own fault, for pushing her into the fight," Father Torres mumbled, picking up something from the bowl beside him and wiping it across my forehead, leaving a cool trail.

"Then his death is going to be his own fault as well," Tristan said positively. "Because I'm going to kill him for it."

I didn't care. By that point, it was all I could do to grunt before I was out again.

As it turned out, I really had almost died. It was another week before I woke up enough to actually comprehend what was going on around me and another five days after that before I finally sat up and got out of bed. In that time, the ship had sailed all the way to Madagascar, where the Captain had declared we would careen the ship and settle for a month or so. The word was he'd heard about Thomas trying to sway a vote and was attempting to calm the crew down before such a thing could happen. The profits from the three ships we'd taken would be more than enough to stay for a while, and the men weren't complaining about being in female company again. It was the careening that they weren't excited about, but Tristan had explained to them all the importance of doing it.

"I have to do it each time," he'd laughed to me. "It's like they forget that cleaning the bottom of the ship will make us faster and keep the boat together longer. No one ever wants to do it—it's a nasty chore—but we're all always grateful when it's done."

"You should be captain of this ship," I'd said, smiling up at him from the bed. "You care about it. You care about her men. You're the one running everything. I can't believe that no one has seen fit to vote you in."

"I've never asked anyone to."

I was sitting in his room now, my bandaged arm feeling much better, though still sore and gross looking. The cut had been a nasty one, stretching from just below my elbow all the way up to my shoulder. Thankfully, it'd missed any arteries, but was deep enough to do some serious damage.

Outside, the cove that had been designated for the careening was waiting, the men unloading everything they could from the ship and putting it on the beach. The process wasn't an easy one, I'd been told. It involved getting the entire ship on land, propping one side up, cleaning everything off of it, and then doing the same to the other side. The wind had to be just right, the ropes had to be tied perfectly, and the beams to hold up the one side had to be strong and exactly placed.

"Ready to go, Sam?" Turning, I saw Tristan in the doorway, a smile on his face.

"Yeah, let me get my hat."

Despite being gravely injured and bedridden, my secret identity had remained intact, enforced by my terrifying fighting and murder of two men. Tristan had made sure I stayed closely attended while I was unconscious, promising that no one had learned the truth. I had a sneaking suspicion that he'd told someone, so they could help watch, but I hadn't ever seen anyone but him and Father Torres at my side, so I couldn't be sure.

As soon as I was sufficiently covered, we left his room, climbing into a long boat with some other crewmembers, and were rowed ashore. As the tide went out, ropes were used to pull the large ship inland, effectively beaching her. The island became a flurry of activity then, the majority of the men going about cleaning the ship, while others wasted time sneaking off with island women who'd come to watch.

Alfonso had somehow gotten his hands on a cow, which was being cut up and roasted on a spit further up the shore, the smell of the cooking meat drifting down and enticing those who were hard at work.

Tristan was heading up the crew, vigorously scrubbing the hull with a brush, working away at removing the sea grime. Every now and then he would order someone to move somewhere else, constantly keeping everything as efficient as possible.

"Did he confront Thomas?" I asked Alfonso from my seat beneath the cooks tent, where all the food was laid out waiting for its turn in the fire.

"I don't think so." He seasoned the meat as he spoke, turning it evenly over the flames. "Thomas has been scarce since the battle. Methinks he is trying to stay away from Señor O'Rourke."

"That's what I would do if I were him," I agreed. "Do you think he knows about us? Since he knew I was a woman?"

"There's no telling what he knows." Shrugging, he turned his back to me, working hard over the feast he was preparing. I'd offered to help, but he'd insisted I sit and rest, worried about me using too much strength too soon.

"I think I'm going to go for a walk up shore a ways," I announced. "The smoke is getting to me." Truthfully, I was all right, I just didn't like watching him do all the work alone.

"Come back if you get too tired," he said somberly, pausing to look at me. "I'm serious, señorita. I don't want you taking a turn for the worse."

"I'll be fine," I laughed, rising from my chair. "Wave if you decide you need help."

"I'll be fine," he mimicked me, waving me off as he rolled his eyes.

Still chuckling, I made my way up the beach, watching the men at work as I did so. True to what Father Torres had said, I couldn't see Thomas among them anywhere. He really was making himself scarce if he was skipping out on duties required of everyone.

I walked for a ways, always staying in sight of the crew, holding my hurt arm stiff, feeling the pull a newly healing wound often has. After half of an hour, I sat down in the sand, content to wait out the work and finish the day off with a relatively good amount of strength left. Weak wasn't the right word to use when I thought of how I felt, but it was the closest thing I could think of. Exhausted might have been a better phrase, or maybe even wiped out. I felt I could still do things, but didn't really harbor the drive to try.

The time passed steadily on as I watched them all. The first side was finished after a few hours, and they began the process of shifting the ship to get to the other, the men seeming to perk up at the thought of being halfway done.

"Evening, miss."

Jumping, I twisted my heart beat increasing as I laid eyes on Thomas Randall. He was wearing his ratty sea shirt, stained with blood from previous conquests, and he stunk like a rat that had drowned. His gaze held me captive, staring as if he had a great secret he wanted to share with me.

"What? No greetings for me? That's a tad rude, don't you think? I thought ladies were raised to behave better than that."

"Screw off," I mumbled, breaking the stare and turning my back on him, instantly searching for Tristan down by the ship.

"What was that?

"I said screw off," I replied louder, refusing to look.

"Well, I'll be damned." A new voice spoke now, one that I recognized very clearly. Moving slowly, I looked at Captain Rodrigues, the wind blowing a heavy stench of alcohol off him, his clothes all in disarray, bloodshot eyes staring me down. "If it isn't Miss Greene, the clothes thief and whiskey waster."

"The captain here seems to have lost his whore," Thomas said conversationally, smiling at me. "In a right fit he was. So, I suggested I could find him a new one, one that had been on his ship the whole time and he didn't even know it. Naturally, he didn't believe me, but here you are."

My gaze darted between the two of them as I tried to decide if screaming or running would be better. The captain's tent was closer to this side of the ship, a distance they could easily drag me to. Making a split second decision, I pushed myself up onto my feet and ran down the beach, toward the crew.

"Not so fast!" Thomas was after me in a heartbeat, grabbing me around the waist and punching my injury. Crying out, my knees buckled automatically. "She's all yours, Captain," he said, shoving me into the drunk's arms. "Have fun, aye?" Laughing, he quickly left, slinking away from the beach and into the brush of the forest.

"Tristan!" I screamed with all my might, struggling against the captain's hold.

"Shut up!" he spat, slapping me across the face and hauling me off my feet, throwing me over his shoulder.

"Tristan!"

He was carrying me across the beach, his tent just feet away, one hand fumbling with the front of his pants as the other held me tight against his shoulder, fingers gripped against my cut.

"Tristan!"

We were in the tent now. Throwing me onto the ground, the captain punched me hard in the jaw as I tried to scoot away. Stars popped in front of my eyes as I swayed, unable to tell which direction was up.

"Tristan!" My throat felt like it had split open from the force of my screaming, the iron taste of blood in my mouth.

The captain grabbed my legs, ripping the pair of pants I was wearing, spreading me open for better access. His hands groped at my breasts as he lowered down, laughing like it was some kind of game.

"Tristan!" The sound came out of me like a mangled sob, tears streaming from my eyes. I didn't even know if it was a shout anymore, or if the world had gone so deadly quiet around me that it sounded loud.

Jerking my legs, I tried to knee him in the groin and push him away, anything to keep the horrible assault from happening. My frantic struggle was rewarded with a brutal punch to the stomach and disgusting spit in my face. Dropping my head to the floor, any strength I had left gave away as I realized I couldn't fight long enough or well enough to defend myself from him.

And then, suddenly, his weight was gone. Surprised, I jerked up in time to see Tristan throwing him out of the tent by the collar of his shirt and drawing his blade, fury rolling off him dangerously. Struggling to my feet, my long shirt covering the part of me that had almost been violated, I stumbled out into the open, my pants sliding off me in tatters.

"What is the meaning of this, O'Rourke?" Captain Rodrigues roared. "Get out of the way!"

"I accuse ye of being an unfit captain," Tristan yelled back, brandishing his blade. "Ye whore around, stinking drunk, shirking yer duties! Ye beat those who have done nothing to ye. Ye put the lives of yer crew in danger by taking ships we aren't prepared for!"

"Yer a liar, O'Rourke," he growled. "And I'll not stand to have my name dragged through the mud in front of me own crew! A crew that loves me and knows I only do what I do so they can get paid!"

"They aren't getting paid," Tristan called, loud enough to draw the men who weren't already circled. "They're getting killed!"

"Yer only sore because you want the whore for yerself," Captain Rodrigues laughed back, arranging himself so that his member was in his pants, secured away. "Tell the truth!"

"Yer a liar and a thief," Tristan snarled. "And I'll have no more of it." Turning to the crew, he pointed at the captain, murder in his eyes. "Captain Rodrigues has been keeping an extra share of each haul for himself. Ye'll find the gold locked in his desk."

"It's a lie!" the captain yelled. "O'Rourke is the liar, not me!"

Tensions were running high between the two of them and I stumbled forward, falling to my knees in the sand. Suddenly, there were hands on me, gently lifting me to my feet and pulling me away. Confused, I looked up to see John Butler and James Abby, moving me back and out of the way. "It's okay, lass," Butler said, grimacing tightly. "We've got ye."

"Thievery is a high claim," Abby yelled to the group. "What say ye? To trial or with swords?"

"Swords," Tristan stated calmly, glaring at the captain.

Captain Rodrigues licked his lips, seeming to weigh his odds, and then shouted his reply to the group. "Swords!"

A murmur of excitement rippled through the group, but no one dared to yell out, the gravity of what was happening settling on all of us. Either Captain Rodrigues would kill Tristan and the crew would be stuck with no one to lead them when he got carried away—and most likely rape me afterward—or Tristan would kill him and the ship would be out a captain.

"Bring me a blade," Rodrigues spat to the man closest him.

Tristan removed his pistol from his belt, handing it off to another in the group, and removed his shirt, gripping his sword tightly as he waited for the captain to be ready.

For a moment, they each stood there with their weapons, staring the other down, and then, in a clash of movement, the fight began.

The two men jostled against each other, their swords moving so quickly that sparks shot out from between the contact every few thrusts. Sweat ran down their faces, their feet slipping in the sand as they attacked again and again, death written over both of their features. Slashing upward, Tristan succeeded in cutting across the captain's jaw. The blood dripped down onto the sand, running down his neck and soaking into his shirt.

Terror gripped me as I watched, held tightly in the arms of John Butler. He seemed to be of the opinion that I would fling myself into the circle if I was let go, but I didn't even know if I could stand, let alone join the fight.

The two men parted for a moment, breathing heavily, circling around each other, before the captain dashed forward and sliced Tristan across the shoulder. He cried out in pain, jerking away, the red liquid welling up and rolling down him, joining the captain's in the sand.

"Come on, boy," the captain taunted. "Ye can do better than this, surely?"

Tristan, not fazed by the jab, simply smiled, rotating his shoulder and returning to a battle stance, his eyes glued on his opponent.

They ran at each other again, blades sliding against themselves, each man pushing with all his strength to topple the other. They had grabbed one another's wrists with their free hand, shoving and attempting to twist the joint to their advantage. When neither gave, they broke apart, moving in the circle.

Kicking sand into Tristan's face, Captain Rodrigues charged, raising his weapon high and slamming it downward. Tristan got his blade up just in time, stopping what surely would have cut him near in half. He was at an odd angle now, struggling as Rodrigues pressed his weight into it. The two blades continued to sink further, hovering above the intersection of Tristan's neck and shoulder. Roaring in frustration, half blind, he jerked his leg out, missing his target. The edges fell into him, digging into his skin. Victorious, the captain drew his cutlass back, slicing clear down Tristan's chest and bringing him to his knees. His voice sounded strangled as he cried out in pain, shock clouding his features.

It didn't occur to me that I was screaming and crying until I felt the sand under my knees, James Abby and John Butler both holding me forcefully as I struggled against them. All I could see was the red rolling down Tristan, gathering in the sand beneath him.

Captain Rodrigues laughed as he booted Tristan over, pointing at the spray of blood that was expelled from the wound. I couldn't tell if an artery had been cut or not, there was so much fluid oozing out.

"Have ye had enough yet, lad?" The captain growled, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, an itchiness to his movements, like he couldn't wait to feel death at the end of his blade again.

Tristan slowly stumbled to his feet, trying to brush the sand out of his eyes and gather himself again. His shoulder was obviously hurting him, arm twitching as he tried to grip the sword better. His breathing was labored, but his eyes refocused on the target, never once looking away to anyone else. When Rodrigues charged this time, Tristan was ready, knocking the blade away, slicing him clean across the chest, and punching him in the face, his own wound in no way effecting his fighting.

Captain Rodrigues stumbled, falling backward into the sand, scurrying away.

"Come on, Captain, ye can do better than that," Tristan rasped, sharing a smile that looked more like the baring of his teeth.

Startled by the attack, Rodrigues roared in frustration, not bothering to pick up his sword as he got back on his feet, charging like a bull. Catching Tristan in the stomach, they tumbled to the earth, rolling around, yelling and struggling, more evenly matched than I'd ever thought possible. Blood smeared across the ground as they moved, leaving no sign as to who was more gravely injured.

Pinning the captain, Tristan wailed away at his face, punching and punching, blood splattering out of Rodrigues's nose, his lip splitting viciously open. In the blink of an eye, Tristan was on the bottom, screaming as Rodrigues dug his fingers into the cut on his shoulder, using the wound to his advantage. All I could hear were the sounds of his anguish and my sobbing, the crew quietly watching on.

Struggling against the weight on top of him, Tristan finally managed to get a strike in to the captain's kidney area, successfully getting him to roll away. Rodrigues yelped in pain, lurching onto his side, stunned. But Tristan wasn't finished.

Rocking to his feet, he kicked the captain in the chest, splitting open the cut he'd placed there. Rodrigues cried out, his eyes bulging. The sound was one of anger and hatred, blood dripping from him like a faucet.

Tristan was struggling, trying to remain upright as gore leaked from him, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. Wiping the dirt from his face, Tristan moved to pick up his sword.

Seeing an opening, Rodrigues stumbled to his feet, pulling a dagger out of his boot as he charged again. Tristan turned just in time, catching the handle of the blade before it stabbed him in the throat.

A force of wills ensued, both trying to gain the upper hand. Tristan kicked the feet out from under the captain, landing on top of him, the blade now inches from the captain's neck.

Placing all his weight behind it, Tristan twisted the dagger, trying to press it down further. As he moved, he blocked my view of what was happening and I struggled against my captors once more in an attempt to see better. But they wouldn't release me, and I was forced to watch the struggle without knowing who the blade was facing.

Tristan's back was shaking with effort, shining with blood and sweat. The captain's feet were kicking underneath him, a sign of the struggle he was facing. Finally, I heard the sound of the knife slicing into one of them and both bodies fell still on the ground.

My sobs were great gasping sounds by now, my throat bleeding from the force of the howls. No one in the circle moved, everyone staring at the two men. The hot air blew through the group softly, the only thing that seemed to be living among us.

Finally, there was movement. The captain's hand slowly slid to the ground and I screamed, thinking Tristan dead. The fingers were unmoving, though, limp in the sand, never to be filled with life again.

Tristan lifted his head, his eyes glassy, and said hoarsely, "I nominate myself as captain."

My breath caught in my chest. He had won! But I knew if he didn't get help soon, he would bleed to death before anyone could say anything about it.

"I second," John Butler said from beside me.

"You don't want a murderer as a captain," Thomas Randall called, emerging from the ranks. "A man who killed our captain over a woman." He pointed at me, sneering, then turned his gaze on the crew. "You want a man who will champion for you in battle. A man who will make you rich beyond all belief!" He held his arms out at this, turning in a full circle, taking his time as he gazed at each of them. "Elect me. Chose me, and I will make you the envy of the seven seas."

"I second," a man said, his arms folded, a calculating look in his eyes.

"Thomas Randall engineered this fight into being," Tristan argued, attempting to stand. "He's been baiting ye against the captain and myself for weeks now, whispering among ye that ye are better than following one man's command. He's promised ye free reign under his leadership, but that would give him no authority at all. He's put innocent lives in danger, today and in the past. He doesn't want to lead ye—he wants to massacre ye and take everything for himself!"

"Careful now," Thomas answered smoothly. "You don't want to be getting yourself into any more sword battles at the moment, I would think." He laughed, pantomiming a fight for the entertainment of the crowd.

Struggling to his feet, his wounded shoulder almost giving out as he pushed himself up, Tristan chuckled, clearing his throat, his breath coming in small gasps. "I will fight a murdering, thieving, lying coward like ye any day, Randall. And if this crew votes ye in as captain, I'll do it right now and make ye confess what a bilge-sucking scallywag, low life, cock ye are!"

The men hesitated, looking between the two of them, and I felt as if I'd swallowed a stone, a heavy, sinking feeling settling into my stomach. Thomas's hand was twitching at his side, next to the hilt of his sword, his jaw working furiously.

"Vote!" he yelled, turning his back on Tristan and glaring at the crew. "Who do you want as your captain? A man who would kill another over a whore, or a man you know will lead you well?"

Everyone remained silent, still as gravestones, and then began to move, separating into groups behind each of them. When all was said and done, all except five of the men had chosen Tristan.

Eyes bulging, Thomas looked at those who hadn't chosen him, hatred emanating from his being. After a moment, he drew his sword, pointing it at Tristan. "Fight me then," he growled. "And we'll see who is better."

"No!" I whimpered, still held in place by Abby and Butler.

Tristan simply held his hand out to silence me, his knees shaking some as he bent and picked up his sword. Behind him, the men began pulling theirs as well, ready to back their new captain to the death.

"What are you doing?" Thomas screamed. His own men appeared uneasy, one even stepping back as he examined the small army in front of them. "Stay where you are," Thomas growled, not even glancing back. He seemed to be thinking it over, counting the men he was up against. Finally, he sheathed his sword, his own chest heaving with angry breath. He had been beaten, and their law said there was nothing he could do about it. Turning on his heel, he left the group, the men who'd chosen to follow him doing so, and they disappeared into the woods.

"John Butler as quartermaster," Tristan croaked out. His request was followed by a chorus of approval as he crumpled to the ground.

At long last, I was released, the two men joining the ranks of the crew circling around to help him. Trembling, I stumbled across the sand, falling down by Tristan and examining his shoulder.

"I need some water," I said hoarsely. "Now!"

"Listen to her," Tristan mumbled. "She can be trusted. The lot of ye, get back to work."

"Aye, Captain O'Rourke!" The men scattered, Father Alfonso stating he would bring water and bandages. I didn't care about any of them, though, all of my thoughts concentrated on the man in front of me.

"You could have died," I said quietly, fresh tears running down my face.

"Hush now, lass," he answered, smiling weakly. "I'd do it all over again without another thought."

"I wouldn't let you," I replied fiercely, gently prodding around his cut. "You're lucky you haven't bled to death by now."

"Excuse me, miss," one of the crewmembers—the doctor—said, interrupting me. "Can I help, ye? I do see things like this quite often."

Father Torres was running back toward us, a bucket in one hand and a wad of cloth in the other. I scooted out of the way as I watched him, feeling the numb aftershock of it all settling in.

"I'll be needin' some string and a needle. Alcohol as well," the doctor told Alfonso as he arrived, taking the supplies from him with haste.

"I will find them," Alfonso confirmed, turning and hurrying away once more.

Tristan hissed as the hot water poured over him, the doctor adjusting his position so he could clean the cut. "Did he hurt ye, Samantha?" There was fear in his voice and I instantly turned back to him, seeing it in his eyes.

"No. You got there in time."

He sighed then, looking as if a great deal of weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "Good," he muttered, his eyes fluttering as he promptly lost consciousness.

"How is the ship coming along?" Sitting up in bed, Tristan grimaced, lightly touching his bandaged shoulder. The doctor had wrapped him tightly around the chest, stating that the wrap would need to be changed once a day and the stitches checked for signs of decay, as well as any reddening of the skin noted. As for the shoulder, it had been stitched together and wrapped on its own, a sling holding his entire arm in place. All of this had been done while Tristan was unconscious, a small miracle in my eyes. After it was all finished, a few of the men had carried him into the captain's tent—now his tent—and laid him to rest among the pillows and blankets.

"It's fine," John Butler answered, dismissing the question smoothly. "The men know what to do. How are ye?"

"Sore," Tristan laughed, wincing slightly. "But alive."

"Aye, that's a good thing to be." John smiled, glancing at me beside his captain. "Would ye like me to send someone to find ye some clothes, Miss Greene?"

I'd spent the entire night by Tristan's side in just my over large shirt, not having any other pants to wear and not willing to leave him to find some.

"Do you think you could find me some pants?"

"Pants? Don't ye want a dress? Something comfortable?"

"You've obviously never worn a corset," I answered, grimacing. "No, pants will do just fine, if you don't mind."

"Tell the men we'll be gathering at sunset as well," Tristan piped in. "To discuss changes on the ship."

"Aye, Captain." Nodding to us, John turned and left, slipping out of the fabrics covering the entrance and leaving us alone once more.

"Changes on the ship?"

"Aye. Some additions to the code that Rodrigues ruled by. I've been none too happy with the state of things for a while now."

"Are you happy to be captain?" I asked quietly, playing with the hem of my shirt. I knew he'd told me before that it wasn't a job he wanted.

"It's not bad, the few hours I've experienced of it anyway," he chuckled. "It's not like I had a choice in the matter. It was either accuse Rodrigues in front of the crew at an official trial and take over captaincy, or murder him in cold blood and get the same treatment myself."

"What do you mean?" Surprise flitted through me at his words. "Pirates kill each other all the time and no one does a thing about it."

"Aye, they do," he confirmed. "But there's a system to it. An official fight, witnessed by the crew and agreed upon by both parties, is legal in our code. It is true that fights break out and men die without ever even consulting the code, but those men usually face consequences from their crew, be it death or abandonment. Pirates don't take kindly to those who kill their own for sport, savvy?"

"So it's legal to kill, but only under certain circumstances. Good to know," I replied sarcastically. "Why even fight the captain, then? What if he'd attacked and you killed him before the crew arrived?"

"I killed him for ye," he answered honestly. "I knew I would have to eventually. It was all I could do to not rip his head from his body when I saw him on ye, attacking ye like that. But I'd told myself I needed to do it right, so as to not leave ye in the hands of another who would do the same. Even so, I near gutted him like a pig right here in this tent."

My skin puckered unpleasantly, my mind instantly going back to these sheets, another man in them with me. It had been so close, so terrifying, what almost happened.

"I feel like I should feel bad that he's dead," I whispered. "Like I should be upset that it was my fault. But I'm not. I'm happy he's gone. Those few minutes—" I stopped, my voice catching, and I suddenly realized I was crying. There had been so many others besides me, women who had actually been harmed and beaten. I was the lucky one who got away, the one who would never know what it was like to be raped by him. And yet, I felt like I did know, my skin crawling with the memory of his hands on me, the sound of ripping fabric ringing in my ears. Yes, I was glad he was dead. I would never have to be afraid of his presence again.

"I understand, Samantha," Tristan said soothingly, reaching over and taking my hand. "No one will blame ye. Yer feelings are to be expected."

The tent was closing in around me, still smelling of Rodrigues's drunken stench. My torn pants were in the corner, shoved out of the way. It was too hot, the air choking me, suffocating me.

"I need to leave for a minute," I stated, untangling my hand from his and standing. "I'm sorry. I'll be just outside if you need anything."

"Take a walk," he encouraged, seeming to know what I was suffering with. "I'll be here when ye return."

Nodding, I hurried from the small space, gasping in a breath of fresh air once outside, blinking in the bright sunlight.

"Miss Greene!" Turning, I saw a surprised John Butler, a pair of brown leather pants in his hands. "Is something the matter?"

"No," I replied uneasily. "I just needed some air. Are those for me?"

"Oh, yes!" Holding them out to me, he shifted nervously, glancing at the tent. "Do ye mind letting me speak with him alone a moment, miss? It's only business things."

Taking the pants, I slid them on easily, ignoring the pain in my arm as I tucked my shirt in and pulled the belt tight. My own injury was practically healed compared to what Tristan was dealing with now. "I'm sure he would be fine with that," I replied conversationally, while trying to keep my curiosity from getting the better of me. What would he need to say to him that he didn't want me around for?

Smiling, he excused himself and entered the tent, greeting Tristan and informing him that the crew knew of the gathering.

Sighing, I slowly walked away, letting the breeze brush the hair from my face. The crew had finished the careening the night before and the Adelina sat on the shore like a beached whale, waiting to be returned to the sea. With everything that had happened, no one had gathered together enough to pull her out into the water.

"Is everything good with ye, Miss Greene?" A slightly familiar voice pulled me from my thoughts and staring and I turned, recognizing one of the able bodied sailors who did whatever was needed of him on board.

"I'm fine, thank you." My gaze turned back to the sea, but my heart picked up. This was the first time I'd been around any of the other men alone since having my gender revealed. My chest was strapped down, and I wore men's clothing, but they all knew without a doubt.

"I'm Adam Kelly," he said by way of introduction. "We met before? I'm one of the men who was helping to keep ye a secret while ye were on board."

"Excuse me?" I replied sharply, spinning around to look at him.

Taken aback, he hedged away, eyes wide. "Captain O'Rourke asked me to keep an eye on ye when he wasn't around, said ye were never to be unwatched among the men, savvy? I was just following orders."

"How many of you were there?" And why hadn't Tristan mentioned any of them?

"Three or four, including that padre of yers," he answered confidently, smiling. "Ye knew about John Butler, aye? James Abby was the other. We weren't to say anything to ye about it, though. Captain didn't want anyone else to find out."

"Then how did Thomas know?" My face was burning in anger and embarrassment. All this time I'd thought Tristan trusted me enough to handle myself among the crew. But there had been watchmen, which made me feel like I'd never really done anything brave in the first place.

"I don't rightly know, miss." He glanced out to the part of the beach where the crew was relaxing, laughing loudly, and talking amongst themselves. "Then again, I'd say I didn't rightly know a good deal of things about Thomas Randall." There was a melancholy tone to his voice and a faraway look in his eyes that suddenly set my brain alight.

"You're a member of the Order," I spoke without realizing this was an organization among them I should know nothing about. Scrambling to cover up my blunder, I stumbled over a few words trying to right it. "T—the club, I mean. The one Tristan told me about, that likes to play . . . cards. Thomas was too, wasn't he?"

Eyebrows raised, Kelly stared at me like he didn't quite believe my cover up, nodding hesitantly. "Aye. Ye think ye know a man after spending that much time with him."

"It's a shame," I agreed hastily. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish my walk and get back to Tristan. Thank you for—uh—watching me."

"Yer welcome," he replied in surprise, watching me turn away.

"Stupid again, Sam," I muttered to myself. Of course John wanted to talk to Tristan alone. They hadn't just had a crewmate mutiny against them and abandon their cause, they'd had a fellow knight sever ties. I couldn't even imagine the implications that put into place for them. Thomas knew where the treasure was, maybe even how to get to it. Everything that they'd been working to secure was now in danger.

Where had Thomas gone? Would he go after the treasure on his own? He had five men with him, but there was no indication that they were knights as well. Surely, Tristan would want to find out, or at least get the Adelina back in the water as soon as possible.

Hurrying back to the tent, I caught a glimpse of John leaving, a grim set to his features as he went. Tristan appeared in the opening soon after, his eyes closed as he inhaled the hot air, the sun shining off his dark hair.

"Good talk?" I called, smiling as I approached. He looked the most relaxed I'd seen him since we'd visited his family. It was comforting to see he didn't appear worried, especially since I wanted him to give himself plenty of time to heal. He would be able to go out to sea within the next few days, I imagined. Fighting wouldn't be an option for much longer.

He turned, beaming at the sound of my voice, his eyes opening slowly, watching me come closer, like he was devouring me. I felt a chill of pleasure go up my spine and grinned, loving the way he made me feel without doing absolutely anything.

"Ye could say that. And yer walk?" His voice sounded smooth and in control, like I remembered it always being.

"Informative. When will the ship be back in the water?" Coming up beside him, I wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned against him, careful of his wounds. He hadn't been out of bed until now and I felt both anxiety and happiness at seeing him on his feet again.

"Tomorrow morning. It's not the best amount of time for us to be on display here, where anyone could attack, but I want the crew to be alert when I speak with them tonight." He sighed, brushing a piece of hair from the corner of my mouth, and bent down, kissing me softly. It wasn't like the one he'd given me before, but timid, like he was shy of me suddenly. "Ye'll come, aye?" he asked as he broke away.

"I'm a member of the crew, aren't I?" I joked. "My name is in the records—sort of."

"Good. Listen, don't be upset when ye hear what I have to say. It'll be an adjustment for us all."

"What are you talking about?" I frowned, looking up at him in concern. "Why don't you just tell me now?"

"No." He shook his head, looking over to the rest of the crew. "Yer right. Ye are a member of the crew and ye all should hear it together."

He'd slept then, leaving everyone else in anticipation of what he would say at sunset. When the time came, we gathered around a large bonfire on the beach, the night sky lit up above us, the ocean gently lapping the shore. The jungle of Madagascar lay beyond the sand, appearing as evil and deceptive in the dark as the men who'd disappeared into it.

Logs cracked in the fire, sparks spitting out as the flames rose ever higher, casting shadows among the men and making it look like an entire country had gathered to hear what was to be said. Tristan stood in front of the blaze, staring into it, his torso unclothed, bandages shining in the light. Silence extended toward him as we all waited for him to be ready.

"Ye have elected me as yer captain," he finally spoke, loud and clear so that all would hear. "I will do my best to serve ye. But know this—I am not Rodrigues. I ran his ship for him, but there were things that I didn't like, things he wanted or bade me tolerate because I wasn't in charge. It is for these reasons that we meet tonight."

Turning from the fire, he began to move around the circle, looking at each man. He had such an air of authority about him that they seemed to shrink under his stare, faces kept neutral as he studied them, continuing his speech. "We are men at arms. Brothers. We have a code that we follow, and yet that code is broken. Why? What can be changed to make us more efficient? To become better fighters? I propose to lay out a new code, here, tonight, that will be law under my command. What say ye?"

"Aye!" John Butler yelled a few spots down from me. A couple other men responded just as enthusiastically, all the others simply murmuring their consent. I did as well, feeling he was addressing me just as much as them.

"A pirate code is a delicate thing," he persisted, crossing to the other side of the fire. "A law that is followed by the lawless. Know that we will focus on each item as a group and vote in favor or against the conditions. Ye are my family, not men suffering under a tyrannical rule. We make the decisions together."

More cries of approval rang out and I smiled. He had a way with words when he spoke to them. There was no doubt in my mind that they would agree to anything he asked.

"Let us begin." He circled back to our side of the fire, folding his free arm around his sling. "Every man will continue to have an equal vote in all matters, as well as an equal share in all booty."

There was general understanding to this provision, seeing as that was something they already had in place. The same happened when he stated that they were not to steal from each other and that any man who did so would be put ashore at the next sight of land.

"There is to be no gambling on board the ship," he stated, pausing for a moment at the outcry that suddenly rained down upon him. As the noise began to lessen, he held his hands up for peace. "Gambling can lead to a man feeling cheated, or even stolen from. By yer own terms, there is to be no stealing. This law can not abide without the other, savvy?"

The men grumbled among themselves, not happy with the suggestion. I could tell that they saw the wisdom in it, though, and slowly, they began to vote in favor of including it in their code.

"Very well," Tristan sighed, thinking before he started again. "I also propose that we instigate a curfew, to save on precious light commodities and lessen the amount of drunkards snoring in our faces each night."

The men laughed at this, jabbing each other, but one spoke up in disagreement. "Do ye propose we not drink at all, Captain?" he asked.

"No," Tristan hurriedly replied. "Only that if ye wish to do so after curfew, ye must do so above deck, so as to not disturb those around ye."

They liked that idea, which surprised me some. I supposed that as long as they were allowed to drink, they didn't care where they had to do it. The rest of the provisions were met with agreement as well, being more things that they already practiced. Finally, Tristan motioned for me to join him, glancing at me apprehensively, and I knew we'd reached the thing he was worried I'd be angry about.

"My final item," he stated, taking my hand. "Is that we have no women on the ship."

"What?" I was the only one who spoke, the men all caught completely off guard.

"Allow me to explain," he said softly to me before turning to the rest of the crew. "We have been brought many hardships and trials because of ladies on board. But we have also been brought great joy and clarity. This provision may be rendered passable in two situations. One, ye vote her onto the crew. Such a lass must be able to prove herself in battle and promise to abide by the code. She will, in every way, be one of ye, with a full vote and share in cargo."

The men were muttering amongst themselves, staring at me, thinking about what he'd said. Some of them seemed to actually be considering the option, while others were howling that it was bad luck to keep such a female around. How would they be able to function with her there to tempt them every second of the day?

Yanking my hand from his, fuming, I glared up at him, folding my arms across my chest. "And what is the second situation?"

He paused, his nose twitching, and then announced it loudly to the whole crew. "If the captain be married, his wife is allowed to stay with him at sea."

Every single one of us fell into complete silence. Mouth hanging open, I could only stare at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying. "Are you asking me to marry you?" I finally asked, dreading the answer.

"Nothing would please me more," he confirmed. "The decision is all yers. Does the crew agree to these provisions?"

They did, it would seem, quiet murmurs of awed compliance reaching my ears.

Turning to face them all, trying not to cry out of horror and complete shock, I cleared my throat. "I have been a member of your crew for months, the majority of you having no idea. I held my own, doing my duties as I was instructed. When it came time to fight, I did. I'm still standing here, so I think that proves I can hold my own in a battle. I beat Thomas Randall as well, which you all saw. You know I can do it, if I have to. I would very much like to be voted a part of the crew now, as Samantha Greene. Samuel Smith is already part of you, and I am him. The only difference is our names."

The crew shifted uncomfortably, looking between myself and Tristan, obviously not knowing which side to choose in the matter.

"Ye can vote on it in the morning," Tristan declared. "It's not a decision to be taken lightly."

A breath of relief washed through the group as he dismissed them all, moving to me and gesturing toward his tent. Furious and scared, I stomped off ahead of him, not wanting to be around anyone else when I told him just what I had to say about his ideas.

He entered the semi-private enclosure a few seconds after me and I rounded on him, growling through my teeth. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Keeping ye safe," he answered, surprised. "I thought ye'd be mad about it, but yer livid, Sam. What is the matter?"

"What's the matter? What's the matter?" I laughed crazily, twisting away from him as I raked the hair out of my face. "Do you realize what will happen if they vote no? You just dropped me here on this island without any way of getting home!"

"I gave ye a way," he argued. "Is marrying me really that disgusting an option to ye?" He was getting angry now, I could tell, but I didn't care one bit.

"I haven't known you long enough to get married!" I cried, spinning back around glaring at him. "I haven't even known you long enough to really know that I love you!"

My words hurt him, and he backed away, a frown covering his face. "It's been a year since we first met on the shore of Oak Isle. Are ye saying ye don't love me then?"

"No! I do! That's what's so frustrating about all of this. I shouldn't love you—I know it's one of the worst things that could have happened to me here—but I do. All it's going to do is tear us apart and I don't know if I'm going to be able to survive it." The words had poured out without my meaning to and I knew I couldn't take them back, not as I watched the pain in his eyes grow.

"Ye won't marry me then," he said softly, his gaze saddened.

"I can't," I whispered. "I want to, but I can't."

That last confession brightened him some, but his expression immediately fell. "Are ye married, Sam? Is that why?"

"What? No, I'm not married." I could feel tears pricking at my eyes as I turned away, but I refused to let them escape. Of all the things that had happened to me in the seventeenth century, this was the worst. I'd been handed a love I knew I'd never find again, in this time or any other, and I couldn't keep it.

The silence that stretched between us was unbearable. All I wanted to do was go to him and let him hold me until it felt better, but my feet were rooted in the ground. I knew that I was hurting him deeply and there was nothing I could do to make him understand.

"I don't understand," he finally spoke, the emotion in his voice carefully monitored.

Sighing, I immediately knew what I had to say to make him see. He would think I was crazy, but it was the only way to turn him down without breaking him. "I was born in the late nineteen hundreds," I said quietly, moving to face him again. "Nineteen ninety-two, to be exact. I came to this time from the year two thousand fifteen, but I don't know how. I know you're a member of The Knights Templar, that you've been hiding a massive treasure on Oak Isle, and that there's more of your Order on this ship. If I marry you, and then go back to my own time, it will be the cruelest thing I've ever done to another person or myself. I can't marry you because I'm not from here. I don't belong with you. I can not—will not—subject either of us to a life without the other. I will not mourn a husband who's been dead for more than three hundred years, and I can not let you mourn a wife who's never been born."

He blinked, staring at my forehead, his mouth kept forcefully shut. Several minutes passed like this and I periodically held my breath, waiting for the explosion that was about to come.

"Ye know about the Order?" That was good. At least he was focusing on what he knew to be true.

"I do," I confirmed. "The work my father was doing involved studying the Templars. He was trying to find the treasure you've been hiding. No one has been able to yet."

"That's comforting," he replied, dazed. Blinking hard again, he moved past me and sat down among the pillows, staring at the wall. Not knowing what to do, I remained where I was, biting the nail on my right thumb.

"Nineteen ninety-two," he exhaled out after a time. "Truly?"

"I can't prove it," I pointed out. "But, yes."

"How did ye end up here?" There was a wonder to his voice I hadn't expected, a curiosity and excitement that told me he wasn't even upset by my confession.

"Wait," I started. "You believe me?"

"Of course I do. I'm a Templar, aren't I?" He grinned up at me, a light I'd never seen before encasing him. It was like I'd become some magnificent prize in his eyes.

"What does that have to do with any of it?" He was making me uncomfortable with his complete belief. Where was the denial and worry I'd expected?

"Templars believe there is truth in all things," he explained. "I heard many Celtic stories from Éire that spoke of individuals who saw times other than their own. Christian prophets saw eras that didn't belong to them, as well as soothsayers from many other religions. I never thought I'd meet such a person, though."

"Hang on," I interrupted him. "You're not even going to question if I'm telling the truth?"

"Why would ye lie about it?" he asked simply. "Anyone else would think ye crazy and have ye locked away. I knew something was different about ye, but I couldn't ever place it. This answers all that for me."

"You are unbelievable." Shocked, I flopped down to the ground, sitting in front of him and staring at him as he continued to look me over with interest. After a few moments, I remembered why I told him the truth in the first place. "Do you understand now, why I can't marry you? Why I have to go home?"

"Oh, I understand, lass," he agreed. "Completely. But I don't agree with ye one lick."

"Why do ye think ye were brought here, to this time, if not to find me?" He smiled confidently as he spoke, ignoring my several attempts to stop him. "It can't be a coincidence that ye came here, of all places."

"I don't know why it was this time," I snapped, feeling heated. "It just happened, okay?"

"The ship stops at Oak Isle but once a year. Are ye suggesting that was pure chance as well?" Good grief he was stubborn! I didn't blame him for being curious about how and why I'd come here, but he was tying it all back to himself, trying to prove that we were meant to be together.

I'd wondered the same things on many occasions, if I had been lost so he could find me. But what kind of god or creator would be so cruel as to do that to me? I'd already lost my family in my own generation. Did I really need to lose another love here? Refusing to answer, I turned away from him, lying down and rolling to my side, staring at the wall. Blessed peace filled the space and I sighed, closing my eyes.

"I know ye've been struggling," he spoke softly after a few moments. "I could see it in ye that first night on the ship, when ye didn't know yer clothes from top to bottom. I thought ye were simply scared because pirates had taken ye. I'd never have guessed ye were stolen from a different time as well."

Snorting, I continued to look away, trying not to melt against him and let him comfort me.

"Ye want to go home, more than anything?" He asked quietly, reaching out and taking a strand of my hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently.

"I—I do." My response was greeted with silence and I felt him lower himself next to me, sliding close. More than anything, I wanted him to hold me, but his injured arm kept him from doing so.

"Will ye not mourn me anyway, lass?" he whispered, a strange hitch to his voice. "Because I will feel the loss of ye every day in my bones. Knowing that ye aren't in my world will destroy me."

His words brought tears to my eyes and I rolled over, snuggling against him as I let them fall. "I don't know what I want anymore." The statement had been brewing in my mind for some time, but I'd never realized it until then. He had changed everything, thrown it out of place without doing anything other than existing. "It seems like I should go home, because that was the time I was born in. That's where I belong, in the grand scheme of things. But there's nothing there for me, not really. All I would be going back to is graves—and yours would be included with them.

"But staying here? I don't understand this time. I don't understand the politics, or how to do things without modern conveniences. In my time, most people carry around a little box that has the ability to tell them anything they want to know, within seconds! It can call someone on the other side of the world and you'll be able to speak with them in real time. Water comes out of pipes, heated and falling like rain, and you bathe yourself in it. It never runs out! We don't have to fill a tub with buckets by the fire and hope that it stays warm for more than a few minutes. Ships are powered by more than wind, crossing the Atlantic in a number of days instead of months. We know how to fly! Illnesses that exist now are virtually extinct in my time. It is literally so different that I feel like I can't describe it well enough for you to understand."

Looking up at his face, I could see his wide eyes trying to process the information I'd dumped on him. It must have sounded like magic, made up stories that could never be real, but he was obviously trying to imagine it all.

"A box that can tell ye anything? That can speak?" he finally asked, looking at me with a burning curiosity.

"It doesn't really speak. Well, some of them do, but it isn't smart like a human. All of the data is loaded onto it and it just relays it back. It's called a smartphone."

"Smartphone," he said, sampling the word. "Your time must be filled with knowledge and scholars of all kinds!"

"Not really," I replied grimacing. "People use it to mostly watch videos of cats and fling pretend birds at a bunch of digital pigs."

"What is a video?"

I was going to have to stop telling him about the future if I didn't want to spend the next three hundred years filling him in on everything. "It's like a memory," I answered, striving to find a way to tell him. "But everyone can see it. It gets recorded and the device, like a smartphone, remembers it perfectly and can play it back for other people."

He snorted, shaking his head as he stared up at the ceiling. "No wonder ye haven't figured out the entrance to the treasure trove yet, if yer watching cats all the time."

"It's not like you went easy on all the booby traps," I shot back, suddenly annoyed. "My father dedicated his life to solving that pit and it killed him, as well as several other men."

"Pit?" he asked sharply, sitting up and staring at me. "There is no pit on Oak Isle."

"Uh, yeah there is," I insisted. "I should know. I was in it when I got pulled here."

"No, there isn't," he replied adamantly. "Not yet, anyway. We would never be so stupid as to dig a hole right to where we hid the treasure. What is down there is meant to stay there."

"Then who dug it?" Rising as well, I watched him expectantly, suddenly feeling very fearful of the whole mess.

"I have no idea." His mouth had settled into a grim line and he ran a hand through his hair. "Ye need to tell me all ye know about this pit of yers." He studied my expression, thinking something over, and then nodded. "Yes, tell me."

"Now?" Scrambling, I tried to remember everything Dad had told me and what I'd learned while working in it with him.

"Yes," he confirmed. "I need to know when this pit arrived on the island."

"Uh . . ." Closing my eyes, I attempted to dig up all the facts about when it was found. "It was discovered in seventeen ninety-five, by a couple of boys. It was filled in, but there was a depression in the ground that made them think there could be something at the bottom. A little over two hundred years later and all we know is that the pit is several hundred feet deep and booby trapped with flood tunnels. No one has ever discovered what was at the bottom. Well, no one except me, that is."

"So, one hundred years from now, it will be there," he mused, rubbing his jaw.

"Yes, but it was determined that it'd been there for a while before that, because the wood inside was so old. If there was no pit the last time you were there, I would say it could be there as soon as this year."

"This year!" His eyes widened and he got to his feet, pacing around the room, muttering to himself. This was very bad news, apparently. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Well, there are several theories," I stated, knowing that it didn't help him much. "Originally, they thought there was pirate gold down there. The treasure of the Knights Templar is another guess. Some people think it's gold that was hidden by the English during the Revolutionary War even."

"The what?" he asked, only half paying attention to what I was saying.

"Never mind," I replied, brushing the statement aside. "The point is, whoever built it did such a good job that no one has been able to figure it out."

"No one but ye." Stopping, he stared at me hard, a sort of realization washing over him. "Samantha, what did ye touch of the treasure?"

"Why?" I questioned, not following.

"There are things down there that could have sent ye here," he explained. "Things that hold great power. The Templars have hidden them away for a reason, to keep the world safe from them. That treasure is cursed with blood and evil."

A chill ran through my bones and I shrunk away, thinking of that night. It was so long ago, would I be able to remember exactly? "I broke through the top of the vault." It came out as a whisper, things starting to play through my mind like a movie. "And dropped inside. There was a skeleton—I don't recall if there were any clothes on it or not—and I think I accidentally broke the skull. There was no light, but there was a box sitting on the ground. I wasn't supposed to be down there, so I was hurrying, trying to find something before getting caught. The chest had been there so long that it crumbled when I pulled on it. The lock came away in my hand—or maybe I saw the lock before I pulled on it?—and it was a puzzle lock. It had the letter "o" on one side and the Templar cross on the other."

"That's not part of the treasure," he interrupted me. "That's mine. What else did ye touch?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Just the vase that was inside the box."

Tristan's face paled at this and he frowned. "What did the vase look like?"

"I don't know," I answered, exasperated. "It was old and had some symbols on it. Maybe Greek? I can't remember. I was more interested in opening it and finding out if anything was inside."

"Ye opened the vase?" He choked on the words, his eyes bulging out of his head as he looked at me.

"Yes." I was afraid to even ask what it was, seeing the reaction he was having. "Was that bad?"

"What happened after that?" he urged, waving for me to continue.

"Uh, there was nothing inside. I put the lid back on and was going to carry it out with me, but the pit started flooding. The last thing I recall is cutting my leg on a rock and thinking I was going to drown."

Moving to his small chest of things that had been brought ashore and then placed in the tent after his win, he opened it up, retrieving a cloth wrapped case. As he removed the fabric, I gasped, recognizing the box from the pit. Making quick work of the puzzle lock, Tristan carefully lifted the lid, holding it out as he turned to me. "Is this the vase?"

"Yes," I whispered, wanting to investigate it but shirking away from it at the same time. The lid was screwed on, every inch of it looking as it had that night, just not as old. It was obvious that it was an ancient artifact in this time as well, and he handled it with care, looking down in mingled curiosity and fear. "What is it?" I whispered.

"I have absolutely no idea." Closing the case, he wrapped it back up and stowed it among his things, making sure it was locked before turning away. "Brian gave it to me when we left his house. All he said was that it was a piece of the treasure and I was to hide it with the others. Generally speaking, I don't really prod into the items given me."

"Brian is a Templar as well?" My own brain was beginning to spin with all of the knowledge being loaded into it and I suddenly felt like I could lay right down and sleep for several years.

"Aye. All of my family were members of the Order."

"How are we going to get to him so we can ask what it is? The crew won't want to sail back when they've been told we're going to the Caribbean next. And, thanks to your announcement, I might not be able to go with you." The last part came out as a growl and I glared at him, furious with his stupid new code.

"I don't think he knows what it is either," he snapped. "And I gave ye a perfectly fine way to come aboard, whether ye win the vote or not!"

"How can you still want to marry me after everything I just told you?" I yelled, not really caring if anyone heard me.

"Because I love ye, damn it!" he roared back, slamming his hand against one of the wooden support poles of the tent. "It makes no difference to me where ye came from! It makes no difference if ye were sent to me by fate or by chance! All that matters is that yer here! And I'll be damned if I let ye go simply because ye think we can't do it!"

"What are you going to do when I go home?" I shouted in return, fists clenched at my sides. "Come with me?"

"Yes!" Tristan stood motionless, huffing and puffing, glaring at me in pain. His shoulder was twitching some, jostled by his intense reaction. Silently, I stared at him, shocked beyond words. Watching him slowly rein his emotions in, Tristan let out a shaky breath before quietly speaking. "Yes. If ye must go back, then I aim to go with ye. My soul has bonded itself with yers, Samantha. Either ye will stay here with me, or I will follow ye into the future. It does not matter to me, so long as I am with ye."

My own chest heaving, I watched him, tears streaming down my face. "I love you," I said with conviction, crossing the space and wrapping my arms around him, wishing I could hold him tighter than his wound would allow.

Bending down, he kissed me fiercely, breaking away from my lips to murmur against my forehead. "If ye love me, lass, then say ye'll marry me. Stop wounding my heart by arguing about it further." Caressing me again, his free arm held me strongly to him, his mouth bruising my own.

"What if something goes wrong and we get separated?" There was still so much I didn't know, so much I was unsure of. It terrified me to think I could surrender myself so completely to him and then lose him in the end.

"It won't," he answered simply. "Please, Samantha, say ye'll do it. Make me the happiest man in this time or any other."

Resting my head softly against his chest, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. "Yes, I'll marry you."

Tristan chuckled as he watched me straightening my shirt the next morning, my fingers fumbling over the fabric. "Why are ye so nervous, lassie?" he teased.

"Ha ha," I replied dryly. "You know exactly why."

"It doesn't matter if they voted ye in or not. Yer to be my wife and will be coming along either way." He continued to look me up and down from his seat among the pillows, a slight lust to his expression. His pants were the only clothing he had on at the moment, and the sight of him made my stomach warm.

"No," I said forcefully before he could even ask the question. "We've never . . . done that . . . and I'm not about to let you try with your shoulder practically cut off."

"It's just a scratch. Nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, it's a scratch now." Glaring at him, I bent and picked up my boots, sliding them onto my feet with ease. "But if you try anything rowdy, you're going to tear your stitches and be split halfway open again."

"Yer concern is noted," he answered playfully. "But I could do it just fine, trust me."

"Don't you want to wait for our wedding night?" I was joking, but the suggestion seemed to shut him right up. "That's a big deal in this time, isn't it? Sex being saved for marriage? For women, anyway."

"Aye," he chuckled. "But ye've already told me yer virtue is lost to another, so it doesn't matter, savvy?"

"Not until your shoulder is healed," I said again, sitting down beside him and smiling.

He was indeed stronger, and getting so every day, but the doctor said he couldn't unsling his arm or take the wraps off yet. The only time they came off was to change the fabric out, once a day. The two instances I'd seen it so far, it looked like a scene from a horror movie. He would have a nice sized scar, but he was alive and that was all that mattered. It would be another week at least before he could start using the arm as normal.

"I'm fine," he grumbled, sighing in acceptance.

"You almost bled to death two days ago," I corrected him. "Aren't Templars supposed to have taken a vow of celibacy anyway?"

"Where on earth did ye hear that?" He laughed, apparently finding my statement highly amusing.

"They started out as warrior monks, didn't they? Vowed to celibacy and a life of serving the Lord and his followers?"

"That may be what they started out as, but they aren't that way anymore, lassie. Otherwise, I'd have quit right at the beginning." Using his good arm, he pushed himself off the floor and grabbed his white shirt, pulling it over his head.

"Careful!" Stepping toward him, I took the shirt back off, gently easing his injured arm through its sleeve before helping him put the rest of it on.

"And here I was thinking ye could undress me instead." His eyes sparkled, the corners of his mouth curling into his flirtatious half grin. "Now ye be telling me I have to wait till we're married."

"When will that be?" I asked casually, not able to help my own smile.

"I'd do it right this moment if I wasn't a gentleman." He beamed down at me, his free arm sliding around my waist as he leaned over and kissed me fully.

Feeling a little mischievous, I caught his bottom lip between my teeth and nibbled it a bit, thoroughly enjoying the growl I got in response. My hands traveled down his sides, resting on his hips, and I held him to me, flicking my tongue inside his mouth.

"Woman," he groaned, not exactly telling me to stop. "Yer going to kill me if ye keep this up and still insist my shoulder must be healed."

"Just giving you a taste," I laughed, attacking his lips again.

Someone cleared their throat at the entrance of the tent and I attempted to pull away. Tristan had a mind to make them wait, though, catching my hand and dragging me in one more time.

"Captain."

"Aye, Butler, I see ye there," he said against my lips, laughing some. I, for one, was enjoying the display, but John seemed to have a different opinion about it, coughing uncomfortably. Finally, Tristan stopped kissing me, holding me close, and turned his attention to his quartermaster.

"The men have voted, Captain. They also wait yer command to load the ship and set for port."

"I suppose we must leave our tent then, eh, Samantha?" Pecking me on the forehead, he gave me one last squeeze before releasing me. "We'll be right there."

"Aye, Captain." John grinned at me, raising his eyebrows, and I blushed, knowing what he must have thought we'd been doing all this time in here. "When is the wedding, miss?"

"That's what I was just asking." Smiling, I took Tristan's hand, intrigued to hear his answer.

"Well," he started, his thumb lightly brushing over mine back and forth. "Gran will keelhaul me if we get married and she's not there. Since we aren't able to go back home, I was thinking a handfasting ceremony would have to do until then."

"Handfasting?" I was unfamiliar with the term, but John was nodding.

"Ye'll want the padre there, I'm assuming?" he asked Tristan.

"Eh." Tristan shrugged, smiling wider. "It's not really sanctioned by the church, is it? But, aye, I do want him there."

"I'm sorry," I butted into the conversation. "But what exactly is handfasting?"

"It's like an engagement," Tristan explained, squeezing my hand. "Where we live together as man and wife for a year and a day. People used to use it to see if they could get along? If they didn't, they went their separate ways at the end. It's an ancient tradition among my people."

"So we'll be engaged? Not married?"

"Aye, we'll be married. Handfasting is legal, it's just not until death."

"Ye'll be Mrs. O'Rourke without a shadow of a doubt," John offered encouragingly. "No one could say otherwise."

"Mrs. O'Rourke." I hadn't thought of my name changing before and a tiny thrill went through me. Samantha O'Rourke. Everyone I met would know that I was Tristan's, just from hearing my name.

"We'll need to make port first. Samantha needs a dress—I'll not marry a woman in pants."

"What's wrong with my pants?" I asked defensively, looking down at them. "I think they make my legs look great."

"Oh, aye, that they do. But I'll have ye married proper, and that means a dress. Depending on how long it takes for one to be made for ye, I'd say we'll probably be married within a week or so." Tristan chuckled, nodding toward the door. "Come. Let's see what the crew has to say about ye, now."

My nerves instantly returned and I swallowed hard, feeling the beat of my heart increase. Married within the week and possibly a member of a pirate crew. He was right. I didn't have any reason to be nervous about being left behind. I would sail with them either way. Part of me desperately hoped the men had accepted me on my own. Feeling like I was stuck on a boat with a bunch of men who didn't want me there didn't sound like fun.

We left the tent, the slightly cooler morning air holding a heavy humidity to it, and my eyes instantly went to the group gathered around the remains of the previous night's bonfire. They glanced warily at us, but I couldn't tell anything about their decision from the looks on their faces. Only Father Torres smiled as we approached, bobbing reassuringly to me.

"Morning," Tristan greeted them, his hand still holding my own, tightly. "I trust ye all got yer rest last night?"

"Aye, Captain." The replies were happy enough. I supposed that was a good sign?

"We've voted on the matter ye discussed last night," John spoke, the mouthpiece for them all. "All we lack is yer vote, sir."

"My vote? Aye, I think ye would need that." Turning to look at me, he frowned some. "Being a part of the crew is dangerous, lassie. Ye'd be required to fight with the men and hold up yer end. If I had my way, ye would not be a member of it." Moving back to the rest of the men, he continued. "Miss Greene has agreed to be my wife. Even if she had not, my vote would still be no."

Grimacing, I didn't reply. He had his reasons and I respected them. They were kind reasons, even if he had made me feel like I was coerced into marrying him in the beginning.

Nodding, John focused on me then, taking a deep breath. "Samantha Greene, ye have been aboard our ship for several months now, disguised as a man named Samuel Smith. As per the code, we have gathered together and discussed what to do with ye, now that yer true identity has been revealed."

I continued to grip Tristan's hand tightly, my heart pounding as I wished he would just get on with it. Why did they have to be so long winded all the time?

"Several of the men agree with the Captain. It is too dangerous for ye to be in battle they think. Others have looked on in respect to yer past fights, bringing up the point that ye can indeed take care of yerself if needed. After weighing both sides, and considering the fact that ye'll be in the thick of it either way, we have decided to offer ye a position among the crew."

Surprise washed through me and I stared at him with wide eyes. Tristan's grip strengthened on mine even more and I felt him stiffen at the announcement, but he remained silent.

"Really?" I asked, excitement starting to bubble up inside. They had chosen to keep me!

"It's been suggested that ye be taught how to properly handle a weapon and practice daily," John laughed, "but, yes. What say ye?"

Turning to Tristan, watching for any signs of him being extremely upset, I smiled. "What do you think?" I asked softly. "I want to say yes, but I want your support in it."

"This decision makes my heart heavy," he confessed. "But if ye want to do it, I will agree with no contest."

"I accept," I replied loudly, still looking at him.

A general sound of amusement moved through the crew and I laughed, glancing at them. The ship's record keeper had pulled out the book that held everyone's identities and glanced up at me expectantly.

"Name?"

"Samantha Greene . . . O'Rourke. In a few days at least."

"Welcome aboard, future Mrs. O'Rourke."

Grinning, I folded my arms across my chest, a strong sense of satisfaction hanging about me.

"Never thought ye'd be lain' with a member of the crew, eh Tristan?" someone yelled, gut laughter responding to the jab.

"Aye, I bet ye never thought ye'd be treating a woman as an equal and not a whore," Tristan replied smoothly, earning guffaws of his own.

"She'll be stayin' in the kitchen where she belongs," another man crowed. "Making more of the delicious food with the padre!"

"Then I hope we all remain fit," Tristan answered seriously. "They will call us the best fed pirates this side of Africa."

The men hooted again, the somber nature of the air lifting considerably as a few of them nodded in my direction, pleased.

"Now, the lot of ye!" Tristan barked, instantly assuming the authority of the captain. "Get everything loaded on board and let's leave this god forsaken beach!"

The men scattered, breaking camp, and I smiled at Tristan, leaving his side to help Alfonso with the kitchen items.

"I'll see ye on deck." His tone was positive, but I could see the hesitation in his eyes.

"I will take care of her, Capitán," Alfonso called, waiting for me to join him.

Nodding curtly, Tristan moved and went to his tent, reaching up and touching his injured shoulder as he went.

It only took a few hours to reload everything onto the ship and set sail. By nightfall, we were in the harbor of the town Tristan wished to dock at.

Standing beside him at the window in the Captain's Quarters, we watched the shoreline, lit up with fires on the beach and the lights from the settlement. It looked exactly how I'd imagined a pirate hangout, with silhouettes of people acting merrily and drunkenly stretching across the water. The buildings were connected together at odd angles, the doors of the brothel and bar thrown wide open so as to entice passersby. It felt like a scene from a movie, the classic architecture unaware that it would become an icon over time.

"Will we go ashore tonight?" I asked him softly, moving behind him as I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head on his back.

"No, we'll wait until morning. My shoulder hurts, truth be told." He shifted his weight, stretching his neck gingerly. "I'd like to have ye to myself at least once more before the crew claims ye, as well."

"What do you mean?"

Sighing, covering my hands with his free one, he continued to stare out, silent for a moment. "I'm happy ye are a part of the crew," he finally breathed. "It's good, for ye and the men. I've watched ye among them before and have no issue with ye on the ship. But—" Pausing, he gripped my hands tighter, letting a whoosh of air pass through him. "When I found ye on board the ship we'd taken, covered in blood, yer arm flayed open, I thought ye dead. There were bodies all around ye, blood in yer hair, and ye were so still and white. My heart all but stopped at the sight. It's not a scene I wish to see again, savvy?"

"Is that why you voted no when they asked you if I should join the crew?" I already knew that was his reason for voting the way he did, but it I knew this was something he needed to say to me.

"Aye." Tristan's answer was quiet, but very apologetic. "I did not want to see ye, lying in a puddle of yer own blood ever again."

Breathing deeply, I strengthened my hold on him, hugging him. "You know I feel the same way about you, right? That it terrifies me every time I see you facing down death?"

"I do," he acknowledged. "But it's different for me. I must fight, to protect the items and people in my care. It's not a choice I get to make. But, ye could have chosen to stay away from it, to be safe. All I've been able to think of since ye were voted in is that day, washin' the grime and gore off ye while the padre stitched ye up, and wondering why God hadn't let it be me instead."

His voice sounded strange and choked, leading me to believe he was still holding back a massive amount of emotion over the ordeal. There was something I could say to help, surely, but I remained silent, letting the inspiration come to me before speaking.

"There's a quote I've heard," I started, resting against him. "It talks about the creation of this world and why God chose Adam's rib to make Eve from, and not any other part of him. Have you heard it?"

He shook his head and his shoulder twitched, causing me to raise a hand to it, steadying him.

"It says that she was made from his rib because she was to be his equal, not anything more or less. I wanted to join the crew because of my desire to be right there with you, to protect and support you in your times of need.

"In this century, a woman belongs to a man. She stays home and cooks, cleans, and raises children. She is cherished, no doubt, and highly appreciated by the man who loves her, but she can never do what he can. Where I'm from, a woman can do whatever she wants. Any job a man can do, she can as well. Military, finance, legal, nothing is out of her reach. She protects those she loves. On top of that, she isn't even expected or required to have a family if she doesn't want one. Marriage is a choice, not a necessity. Society tells her to do what will make her the happiest and ignore anyone who tells her different.

"I tell you all of this, so you will understand when I say that there is nothing I would rather do than be with you. But I don't want to be treated like some fragile being, a female who needs to be constantly watched for fear of getting hurt. If you're worried about me, then teach me how to take care of myself! I went to school for several years, I know how to learn. I was allowed to vote before, let me vote on things here, with the crew. If I'm going to be your wife, I need to know that I'm not going to be handled like a prize that has to be locked away from everyone, but that you'll consider me as an equal, because that's what I feel I am."

Sliding away from my touch, he looked at me with a happiness that shone from his eyes, reaching out and cradling my face. "Ye've always been my equal, Samantha. I would never dream of treating ye any different. Ye've proved yerself to me—and the men—several times. My heart just has to accept the fact that ye don't need my protection any longer."

"Of course I do," I laughed, leaning into him. "I'll always need your protection. I just ask that you let me protect you sometimes, too."

"Aye, I think I can agree to that," he chuckled, sliding his hand to my neck and bending down to kiss me, jerking away when his shoulder twitched again. "Damn thing!" he growled, pulling at the tie on his sling. "Can't I just be rid of it yet?"

"No," I chided him, stopping his untying and fixing it again. "It needs to heal first. You only have to wear it for a few more days."

"It itches," he complained, frowning as he rubbed against it.

"Stop that!" Slapping his hand away, I smiled, trying not to laugh. "Itching is good, it means you're healing."

"I know that," he exhaled impatiently. "I've been wounded before, ye know."

"I'm sure you have, but this time you have modern medicine input. The little that I know, anyway."

"Oh, ye mean like when ye told me to heat the needle before stitching ye up?" He was smirking wolfishly, baiting me.

"And then you didn't listen? Yeah, I hope you didn't give me some terrible disease. I'm surprised the human race hasn't died out from the lack of cleanliness you all seem to support. Germs are running rampant everywhere."

"What are germs?"

Amused, I stepped away, moving to the bed and sitting down. "How about you tell me about things I don't know instead of us getting into a long discussion about the future and its discoveries?" I jokingly offered, feeling another series of things I wouldn't know how to explain to him surfacing.

"What ye don't know could fill several good sized libraries." He chuckled, crossing the space and joining me, rubbing around where his stitches were.

"Let's not get started on who knows more," I said, holding my hands up in defense. "Seriously, though. Tell me about something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Chewing on my bottom lip, I tried to decide on one thing I wanted to know more about. It wasn't very hard to make a decision. "How about the Knights Templar? All I know about them is what my dad told me and how it related to the Treasure Pit. My knowledge is pretty limited."

"Hmmm." Lying back, he reached out and played with the hair hanging down my back, pausing before answering. "What do ye know about them, then?"

"Well." Stretching out next to him, curling against his side, I hummed with pleasure as he put his arm around me. "They started during the crusades, right? Warrior monks meant to protect pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land."

"Something along those lines, aye." He smiled as he watched me, his fingers still playing with my hair. "They were given space on the Temple Mount as their headquarters."

"Where King Solomon's Temple used to be. Yeah, I knew that, too."

"Get on with the rest of what ye know then." Tristan chuckled, an easiness to him that told me he was relaxed and happy.

"Okay." Pausing to gather all of the information in my mind, I bit my lip, trying to get it all in order. "So, they joined the fight in the Second Crusade. They didn't answer to any king, because only the pope had power over them. More men joined because it was an honor to be called a Templar. They became very rich—oh, I forgot something!"

"What was that?" he asked dreamily, his eyes closing.

"Their base on the Temple Mount. They found something there, didn't they? People in my time discovered tunnels that led to different chambers, but there wasn't anything there to find. The Templars took it with them when they left and set up their home office somewhere else."

"Aye, lassie," he said, clearly impressed. "They did indeed find something there."

"What was it?" I asked, my toes curling in the overwhelming excitement. "Is it the treasure you've been hiding? The Holy Grail? The Ark of the Covenant? Jewels? Gold?"

"Calm down," he snorted. "And yes."

"Yes to what?" When he didn't answer, my eyes grew wide. "Yes to all of it?" It was like my heart had stopped at the revelation. I couldn't even imagine a treasure so large, so special to the world.

"It's an honor to protect the things of the Lord," he said, like that was an explanation to what I'd asked.

"The actual belongings of Christ," I murmured. "I can't believe it. Something like that being found would rock the earth. So many people think it's just a myth."

"It's not just those things found under the Temple Mount in the treasure." Tristan sounded amused, but reverent at the same time. The tone of his voice held a secret of sacrifice and duty, speaking to me of lifetimes spent making sure it was never told. Here he was now, telling me everything. Did he feel guilty about it? Or was he relieved to finally be able to tell someone?

"What else is there?" I could feel it, that same enthusiasm that had blossomed inside me when Dad had begun telling me about the Treasure Pit.

"We fought in the Crusades, but it wasn't just a mission to take back the Holy Land, not for us." Sighing comfortably, he began to weave a story for me, one that had been passed down from his family members, telling the tale of one of his grandfathers. This man had been the first of Tristan's ancestors to join the Knights Templar's cause. He'd left his loved ones behind, abdicating the throne and crown to his brother, while casting aside his traditional Celtic beliefs for a new religion.

"Back then, ye were put to death for not converting," he explained to me. "So the family thought it best to do so, sending their son off to champion their new faith's cause. It was a way for them to survive. They continued to practice things from the Old Religion, but the whole of Éire, as well as the rest of the known world, were feeling the pressure to become Christian."

"How awful," I mumbled. "To be forced to give up your beliefs or die."

"Is it not that way in yer time?" he asked curiously.

"No," I answered, appalled. "We are free to live how we choose. There are lots of different religions, some of them what you would call pagan, others Christian."

"Interesting. The Church doesn't handle legal issues, then?"

"No. Church and state are two separate entities."

Tristan pondered this for a moment while absentmindedly rubbing the small of my back. "Ye come from a strange place, lassie," he finally concluded. "But it sounds like ye've all lived on just fine."

"Thanks," I laughed, rolling my eyes at him. "Keep telling me the story!"

"Aye," he agreed, returning to his memories. "My grandfather joined the Knights and was sent off to fight in the war. He was young and strong, living through many battles and proving himself a worthy adversary. When the Pope declared it was time to invade Spain, he was among the front lines.

"It was there, after ten years of service to the Order, that he learned their true cause in their combat. As the army rode and marched into Spain, he was dispatched to join a small group of Templars on a special mission. As the battle was going on, they stole everything of worth they could get their hands on. They were to confiscate objects of religious significance that weren't Christian, destroy temples to heathen gods, and do their very best to wipe out anything that didn't give praise to our Lord and Savior."

"I thought Spain was a Christian country," I interrupted, confused.

"Not always," he explained gently. "There were many Celts there at one time, as well as followers of the Roman Gods."

"So they went in and took everything that contradicted their own beliefs?"

"Aye. How do ye effectively destroy a religion? By destroying the things it holds sacred. The followers were forced to convert or die, and the artifacts could not be left to rebuild the religion."

"A treasure cursed in blood," I stated, remembering when he'd warned me about the fortune before.

"Aye. They did it all over the world, through all the crusades. The plunder is much more than just Christian artifacts, hidden away to keep them safe. It is the treasures of every religion, swept up to keep their powers from growing."

"Because the Templars believe in truth in all things," I finished for him. "Of course they would have wanted to keep pieces that other faiths found powerful. It would make them strong."

"This is true," he agreed. "But, eventually, there was too much of it, and many men who wanted to use it for their own gain. It was too great for any one being to control."

"So you hid it." Awe filled me, the way I viewed history changing. I'd always thought the crusades were a vicious bloodbath, fought because of one man's personal views or disagreements. This was huge, though. To think that the things archeologists had been searching for, for hundreds of years, were all under Oak Isle, just waiting to transform everything. And it had all been stolen in cold blood, because one man thought his religion was greater than any other.

"What are ye thinking, lass?"

Suddenly, I realized I'd been quiet for some time, visions of knights and their gory missions running through my mind. "Nothing," I sighed. "Just that, well, apparently the King of France was right to think he would be a very rich man when he tried to destroy the Templars."

"Philip, ye mean?" he asked conversationally. "It would seem that yer history of the Templars was right, up until him at least."

The next morning, I woke by Tristan's side, smiling at the way he'd continued to hold me through the night. He hadn't been able to finish telling me about the Templars, his shoulder paining him too much, and we'd gone to sleep. All evening, I'd dreamed of stolen treasure and my descent into the pit, adrenaline pumping through me.

"If ye stare at me much longer like that, ye're going to have to explain to the doctor what I was doing when my stitches came undone." He cracked open an eye, one side of his mouth rising in a groggy smile.

"I like watching you sleep," I declared, kissing him softly on the mouth.

"That's going to end up with my stitches popped as well," he said against my lips, clutching me against him tighter all the same.

A knock at the door interrupted us before he could continue what I might have been willing to let him do, and we rolled apart reluctantly as John Butler entered the room.

"Morning, Captain. Miss." He nodded to both of us, apparently undisturbed by our bedraggled state. "Mr. Kelly located the dress maker for ye, last night. I've been informed that she's awaitin' ye at the brothel."

"Oooo," I snickered. "A wedding dress made by a hooker. How exciting!"

"Mistress Kane is a Madame for the brothel," Tristan laughed. "And the best seamstress this side of the Cape. She'll make ye shine like the sun."

"She takes care of the girls, you mean?" I asked, not sure if I was remembering the job description right.

"Aye," John butted in. "And she was none too happy to be told to wait, Captain. I had to promise her a hefty sum for the work and short notice."

"It's fine," he answered, sitting up and rising from the bed. "Tell her we'll arrive shortly, and with a bottle of whiskey as thanks for her time."

With a curt bob, John left, closing the door behind him, and Tristan sighed.

"Would ye mind getting me a glass, lass? My shoulder is in a right fit this morn." He touched it gently, grimacing as he rolled it a little, trying to loosen the muscles.

"Are you going to be okay to travel into town and do this?" I asked hesitantly. "You seem to be hurting more than you were at first. Maybe I should get the doctor?"

"I'm well," he stated, watching as I crossed the room and poured him a cup of the whiskey. "The shoulder is tightening from healing, that's all. It's stiff to move, but I must if I want to keep any function in it. I can't be a captain who can't raise his arm."

The last part was said jokingly, but I felt a cold wave drip through my stomach. Of course he needed to move it. He needed physical therapy to make sure his muscles all worked right. But there was no way to be certain he'd even been stitched up correctly, let alone someone to monitor his progress. Once again, I cursed my English major, wishing I'd studied something that would have been more useful to me here. Knowing most of the classic literatures and their symbolism wasn't really helping all that much.

Carrying the glass over to him, I watched him drain it in two gulps and hold it back out, motioning for another.

"Just one more," he explained. "To take the edge off."

"I can go by myself," I offered. "You can stay here and rest."

"No," he chortled. "I want to come with ye. Besides, what would it say to the crew, their captain hiding in his quarters like a baby the entire time we're at port? No, I must make an appearance, at the very least to show to the other captains and crews that I'm not a cod fish."

"Why would they think you're that?" I asked, refilling his drink.

"The crew will have told everyone within ears reach of the mutiny," he said conversationally. "Everyone will be looking for the new captain. I imagine they'll be wanting to see ye, too. The woman crewmember. It's not often they see something like that."

A little while later, we were in the long boat, myself trying to row to shore as he hooted at me and my not-so-awesome skills.

"I grew up in the desert, you know," I retorted, somewhat annoyed. "Rowing isn't exactly something I had to practice daily, like you."

"I didn't practice daily," he teased. "But yer right. I have lived by the water for most of my life."

Thankfully, we landed soon after, and were on our way to the brothel. As we walked up the beach, curious heads popped out of tents and windows, looking us over before disappearing back inside. It was early enough that most everyone was asleep, some men even passed out on the sand from their drinking, but our arrival seemed to have sparked interest with the few who were up.

"It's about time!" A woman yelled from the brothel's doorway, her red dress hugging her tightly, the top skirt pulled back into a bustle. Her white hair, which may or may not have been a wig, was piled on her head like a tower, the curls cascading over each other and pinned into place with a flower here and there.

"Madame," Tristan called back warmly, holding up the bottle of whiskey he'd promised. "Do forgive us."

"Come in," she replied amicably, eyeing the offering. As we neared and entered, she turned from us, moving through the tables of the crowded room to the bar, grabbing three glasses. "Ye'll excuse my annoyance," she chattered. "One of the girls was beaten by Conrad's crew last night and he's refusing to pay for her care. Says they paid her fine for her services." Taking the bottle from Tristan, she poured a healthy dose into each tumbler, picking them up and nodding to the table closest to us. "It's one thing to get slapped around," she continued to complain. "But they broke her arm and fractured just under her knee. How am I supposed to turn a profit with that?"

All of the sympathy and concern I'd been feeling fled me at the callous response and I sat down, mouth clamped shut.

"I told her to not let them be so rough," she resumed in a matter of fact tone, shaking her head. "But did she listen? No. They did pay her quite a bit." She fell silent, thinking it over, before raising her glass and downing the entire thing. "No, he has to pay for her. I don't care how much it was she took from them."

"Madame." Glancing at me and noting my somewhat affronted expression, Tristan redirected the conversation to the reason for our visit. "This is my betrothed, Samantha."

Shocked, as if she hadn't even noticed I was a woman, she looked me over with wide eyes. When she spoke, I realized the surprise wasn't because of my gender. "Skinny, isn't she? Don't ye feed her?"

"I'm fed fine," I replied, her blunt appraisal fueling my indignation.

"Samantha is a member of the crew," Tristan interrupted.

"That explains it," Madame said, studying me again. "Too much sea work. Not enough time to put some meat on her."

My face burned at her comments. Never in my life had I been made to feel that skinny was a bad thing. Apparently, it was in the fifteenth century.

"Ye'll be wanting a wedding dress, I presume?" she asked, staring at me hard.

"Yes," I replied firmly. "And some new pants and a shirt, if that's all right."

"Yer man didn't say anything about pants and a shirt," she answered sharply, turning to Tristan.

"Ye will be paid handsomely." He smiled at her, not put off even a little by her rudeness and greed.

"I want half up front." Her voice was commanding and it suddenly occurred to me that she was used to selling women to men for the night, only to get them back beaten nearly to death the next morning. It was a man's world that she labored in. Perhaps I did have some sympathy for her somewhere in me.

Tristan pulled a bag of coins from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table, watching as she counted the total.

"Deal," she finally breathed. "Come with me, lass. We'll get ye measured."

"I'll wait for ye here," he told me, smiling.

Rising, I followed the woman out of the bar and up the staircase, past several closed doors where there was low whispering and giggling. Finally, we entered the double doors of one room and she motioned for me to undress.

"Naked, dear," she ordered.

Obeying, feeling somewhat self-conscious, I watched her pull cords from a desk and a piece of paper, tucking the bag of coins away in a drawer and locking it.

"Come," she commanded, gesturing to a spot on the floor for me to stand. It was in front of a dirty mirror and I suddenly felt a pang of homesickness. I hadn't looked at my reflection in a very long time.

Moving to where she pointed, I took in my reflection, marveling at how I could look so different and the same at once. My hair had grown out past my chest, which I'd already known, but it was strange to see it that length on my frame. My skin was tanned from my year at sea. The cut on my arm had healed, leaving a long white line to tell the story. There was a hardness to my appearance that dulled all traces of femininity. Even my chest, which was untied at the moment, appeared as if it had dwindled somehow, my breasts looking almost foreign to me.

At the same time, those were still my eyes that stared back, my lips that rested against each other. I'd gained some muscle, but my body was mostly the same. There was the scar on my knee from when I'd fallen and skinned it in the pool. My hand had the faded mark from a dog's scratch. I was me, and yet I wasn't.

The Madame worked quickly, measuring me all around before she started asking questions. "What will ye be needing, then?"

"I don't have anything," I said, still studying myself. "Just those clothes over there."

"Yer betrothed will pay for anything you ask, aye?" I could hear the conniving tone to her voice and knew she was thinking of how to get more money out of him, but I was also sure Tristan would pay for anything I wanted.

"I need just the one dress," I said, my attention shifting away from my reflection to her. "And a shift and corset. However, I would like three pairs of pants, long enough to tuck into my boots, and three new shirts. They can be form fitting if you'd like, it doesn't matter to me. I just need something I can cycle through, so I can wash whatever's dirty."

"And yer sure ye only want one dress?" she questioned uncertainly. "Maybe one more, for yer betrothed?"

"It's hard to work on a ship in a dress," I replied with authority. "How long before you can get all of that done?"

"A few days," she answered, shrugging. "I'll get some of the girls to help."

"Wonderful." Moving away from the mirror, an idea suddenly came and I turned back, cheerily. "I wonder, if you'd be willing to try and make something new for me? It's a bit odd, but I think it will help on the ship."

"What's that?" She was instantly suspicious, her brow furrowing.

"Well, I can't be wearing a corset all the time, can I? So I've been going without, to move easier as I do my tasks. I was thinking, if there's no objections to making something to keep my chest supported, I have a design I can draw out for you." Smiling as she pondered my request, I waited for her decision. If she wanted the money, she'd be a fool not to at least attempt it.

"Show me the design." She exhaled, handing over the paper and pen she'd been using to write down my measurements.

Taking my time to make sure I got it right, I drew out a bra, happy that I'd thought to ask her for one in the first place. "It connects in the back, here," I explained, showing her, "and is held up with the straps. The cups are measured to fit exactly."

She examined the sketch curiously, a slight awkwardness to her as she looked me over again. "I've seen something somewhat like this," she confessed. "On one of the Greek slaves. Perhaps I can work one out for ye."

"Thank you," I said happily. "I'll let Captain O'Rourke know that it should be done in a few days."

Crossing the room, I slipped into my clothes, glancing longingly at the mirror once more. How long would it be before I got to see myself again?

The Madame was still working over my drawing as I let myself out, mumbling to herself under her breath. Grinning, I closed the doors behind me, looking over the railing of the balcony to Tristan, who was drinking with John Butler. Concern for him bit at me. He'd never drank this much around me before and I was worried his shoulder was worse than he was letting on. As I came down the stairs, he beamed at me, seemingly fine.

"Did ye order all ye needed?" he asked, nodding as John stood up and left.

"I did, thank you. How is your shoulder doing? You've had an awful lot to drink today."

"I'm going to need a bit more, I think." Tristan winked, merrily. "I'd rather fight Rodrigues again than ride a horse sober at the moment."

"Ride a horse?" The statement left me completely caught off guard. "Why are you riding a horse?"

"Ye mean why are we riding a horse," he laughed. "John's just told me one of the men had a run in with the slaves last night. Their prophet cursed him something good and he's in a right fit about it. We need to go see if we can appease her."

"I am so confused." Sitting next to him, I tried to make sense of it all. "There are slaves here. Don't they have a master, or something?"

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "They were part of the cargo taken from a ship. Once they landed here with the pirates that took them, they scattered. Their camp is a ways out of town, and rightly so. Some of the men still think they should be sold."

"How awful." Wrinkling my nose in distaste at the thought of active slavery around me, I took a drink from my cup that I'd left behind.

"That's not all I mean to ask the priestess about," he continued, quietly. "They're Greek slaves, lassie. Perhaps they know something about the vase, savvy?"

"Oh!" Realization dawned on me and it was suddenly clear why he wanted to go so far out of the way while he was hurt. "Yes, I suppose they might know something."

"My shoulder won't like it so much," he added, frowning, "but methinks it will be worth it in the end."

The horse was loaded and ready to go with enough provisions to last the two of us for an overnight stay. Tristan didn't seem to think that we would be met with any trouble, but he'd given me an extra knife, just in case.

"I don't know how they'll receive us," he'd explained. "And I've heard nothing of Thomas since he and his men disappeared. We wouldn't want to be unarmed, should they be hiding in the jungle and come across us."

"That makes me feel so relaxed," I'd snipped, taking the blade from him.

Now, watching him take another swig of whiskey before mounting, I felt grateful for the small weapon. If he wasn't good and drunk already, he would be soon, judging from the full flask of alcohol he'd placed in his coat pocket.

"Are you sure we shouldn't get a cart for you, or something?" I asked apprehensively as he lifted a foot and placed it in John's hands.

"The cart would be worse," he answered calmly, grabbing the pommel of the saddle with his free hand. "Too bumpy."

"I have to agree with the lady, Captain," John said carefully. "It's much too soon for ye to be riding off without the men. Should there be a fight, ye'll be easier to pick off than flies on a horse."

"Hey!" I said, narrowing my eyes at him. "I'm not that great of a fighter, but I could protect us if I needed to."

"Against a whole tribe of aborigine slaves?" he returned skeptically. "No offense, miss, but ye aren't really the man that fought twenty of 'em and had his tongue severed in the name of love."

"The Greeks aren't aborigines," Tristan spoke, calling John's attention back to him. "Now, help me up."

On the other side of the horse, I held the reins steady, glaring at John as he helped to lift Tristan up. It didn't take more than a few seconds, but I could tell from the grimace on Tristan's face, and the speed at which he redrew his flask, that it had hurt.

"Are you okay?" I asked, concerned.

"Aye." He nodded curtly, dismissing John with his thanks. "Get on, then. In front of me, if ye don't mind. I'll let ye lead him."

Acknowledging his request, I took the saddle, putting my foot in the stirrup, and easily mounted, careful not to bump Tristan's shoulder as I settled into my spot.

"Ye know how to ride a horse then." There was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Good. Let's be on our way."

Easing the animal forward, we started on the road out of town and into the jungle. The brush was thick and the path narrow, strange trees I'd only ever seen in pictures stretching up around us.

"It's beautiful," I said with wonderment, once again struck by how green everything was. "You know, I've never been to a rainforest before?"

"Aye?" Tristan asked, seeming to hold his own behind me, his strong arm curved around my waist. "I've been. A monkey stole my coin purse."

Laughing, I peered over my shoulder at him, not sure whether he was being serious.

"It was here, on Madagascar," he explained. "Two years back. I'd been out with the crew, meeting with the natives. They gave us something to smoke and by the end of the night I couldn't tell up from down. The little bugger climbed right on top of me and took it without me even trying to stop him."

"Sounds like quite the night," I chuckled.

"Oh, it was. But nothing compared to the jungles across the sea. I've never been there, but I've heard tales."

"There must be so much rainforest now," I mused. "They will cut a lot of it down in the future, before it becomes protected. They've always been so interesting to me. Did you know that there are still people who live there now, like the aborigines?"

"I suspect ye mean in yer own time?" He grunted, the horse taking a particularly bumpy stretch of road.

"Yeah," I said, not realizing my mistake. "I saw a picture of them once. A plane had flown overhead and caught it. They all looked so surprised and curious."

He grunted, having already been told what a plane was during one of our earlier conversations. "I can imagine. I'd be the same if a great big thing was hurling through the sky."

"Hey, I just remembered," I said, trying to look at everything as we passed through more foliage. "You never finished telling me about the Templars. I was going to ask this morning, but we had other plans."

"Aye, I was wondering how long it would take ye to fish for the rest of the story." He laughed, a little too loud as a result of all the whiskey, but continued on without stopping. "King Philip of France. What do ye know about him?"

"My history says that he owed the Templars a lot of money, because they'd started the first banks and lines of credit and loaned him funds for a war. He couldn't pay it back, so he had them all arrested under false charges and put to death. He'd intended to take their wealth for himself, but it was gone by the time of their capture."

"It is interesting to hear how things have been twisted over time," he mused. "King Philip was one of the kindest, non-greedy kings France ever saw."

"So he didn't have them arrested?" I asked, baffled. "How could something that large have been misconstrued?"

"I never said he didn't arrest them. He did. He had them put to death as well."

Unsure of what he was saying, I stayed silent, hoping he would continue without prodding.

"The Templars stole and kept the treasures they'd found, thinking that maybe one day the objects would make them strong," he went on. "But eventually, it became clear there was too much, even for them. A division arose among the knighthood. There were men who wanted to keep it hidden away forever, and those who wanted to use the wealth and power to start a new world order. They began to turn from their Christian beliefs, worshiping false idols and the relics they had in their possession. Initiation to the Order had always been a secret affair, but they began their own sect within the company. The True Cross was in their control, as well as other beloved items."

"So there really were things going on," I interrupted, unable to keep myself from contributing. "Defamation of the cross, false gods, all of it."

Tristan's fingers tensed against my stomach, his body stiffening behind me. "There was," he confirmed, a dark edge entering his tone. "But only among those called The Black Knights of the Order of the Templars. It was a name they used to distinguish themselves from those who wished for things to remain the same. There was a plot brewing among the new sect, one that would have changed the face of the world.

"The Knights Templar had seen fit to install spies into this secret group. As the plan began to unfold, we were in place to defeat it. King Philip was also apprised of the situation. The night before the command went out to arrest all the knights, eight Templar ships sat docked in the nearby harbor. The Black Knights were busy performing their secret rites and rituals as the faithful Knights loaded the treasure onto their ships and sailed away into the night. The next morning, every single one of the defecting members were arrested by the king and put to death for their actions."

"He stopped an uprising," I murmured, amazed. "And his name has been tarnished throughout history because of it."

"Methinks he would have wanted it that way. According to the stories from my grandfather who knew him, he was a very kind and religious man."

"Even the Pope thought the knights were innocent," I added.

"What?"

"Dad told me—it was just a few years before I went out to be with him—the Vatican released a statement that the Pope at the time had thought the knights blameless and undeserving of their fate. He'd done nothing to stop it, though, fearing retaliation from France and her allies. It was in his journal, or a letter, or something."

"How strange," Tristan replied, stunned. "Do you think he was on the Black Knight's side?"

"I don't know." Caught off by his question, I thought it over. "Would he have known about the treasure in the first place?"

"That I'm not sure of. I guess the only way to find out would be to go back in time and ask him, aye?" He snickered, and I heard another healthy dose of whiskey pour into his mouth.

"How are you doing?" I asked again. "I'm worried you'll get so drunk that you'll fall off the horse."

"I'm fine, lass." Brushing my concern off, Tristan snorted. "It'll take much more alcohol than this to dismount me."

"How are you going to talk to the priestess prophet lady if you're drunk off your ass?" I laughed, knowing that he was further gone than he thought.

"I'll just show her the vase," he replied simply. "That should get her talking."

"Yeah," I gently teased. "You do that."

"Don't ye want to know the rest of the story?" he asked, switching back to our previous topic.

"The ships sailed away to Oak Isle and they buried the treasure?" I guessed.

"No. They sailed to Scotland. It wasn't until Henry Sinclair traveled to the New World with the Norse that they even thought of hiding it there."

"Ha!" I yelled, surprising him. "That was one of Dad's theories."

"Yer Da was a smart man," he replied appreciatively. "Yes, with the help of the knights, the Norse, and the local tribes of Indians, they built the tunnels and secret door to Oak Isle. Then the Grand Master ordered the hiding to begin."

"You had a new Grand Master, I'm assuming? Since the other one was burned at the stake by King Philip."

"Yes."

The conversation died between us as I thought it all over, the horse following the path easily, moving in and out of the trees until we broke from the line into a natural clearing. A river ran through, stretching across the wide place, and the grass grew high, almost hiding the slave camp from me.

"Is that it?" I asked. From the way everyone had spoken, I'd thought it would be farther away and take more than an hour or two to get there.

"Aye. The slaves stay close to town, to trade. They work closely with the natives here, since they understand the men and their nature. It'll be an hour yet before we've reached them. This clearing is very deceptive when it comes to size."

We picked our way through the grass, moving slowly as we neared the village. When we were about halfway there, men appeared to escort us, Tristan speaking to them in a language I didn't recognize. Whatever he said, they seemed to accept it, not stopping us but walking alongside, talking to each other. Tristan laughed at the conversation, replying in earnest, and the slaves responded in kind, the sound of their merriment stretching out around us.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, amused.

"They said they've never seen a woman with so many clothes on. Or pants. I told them that we couldn't keep ye in a dress if we tried."

Sighing, I just accepted the teasing. It was becoming one of the first comments made about me whenever I met someone new and I was used to staring others down as their gaze inevitably lowered to my masculine leggings.

The closer we got to the village, the more people started appearing from the mud huts, some of them with black skin like the natives, others with the much lighter color of Greeks. The men were all naked from the waist up, with loincloths or things that looked like shorts wrapped around them. The women varied from being bare chested with skirts, having a piece of cloth tied around their torso, or the strange, bra-like things the Madame had mentioned, which did nothing to cover their breasts, but everything possible to hold them up.

The men escorting us called out to their friends and relatives, shouting something that made those in the village turn and run to one hut in particular.

"They've told the priestess we're here to see her," Tristan translated.

She emerged from the tent then, an older woman wearing a long tribal skirt and the bra thing, many necklaces around her neck and braids hanging from her head. Her lip was pierced and there appeared to be a tattoo on her right shoulder. She looked like one of the natives instead of Greek, but it was obvious in the way she held herself that she was the leader of the group.

"Greetings, Mother!" Tristan called, raising a hand in friendship.

"What do you want?" she replied in perfect English.

Seated around the hut's tiny, smoking fire, the priestess, whom the natives called Mother Agnetha, stared us down with a calculating gaze, her back straight and head held high. Behind her, some of the villagers sat, watching on in curiosity as we all waited for her to speak.

Trying not to cough, I resisted the urge to wipe my watering eyes, feeling like doing so would somehow prove to her we were weak. The smoke hung in the air like a fog, swirling around the confined space, touching all in its presence. Mother Agnetha, after finishing her appraisal of us, followed the tendrils with rapt attention, her pupils turning every which way, mouth clamped shut. I didn't know how she was doing it, or which line she was following, because it all seemed to meld into one giant cloud of suffocation to me.

Tristan, who only reeked of whiskey slightly, simply smiled, as if there were absolutely nothing happening and we were just sitting around for fun. He was leaning on his good arm, his sling resting against his shirt and jacket with ease and I suddenly wondered if he could feel the pain from his cut at all.

"The gods say you have come in search of wisdom," Mother Agnetha suddenly rasped out, her smoke-reddened eyes closing in relief. Raising a hand, she motioned to one of the villagers sitting behind her, her form slumping as she rolled her head. "They wish to speak to you. Both of you."

The villager, having retrieved a box of something, presented it to Mother Agnetha, making sure to keep his head low and his eyes on the ground as she took it.

Pulling a short pipe out of the container, she began stuffing a leafy substance into it, her fingers shaking some, a few red hives present on the back of her hand.

"What is that?" I whispered, leaning toward Tristan.

He shook his head, not answering, his eyes trained on the Mother, a shadow of distrust in them.

Having filled the pipe, Mother Agnetha set it in the fire, lighting it with ease, and then raised it to her lips, taking a long drag. The plant she was burning smelled odd and the smoke made me feel somewhat dizzy, but I remained where I was, uncertain that we were about to learn anything of importance.

Sucking in another generous dose of her drug, Mother Agnetha blew the smoke out into the air, swirling it around with her hand, murmuring to herself. This continued on for a good fifteen minutes, the lot of us watching her as she proceeded to ignore everything but the haze and the substance in her pipe.

Lightheaded, I blinked my eyes hard, suddenly feeling the urge to laugh. The odd notion made me panic and I glanced over at Tristan, whose eyelids kept flickering, a dazed expression on his face.

The Mother's mumbling stopped abruptly and she looked straight at me, eyes wide. Shaking so badly that the pipe flew from her fingers, it hit the dirt floor before rolling up against the hut's wall. The tremors moved through to the rest of her body, and kicking out from the force, she collapsed backward, seizing.

Horrified, I moved to help her, but found that I was frozen in place, not even able to open my mouth or blink. I could feel my breath bursting from my nose at a rapid speed, my heart racing as my muscles screamed in protest. It didn't matter, though. I was held in place by some awful contraption I couldn't see or understand.

It was then I abruptly realized the villagers were gone, leaving their priestess to writhe on the floor, her wide eyes somehow still locked on my face, mouth gaping open in a silent scream. Her necklaces were slapping against her, cutting into her skin, strangling her, as her foot fell into the coals and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Struggling, doing everything I could just to blink my eyes, I felt the panic trying to smother me. My body was attempting to shut down since it couldn't do anything, threatening to black out if it wasn't allowed to function as normal. The room was swimming, black dots dancing across my vision. I could feel the screech lodged in my throat, frozen in place like everything else.

And then, in less than a second, everything changed. Mother Agnetha fell still on the ground, her lips turning blue, her body stiff as if she were dead. Her foot was still in the fire, the flesh blackening under its touch.

Then, I blinked. Sweet relief flooded through me and I opened my mouth, a strangled gasp escaping as I fell backward, catching myself with my forearms. Sobs tore from me, more out of liberation than fear, and I closed my eyes, wishing away whatever was happening to me. Everything was silent and still, even the smoke from the fire having seemed to disappear. Slowly, I opened my eyes, shrieking as the face of Mother Agnetha, eyes wide and completely black, her lips still blue, swam into place. She was so close that our noses were almost touching, her body leaning over mine.

"I am Zeus."

Her mouth hardly moved, but the declaration seemed to shake the walls, roaring in my ears with the strength of a freight train. It also sounded like a man's voice, a low bass that permeated my very core.

She crawled away, scuttling in a spider-like fashion to the other side of the room before rising to her full height. She appeared so much taller now, as if her head could reach into the heavens.

"The vase," she—he?—spoke, "was never meant to be opened more than once."

Pushing myself up against the wall, I cowered in front of her, wondering how she had known about the vase if we hadn't told her about it yet.

"I made the vase," the oddly male voice continued, "to punish man. He stole from me, so I gave him a choice, knowing he would choose foolishly. He turned down the chance at being a god for a beautiful woman. Her name was Pandora."

All I could do was nod, pressing myself into the earthen wall. Tristan was nowhere to be seen. Tears leaked from my eyes, the voice raining down on me, giving me no escape.

"Pandora came with the vase, as a gift from me. Man knew not to open the jar. Pandora did not. Left alone, she happily took the lid off, releasing every evil man has ever known."

My skin began itching madly and I scratched without care, digging my nails into the flesh, watching in horror as hives surfaced, blood leaking slowly from the gouges.

"Now empty, it would seem the vase's purpose was finished. History would make it into a box of legend, the story of how sickness and toil arrived on the earth. But I never intended for it to have just one function."

My sobs were now accompanied by small screams, my breath moving so fast that it felt as if my lungs would burst from the effort they were exerting. Still, the voice grew louder, filling me, twisting me in on myself, no matter how hard I pushed away from it. There were scratch marks in the mud wall, where I'd tried to dig my way out. All of my senses told me to flee, and yet, I could go nowhere.

"Man still needed to be punished for his wrongdoings, for believing he was better than the gods." The voice growled, Mother Agnetha standing straight as a rod. Looking at her, her body seemed to quiver, transforming into the shape of a man, but before I could comprehend what was happening, it returned to normal.

My panic and fear were so strong now it felt like I might black out again, my eyes rolling backward of their own volition. Hyperventilating didn't help the situation, either, my chest practically bouncing on itself as I struggled to regain control.

"The empty vase, free from holding all evil, learned to recognize the good in the world, and with that knowledge came its power." Stepping forward, Mother Agnetha's feet shook the earth, the sound of thunder booming outside. "Samantha Greene, you opened Pandora's Box and were found worthy. Knowledge was granted unto you. But beware—the vase has saved Death for those who seek to use it poorly."

My eyes had rolled back into my head, my body jerking strangely as I sucked in one long, painful breath.

"Use this gift wisely."

A sweeping sound wrapped around me and I froze again, feeling as if I were being hurtled through time and space, a massive wind blowing my hair in every direction. With an agonizing bump, my head smashed into the ground and my eyes flew open, a cry of help finally leaving my lips.

The smoke was back, hanging above me like a blanket, and the smell made my insides churn. Suddenly, I was stumbling to my feet, rushing toward the door. Tristan groaned from behind me and I caught a glance of Mother Agnetha lying beside the fire in a peaceful sleep. All of the villagers had gone, which was just as well.

Barely making it outside, I collapsed against the house and rid my stomach of all its contents, heaving painfully as tears streamed down my face. Even after there was nothing left to vomit, I continued to heave, sobbing in hysterics, my ears ringing.

Eventually, I became aware of hands on my back, fingers working through my hair, holding it away from the mess. The sun had set while I was inside, startling me into the realization that I'd been there for several hours, at least six. It had felt like minutes!

Shakily, I turned, expecting to see Tristan, but one of the native women greeted me instead. She said something in her foreign tongue, smiling, but I didn't understand one word of it.

"I'm sorry," I croaked, my throat sore from my experience. "I don't understand."

"She says ye've honored their village with a visit from the gods and she wishes to thank ye." Tristan's voice was muffled and coming from the other side of the hut. Moving slowly, my entire body feeling like it would collapse at any minute, I inched around, finding him in the same position I'd just occupied, all of the whiskey he'd had throughout the day purged onto the ground in front of him.

He looked pale, his blood-smeared shirt not helping to ease my mind. "I think my stitches ripped," he laughed without humor. "Ach, my head!" Raising a hand to his brow, he grimaced, both from aggravating his wound and his massive hangover.

"What happened?" I asked, inching closer, wanting to see how badly he'd been reinjured.

"The drug she was using must have caused a hallucination," he said, pausing for a moment to dry heave again.

"Opium," the village woman said behind me, having followed for some reason.

Jumping, I turned to stare at her and she nodded, motioning to the two of us and the hut we'd just left. "Opium."

"That would do it," I sighed, raising a shaky hand to his shoulder and inspecting the damage.

The woman spouted off another phrase I didn't understand and Tristan laughed, a sour look on his face.

"They want to fix me up," he explained. "And put us in a hut for the night, as thanks." Exchanging more words together, the woman ran off, yelling something to the others.

Staggering away, I slumped against the hut again, feeling as if the world had fallen off its axis and was spinning uncontrollably. "Did you see? I mean, what—"

"Aye," Tristan answered, wearily scrubbing his hand across his chin. "I think we did see."

"How is that even possible? I mean, really, what did you see?"

In astonishing detail, he recounted a tale that was exactly the same as mine. "It was like I was ye," he said uncomfortably. "I wasn't myself. I was allowed to see and hear, but the message wasn't for me."

"Could we have somehow had identical hallucinations?" I didn't want to believe what had just happened. There was no such thing as Zeus, or Pandora's Box. It didn't matter that I'd come through time myself, there had to be an explanation besides this one.

Tristan, studying my face through one, half opened eye, smiled knowingly. "Truth in all things, eh, lassie?"

Swallowing hard, I nodded, still not sure I completely believed or understood what had occurred. "Truth in all things."

"Are ye ready to go?" Our horse was loaded down with food and trinkets, gifts from the people. All we wanted to do was leave, but they had kept calling us back for some ceremony to present us with something else. On the plus side, they'd left us alone through the night and supplied us with several herbs that would aid in the healing of Tristan's shoulder.

"Yes," I sighed gratefully, taking the reins from him and pulling the horse forward.

Mother Agnetha appeared in the doorway of her hut, her foot bandaged and held off the ground. It was the first I'd seen of her since our opium trip and I balked, hoping that she would let us go in peace.

"Wait!" she called, hobbling toward us.

"Great," I moaned under my breath. My head was pounding, Tristan was sore, and I really just wanted to get to the ship.

"You," she said, pointing at me. "Come here."

Rolling my eyes at Tristan, who had the good grace to only smile and not laugh, I crossed the small distance between us with ease. "Is something wrong?" I asked politely.

"Your path is one filled with danger and regret, but your home is not far away. You must look inside yourself to find the things that you search for now." Leering strangely, she tugged me into her embrace, holding me against her tightly. "The pit brings his death," she hissed in my ear. "Fire, pain. You are number eight. You hold the key."

Jerking away from her, I stumbled, falling to the ground.

"Eight," she repeated, her eyes displaying a distant look. "Eight is a magic number." Shaking her head, she returned to normal, watching me sit on the ground as though I were crazy.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, scared. "Who's death? Tristan?" Turning to glance at him, his worried expression did nothing to qualm my fears.

"The message is gone," she replied simply. "It has been delivered. Safe travels to you both." Nodding, she turned and limped away, disappearing into her hut.

"Wait!" I called out, frantic. "That can't be all there is!"

"Samantha." Tristan's voice was gentle, but urging at the same time. "Come. We have to walk a long way and we're both tired."

Jittered by the cryptic fortune, I got to my feet, grabbing onto the reins of the horse like they were the only thing keeping me from floating away.

"It will be all right, lass," he continued quietly, patting the horse on the behind to get him moving. "We'll think on it later. Let us be done with this place." There was an uncomfortable tone to his voice, suggesting he thought the area to be evil.

Following the trail out into the long grass, we departed in silence, leaving the village and its mysteries behind. There was no conversation about what had been done to us, or the prophecy given me. Tristan seemed to be focused on his shoulder, the sling around his arm tied tightly to keep it from moving too much. By the time we'd entered the jungle, we were both covered in sweat and I wished we could have ridden back, but the horse was carrying too much.

"What about the crew member she cursed?" I finally inquired, feeling like I needed to at least say something.

"She's revoked her statement, as another thanks to us. Apparently, she doesn't often deal with the gods actually coming down and inhabiting her body, if at all. She mostly listens to the wind and relays what it is telling her." He grunted, his shoulder bumping against the horse, and let out a long sigh.

"Will ye still go home, then, Sam?" He acted like he was asking if I wanted water or wine with my meal, but I knew he was hiding whatever emotions he felt under the question.

"What do you mean?"

"The vision—the vase brings death to those unworthy. It seems a dangerous gamble."

"It let me through before, didn't it?" His questions surprised me and my own musings began to form.

"Yes," he replied uncomfortably. "But it also said ye were granted knowledge. Ye wanted to know what the treasure was, aye? So it sent ye here to find out. What will ye want to know if ye open it again? What if it doesn't think yer worthy enough to find out?"

The beginnings of a response stuck in my throat and I swallowed, not sure what to say. What would I want to know? How to get home was the most likely answer. But what if I somehow angered the vase by wanting to go back to where it'd taken me from?

"And not just that," he continued hesitantly. "But I don't think I could go with ye if ye did go."

"Why not?" The confession pulled me from my own thoughts in alarm.

"I've killed men," he stated. "Robbed them. Told my fair share of lies. If I were to open that vase, who's to say that it wouldn't suck the soul right out of me?"

"You are a good man," I argued. "Everything you've done has been for a greater cause than just your own welfare."

"But ye don't get to judge, do ye?" He smiled sadly, turning his attention to the road, mumbling to the horse every now and then.

My thoughts tumbled about as we walked, the dilemma growing inside me as I tried to decide what it was I really wanted. Going home felt like the only reasonable solution to my dilemma. How was I supposed to stay in this time forever? What would I do? Things were so unusual, women were viewed so differently. Sure, I was a member of the crew, but I was still a woman. They wanted me in the kitchen, they'd said so themselves. And what about Tristan?

Glancing over, I watched him, his eyes on the ground, lost in his own inner struggles. What would it be like, if I went and he stayed here? We were going to be married in a matter of days. Could I abandon what would be the only family I had left?

And what was all this about eight being a magic number? Who was the pit going to kill? What fire, what pain? Everything the priestess told me felt like it was colliding together into a giant, mysterious ball of nothing.

Sighing, I rubbed my neck, still feeling a little hungover from my drug session the day before. We'd learned so much and somehow continued to know nothing.

"Will ye still marry me, Samantha? Knowing that I can't go with ye?" He stopped in the road, halting the horse, and moved in front of me, staring me down with a carefully guarded, blank expression.

"How can you even ask me that?" I asked, feeling my heart sink as I looked back.

"Ye only agreed to do it after I said I'd follow ye," he stated calmly. "Now that there might be a chance of our parting, I want to know where ye stand."

"Where I stand?" Anger pricked at me and I tried to shove it away, knowing that it was just a reaction to his words and not his meaning. "I love you, Tristan. Do you not know that?"

"Aye, I do," he replied softly. "But I know ye also love yer time and yer home. There are things there that ye can never have here, things I can never give ye, no matter how much I wish to."

"My home has been with you for the past year," I said, eyes watering suddenly. "I've shared everything with you. Why would you even think I wouldn't want to marry you? Because of one thing that may or may not work out?"

"I simply require to know if ye've changed yer mind." He was remaining calm somehow, watching me expressionless as I attempted to keep everything under control. It was all too much for me to handle at once.

"Have you changed yours?" I asked timidly. What if he was so disappointed about having to stay that he wanted nothing to do with me anymore? What if he'd only truly meant to marry me after I'd told him when and where I was from?

"I love ye with all my heart, and always will." His tone was even, but I caught the glimpse of saddened, heart breaking emotion that flashed in his eyes, hastily covered by indifference.

What did I want? Struggling against my overwhelming emotions, I thought about my life up to this point, examining everything that had ever happened to me. My mother's smile played before my face while Dad's laughter echoed in my ears, their deaths still stinging deeply. Going back was the right thing, even if I had to do it alone. How could it be wrong to return to the time that creation had put me in? Logically, I shouldn't exist here. But here I was, with only one way back and one question to answer. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself, knowing just what I desired.

"I won't go without you," I said, my voice catching. "If that means we put the vase away and never talk of it again, then that's what will happen. If you don't even want to try, for fear that one or both of us will be harmed, then smash it to bits right now and leave it here for all time."

He was on me in an instant, fingers tangled in my hair, lips pressing against mine in a happy desperation I'd never felt from him before. Stumbling off the road, tripping over foliage and roots, I held him tightly to me, kissing with just as much strength and passion he was showing me. Finally, my back rested against one of the great trees and he slowed, running his tongue over my bottom lip, his breath washing over my face with comforting warmth.

Everywhere he touched hummed in ecstasy, my eyes drooping lazily closed as he nipped down my neck, his hand brushing down my side and sliding under my shirt. It felt as if the world had stopped with us, the heat intensifying the burn we were creating all on our own.

"I love you," I whispered, my own palms sliding under his shirt and tracing over his skin.

"Damn that opium and my stitches tearing," he groaned as I lighted across his cut.

"Does it hurt?" Carefully, I gingerly prodded, watching his face as he grimaced.

"Aye, it does. Almost as bad as the hurt from not having ye right this moment." He pressed against me and I could feel how badly he wanted me.

Groaning, I pulled his mouth back to mine, exploring and tasting to my heart's content. It was like fireworks were exploding all around me, my skin tingling from their popping, basking in the light of newfound paradise.

"I can work around your shoulder," I mumbled, feeling for his belt buckle. "Do you have a—" Stopping short, I laughed once, pushing him away slightly. "Of course you don't."

"Have a what?" he asked, eyes burning with hunger and lust.

"A condom."

"I don't mean to sound impatient," he replied, grinning wolfishly, "but, perhaps now is not the best time to be telling me about the future, savvy?"

"A condom helps prevent pregnancy." Trying to figure out the days in my head, I thought back to my last cycle. How long had it been? Normally, I was really good about keeping track because it took so much more effort to take care of in this time. There were no disposable sanitary items and I'd been trying to hide the fact I was a woman. Each month had required careful calculation and planning. But, with my injury during the pirate battle, and then Tristan's own fight, I'd lost count.

"Oh." His face had acquired this blank look, like he suddenly didn't know what to do.

"Haven't you ever used birth control before?" I asked, curious. "Surely you didn't sleep with all those women and never wonder how they kept from getting pregnant?"

"They were taking herbs that prevented it," he replied, somewhat defensive. "I wouldn't leave a lass alone if she carried my child."

"I didn't think you would," I said gently. "Do you know where I could get some of these herbs?"

Surprised, he pulled further away, looking at me in interest. "Do ye not want a child, then?"

"Not right now," I laughed. "A pirate ship doesn't exactly seem the place to have one, either. I don't want to stay somewhere without you while you're off gallivanting around the globe. Besides that, I'm still so young."

"Ye're far past the time to start bearing children in this time, lassie," he chuckled.

"Well, do you want kids?"

This was an odd conversation to be having in the middle of a rainforest, our clothes askew and hanging half off us.

He stared at me for a moment, searching my face, his smile growing. "Aye, that I do. And I want ye to have them. Yer right, though. Now is not the time." Sighing, he straightened my shirt, leaning in as he brushed his lips against mine. "I'll ask the Madame about the herbs."

"Thank you." I wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that we could try being careful right now, but common sense told me not to be stupid. Just one time without anything could give us a baby—a wonderful, half him, half me baby—and our current arrangement wouldn't support that.

He tugged his pants up from the small distance they'd fallen, tightening his belt, and groaned, looking at me in longing. "Our handfasting could not come sooner."

"Why is that?" I laughed, allowing him to take my hand and lead me to the road, where our horse had set to munching on one of the bushes.

"Ye'll finally be mine, body and soul, Sam. It's all I could ever have asked for in this world."

The day had arrived, and my wedding dress was laid out across the bed in the brothel, a pretty light blue design that took my breath away.

"The captain will like it, aye?" Madame asked, smiling warmly at me. Her spirits had improved vastly from the last time I'd seen her, helped in part from all the money we'd paid her. She, along with one of her girls, were here to help me change and get ready for the handfasting.

"He will love it," I confirmed. "Thank you, so much."

"I sent yer other items out to the ship," she stated conversationally. "That contraption ye had me make is quite the thing!"

"Oh, yes!" the girl agreed. "It was most peculiar, but once finished worked nicely."

"I'm glad you thought so." Smiling, I tried to keep from laughing. It would be a while yet before bras became a mainstream clothing item. As long as the time preferred women with tiny waists and large breasts, corsets would still be used to force us all into a uniform shape.

"Let's get ye in the bath," Madame instructed, motioning to the tub that was already filled by the fireplace.

Removing my clothes, I did as she ordered, sliding into the lukewarm water with a moan. In just a few hours, I would be Mrs. Tristan O'Rourke. We would sail to the Caribbean and move on from there, always together.

"Captain O'Rourke also asked me to talk to ye about keepin' the babes away?" Madame sat down behind me, pouring water over my head and lathering soap into the strands of hair, moving quickly but gently. It smelled like roses and lavender oil, relaxing me even further.

"Yes," I mumbled. "He wondered if you had any herbs I could take."

"I do." At her word, the girl went to the desk drawer, pulling out a vial with a stopper in it and bringing it over. "Ye'll want to take it every day, to make sure the mixture is effective. So long as ye don't miss, there will be no babe."

"We use them here," the girl said. "They work wonderfully."

"Where can I get more, when this runs out?" Curious, I took the bottle, staring at the oil inside.

"It comes from a plant grown here, on the island," Madame said. "But there are other plants in different places. When ye run out, there will be more to be had."

"Will it work for tonight?" I hadn't thought about needing to have something before my wedding night. The pill didn't start working for a whole month—was this like that?

"It will do the trick," she answered confidently.

After she'd finished bathing me, she set me by the fire to dry, leaving for a moment to check on other things in the brothel. Naked, I basked in the warmth, trying to shoo the nervous and excited butterflies from my stomach.

Tristan was probably getting ready himself, ordering the crew about as we prepared for a beach ceremony. Father Torres had agreed to stand in, even if what we were doing lacked any Christian significance.

Madame Kane returned, directing me into my shift, and the preparations began anew. What felt like hours passed before I was placed in front of the looking glass, my hair curled and pinned back, one thick, long strand brushing down across my shoulder. I'd been given pearls to wear that matched the white lace accents on the dress. The gown itself was the most beautiful thing I'd ever worn and I just stared at myself, taking it all in.

It was low cut, the neckline drooping far enough to show a good portion of my chest, but not so much as would be frowned on in this time. Each sleeve draped from my shoulders, the fabric bunched up around my elbows. The blue cloth stretched tightly around me, matching the shape of the corset underneath, and belled out into a good-sized skirt.

"Ye look beautiful, miss," the girl said in awe, and Madame Kane beamed.

"Ye do. Now, wait here, and I'll go see if they're ready for ye." Turning, she ushered the girl from the room and locked me inside, shouting something at a person downstairs.

Glancing at myself in the mirror, I smiled, instantly seeing the way my nose crinkled, just like Mom's always had.

"What do you think?" I asked her, imagining her sitting on the bed.

"You look beautiful, Sammy," she replied, a little teary. "I'm so happy for you."

"And you, Dad?" He was standing by the door, hands in his pockets.

"You picked good, Samantha. He's a lucky man."

The tears in my eyes threatened to slide down my face, and I wiped it hastily away, hoping that they would be with me in spirit, if at all possible.

"All right, miss," Madame called, opening the door and shattering my imagined reunion. "Are ye ready?"

Turning, I grinned, smoothing the front of my skirt nervously. "Yes, I am."

The waves kissed the shore gently, washing away some of the white flowers that had been sprinkled out around us. Tristan and the others had explained this wasn't exactly a traditional handfasting, since we had no priest and priestess of the Celtic religion to officiate. Father Torres still stood before us, cheery as he welcomed those who had come to witness the act.

"We gather here to celebrate the love of two people," he declared loudly. "Who have supported one another and toiled together. It is their wish to join today, in front of all of you, and forever remain one."

Tristan, who had finally been able to get rid of his sling, was wearing his dressier clothes, which had been washed and pressed, the red coat complementing the color of his skin. His smile was infectious, causing anyone who looked upon him to start beaming at everyone else. His eyes stayed trained on me the entire time, hand grasping mine tightly.

"Do you have vows?" Father Torres asked us, turning his attention from the crowd.

"Aye," Tristan answered, a nervous cadence to his speech. "We do." Clearing his throat, he squeezed my fingers and smiled. "Samantha. Ye know how much I love ye, and I stand before ye and all creation on this day to make ye a promise. It's not something I do lightly, but with my whole heart. Never shall ye be alone again, without a family to guide and care for ye. I promise to do for ye as a husband should, to always be there when ye need me, and to take ye as ye are without fail. Ye are my equal and shall always remain so. Till the end of all time, may my soul be joined with yers."

"Oh lo bonito," Father Torres sighed. "Muy bien, que era perfecto! And you, señorita?

Grinning, I took a deep breath, steadying myself before speaking. "Tristan. When the time comes for people to tell our story, they might say that we met by accident or luck. I don't think it was luck that brought me to you, but fate. I stand here now, ready to sacrifice all I have for you, and I do it without hesitation. You have saved me from the horrors of this world and myself. I promise to do the same for you, should you need it, and to always be your right hand. I swear to love you without complaint or distress, just the way you are. We are different people, but we share one heart. So long as I am alive, you will be in me and I in you, no matter the time."

"Precioso," Father Torres breathed, watching us joyfully. He stared for a moment, simply beaming before jumping suddenly. "I almost forgot!" he told the laughing crowd, blushing furiously. Laying a chord over our joined hands, he wrapped it around our wrists and tied it, a wide smile on his face. "Do you do this of your own free will, Capitán?" he asked Tristan.

"I do." He chuckled, crushing my fingers, the tie around our wrists swaying gently.

"And you, señorita?"

"I do." I couldn't look away from Tristan, feeling my elation spreading uncontrollably.

"Marriage is an ordinance ordained by God," Father Torres continued, placing his hand on top of ours. "This knot will hold your love together in this decree for a year and a day, at which time you may be joined together with rings, if you so wish." Glancing between the two of us, he laughed, tossing his head back and looking at the sky for a second. "It is clear that you will both wish to remain joined!" We hooted with the crowd and he waved his hand to hush everyone, his joy for us like a light to everyone who saw him. "Gracias, mis amigos. It was an honor to be a part of the ceremony. May God bless your union till you both shall part." Raising his voice to address those in attendance again, which was mostly the crew and the women from the brothel, he called out jollily. "May I present Capitán O'Rourke and his new wife! Kiss your bride, señor!"

To loud cheers and catcalls, Tristan swept me into his arms and crushed his mouth against mine, claiming me completely.

The music was loud and jovial, everyone dancing in a heated crush on the main floor of the brothel. The tables had been moved to the sides, alcohol flowing freely from the taps, and it seemed that our marriage was a good enough reason for everyone to participate in sexual activity, couples sneaking away to the rooms every few minutes.

Tristan held me tightly around the waist, spinning me, laughter booming from his mouth. We'd danced every dance, leading the group in celebration of the event. My slip was soaked with sweat and my feet ached beyond all belief, but I was filled with such a swell of happiness that I didn't even care.

"It's hot," I yelled over the noise.

"Are ye ready to leave, love?" His fingers brushed across my cheek, wiping a stray curl from my skin, and I felt the rush of wanting that had been building all night swell.

Nodding, I swayed against him, moving with the music unconsciously and feeling the rum I'd been drinking a little.

"Let's go home," he chuckled, eyes flashing with excitement.

"Home? You mean the ship?" I asked, letting him push me through the crowd.

"Aye," he called as the racket increased. "Where else?"

The air outside was warm and humid, but it felt like a cool breeze as it washed around us, our feet hurrying over the ground like thrilled school children, laughter bouncing between us as we made our way across the beach. The moonlight bathed everything in a soft glow, fires settled in the sand here and there, other crews seated around them, having their own entertainment for the evening.

Scooping me up, he set me in the long boat, hopping in after me and grabbing the oars. "It's wonderful to be able to use my arm again," he said, grinning.

"I can imagine." Everything seemed so peaceful, yet energy charged at the same time. The buzz from the alcohol warmed me considerably and I still felt flushed from all the dancing. As we moved across the water, the air cooled my sweat soaked clothes, instantly causing my flesh to pebble.

"Are ye cold, lass?" Tristan asked, concerned.

"No," I answered, shaking my head. "Just happy I think."

"Oh really? And why is that?" There was a seductive tone to his question and I blushed again, finding myself wondering what adventures were awaiting me tonight.

"I don't know," I chuckled. "Other than the fact that we're married."

"Aye, that we are, Mrs. O'Rourke." The name sent tingles down my spine and I grinned even wider.

When we reached the ship, the crewmembers standing watch threw down the rope ladder and helped me aboard, wishing us congratulations on our new pairing. Tristan didn't seem to want to tarry, grabbing my hand and tugging me along to the Captain's Quarters.

"What will ye have to drink?" he inquired, moving to the desk and motioning to a few bottles that had been put out for us.

Exhausted, I flopped down on the bed, giggling a little from happiness before I sat up and stared at him. "You know what I really want?" I asked seriously.

"What?" He beamed at me, his face still flushed from dancing and rowing out to the boat.

"An ice cold root beer and a churro," I chuckled. "It's a sweet, non-alcoholic drink and sugary treat."

"Why those?" Curiosity filled his eyes.

"I don't know," I mused. "I'm starving, so that's probably part of it. But, as soon as I thought of eating, that's what popped into my mind. I had root beer all the time, but churros were something different that I didn't get very often."

"A special treat for a special occasion?" Grinning, he crossed to the door and cracked it open. "Would ye mind bringing us something to eat?" he asked a nearby crewman. "My wife says she's starving." He glanced at me as he called me his wife, a softness to his eyes that revealed how truly pleased he was at being able to give me such a title.

"Aye, Captain," came the reply, a muted humor in the man's tone. "I'll see what I can find."

Closing the door, Tristan leaned against it, folding his arms, positively beaming at me. "Are ye happy, lass?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because now yer stuck with me for the next year," he answered playfully, standing up and coming to the bed.

"Then I guess I'd better let you sit by me," I responded in turn, patting the mattress.

Sitting beside me, we were interrupted when the crewman returned with a tray of food from the galley, placing it down on the desk. "Evening, Captain. Mrs. O'Rourke," he said teasingly, tipping his head toward us before leaving.

"Do you mind?" I asked, rising to see what had been brought.

"Not at all." He stood as well, unbuttoning his coat and sliding out of it, laying it over the foot of the bed.

Crossing to the desk, I examined the ham and fresh fruit that had been brought us, gasping in surprise. "This isn't from the galley!" Turning to look at him, I caught sight of his happy smile again.

"Aye, it is. I had the padre prepare it this morning for us to eat tonight. It's been sitting by the coals all day to keep warm. The fruit came from the island."

"It smells delicious!" Mouth watering, I sat down in his chair and picked up some fruit, moaning as the taste filled me. "It is divine. Here, come have some."

Holding out a piece for him, I chewed contentedly, watching as he strode over and ate it from my hand, his lips brushing over my fingers.

"Could you help me?" I asked, suddenly reminded of my hunger for other things. "With my laces, that is. This dress is beautiful, but it's also a bit heavy."

"Of course." He assisted me to my feet, moving me so my back faced him. As he undid the laces, I ate a small piece of ham, sighing as the top layer of my clothing loosened.

Sliding out of the sleeves, I let the gown fall to the floor, staying where I was so he could undo the corset as well. Finally, all was left was the slip and he slid his arms around me, hugging me to him.

"Ye are beautiful, ye know?" he mumbled in my ear, caressing my hips.

Twisting in his embrace, I gazed into his eyes happily. Instead of responding, I took the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head and added it to the pile of clothing at our feet. His chest was warm under my touch, his wound now fully closed, though still healing some. The herbs the slaves had given us sped up his recovery time exponentially. It was now a red, puckered line, the stitches still in to help it remain closed. We would remove them in a few days, once we were sure there was no danger of it splitting back open again.

"Will it bother, ye, the scar?" he asked softly, allowing me to trace it with my fingers.

"Why would it bother me?" I asked, surprised. "If anything, it proves how far you're willing to go for me. Every time I see it, all I can think of is how much you risked. And, if it's any consolation, I imagine it will probably always look like this, giving you some sort of bragging rights among the men."

Laughing, he grasped my hand, lifting it from the wound to his lips, kissing it gently. "I suppose it could become quite the interesting subject of talk," he agreed.

The warmth in my belly was spreading throughout my body, a mixture of desire and rum, and I smiled, guiding his lips to my own, pressing against him gladly. Not needing any more encouragement than that, one arm tightened around my waist, the other brushing across my breast as it moved down my slip.

My hands explored his chest and abdomen as the kiss deepened, our breath catching as we shifted together. He felt so strong and sure, an anchor in a world that felt so riled and strange. His skin was smooth, marred by a scar here and there, but perfect to me. Each mark told the story of who he was, who he had grown into over time. Just thinking of all the things he'd done, for me and others, and what he would most certainly do in the future, made my heart sing his praises.

His touch sent my pulse racing, my skin tingling as he pulled the slip upward, uncovering me completely. He backed away then, just enough to study me, a smile on his face. His appraisal didn't make me feel self-conscious, though. I stood before him, completely comfortable with my appearance, knowing that he wouldn't ever say a word against me.

"I've never seen anyone so perfect," he stated softly, looking me up and down. "Truly." Loosening his belt, he let his pants fall and removed the rest of his clothing, allowing me to see him as he was for the first time as well.

There were no words to describe him as I took in the sight, feeling a little in awe of his physique. There were scars I'd never seen before, more stories for him to share at a different time, and the hair on his legs stood out against his skin.

"You are all mine," I finally said, moving so I could touch him again.

"Aye, that I am. Heart and soul."

Sweeping me up into his arms, his mouth met mine once more, rough and full of desire as he carried me to the bed, lying me down gently. My fingers tangled in his hair as he held himself over me, his lips trailing over my cheek and down my neck, teeth nipping at my collarbone as they passed by. Everywhere he caressed seemed to explode on impact, my body reacting to him like it never had before. It felt like I would simply fly away on a wind of pleasure and excitement.

All through the night, wave after wave took me, the entire earth disappearing around us. All there was left was him and I, together, learning and loving each other without complaint or distrust. We were one person, bound together for far longer than just a year and a day.

The ship rocked among the waves and I startled awake, suddenly aware of a sound I'd never heard before. Tristan remained asleep beside me, his eyes closed peacefully in dreams. Not wanting to wake him, I rolled out of the bed, pulling the pants I'd worn that day back on and sliding a shirt over my head.

Leaving the room, I closed the door quietly, looking up at the starry night sky and smiling. The air was salty and fresh, cool against my skin as it moved over the open ocean.

"Is everything all right, mum?" James Abby asked from the helm.

"Yes," I answered, moving toward him. "I just heard something strange—there it is again!"

It was an odd whiney sound, mixed in with the sounds of the water, like a far off cry of some kind.

"Aye," James replied knowingly. "It's the whales. They're singing for us."

"Whales?" I gasped in delight. "Are they where I can see them?"

He nodded to the right side of the ship and I hurried to its edge, looking over into the dark water. It was hard to see at first, but I thought I could make out their shapes, swimming alongside us, their backs breaking the surface and sliding under with incredible strength and ease. Their song would break with them, filling the night air for just a few seconds before disappearing beneath the waves, where I could no longer hear it as well. Suddenly, a little ways out, a whale breached, its body twisting in the air as it crashed downward.

Calling out in glee, I pointed, thrilled to have witnessed such a thing. "I never would have seen something like this at home," I said to James offhandedly, still focusing on the water.

"Ye mean the desert?" he replied casually.

"Yes. Wait, how did you know I came from the desert?" Twisting, caught off guard by his statement, I stared at him with wide eyes.

He glanced around, checking to make sure there was no one else nearby, and cleared his throat. "The captain told me. Said ye were from a place very different from our own."

"What else did he say?" I asked cautiously.

"Ye've come a long way, Mrs. O'Rourke." The hushed tone of his voice confirmed it to me. Tristan had told him where—when I was really from.

"Why did he tell you?" I questioned quietly, turning back to the water.

"He means to ask the Grand Master for reassignment. I believe he wants to settle down with ye, somewhere. Ye've been married for a month, has he not said anything to ye about it?"

"No," I sighed. "But he wouldn't, would he? Not until he was sure it was going to happen."

"Aye, that might be the truth," he agreed. "He only told me because I refused to let him tell me how Oak Isle works without his explanation of why he wanted to leave." He was continually glancing every which way, watching for anyone who was coming near enough to hear, falling silent if he thought someone too close. After a pause, he spoke again, with hesitation. "He—he told me just enough to find it, if I needed. He won't reveal the door until he's ordered. He hasn't told ye, has he?"

"No." For some reason, I felt a little put out, wondering where Tristan got off telling my secret to other people. But, James Abby was a member of the Order and obviously someone he trusted. I couldn't really hold it against him, not if he were trying to secure our future. Of course James would have wanted to know what was so different about me, why I couldn't just remain on the ship as I had been. "He told you about the vase, then?" I asked, wondering just how much he knew.

"Aye." Glancing back, I saw him cross himself quickly, kissing his fingers and raising them to the heavens. "I can't imagine what it must have been like."

"I don't remember," I answered evenly. "So I guess we'll never know."

"Samantha?" Tristan's voice called softly from the door to our room and I responded in kind.

"Isn't it beautiful?" I smiled at him as he approached, the whales still singing.

"It is," he agreed, taking me around the waist. He'd come out in nothing but his pants, his belt loosely buckled to keep them up. "I suppose I can forgive them for stealing ye from my bed," he chuckled, kissing my forehead.

"We'll be making port tomorrow afternoon," James spoke up. "Aye, Captain?"

"Aye," Tristan confirmed. "One last stop before we head to the Caribbean."

"I'll adjust the course to fit then," he said. "Maybe I can save us a few wee hours, eh?"

"We will be much obliged, I'm sure," Tristan said, looking over at him. "Thank ye for yer help, James. I heard ye speaking with my wife."

"I apologize, Captain," came the mumbled response.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," Tristan added smoothly. "I had just wished to tell her myself."

"When were you going to do that?" I asked, eyebrow raised. "After you'd bought the house?"

He laughed, squeezing me gently. "Aye, lassie. I didn't want to get yer hopes up. The plan was to tell ye after I'd been reassigned. Ye aren't mad, are ye?"

"I just don't understand why you want reassigned in the first place," I sighed. "I thought you loved doing this."

"Loved? Not really, no." He snorted, looking out over the water. "It's a dangerous business, and I'm not one to enjoy killing other men because of it. If I can get ye and I off this ship and into a real home, then I'll be happy."

"Won't you miss the sea, though?"

"Maybe I'll become a fisherman," he replied thoughtfully, making me snicker. "It will work out how it will, love. Ye need not worry about it."

"What happened?" I asked in horror, looking at the tiny coastal town that was aflame in front of us.

"Stay here," Tristan ordered sternly, climbing into the one long boat that was going ashore. "I'll find out what I can."

They lowered down onto the water and began rowing toward land, the rest of us standing on deck watching. It appeared that every building in port had been lit up, the smoke funneling into the sky mercilessly, trees and everything feeding the blaze.

"Who would have done this?" I asked no one in particular.

"How could they have done it, ye mean," a voice said quietly beside me.

Glancing over, I saw Adam Kelly, a grim expression on his face as he nodded for me to follow him away from the crew.

"What do you know?" I pressed, as soon as we were out of earshot.

"This port was protected by the Order, savvy?" he said, apparently aware that I knew what he was talking about. "They shipped things through here."

"What are you saying?" Confusion brushed through me, along with a sense of dread I couldn't quite explain.

"How did someone come in and burn it to the ground if there was a whole army of Templars inside, eh?" he explained, staring over my shoulder at the men. "They never left it unprotected. There were enough of us to stop a man of war, if need be. Where did they all go?"

A sick feeling was forming in the pit of my stomach and I glanced back at the crew and the town past them. Where indeed?

Several hours passed without Tristan and the men he'd taken ashore returning. All I could do was make dinner for the men, trying to keep them satisfied as they complained about being stuck on board.

"Probably the Spanish," one of them was saying around his full mouth. "Trying to stomp us out, eh?"

"It could have easily been the English for that matter," another man butted in, rum trickling down his chin. "They've both been settin' up privateers to try and ensnare us. The French, too."

"If it had been an official government," Alfonso clipped, dishing out someone else's plate. "There would be bodies hung, no? A warning to other pirates that the same fate awaits them. So, tell me, where are the bodies, señor?"

The men fell silent at that, exchanging looks of discomfort between themselves.

"Are ye suggestin' it was one of our own?" a voice piped up from the back. "Why would anyone do that?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" I said, focusing on the coals. "What could make an entire ship of men decide to lay waste to a town that welcomes them without fail? Sells their goods for a fair profit?"

"I've heard of men having issues at port, but nothing ever amounting to this," another man spoke uncertainly.

"Captain on deck!" one of the watchmen yelled from above.

"Excuse me," I muttered to Alfonso, wiping my hands on my pants and hurrying up the stairs.

Tristan, covered in black soot and wearing a tired expression, smiled weakly at me as I approached.

"Did you find out anything?" I asked, impatient for answers.

"James, go find Mr. Kelly and have him meet us in my quarters," he commanded as Mr. Abby and John Butler climbed on board as well, two more men behind them. "John, if you wouldn't mind following us?" Taking my hand, he led me across the ship, up the stairs, and into our room, sighing as the door closed.

"Adam told me this was a Templar protected port," I started immediately. "What happened? And why didn't he go ashore with you?"

"One of us always stays with the ship, mum," John explained. "In case something should occur among the others."

"Oh." It was a good idea, I guess. There would always be someone to continue the work.

A knock at the door sounded and two other knights entered, grim expressions on their faces.

"So, what happened?" I questioned again.

"All of the items we were supposed to pick up are gone," Tristan stated. "Apparently, there was some type of uprising among the Order here and they split pretty even down the middle. Only one of them was still alive by the time we got to them.

"They fought with each other, but the Black Knights won. Their leader insisted on burning the town, as a message to any other knights coming through. My name was mentioned specifically."

"The Black Knights? I thought they were all killed off in the thirteen hundreds." This wasn't making any sense at all.

"They were, for the most part," James spoke up. "But the break has always been there. Things go well for a while, and then someone decides to start the rebellion again. The last group surfaced over one hundred years ago, but was destroyed. I had no idea there was a new sect forming."

"I didn't either," Tristan sighed. "But I'm not surprised, given who's leading them."

"You found out who it is?" A sinking sensation fell through my stomach. I knew just what kind of man would burn an entire village, simply to send a message to Tristan alone.

"Aye," John mumbled. "He left a signature—cut into the chest of the last surviving knight."

"Thomas Randall," Tristan and I stated together.

"He's going to go for the treasure," Adam spoke, a surety to his voice that made my skin crawl.

"He'll stop at the ports and steal it all," James agreed. "We must leave now if we hope to catch him."

"Let us pray that no one else is harmed," Tristan added solemnly. "There are many innocent people burning on the beach at this moment."

The air hung heavy around us, anger and frustration easily visible on everyone as the statement waited for some type of answer.

"We can't just leave them," John said uncomfortably.

"What do you suggest? We bury them all? That would take days." Adam pursed his lips, staring at the ground in contemplation. "There's nothing we can do for them."

"Aye," Tristan agreed with remorse. "We have to abandon them. Hopefully, the next crew will be kinder than us."

"It's not your fault you can't stay," I interrupted them. "You have to leave to make sure this doesn't happen again."

"Ye are right, lassie," Tristan said, smiling sadly. "Weigh anchor then, Mr. Butler. Get the crew moving."

In the months that followed at sea, it seemed that everyone was worried over the pirates that had burned the port to the ground. The rest of the men didn't know why it had happened, or who had done it, and it wasn't sitting well with any of them. We seized four ships in the time it took to reach Tortuga, and, in each instance, we kept looking over our shoulders, waiting for the bloodthirsty brutes to show up and torch us.

As the town came into view, obviously safe from destruction, there was a collective sigh heard from everyone on board.

"Home is safe," a man next to me muttered. "Thank the heavens. I was fearful we'd find her in shambles. Do ye think they heard about what happened?"

"We might be the first ship to bring the news," I replied. "I'm sorry, did you say this was your home?"

"Aye," he answered, grinning widely, his gums showing signs of scurvy. "Every pirate's home! I pray that if I finally fall under the sword or hangman's noose, the Lord sends me back here instead of to heaven!"

"I'll hope so, too," I laughed.

"We'll depart by order of rank!" John Butler yelled over the din of excitement. "Get the ship in to port, perform yer duties well, and we'll all be ashore in no time!"

The men jumped into action, clearly wanting to go ashore, but I made my way to the railing, marveling at the hue of the water and the island itself. Everything was alight with color, like someone had snapped a picture and cranked up the density.

"We won't stay long," Tristan said from behind me, causing me to turn. "If Thomas is attempting to steal the treasure, he won't do it just from port. He'll go straight to the island and tear it apart if he has to."

"What are you going to do when we finally catch him?" I asked, swallowing hard. The expression on his face was answer enough and I looked away, sick to my stomach suddenly.

"Do ye not agree that it needs to be done?" he questioned, brushing my hair from my back and over my shoulder.

"I do," I laughed humorlessly. "That's what makes me feel so sick. It's not my place to decide his fate, but here I am, doing just that."

"Sometimes, one man must lose his life for the good of the rest, aye?" He spoke softly, leaning up against the railing next to me and watching the crew. "Evil can not be left unattended and expected to remain contained."

"What will happen if he gets what he wants? If he digs up the treasure and takes it?" I was trying to remain quiet, watching for anyone who might be listening too closely, but my voice caught some, causing me to cough and draw attention to us.

Waiting to answer, Tristan spoke with one of the crewmates, asking about his shore leave plans. "We won't tarry long," he told him. "Make sure the other men know."

"Aye, Captain," the man stated, returning to his duties as the ship sailed into the harbor.

"There are things down there that could destroy the earth and every being on it." Tristan's voice was calm, despite the heaviness of his words. "We must do everything we can to stop him."

Nodding, I pushed away from the rail, kissing him gently on the cheek before I went to the galley to help Alfonso with whatever he needed.

"Señorita," he said in surprise at my appearance. "I thought you would be staying above with el capitán."

"I always come and help you," I laughed. "It's my job, remember?"

"Sí," he replied uncertainly. "It's just—I know something is wrong, señorita. The whole crew does. What happened before is not sitting well with them. You are privy to the information, no?"

Hesitating, I considered telling him the truth, but didn't know what repercussions would come from it. Finally, deciding that he could be trusted with this as well, I leaned in, whispering quietly. "Thomas Randall did it."

"No!" He leaned back, shocked. "Are you certain?"

"His name was carved into one of the . . . victims," I replied sourly.

"I knew he was bad, but to do something like this? I never would have imagined it. Capitán means to catch him, then?"

"Yes." I drummed my fingers on the counter, looking around again. "Don't tell anyone, Alfonso. He may be here, if he came the same direction as us. I think Tristan wants to look for him himself. He's already said that we won't be staying long, because we have to find him if he's not here."

"I will search while I'm getting supplies," he said, nodding furiously. "You must stay on the ship, señorita. We already know that he doesn't like you. Let's not give him an opportunity to snatch you up as well."

Opening my mouth to protest, I suddenly realized that I agreed with him. I didn't want to go anywhere near Thomas Randall, or even near a place that he might be. He had routinely used me to get Tristan riled up. The last thing my husband needed was for me to get carried off and killed. "I will," I sighed.

Smiling, he muttered something in Spanish, making the sign of the cross over my head. "May God protect us all," he prayed.

"Amen."

The anchor splashed into the water then and I knew we'd successfully landed in Tortuga. Everyone was hurrying in a flurry of activity, concentrating on their tasks to make it to shore sooner. Moving back above deck, I joined Tristan at the railing again, resting my head on his shoulder.

"I saw a video that took place here, in part," I said quietly. Everyone was so busy that I had no fear of being overheard and Tristan seemed to agree.

"Did ye, then?" He paused in his duties, amused. "Was it as beautiful then as it is now?"

"It was a set," I explained. "For a pirate movie. It showed women dancing on the balconies, rum flowing off the roof into men's glasses. It was one giant whore house, to be honest." I laughed, remembering the movie with fondness.

"This is no set," he chuckled. "But I imagine ye'd find those things here as well."

"Alfonso wants me to stay on board while you look for Randall," I spoke, changing the subject.

"I agree. Adam will stay with ye and make sure no harm comes to ye."

"You are going to look for him?" I asked uneasily.

"Aye. I'll be back tonight, lass. Don't worry about me. I'll have the others along as well."

In their excitement, the men were able to leave the ship much earlier than normal, due to the haste at which they'd readied everything.

"Be back on deck by eight tomorrow!" John was yelling as the boats lowered. "Morning! Not evening!"

Tristan, dressed in his black pants, white shirt, and long black jacket with the gold buttons, appeared from the Captain's Quarter's slinging his sword and pistol around his waist. He paused by me for a moment, giving me a swoon worthy kiss, and then climbed over the rail.

"Watch her well, Adam," he said sternly.

"Aye, Captain," he replied wholeheartedly.

Soon, the ship was empty, save us and those left to keep guard, and I settled down on the steps leading into the pit, wondering what evils we would be facing in the near future.

"Mum?"

Glancing toward the sound, I saw Adam stationed in the middle of the gun deck, a sword in each hand. He was smiling teasingly, but there was a seriousness to the way he stood that held my attention.

"I was thinking, ye sort of know yer way around a knife, but I've never seen ye handle a sword."

"That's because I don't really know how to," I confessed. "The only time I had to use one was when I fought John, and I'm pretty sure everyone could tell I had no idea what I was doing."

"Come here," he stated, motioning me over. "I'll teach ye a bit. It can't hurt to know some, just in case. Besides, Captain said he thought it would be a good way to pass the time."

"He did, did he?" I asked, amused. "All right then. Show me what you can." Rising, I moved down the steps and joined him, taking the weapon he offered me.

It was slow going, much like my previous instruction in blades, but after about an hour, I seemed to be grasping it.

"Don't hold it over yer head like that," one of the watchmen stated, he and the other guards offering advice every now and then. "It'll take too long to get back down and ye'll end up shark bait."

"Thanks," I replied, out of breath. Sweat was dripping into my eyes and I brushed it away, trying to focus on what I was learning.

Adam stabbed toward me again once I'd lowered the blade some, and I managed to avert his attack, spinning out of the way and dealing a blow of my own. He easily deflected it, having instructed me on what to do should I manage to block him.

"Yer doing well," he encouraged me. "Now, watch yer footwork with this one."

Going on, he went through the steps very slowly, watching as I copied him. Once I would have it perfect in slow motion, we sped things up, eventually working the moves into a type of choreographed play.

"When ye attack, ye have to do so forcefully," Adam coached. "Otherwise yer going to have used all yer energy and yer opponent will only have scratches to show for it. Put yer whole weight in it. Mind ye, don't lose yer balance, though."

We continued on, my muscles starting to beg for relief, but I pushed through, feeling like I would need to defend myself very soon if we came across Thomas Randall. I'd beaten him before, and he'd gotten his revenge in his own way. It didn't work out the way he wanted, and I was sure that he would try and end me himself if we ever came across each other.

"Pirates don't fight fair," Adam said a while later, looking at me lying on my back, the wind knocked out of me. "Ye shouldn't either. If ye see a window, jump through it, aye? Otherwise yer opponent will jump through it at ye."

This prompted a very graphic retelling from one of the guards and we all stopped to listen. It left me wondering if I would ever be able to muster the strength to get up and try again. Adam, noticing my reluctance, laughed and offered me a hand, pulling me to my feet.

"Rest now, mum," he ordered. "Ye've done good work."

"Thank you," I mumbled, immediately thinking of my bed, waiting just out of reach. "I'm going to get some water. Would you like some?"

"Captain coming!" someone yelled, and I climbed the stairs with renewed interest, leaving the sword with Adam.

"Did you find him?" I yelled to Tristan, leaning over the railing as they approached.

"All hands on deck!" he shouted back. "The entire crew is coming aboard, get the anchor up!"

Looking past him, I could indeed see the men running to the long boats, shouting amongst themselves. I couldn't understand what was being said, but I immediately had the impression that we were about to go on a manhunt.

The long boat came alongside and Jacob's Ladder was thrown down to them, Tristan climbing up first.

"The entire island is in a fit looking for Randall," he said breathlessly, moving past me as he shed his jacket. "He was here with his crew yesterday. They robbed one of the villages just south of this place and killed three of the brothel women. The seller here has put a bounty on his head, but he left before anyone could catch him, from a cove not far off."

"Are you sure?" I asked, hurrying after him.

"I went to the village myself and questioned the survivors. He left just after midnight, heading north."

"The men heard about the bounty and wanted to jump on the chance," John said, coming up onto the deck from below. "We should be ready to leave in a matter of minutes, Captain."

"Wait, did you say he has a crew?" I asked, my head trying to catch up with the latest developments after being so thoroughly worn out from my training.

"Yes." Shoving the doors to our room open, Tristan threw his coat on the bed, practically running to the maps spread out across the desk. "Get James in here," he said to John, dragging his finger over the markings.

"I don't understand. Where did he even get a ship to captain?"

The men were climbing aboard now, shouting in excitement and glee, ready for a hunt that meant more than just money to them. They knew Randall. They might have even guessed that he was the one who burned the port. It was clear they wanted to bring him in themselves.

"He left on one from Madagascar," Tristan said absentmindedly. "I'm assuming that somewhere between there and our massacred port, he became captain."

"Aye, Captain?" James appeared in the doorway, a steeled look to his face.

"Which way would he take out of these two, James?" Tristan beckoned him closer, pointing to the maps.

They conferred for a moment and I stepped outside, moving up the stairs and out into the open air, my breath taken away from all of it. Things were moving at a rapid pace, long boats getting hauled back out of the water, men loading guns and sharpening swords as the anchor was raised and the sails unfurled.

"Get to yer stations!" John roared over all of it, screaming so ferociously that spit was flying from his mouth as he ordered them around.

Tristan and James emerged from the room and started yelling orders as well, the ship rocking as we began to catch the wind and move out of port. Stopping beside me, Tristan looked out over it all and then up at the sky.

"This is it," he said. "We're going to catch the bloody bastard!"

The waves crashed against us as we raced over the water, every sail open to full capacity. Now and then, Tristan would ask for a speed measurement, shaking his head in displeasure whenever it wasn't fast enough. He'd exhibited the same actions all through the night and into the morning as we made chase.

"We need more speed!" he yelled, holding onto some rigging as we passed over a particularly rough section of water.

"We've given her all we have, Captain!" James shouted back from the helm. "All that could aid us would be a stronger wind!"

Making a noise of exasperation and rage, Tristan pulled the spyglass from his belt again, looking at the horizon expectantly.

"Sails!"

"Aye, sails!" he exclaimed, echoing the watchman's cry. "A mile or two ahead!"

"Is it Randall?" I asked, trying to see what they were seeing with my own eyes.

"It's him," Tristan responded grimly. "I feel it in my bones." He looked through the telescope once more, frowning. "How long till we catch him, James?"

"At this rate?" He looked to be adding numbers in his head, his eyes squinting as he looked at the faraway ship. "An hour or two at least. The sea is getting rough, which will make better wind, but will make for hard sailing, Captain."

"Two hours," Tristan responded, nodding. "Aye. Men, get ready for a fight!"

They roared back, waving pistols and swords in the air, when the man in the crow's nest began howling in earnest.

"She's turning!" he screamed. "Turning right for us!"

Hastily, Tristan retrieved his spyglass again, training it on the ship in the distance. "Cocky," he muttered, snapping the instrument back to size. "He means to greet us head on and fight, not run."

"How long till we meet?" I asked breathlessly.

"Maybe half an hour," he growled, grabbing me by the arm as John began shouting at the crew. "Samantha, I want ye to get in one of the long boats and start back for the last land we passed."

"What?" I looked at him like he'd suddenly grown two heads, the statement made such little sense to me.

"We are about to have an all out war," he said urgently. "One or both of these ships is going to be at the bottom of the ocean come nightfall. I'll not have ye be with it."

"I can help," I argued. "I've been learning how to fight! I'm part of the crew! You can't just send me off because it will make you feel better!"

"Please, Samantha," Tristan urged, fear flashing across his face. "Get in the boat and go. No one will blame ye, no one will even see ye."

"I'm not leaving," I replied forcefully. "You agreed to treat me as an equal and let me be part of this crew. I'm not going to run right when everyone needs my support."

"Ye are my wife," he barked. "And ye will do as I say, equal or not!"

Yelping as he grabbed my arm, I struggled against him, my feet slipping over the deck as he drove me to the edge and pushed me into a long boat.

"I love ye," he spoke in earnest, kissing my hand as he shoved me away. "Please forgive me."

"Tristan, stop," I said, panicked. "Don't do this! Let me help!"

"I'm sorry." He drew his sword, frowning, and sliced the rope that held one end of the boat up.

Screeching, I snatched the seat as the one side began to fall, looking up at him in horror. On the other side, John Butler appeared, severing the rope that would keep me attached to the ship, evening out the fall as I crashed down to the water. The collision rocked the boat over, the wake from the ship pushing me away.

Scrambling to the surface, another wave pulled me under, the long boat flipping once more so it was right side up. My head finally broke water and I grabbed onto the edge, sputtering and wiping my eyes as I watched the Adelina sail away without me. Tristan's form could still be seen on the deck, staring as I heaved myself inside the boat.

"How could you?" I screamed back at him, tears of anger running down my cheeks, mixing with the saltiness of the ocean. "How could you?"

Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat as I observed him turn away, the two ships closing in on each other.

"Damn pirate," I growled, sitting down vehemently. Surveying the boat, no land in sight, I tried to think of what to do next. There was a small sail that would be of no use now, the short mast having broken when the boat flipped. Miraculously, there were still oars.

I refused to sit here and watch them all kill each other.

Hurrying around the cramped space, I unfurled the sail, reattaching it to the broken mast, even though it sat much lower and didn't catch the air as well. Pointing myself in the right direction took a moment, but before I knew it, I was rowing myself with the wind, heading back toward the ship and the captain I very much wanted to stab.

I heard the cannon fire before I saw it, the sound popping out into the air like a gunshot, the whistle of the ball flying through space, before the crack as it smashed into wood, tearing apart everything in its way. The two ships were close enough to fire on each other now, and gaining ground quickly. Adrenaline pumping through me, spurring me on faster, I worried I wouldn't make it in time to do anything.

When the two parties came side by side, the cannons increased with earnest, the war cries of the men reaching me easily. I was still two ship lengths away as they attached, the grappling hooks yoking the vessels together as men jumped from each to attack. My arms burned from effort, but I amped up my speed again, trying to stay out of the way of the sail so it could catch more wind.

Screams of pain filled my ears, men being knocked overboard in death, blood splattering off the decks and into the water. Carefully, I pulled myself up behind the side of the Adelina, making sure no one was looking down, and flung my body upward, catching one of the ropes that had fallen down when I was cut loose.

Shoving the long boat away with my foot, I climbed up, the rope burning my hands as I slipped some, but I was settling into what I'd come to call my "calm fight mode." Nothing else mattered in this mindset, not the pain or immense fear. There was only the unruffled calculation and precision to fighting that had saved my life before. Grabbing one of the gun hatches that was partially open, I wiggled through the opening, falling just in front of the cannon, and took in the scene in front of me.

It was a bloodbath. My crew was losing, and badly. The cannons had smashed through this deck, destroying some of our guns and the men working them. Members of the other crew were fighting forcefully with what remained, the floor slick with gore, someone toppling over every few seconds. Smoke from pistol fire hung in the air, as well as the cries of the victorious and the dying.

Suddenly, a struggle started up not far from me and I saw Adam, dueling with a man twice his size. My heart skipped a beat and I froze, feeling the urge to run before my peace settled in fully once more. Looking around, my gaze landed on a pile of cannonballs by my feet and I grabbed one, and rushed forward, screaming.

Adam, hearing my voice, jerked back in alarm, and I took his place, smashing his opponent's head in with the ball.

"Mrs. O'Rourke," he stammered in shock. "What are ye doing here?"

Instead of answering, I pulled the sword from the dead man and turned to the next foe, raising the blade with confidence. He smiled coyly, lifting his own weapon, and then charged, a battle cry on his lips.

Moving quickly, I managed to get out of the way, swiping the back of his calf as he passed me. He was too fast, though, and blocked my next stab, facing me with renewed vigor as he realized I was competent.

How long we fought, I didn't know, but, as I grew more and more tired, my feet began to slip, until, finally, I fell to the deck. The man raised his sword high, triumph on his face, and then halted, staring at the blade sticking out his front. The weapon yanked back and I saw Adam, a disgusted expression on his face.

"Come on," he yelled, holding his hand out for me.

A cannon fired from the other ship and I watched in horror as it shot through the wall, catching Adam right in the chest and tearing him apart. A scream ripped from me as what was left of my friend dropped, falling on top of me, covering me in blood and gore. Suddenly I couldn't move, my entire brain shutting down at the sight.

"Every man for himself!" Someone yelled, and I faintly recognized it as Tristan's voice.

Men were jumping out the gun hatches, running for their lives as the opposing crew cut them down without mercy. Suddenly, everything grew quiet and I closed my eyes, feeling the sting of defeat.

"Captain O'Rourke," Thomas Randall's voice thundered from the upper deck. "How wonderful to see you again."

"Go to hell," Tristan growled.

"Where's your little whore?" Randall asked, his tone not even changing. "Jumped ship, has she? I'm not surprised. You should have known better than to let her on here. I knew she was a woman from the very first time I saw her. How stupid did you think we all were, hmmm?"

Tristan didn't answer and he laughed, followed by the sound of flesh striking flesh.

"Tie him to the mast," Randall said bitterly. "And then light the ship on fire."

"Ye're going to pay for what ye've done, Thomas," Tristan snarled angrily. "Stealing from the Order? Killing all those innocent people?"

"I will pay?" The defiant Black Knight asked in surprise. "No, Captain. It is you who will pay. You see, if you'd just told me where the door to the treasure was, we could have avoided all of this mess. Now you're tied to the mast of your own ship, your crew is dead, and I have the one man you entrusted your knowledge to."

There was a muffled sound, followed by what I assumed was a kick, and the men all laughed again.

"Yes, James Abby is just the person I need, don't you think?" Randall spoke again. "Have fun burning, you bilge sucking failure of a man."

Pretending to be dead, my eyes closed tightly, I listened as the men left, some of them coming down to my deck first and spreading something around. As soon as they departed, smoke started to fill the air, terror whiplashing through me so fast I almost couldn't breathe. I couldn't move without knowing they were gone, so I waited, hoping that the flames weren't anywhere near myself or Tristan.

Finally, cracking an eye open, I could see the enemy ship sailing away through one of the holes in the hull, and I rolled to my feet, slipping again on all the gore, resisting the strong urge to vomit. There was no time to be sick, so I hurried up the stairs, looking at the main mast for Tristan.

He was tied clear from his neck to his feet, his eyes closed as blood dripped from a cut somewhere in his hairline. Behind him, the flames were already eating away at the ship.

"Tristan!" I hissed, not wanting to call attention from the boat that was leaving. When he didn't move, I inched forward, making sure to stay down and out of the departing pirates' line of sight. Randall and his crew passed, sailing off in the direction they'd come.

"Tristan!" I called loudly, causing his eyes to pop open in alarm.

"Samantha," he croaked. "What are ye doing here? Are ye mad?"

"Shut up," I growled, feeling my anger at him resurfacing.

"Yer hurt," he said mournfully, looking me over as I worked at the knots tied around him. "Yer going to bleed to death if ye don't leave and get help now!"

"It's not my blood," I snapped, freeing his hands. "Now hurry up and help me with the rest of these."

He obliged, staring at me from time to time in shock, and I steadily ignored him, watching the flames build behind us. As soon as he was free, I grabbed him by the hand and we ran to the side, jumping off and into the water.

"Captain!"

Confused, I looked around, treading the water I was muddying with all of the filth I'd accumulated. There were bodies floating around us, but—there, just off to the side. John Butler and a few of the surviving men had found my long boat and were waving us over.

"Come on," I said to Tristan, pointing. "Let's get out of here."

"Say something to me, Samantha, please."

We had made it to an island a few hours later, the whole of us working to keep water out of the boat and beat the storm that was coming in as we rowed in a set direction. There had been no time to talk about what happened, or when we finally came ashore, falling to the ground in sweet relief. But, now that we had been set up in an inn for the night and fed, there was plenty of time to say things.

Fury, so incredibly white hot, burned through me whenever I looked at Tristan. It felt as though he'd broken every vow he'd made to me. I wondered if he had loved me at all, or if he just wanted me around as some type of prize. All I wanted to do was scream at him, but I couldn't say anything. Throughout dinner, I sat thinking up ways to hurt him with words. More than anything, I wanted him to feel that loss he had struck me with, that sense of absolute betrayal and agony at being cast away.

John Butler and Father Torres had barely survived the fight, along with six other men. Sadly, I told John of Adam Kelly's death. They all knew that Randall had taken James. As we gathered in the main room of the inn to eat, there was a somberness to us all that seemed to have infected the whole place. Crewmembers who weren't knights sat off by themselves, glancing at us every now and then, but were otherwise completely content to remain where they were.

"What are we going to do?" John had inquired. "We have to go after them, but we have no ship or any other way to get there. It will be a month before anyone arrives from the Old World to assist, and that's if they send their largest, fastest ship and have good wind."

"I sent word to the Order at Tortuga," Tristan said, sighing deeply. "They will come as fast as they can. Someone else is bound to have told them what happened in Africa. They should already be on their way to investigate."

"What order is he talking about, señorita?" Alfonso whispered, leaning toward me as they continued discussing.

"The Knights Templar," I replied, not really feeling like keeping any secrets for the both of them just then. "Randall is one as well, but on the bad side."

His eyes had widened as he glanced between Tristan and John, neither of the men having heard me tell him. Mumbling in Spanish, he crossed himself quickly and left the table, the revelation affecting him strongly.

"Either way, Thomas will have been on Oak Isle for at least two months before we get there," John argued. "He will have been able to take most of it, if not all."

"James doesn't know where the door is," Tristan breathed. "I never told him. They'll have to scour the island to find it, and even then they might never discover it. Sam said they've been searching for more than two hundred years and no one was successful. Isn't that right, lass?"

They both looked at me expectantly, and I glared back, biting my tongue as I thought of something to say. "John," I started. "I can forgive you for cutting me loose, because I imagine you were either following orders, or saw that your captain needed assistance and you gave it without question. However, I will not be forgiving anyone else involved with this situation."

With that, I got up from the table and went upstairs to my room, locking the door behind me to keep Tristan from entering. After several hours of pleading, though, the innkeeper came up and unlocked it for him, glancing at me apologetically as she did so.

"What are ye doing?" he fumed, peeling his salty jacket off and throwing it on the floor. "Ye undermined me in front of the crew! Ye refused to answer yer husband and captain. Would ye mind explaining what's going on?"

Folding my arms, I turned my back on him, wishing I had never even met him. This hurt too badly, cut too deep. I didn't think there would ever be a way to heal what he had broken. He'd shown his distrust and lack of faith in me, and shattered mine in him at the same time.

"Yer mad about me sending ye away. Aye, I understand. It was a necessary action though. Can ye not see that?"

Remaining silent, I stared hard at the wall, willing away the tears that threatened to spill. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, not over this.

"Say something to me, Samantha. Please," he spoke again, softly, another huge sigh escaping him.

"And just what do you expect me to say?" I asked him coldly, finally unable to keep it in any longer. "I'm sorry that I think you're a sexist, pigheaded, brute of a man, who can't keep a promise to save his own life?"

"What?" he retorted in surprise, instantly freezing from where he'd been pacing.

Thumping my hand over my chest, anger fueled my response. "You think I dishonored you? What about when you allowed me to be voted part of the crew, told me I had to hold up my own end, and then refused to let me do so? What about when you married me and promised that I was your equal in every way, and then ordered me around like I was no better than your slave? What about when you told all of your men where I was really from? What about when you dropped me off the side of a bloody freaking ship and only watched long enough to make sure I didn't drown?"

"I was trying to protect ye," he answered, alarmed by my passionate outburst.

"I didn't need your protection!" I screamed. "You needed mine! If it weren't for me, we all would have been watching you burn up and sink into the sea with the ship! I have proved myself so many times it seems, and yet, you are still looking at me as the helpless little girl washed up on the beach."

"This was not some staged sword play between ye and one other man," he growled, becoming defensive. "Those men would have torn ye apart! Did ye want to be raped and murdered? I should think not!"

"I was there!" I yelled in disbelief. "I fought in that battle, even though you didn't want me to. I didn't have any of your help, because you didn't even know I'd returned. Your own wife. You know who did help me, once? Adam Kelly, because I saved his life. And now he's dead. He was the one you should have sent off if you were worried about people dying."

"Enough!" Tristan roared, obviously not used to being put in his place. "Do not dishonor a good man's memory by dragging him into a stupid fight!"

"Stupid fight? Is that what you think this is?" I laughed, finding it hard to believe he hadn't seen this coming, my reaction to his insulting behavior. "You have destroyed everything about yourself I was certain of. I want to go home."

He stopped in the middle of forming a word, hurt popping into his eyes. "Ye want to leave me?"

"I do," I replied, as calmly as I could. "But, unfortunately for me, the vase is now at the bottom of the ocean and I am stuck here."

"Randall took it," he stated quietly, sitting in the desk chair beside him. "Raided the room and carried it off with James."

"Oh." I felt a twist of despair, but wasn't sure if it was because going home was out of my reach, or that I'd actually told him I wanted to leave him.

"We can get it back," he said stiffly, staring at the floor. "And ye can go home. If ye still trust me to keep my word, that is."

"I don't," I replied, choking back a sob.

"What do I need to do then?" Looking up at me, I could see the pain I'd been suffering with reflected in his features, and I almost smiled. But, it felt like such a devilish thing to do that I kept it to myself.

"I'll have to go with you, I suppose," I stated in a matter of fact tone. "But just as a member of the crew. I won't be going anywhere as your wife. Not after what you did today."

"We're still legally married, lassie," he whispered, halfway reaching out for me. "Don't call it off yet. Give me another chance."

"My heart can not take another chance," I responded softly, quickly wiping away the one tear that had fallen onto my cheek. "I'm a time traveler. As far as I'm concerned, it's been a year and a day."

"Aye," he answered roughly, suddenly moving to his feet. "I'll leave ye be then, Miss Greene." Crossing the room to the door, he wrenched it open, pausing at the threshold. "I was only trying to keep ye alive, Samantha." His voice was quiet, full of hurt. "I love ye. I couldn't stand the thought of letting ye stay and die."

My heart was hurting, my entire being filled with immediate regret over the things I'd said, but I didn't know how to take them back, especially when I was so angry still. As the door closed, I felt myself collapsing, the tears I'd held back washing over me as I cried.

Everything was ruined and lost, with no way to mend myself and the heart that had been broken on the sea.

The next morning, John arrived to tell me that what was left of the crew was gathering on the beach. Tristan had managed to get us aboard a vessel going in the direction we wanted, but there was some business he needed to take care of before we departed. Hurriedly, I got dressed and went with him, wondering just what it was Tristan wanted to talk about.

When we were all assembled, he stood before us, looking the most tired I'd ever seen him and smelling quite strongly of rum. "I'm going after Thomas," he said simply. "Those who want to join me, we are leaving on that ship—" He pointed to one out in the bay—"in twenty minutes. Anyone who does not wish to join is free to make their way back to wherever they wish. Best in life to ye." With that, he turned and left us without another word, rubbing the top of his head vigorously.

"What happened to Capitán?" Alfonso asked from beside me. "Is he sick?"

"Love sick," John muttered, following after Tristan with a sigh.

"Are you okay, señorita?" Alfonso turned to me immediately. "You and Capitán had a fight?"

"It was more than a fight," I mumbled, moving after the two knights.

"What happened?" he pressed, hurrying to catch up.

"I don't want to talk about it," I half snapped, feeling a little more emotional than usual due to my own lack of sleep.

"I understand," he said hastily. "You will tell me when you're ready."

But I didn't feel like I would ever be ready to talk about it. How could one person make you hurt so much? Even when I'd broken up with my high school boyfriend, who I'd dated for two years, I hadn't felt like this. Getting out seemed like the only way I would ever be normal again, but the pain was so incredible I was starting to think I'd rather have my mind wiped and not have to remember any of it at all.

Reaching the long boat that would take us out to the ship, I turned, wondering how many of the men had decided to stay with us. To my surprise, they were all there, right behind me, waiting to get in the boat.

My spirits lightened some, I climbed aboard, sitting opposite Tristan, and glanced out at the boat.

"How are ye feeling this morning?" He asked just loud enough for me to hear and I flinched, not ready to bring it all up again.

"Tired," I answered simply. "You?"

"The same."

"You reek."

He laughed a little at that, rubbing a hand over his face. "I imagine I do, aye."

The men filled in around us, a slight nervousness to the air as we shoved off and started rowing toward the ship.

"Captain," one of the men started uncertainly. "Just how are the nine of us going to defeat Randall and his crew?"

"I'll tell ye, Bell," Tristan replied, smiling. "But first, have ye ever considered joining a secret society of sorts?"

The ship, named Gloria, was a merchant vessel bound for Florida, where we were expected to part ways, it appeared.

"Ye said nothing about a woman," the captain had said, glowering at me.

"She is a member of the crew, Captain," Tristan had explained. "Voted in by the men."

"I'll have no whore on board my ship causing problems," he growled. "She can't come!"

"Well, then," John said, turning to the rest of us. "Back in the boat, it seems."

"It looks like ye won't be getting the sum I promised for when we reached our destination," Tristan mourned. "We can't leave a crew member behind, see. Against the code."

Unsure, we began to shuffle across the deck, not knowing if we were actually leaving or not.

"Fine," the captain spat. "She can stay. But yer responsible for her, O'Rourke! If I find she's been meddling in things or sleeping with me crew, I'll throw her overboard."

"Mind yer threats, sir," Tristan said dangerously, his eyes flashing. "She is a lady, after all."

Snorting, the captain turned away from us, ordering his men about as they prepared to leave.

"Gentlemen—Miss Greene—, follow me to our quarters, if ye please." Holding his head high, Tristan moved below deck, following a hall back to a large room. It appeared to normally house the ships animals, all of which were tied in one corner and munching on old hay, but there had been hammocks hung out for us, making the space feel crowded.

"Stinks," one of the crewmen stated, grinning. "I'm at home already." The comment pulled a laugh from everyone and the air seemed to lighten as we moved in, shutting the door behind us.

"Are we going to steal this ship, like we did the Adelina?" another man asked.

"No," Tristan chuckled.

"What secret society were ye talking about?" the man called Bell inquired.

Settling into one of the hammocks, Tristan began telling them the history of the Knights Templar, drawing them in with his expert story telling skills. Even I was listening with rapt attention, my worries forgotten for the moment.

"So what say ye?" he asked them at the end of it, having explained our entire predicament, while leaving out the fact that I was from the future. "Could ye join such a group? For, right now, there is a ship full of Templars on its way to us, ready to go to Oak Isle and battle to protect what our ancestors have hidden for hundreds of years."

The men, in awe of him even more now, whispered among themselves. "I have a son, Captain," one said gently. "If I join, would he be required to?"

"Yer family is yer own, Smith. Mine was not, sworn already to the service, and therefore I had to join. Do what ye will with yer son" Tristan smiled encouragingly, but I could read the apprehensiveness in him, a strange kind of energy I didn't always sense with him.

"I'll join, ye," Bell said, holding his hand out to shake. "It can't be any worse than what I'm doing now. Yer doing it too, after all."

One by one, the men agreed, until only Father Torres was left, standing awkwardly by the door. "I am already sworn to a service, Capitán," he answered shakily. "I do not think our Heavenly Father would smile upon me if I were to join another, accused of such gross misconduct by the church."

"I understand, Padre. I hold no grudge against ye." Nodding, he turned to the rest of them, clapping his hands together.

"I still wish to fight with you," Alfonso spoke up again. "If you will let me. Thomas Randall needs to be caught and I would like to feel my time among pirates was spent doing something good."

"Very well," Tristan agreed. "We would be honored to have ye with us, Padre."

The wind was bad and sailing slow going, driving the men who weren't used to merely being passengers on a ship insane. They would sit up on deck all day, arguing with the crew about how to do things, swapping fish tales, and drinking to their heart's content. I, however, was not allowed on deck it would appear, having always been promptly sent back to the room if I ever made an appearance. It felt better that way, though, giving me an excuse to stay away from Tristan.

We hadn't spoken much since leaving port, save a few customary pleasantries here and there. He would speak up whenever I was ordered away, but always left me alone when I decided to leave. It seemed that he was making extra effort to have me treated the same as everyone else, while I did everything possible to act like it didn't matter.

Every day, I became more and more depressed with my decision to go home. It didn't feel right—it hadn't when I'd said it the first time—but I couldn't take it back. I didn't want someone to hold such power over me, to hurt me the way Tristan had. I knew I was being selfish and stubborn, but it simply couldn't be helped. What if he had accepted it and I told him I was sorry? What if he was already planning his life without me? No, this was something I had to deal with on my own. Needing him was a habit I had to break myself of.

It was on the fifth day of our voyage, as I sat in my hammock pondering these things, that the door suddenly opened and he appeared, shutting it quickly and sliding one of the heavy animal food containers against it.

"Don't be mad," he said, holding his hands up. "I just want to talk with ye, if that's all right."

"What is it?" I asked, suddenly worried. "Is something wrong?"

"Aye, lassie. Ye and I are wrong and I don't know how to make it right." His voice was pleading and he took a small step toward me, hesitating as I stared at him. "It's been a week, Samantha. Will ye talk with me about it again?"

"I don't know what else there is to say," I replied, stumbling over the words. "I told you how I feel about what you did."

"I know ye did. Have ye not changed yer mind about it, then?"

"No," I whispered, turning away as tears gathered in my eyes. I hated myself for crying, for letting him have the ability to do that to me.

"Ye were hurt that day," he said forcefully, "but not by Thomas or his crew. It was I that hurt ye and I'm deeply wounded because of it. Tell me what to do, how to fix it. I can not stand watching ye on yer own any longer. I can't lay awake every night wondering if ye'll open that vase and be gone from my life before I ever get to tell ye how sorry I am. Before I can take ye in my arms and kiss yer lips. Before I get to hear ye say ye love me again. Ye do, don't ye?"

"Of course I do," I laughed, blinking as the tears rolled down my face. "I love you so much that just the thought of leaving you sends me into a panic attack. But I don't want to be treated like a trophy. I told you that before we were even married. But, now that you've hurt me, I don't want to give you that power back. I don't want to put my heart in your hands and watch you squeeze it until there's nothing left of me." Sniffling, I wiped my face with the back of my hand, jumping as he sat down beside me and wrapped his arms around me. Despite myself, I leaned against him, sighing at the comfort his touch brought.

"I can't make what I did right," he said softly. "But I can swear to never do it again. I don't want to crush yer heart, Samantha. I want to carry it with me and cherish it always. When I sent ye away, I wasn't thinking of the other battles ye'd been in, or how much ye've grown since we first met. I was thinking of my own foolish heart held in yer hands. Thomas Randall has tried to have ye harmed and even killed before. I thought he would take the chance to do it again. My heart couldn't stand seeing ye in that much danger."

Nestling against him more, I exhaled and sniveled, feeling completely worn out. "So, where does that leave us?"

"Do ye still want to go home?" It was a simple question with a thousand implications. What about our marriage? Would we even get the vase back? Would I be able to go if actually given the chance?

"No," I breathed out. "I didn't want to when I said I did. I was being a jerk and wanted to hurt your feelings."

"Well, ye did," he laughed softly, his chest shaking. "I've never been so hurt and terrified in my entire life."

"Welcome to the club." I'd meant it as a joke, but it came out bitter and harsh, silencing his laugh as he held me, the two of us cuddled in the hammock.

"Do ye forgive me?" he asked finally.

"No. But I will. Eventually."

On the eighth day, we finally saw Florida, her coast warm and welcoming to weary sea travelers. That wasn't what had us out of sorts, though.

Coming into the bay, getting ready to dock, what was left of the Adelina's crew stood on deck, examining the magnificent man of war floating atop the water, great red crosses marking her sails.

"Is that it?" John asked in an undertone, eyeing the vessel suspiciously.

"Aye," Tristan confirmed, taking my hand as we looked on. "The Order's crown ship. I've only seen her once before."

Victory. Its name shone out in golden letters across her backside, gleaming in the hot sun reflecting off the water.

"Ye mean to tell me," Bell said, "that ye've had access to a war ship this whole time and never thought to use it?"

"I didn't have access to it. I imagine I won't now, either," Tristan replied curtly. "The Grand Master is the only one with the authority to send out any of the ships the Templars control."

"I think it's safe to say that he was alarmed by your message and the events going on," I spoke dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

"Do we just . . . go aboard, then?" Smith asked nervously. "They won't arrest us for being pirates?"

"It's a Templar ship, not a government ship!" one of the others hissed.

"Aye," Tristan said, silencing them all. "We'll just go aboard and see what they mean to do."

"Will they let me on?" I asked, giving our hosting crew the stink eye over my shoulder.

"Yer my wife," he laughed. "They'll have to if they want me to come."

"We're all very grateful ye made up, by the way," John said offhandedly. "Except now we sleep in fear of waking up to yer lovemaking instead of yer crying."

The men laughed and I blushed as Tristan waved them away. "No shore leave," he said sternly. "We all go on together as soon as we can."

"Two weeks to sail to Oak Isle," I breathed out, feeling my stomach sink.

"If the wind is good," Tristan added. "If we stay with the wind we had getting here, it will take a month or more."

"But Randall has already been on his way there for weeks!"

"Aye. He's probably already there. We lost precious time with the wind, lassie. He was in front of the storm, which would have moved him faster than normal, even. Their boat looked to be fitted with oars as well, savvy?"

"So they could row forward if the wind wasn't working," I replied, catching his meaning. "How long do you think he's been there?"

"One or two weeks at the most. A month to two months by the time we arrive."

"And do you think he'll have found what he's looking for by then?" Biting my lip, I glanced at him in concern as he paced the room that had been assigned to us at our meeting with the ship's captain.

"Ye said people have looked for hundreds of years and found nothing," he said shrugging.

"Yes, but they were focusing on the Treasure Pit," I reminded him gently. "And they didn't know what was down there. Randall does, which means he probably knows what markers to search for."

"The only symbol on the island is a cross made of stones," he said absentmindedly. "They line up with the stars. It was how we kept track of where it was."

"The Great Stone Cross, yeah, I've seen it," I said, brushing his comment to the side. "Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all?"

"No," he answered, sure of himself. "There's nothing there for him to find. Unless he were to miraculously pick the right point on the island and start digging, he will never get to it without knowing where the door is."

"Digging," I moaned, a flash of realization coming to me. "Don't you see? Thomas Randall is going to dig the Treasure Pit!"

The thought seemed to hit him like a cannonball and he flopped onto our bed, staring at the ceiling, dumbstruck. "How would he have known the place?" he finally asked.

"Did you tell James Abby anything about it?"

"I don't think I did. I shared just enough for him to be able to speak with the other Templars and earn their trust in allowing him to take my spot." Shrugging, he just stared at me, several emotions flashing back and forth across his features. "If Thomas digs this pit, then ye already know that he made it to the bottom. He's going to take everything there is."

"Not necessarily," I said, holding a hand out to slow him. "There were things down there when I was in it. I couldn't see very well, but I'm sure there was a lot of it. The vase was, we know that much for sure."

"Aye, well let's hope the dead body ye found is Thomas's as well, then." Getting on his feet, he straightened his jacket and took my hand. "Come on. I think we've a pretty good reason to tell the captain he needs to speed up."

I let him lead me out of our room and into the crew quarters, where at least three times the amount of men that had made up the Adelina's crew were resting. The rest of the men were above deck, keeping watch until we decided to leave. As we made our way up the stairs and onto the top gun deck—this ship had five decks of guns!—my mind flashed back to when we'd first come aboard and met the captain, a tall, angry looking Frenchman who went by the name Able.

"Your message was quite distressing to us, Captain," he'd stated easily to Tristan, looking us over as if we were gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. "We were aware of what happened in Africa, but had no idea you knew the incidents perpetrator."

"I imagined ye wouldn't know," Tristan had replied smoothly. "Which is why I wrote the communication in the first place."

Captain Able continued to stare at us, his long, white fingers folded under his chin, elbows resting on his desk. His curly black wig brushed past his shoulders onto his blue coat as he sat back, tapping his digits impatiently.

"We will leave with the tide after restocking," he had said then. "You and your crew will be led to your quarters."

"With all due respect, Captain, I do think we should leave earlier than a few days from now, don't ye?"

"Oak Isle is secure." He shrugged. "We chase simply to take care of the issue of Black Knights rising again. The treasure is in no danger."

The room felt suffocating to me, wallpaper decorating the space in light flowers, bookshelves stacked around the room. It felt more like a home office than a space on a ship. Even the furniture was ornate and golden, matching the majesty of the vessel.

"No, no," he continued, turning away from us. "Unless we get new orders or I receive more distressing news, we will wait to leave."

His words rang in my head now as we made our way back to his office, my heart pounding at the thought of telling him about myself. We had no proof, not even the vase to help prove my validity. All we could do was hope I knew enough to convince him.

"Enter," he called after our knock, and we let ourselves in, locking the door behind us. "Ah, Captain. Mrs. O'Rourke. What can I do for you?"

"I've brought ye yer evidence that we need to leave straight away," Tristan explained, motioning for me to step forward.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked, staring at the two of us.

"My name is—was—Samantha Greene." It was a shaky start off, but simple, which was good. I didn't know what all to tell him to make him believe me, but I didn't want to overload him with too much at once. "I was born in nineteen ninety-two." Pausing, I watched as his eyebrows raised, but he didn't interrupt me. "In the year two thousand fifteen, I'll be working on Oak Isle, trying to get to the bottom of what's to be called The Treasure Pit. I will get to the bottom, but will open an old vase, which will send me back in time." Stopping again, waiting for his reaction, I was surprised to see him merely cover his mouth and lean back before motioning for me to continue. "Uh." I didn't know what to say, having completely expected him to flip out over my story and demand that I prove it.

"I received that same vase earlier this year, with instructions to hide it with the treasure," Tristan offered. "When Samantha saw it, she recognized it as the one from before."

"And what is this vase, exactly?" Captain Able asked neutrally.

"Pandora's Box?" I hadn't meant for it to sound like a question, but his calmness was making me nervous, my palms sweating as I stood before him.

"Who told you that?"

"A priestess who drugged us with opium and channeled Zeus." Tristan might as well have said that we picked a flyer up that told us everything we knew, the captain gave such little notice.

"I see," he said, thoughtfully. "One moment."

Rising from his desk, he moved to one of the bookshelves, dragging his finger across the spines as he looked them over. After a few minutes, he pulled a volume from the shelf and opened it, removing a piece of paper.

"Did it look like this?" he asked, offering me the page.

Taking it from him, I saw a sketch of the vase, perfectly drawn by the artist. "Yes!" I exclaimed. "Where did you get this?"

"My late wife drew it," he said, smiling gently. "She told me once that she'd had a wonderful dream involving it. She was only fourteen and had discovered it in a meadow near her home. Upon opening it, she found herself among the ancient Greeks, whom she lived among for years and studied art from. Eventually, she located the vase again and returned to the very moment she'd first taken the lid off in her own time. I always assumed she had made the story up."

"You knew someone else who did it," I said in awe, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction in knowing that I wasn't the only one.

"We believe that Thomas Randall is, at this very moment, digging what will become the Treasure Pit," Tristan added calmly. "I implore ye, Captain. Let us go this very instant and stop him."

"Yes," he mused, staring at me in interest. Then, coming out of whatever thoughts he'd been having, "yes, of course! I will tell the crew right away. We will depart as soon as every man is on board."

"Thank you," I said, smiling awkwardly. "I've been at the bottom of that pit. I know that we need to protect what's down there."

True to his word, we left with the tide that night, sails set toward Oak Isle and her not-so-secret secrets. Unfortunately, Tristan had been right to worry about the wind. As we came up on our two-week mark, we were only a little less than halfway from our destination. Nerves were on edge, everyone wondering just how far Randall had gotten in his work. It didn't help me to know that he would make it all the way to the bottom before we got there.

"Samantha," Tristan said one sunny afternoon with hardly any wind. "Have ye practiced yer swordplay lately?"

"No," I answered, caught off guard. "We've been busy doing other things. Like trying not to drown and burn to death on a sinking ship."

The men around us laughed, razzing Tristan some as he came to stand by me, holding out a sword.

"Ye need to practice every day. Especially if yer wanting to go ashore when we reach Oak Isle."

"You know I'm going ashore," I replied, a bit more forcefully than I intended. My overboard incident was still a touchy subject, though I'd forgiven him, finally. He was only trying to protect me, as stupid as I thought it was.

"I know ye are," he laughed, staring me in the eye. "That's why I want ye to practice."

Nodding, I took the blade from him, testing its weight in my hand.

"Adam taught ye some, aye?"

"He did." A prick of hurt and sadness touched my heart as his face swam before my eyes, smiling, as he so often had.

"Let's see what ye remember then." In a flash, he stepped forward, swinging his sword up and holding it beneath my chin. Clicking his tongue, he shook his head and backed away. "Ye've got to be faster than that, Sam."

"Perhaps she has not been attacked suddenly before, Capitán," Alfonso offered from the sidelines, grinning excitedly. "Look at her! She has such a sweet spirit. She does not expect someone to attack her out of the blue."

"Thank you, Father," I called, laughing. "Teach me how to be faster." Urging Tristan forward, I did my best to keep up with him, happy to find that I remembered a lot of what I'd previously been taught.

"Not bad," Tristan spoke, beaming at me. "We'll make a fighter out of ye yet."

Eight is a magic number. Fire. Pain. The pit brings his death. Death. Eight is a magic number . . .

Jerking awake, my chest heaving, I blinked in the darkness, trying to remember where I was. It was like the prophecy was being shouted in my ear, playing over and over again, taunting me with its knowledge.

"Sam?" Tristan's voice whispered to me, his hands feeling for me across the bed we were on, wrapping around my fingers and squeezing gently. "What's the matter?"

"Just a nightmare," I answered, feeling like I was suffocating. "I'm fine."

"Ye're burning up," he contradicted me, sitting up as well.

"I was just dreaming about the prophecy that Mother Agnetha gave me, that's all," I said weakly, fanning myself.

"Aye? What about it?"

"I don't know," I stated, uncertain. "The whole number eight thing makes no sense to me. I think the fire and pain might have been when the ship burned down and we had our fight. Tristan, what if you die during all of this?" Fear clouded my voice and I gripped his hand back tightly, not wanting to let go all the sudden.

"I won't die," he answered, but there was a hint of not knowing in his tone that made my heart race.

"What if we don't go with them? What if we let everyone else take care of it and we just leave? There's nothing wrong with that, is there?" Panicked, I waved faster, gulping down the air.

"I'm the caretaker of this island, love." He spoke quietly, using the pet name he reserved for times that he really wanted to convey his feelings for me. "I have to go with them. I won't die. I promise."

"She said the pit would bring his death," I muttered. "But who? Why would she even say that if it wasn't you?"

"It's not me," he insisted forcibly.

"How do you know?" I asked in near hysterics.

"Because my skeleton would have jumped back up and kissed ye after not seeing ye for three hundred years," he replied smartly, laughing. "I'd have come from beyond the grave to swear my love to ye."

"That's not funny," I sighed, smiling a little anyway.

"Randall could be the one who dies," he suggested. "Or any one of his crew. It doesn't have to be me."

"I love you," I replied softly. "Don't let it be you, okay?"

"Aye," he agreed, leaning in and kissing me. "I will do my best."

Pulling him back against me, I kissed him hard, wanting him to see just how much I meant it. His tongue mingled with mine and I groaned, my worries melting away for only a moment.

"I love ye, lassie," Tristan declared solemnly. Laying me back on the bed and straddling my hips, his fingers lightly traced the bare skin of my stomach. "Will ye stay with me always?"

There was only one answer. "Till the end of time."

Adrenaline pumped through me as the crew put out every light on board the ship. The night sky above us twinkled with bright stars, the ocean breeze rocking us gently.

"See," Tristan whispered, pointing to the heavens. "The cross over the island?"

Nodding, I smiled at him, trying to keep my hands from shaking.

"Don't be frightened," he said, wrapping his fingers around mine. "We're going to be fine."

"Tell me the plan again," I stated, hoping to keep my mind occupied.

"We'll row in with the longboats," he replied, the instructions sounding rehearsed. "As part of the scouting group, we must take out any watchmen and find out what is happening. The man of war will sail in after us, once the signal has been given. Do ye remember the signal?"

"A fire, lit on the far end of the island, facing the sea."

"Very good," he said soothingly. "When the rest of the knights arrive in the ship, we attack. Thomas won't know what happened until it's over."

"I'm scared," I said suddenly, clamping my eyes shut. "The last time I was here, well . . ."

"I've got ye, Samantha," he uttered seriously. "Ye won't be going anywhere without me, in this time or yer own."

Nodding again, I turned my attention back in the direction of the island. It couldn't be seen from this far out, tucked up inside the bay, but I knew it was there. While we were scouting everything out, the ship would sail closer, completely hidden in the dark, like a ghost vessel in the mist. Uninvited, all of the island stories of being cursed and haunted filled my mind, causing me to shiver with discomfort.

"Steady, lass," Tristan murmured, tightening his hold on my hand.

"To the boats." It was said in a normal tone and volume, but because of the silence on board it seemed like a mighty cry, cracking through the night and revealing us to our opposition.

Steadily, we moved forward, climbing into the boats and waiting to be lowered down, each move as quiet as the grave. My heart galloped within my chest as we crossed the water, each thundering beat ringing in my ears, Mother Agnetha's words repeating themselves over and over again.

Eight is a magic number, eight is a magic number, eight is a magic number . . .

Smooth as glass, we glided over the surface, the three boats making less noise than a bird landing in a tree. John bobbed his head at me as he took up an oar, dipping it into the water, Bell matching the movement beside him. Stealthily, we traveled on with the other two sets of scouts, Oak Isle coming into view at last.

Lights moved around on the shore and I breathed in sharply, eyes wide.

"I've seen lights out there," the old man had said to me at the supermarket. "Bouncing around every which way, like torches carried around to see with. However, there was nothing out there. Just the trees."

Watching those same lights now, knowing that they were attached to someone alive at the moment, I wondered if I was seeing the event that would lead the old man to believe the island was haunted. If that were the case, it most certainly was haunted by the men who would die here tonight.

Reaching the pre-determined point where our three groups would part ways, the other two boats moved to sail around and look at the other side. As for us, we quickly came ashore in Pirate's Cove, jumping out and pulling the boat up enough that it wouldn't slip away without us.

Nodding in the direction of the trees, Tristan led us, all of our swords drawn as we snuck up the beach. A man was standing just in sight, his back to us, humming to himself.

"Guard," Tristan mouthed to me, signaling for us to stop.

Halting behind him, we watched as he slunk forward, surprising the lone man and slitting his throat before he could utter another sound. Tristan then glanced around, staying low as he helped the body fall, and then motioned for us to join him.

"Ye two go that way," he told John and Bell, pointing to the right. "Samantha, come with me."

Gulping down one last terrified breath, I agreed, following after him into the dark. We traveled quickly, but quietly, Tristan catching two more guards as we advanced deeper into the island. Watchmen moved around us, but no one caught us, a miracle I readily sent a prayer of thanks for.

"Move faster!" Thomas Randall's voice suddenly rang out through the trees and we both fell to our stomachs, inching toward the sound.

As the plants thinned out, I felt a pang of memory, the Treasure Pit sitting in the middle of the clearing. There was a large oak towering over it now, which the men were using to help pull the dirt up and out of their project, and no scaffolding, but other than that it looked the same as it always had.

"How much deeper is it?" Thomas was growling at a figure kneeling before the fire they'd built.

"I don't know," James Abby's voice responded, trembling in terror. "I've told ye everything I know, I swear!"

"Everything except where the treasure is," Randall snarled, backhanding him across the face.

A small gasp escaped me as James's countenance came into the light of the fire and Tristan's hand shot out, grabbing mine painfully, a warning to stay silent. Our friend's face was black and blue from being beaten, thick cuts still weeping blood. One eye was swollen shut and it looked as if his hair had been ripped out in several places.

"What else did O'Rourke tell you," Randall spat, kicking him in the stomach.

Doubling over, James heaved, spittle hanging from his split lip. "Nothing," he coughed, struggling to get upright with his hands tied behind him. "I don't know anything else, I promise. He didn't even mean to tell me where the vault was. It was an accident, when he was relaying a message he'd received from our contact here. It had the number of paces from the shore, that's all, I swear!" He was sobbing, begging, a beaten man who wanted no more of it.

"Filth." Actually hawking on him this time, Randall left him be, walking back to the edge of the pit.

"We found it!" a faint voice cried from inside.

"About time. Get out of the way," Randall ordered, shoving a man to the side of their ladder, climbing onto it himself. "Abby! You're coming with me. If O'Rourke booby-trapped this place, I won't be the one getting caught. Bring that case with you." He started descending, not even looking to see if James was coming.

Gingerly, rubbing his wrists after they were untied, James stood, staggering slightly as he took the container that was shoved at him. It was Tristan's chest, the box that held the vase.

"Come on," Tristan whispered, pulling me away from the scene. "We need to get in there, right now."

"But what about the signal fire?" I asked, slipping away beside him, our presence still undetected.

"We'll just have to hope someone else lights it," he answered roughly. "We have to get to the vault before Thomas."

Running through the trees, I followed Tristan, my heart pounding as the torchlights danced nearby us. Could they hear us moving around? He didn't seem to think we needed to be secretive any longer, his footsteps crunching over the undergrowth, breath puffing out strongly.

"Who's there?" Someone called, a light twisting and heading straight for us.

Hissing, Tristan swung around, slashing across the man just as he came upon us. With a startled gurgle, he fell to the ground, his torch tumbling out of his grasp.

"Pick it up," Tristan ordered, sheathing his sword and turning in the direction he wanted to go. "The door is just up here."

Doing as he asked, I stumbled after him, trying to get my bearings. Where on the island were we? We continued on the invisible path, suddenly coming out into an opening that I recognized.

"Where is the swamp?" I asked in surprise, seeing dry ground in the area for the first time.

"What swamp?" He was searching around the few trees that were there, eyes trained on the earth.

"In my time, this whole thing is a swamp," I said in awe. "A freshwater swamp."

"Here," he spoke, stopping in front of one of the trees and sitting between its roots. Suddenly, he was just gone, not a trace of him anywhere.

"Tristan?" Panic filled me as I was left wondering where he could have gone in the half second I'd looked away.

"Sit between the roots," his muffled voice answered. "The door is weighted and will rotate to let ye in."

"Okay," I replied shakily, doing as he said.

It felt like normal ground, and for a moment I didn't think anything was going to happen. But then, the dirt began to move just under the tree, a small opening appearing, Tristan's face filling it.

"Hand me the torch," he instructed, reaching out. "Then slide through. It's not far to the floor, just a few feet."

Handing the light over, I waited for him to move out of the way before entering, the entrance closing behind me immediately.

We were in a long tunnel, just tall enough for a man to stand in and only wide enough for one at a time. It seemed to stretch on forever, in the direction of the pit.

"Stay close," he ordered. "If we get separated, just follow the light."

"How can we get separated in a tunnel?" I half laughed, feeling a little bit of my dinner rise and settle uncomfortably. My emotions were torn between the terror of what we were going to do and excitement at seeing what was down here.

"Trust me. I'll have to put the torch out at some point or Thomas will see us coming." Grabbing my hand, he started leading me forward, the path slanting steeply downward after a few moments. "There's a rail to hold on to," he said, "in the wall. Feel it?"

"Yes," I breathed, the musty smell of earth filling me to the brim.

"It's going to get cold—it always is here. Are ye ready?"

"Yes," I urged him. "Hurry!"

He nodded, the torch casting odd shadows over his face, and then turned, practically flying down the path. Gripping the anchor in the wall, I trailed him, doing my best to keep up and not fall.

Down we went, the air like ice around us, the path plunging even further into the earth. When it leveled out, I felt as if I had suddenly lost my land legs, wobbling across the even ground. Tossing the torch on the floor and kicking dirt over it, Tristan plunged us into darkness, his hand finding mine as the light faded.

"There are three rooms," he whispered. "They're in the farthest one. There should be light from the pit, but just in case, don't go in it unless I say so."

"Okay," I muttered back, squeezing his hand.

He pulled me forward, moving slowly as he felt around. I could feel the change in the air around us as we entered the first room, the walls falling away. We passed through it rapidly, apparently on some course he knew, and I wondered how big the space was and what was hidden in it.

The earth closed in around us again as we pressed on, moving just as quickly through the second room as we had the first. As we neared the last chamber, I could see a small light, the vision growing as we neared.

They had dug the pit almost exactly in the middle of the room, the ladder from above reaching down to the floor. A few torches had been lit along the walls and I bit my lip, eyes wide as I looked at everything laid out.

It was a display of such magnificence; I almost couldn't believe it. Large baskets overflowed with gold coins, the floor bathed in currency. Silver statues taller than Tristan stood nearby, renderings of ancient gods and goddesses. Pottery etched with beautiful, intricate designs crowded the space as piles of scrolls lay out on tables. There were other instruments leaning against the walls, but none of it held my attention like the display in the center of the room.

It was a multi-level platform, built in a large square. On each tier, there were items set up with the utmost care—some covered by protective sheets, while others left bare for all to see. There was an old helmet next to a spear of sorts, with points on each end. A lion skin, complete with head, hung from a pedestal, and what looked like a set of armor just beyond that. Something large and round was hidden, as well as the tall, rectangle beside it. On the last shelf, a tiny gold bottle sat, the same type of symbols painted on it that I'd seen on the vase.

Each object seemed to hold some type of electricity around it, the air practically buzzing with power.

Standing in front of this bottle was Randall, his eyes wide and hungry looking as he licked his lips in anticipation. James was behind him, still holding Tristan's stolen treasure chest.

Motioning for me to follow, Tristan slid behind some of the giant pots, nestling securely into a space where we could watch without being seen.

"What is this?" Randall asked angrily, gesturing to all of the things on display. "Where is the rest of it?"

"What do ye mean?' James asked, his swollen eye barely able to open at all.

"I mean, this is only the Greek stuff," Randall growled, turning on him, raising his sword so the tip was pressed against his chest. "Where is everything else?"

"Maybe there's more rooms." James shivered, clutching Tristan's box tightly, flinching as the point of the blade pushed harder against him.

"This is the place! You told me so yourself!" Randall replied, lowering the weapon and grabbing James by the collar, shaking him. "This isn't even half of the things I've seen brought to this island! Where did it all go?!"

"He doesn't know," Tristan muttered in satisfaction. "That's good."

"Doesn't know what?" I whispered back, his meaning lost.

"You're worthless," Randall said in disgust, shoving James to the ground, his ire drawing our attention back to the two of them. "Stay here and rot, for all I care."

James whimpered where he fell, his strength completely exhausted, his will to go on drained.

Turning from his victim, Randall reached out and grabbed the small gold bottle, stowing it in his pocket.

"I'm not so sure ye want to be doin' that, Thomas," Tristan said, emerging from our hiding spot and drawing his sword.

"O'Rourke." Surprise flitted across Randall's face and he laughed, lifting his own blade. "I see you made it off your ship."

"No thanks to ye," Tristan replied smoothly. "Surrender now, and I might have a mind at letting ye live."

"You? Letting me live?" He threw back his head and laughed, the derisive sound echoing about the room. "I outnumber you by at least a hundred men. All I have to do is shout and they will come to my aid. Just how do you suppose that you have any chance of winning?"

Taking a deep breath, I pulled out my own sword and stepped out beside Tristan. "There's a man of war outside, full of Templars," I said in as strong a voice as I could. "You are the ones outnumbered."

"Miss Greene!" He sounded positively delighted to see me, but the expression on his face said otherwise. "How lovely for you to join us."

"It's Mrs. O'Rourke, actually," I stated, letting a sickly sweetness drip into my tone.

We stood there, staring at each other, the anticipation of the fight burning in my veins, James moaning slightly on the ground.

"Mrs. O'Rourke, then. Congratulations on your nuptials." Sneering, he moved slightly to the right, lining us up on either side of him. "How long did you wait, after you murdered the captain?"

"About as long as ye waited before burning an entire port to the ground," Tristan shot back, scowling.

"Yes, I have an affinity for fire, as you noticed when I had the Adelina set ablaze. It was quite a sight to behold, her sinking." His nostrils flared, the tension between the three of us growing by the second, aided by the energy being put off by the objects around us.

"Those men treated ye like family. Is this how ye repay them, then? By killing them without mercy?" Tristan growled as he spoke, his blade twitching in his hand.

"We were never a family. We were pirates, robbing and killing others for our own gain. I remained aboard so long as it worked in my favor. You must remember what it was I said, before every battle?"

The window of opportunity was coming any instant now. I could feel it, like a crescendo of a great symphony, rising to its head with magnificent force, before being cut off and leaving the still air in its wake. Suddenly, I could feel it—the silence had arrived.

"Victory or death, Mr. Randall," I whispered, jumping into action.

Spinning around, Randall blocked my first strike, shoving me to the side as he parried a blow from Tristan and jumped back, trying to gain better footing on us.

My mind closed off to what was happening around me, thinking only of my training and how to stay alive. It was two against one, which heartened me some, but Randall was one of the best fighters I'd ever seen, somehow managing to snake out of each attack we dealt him.

Leaping onto the platform, Randall swiped down, blade sparking off of Tristan's before his foot connected with my jaw, knocking me over. Dazed, I rolled to my feet, blinking hard as I raised my sword again.

"Aw, Sammy's learned some new tricks!" Randall mocked, losing his focus as Tristan slammed the edge of his blade across his front, cutting the pocket from Randall's jacket.

"The vial!" he yelled to me, kicking the fabric wrapped bottle towards me. "Don't let him get it!"

Roaring in anger, Randall jumped down, tackling Tristan to the earth as he attempted to get past him to me. "Give it to me!" he commanded. "You don't know what you're dealing with!"

Snatching up the parcel, I looked toward Tristan, who was struggling to keep from getting stabbed or letting Randall go. When kneed in the groin, his reflexes forced him to, though, and Randall stood before me, blade pointed at my throat.

"Give it to me," he snarled, "or I'll kill you right here."

"You're going to do that anyway," I snapped, immediately wishing I hadn't been so snarky as I held the bottle tightly to my chest.

Grunting in rage, he pulled the pistol from his belt, pointed it at James, and fired, shooting him in the stomach. "Give it to me now," he ordered again, dropping the used gun to the ground and pulling out another, pointing it at Tristan, who was getting to his feet, sword in hand.

"Don't do it, Samantha," Tristan said calmly. "It's one of the most sacred items in this room. If he drinks the ichor, there's no telling what will happen."

"What's ichor?" I asked, trembling in front of them, feeling my fighting mindset slip away as I watched the gun trained on the love of my life.

"The blood of the gods," Randall answered, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Power to defeat all those who stand in my way. Give it to me now, woman, or I will kill him, too, and send you back to drown in your own time."

Freezing, I felt the color drain from my face, my limbs going cold. "How did you—"

Randall cackled, the cocking of the gun ringing in my ears. "Abby told me everything! How it must feel, to have seen a time you didn't belong to. And you," he said, glancing at Tristan. "What was it like to bed a woman so many years your junior? She looks like she would be mighty fine to have."

Tristan hissed at the statement and I growled, tightening my hold on the vial.

"What would happen, I wonder, if I were to open Pandora's Box right now?" Randall sounded like a maniac as he spoke, his breathing hard as he stepped back, forcing Tristan to move. "Would she disappear?"

Seizing the moment, Tristan lunged forward, knocking the flintlock out of the way as he tackled Randall, punching him in the face and breaking his nose.

"All these years in the Order," Randall chortled, taking the beating. "I was never advanced. Never asked to help with the actual treasure I so wished to see. I had to sneak into your room and the hold of the ship to even know what we were carrying, while you and your mates knew every little detail. I won't bow to your will this time, O'Rourke. I will take everything you've ever loved and destroy it," he hissed. "I am the strongest, not you!"

"Ye are a stupid man who knows not what he meddles in," Tristan replied simply, breathing heavily.

Shoving him off, Randall hopped to his feet, brandishing his sword as he screamed, spit flying from his snarled lips, the edge of his blade slicing Tristan's body in almost the exact same spot that Rodrigues had. Infuriated, I leapt forward, joining in their dance, every fiber of my being wanting to end it all now.

"I'll take that," Randall snapped, cutting across the back of my extended hand and stealing away the severed pocket and vial.

"Stop him!" I screamed at Tristan, stumbling as I tried to catch his foot, the cut burning painfully.

Running for the platform, Randall ripped the cover off the round object and a hissing filled the air. Tristan immediately turned around, knocking me to the ground.

"Don't look at it, Sam!" he yelled over the sound. "It's Aegis!"

"I don't know what that is!" I screamed back in terror, struggling against him as I tried to see what Randall was doing. It sounded like we'd fallen into a den of snakes, my mind instantly remembering the rattlers from back home.

"Medusa, lass! It's Medusa's head on the shield!"

"Come and face me now, O'Rourke," Randall taunted, his voice drawing closer. "See if you can defeat an opponent who can't be looked at!"

Smashing my face against the earth, I screwed my eyes shut, feeling like a sitting duck. There was nothing I could do, not unless I wanted to chance being turned to stone. Terror made my heart feel like it was about to burst and I glanced up, looking at James, who lay bleeding to death on the floor.

Seeing my attention, he nodded slightly, moving his hands to reveal the vase resting on his chest.

"Ye may not be able to stop him," he croaked, "But I can."

Twisting the lid, blood splattered hands shaking, James opened the jar.

The air popped around us, the sound covering the hissing of the snakes, and began to swirl in the space, speeding so fast that it flogged my hair against my skin, stinging my face.

"What have you done?" Randall's voice screamed in the din.

Raising my head, I could see the wind whipping poor James around, his body rising into the space like a strange puppet on strings, his mouth and eyes wide.

"Come on, Samantha!" Tristan yelled, tugging on my hand to get my attention. "Run!"

Startled by the force of it all, I gripped on to him tightly, following as he made for the tunnel, Randall already gone from the room.

"James!" I called out, torn between continuing on and going back for him.

"It's too late," Tristan screamed, throwing me into the tunnel in front of him. "Go! Keep yer eyes on the ground, Randall and the shield can't be too far ahead."

Looking back into the vault one more time, dread filled me at the sight I saw. James still hung in the air, his body curved into an arch, black streams gushing from his eyes and mouth as he spun down into the vase. It looked like something from a horror movie, the gold pieces swirling around him, statues toppling over, and scrolls ripping into pieces from the strength of the wind.

"Now, Samantha!" Tristan shouted again, shoving me ahead of him. "Eyes on the ground!"

Coming to my senses, I sprinted down the hall, not stopping as we entered the middle room, where the wind was starting to build up just as much power.

"Randall?" I shouted, trying to see anything in the dark.

"Keep going," Tristan urged in my ear. "Run from this place before ye are taken from me!" The fear in his voice spiked my own and I groped for his hand, shaking as his fingers twisted around mine. Together, we ran out of the room and into the tunnel again, not stopping until we reached the slope up to the secret door.

"Do ye hear that?" Tristan asked breathlessly, the wind having not caught up with us yet.

Listening hard, trying to calm my own heartbeat, I nodded, pointing up the slope. "Snakes."

"Randall," he confirmed, taking the lead. "Remember, don't look at anything but the ground, not until I say it's safe."

"What about you?"

"I'll do the best I can."

Hurrying up the steep incline the best we could, the gale starting to roar just behind us again, I suddenly found myself wishing with all my might that I would be allowed to stay here.

You are number eight, the prophecy had said. Eight is a magic number.

Eight objects of power in the vault, eight deaths to unlock their secrets. If I didn't return home, my time would have to continue on without me, and I would be thought of as dead to everyone in it. I would be number eight.

Your home is closer than you know. Look inside yourself to find the answers you seek.

Tristan was my home now. If I were going to be sent anywhere, let it be with him, so that I would always be at home with the ones I loved. The only question I needed to ask myself was what I would do to make him happy.

A cracking sound reached us from higher up and light from the outside suddenly filled the tunnel. Resisting the urge to look up, I continued to let Tristan guide me until we were finally at the door.

Heaving himself through the now broken opening, Tristan sprinted off toward the ocean, screaming Randall's name. As I pulled myself out, the wind suddenly rushed past me into the night, falling silent as it left the hidden world below.

"Stay back!" Randall's voice carried to me on the breeze and I looked over, seeing his form wading out into the ocean to a waiting long boat, Medusa's shield just behind him. All around us, sounds of battle filled my ears, the Templars having finally arrived to finish their part in it all. As Tristan took one more step forward, he suddenly flashed the shield to the front and I looked down, feeling the disappointment that came with knowing he was going to get away.

"I'll find ye, Randall," Tristan growled. "No matter what it takes."

"Victory or death, Captain," he replied coldly.

Oars splashed into the water and I knew they were leaving, not daring to look up and see for myself. After several minutes, Tristan came to my side, brushing the side of my face and lifting it to look at him.

"Is he gone?"

"Aye, he is."

James Abby's body was stiff, laid out on the floor under the pit, his eyes and mouth still open wide in fear and astonishment.

"Why did it kill him, do you think?" Captain Able asked me, standing off to the side.

"He tried to use it for something other than good," I answered simply. "The vase knew he wished death on someone more than anything and it took him as punishment." With a shiver, I remembered my drugged meeting with Zeus and his warning about using Pandora's Box.

"Mother Agnetha must have foreseen his actions," Tristan concurred. "But she didn't know who he was."

"I've wondered as much as well," I mused, still staring at him. "He was a brave man."

"A good friend," Tristan said softly and I nodded, feeling more tears gathering in my eyes.

"Shall we bury him, then?" Captain Able sighed, shifting his weight from one side to the other.

"No," Tristan and I said together.

"Why ever not?" the captain asked in surprise.

"Because he was still here when I first entered in my own time. He was right here, under the pit. I stepped on him. Sorry, James," I added, feeling guilty for disturbing his remains. "I didn't mean to."

"His spirit will stay to protect the treasure if we leave him as well," Tristan answered. "It is a custom among pirates."

"Yes, but they murder their victims savagely beforehand," the captain argued.

"I'd say he had a pretty horrific death," I cut in.

They both fell silent at this, the three of us continuing to stare at him. Finally, I felt I could turn away and did so, looking at the both of them. "So, what now?"

"We'll have to move the treasure," Captain Able sighed. "Now that there is a pit over the top of it, it will never be safe. Someone will find it if we fill it in. All they'll have to do is dig it back out."

Smiling, I shook my head. "You're going to booby trap it," I said smartly. "It will take a lot of work, but your treasure will be safe for a very long time, possibly even forever."

"How can that be, if you were in it yourself?" he asked, confused.

"It flooded while I was in here," I answered, turning to James's body. The vase was lying by his side, the lid screwed on tight, though I didn't know how since there had been no one down here to do it. Picking it up gently, I moved around James, placing it back in Tristan's box and closed the top on it. "This is staying right here, where I found it," I added, stepping away.

"I'm assuming that you have designs for these booby traps?" the captain asked suspiciously. "And you're certain that they will work?"

"I'm positive." Smiling at him, I motioned to Tristan, ready to leave. "I have the history to prove it."

As we walked through the tunnel to the broken entrance, I explained everything I knew about the flood tunnels to the captain. They would need to build the wooden vault around the rooms and waterproof them, but I already knew that they would handle it all perfectly. He seemed to agree that they would do the trick, falling silent as he thought it all over.

"What about this door?" he asked as we climbed out of the tunnel.

"Bury it, too," Tristan suggested. "Collapse the tunnels and fill it in."

"There's freshwater under here somewhere," I stated. "This was all a swamp in my time. If you can find the water, it will come up and flood the whole thing. No one will be able to see the door or find it."

"It will take a lot of time," Captain Able mused. "And lots of manpower. But we can do it. My only concern is that someone who lives nearby will see us working here."

"If they do, they never told anyone. Oak Isle is a mystery that no one can solve. Just when you think you've figured it out, the island comes back and bites you."

Pulling a coin from his pocket, he rubbed it between his fingers, looking up at the sky. "We will do it, then," he announced, suddenly losing his grip and dropping the coin.

"Leave it," I laughed as he bent to pick it up. "One day it will be a treasure beyond anyone's wildest dreams."

"Come, Samantha," Tristan said then, taking my hand. "Let them do their work. We have other things to think on." Leading me away with a smile, we strolled along the edge of the ocean, the breeze playing with my hair and tickling my skin.

"I thought I was going to lose ye, down there in the vault," he confessed, squeezing my fingers painfully tight. "The air was howling all around us, yer hair was stinging my skin, and it was as if I could feel ye, slipping away."

"But I didn't," I reminded him quietly. "I'm still here."

"Aye, ye are. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved to never have to see that vase or this island again."

"What will you do now, with no treasure to guard?"

He remained silent, slowing our steps enough that my feet sunk into the sand with each movement. The peace allowed me to think on our future and I abruptly knew what he would be doing.

"We're going to hunt Randall, aren't we?"

"Aye, if ye agree to it."

"If I hadn't let him knock me over, we could have caught him," I spoke guiltily. "We could have gotten the vial and you would have finished him instead of me screwing it up."

"I seem to remember that I was the one being held at gunpoint," he chuckled. "It was no one's fault. He got away and we both live to fight him again."

Sighing, I looked back across the island, taking it all in. The sun shone down on the green leaves and grass, a lazy bee buzzing around every so often. Waves brushed the sand inches from our feet, the ocean reaching out into the vast unknown. "I still can't believe that it was all here," I confessed, staring at where the future swamp would lie.

"What do ye mean?" He shrugged his shoulder a little, adjusting the bandage around his new cut, his white shirt looking dirty after climbing in and out of the vault.

"The treasure of the Templars," I laughed. "Buried on an island in the middle of nowhere. All of that history and religion, tucked away where no one would ever find it."

Chuckling, he stopped, looking me over. "Ye think this is the only place we hid it?" he asked. "Why would we do that?"

"You mean there's more?" I whispered, eyes growing wide.

"Aye, Samantha. Much more."

"Well, where is it?' I demanded, feeling the breath whoosh out of me at the revelation.

"Now that is a secret I can not tell ye, because I don't know the answer." He paused, a calculating look growing in his eyes. Humming thoughtfully, he stopped our movements, standing in front of me as he grinned. "But I have heard rumors. Tell me, lass, have ye heard of a place known as El Dorado?"
Did you love Swept Away? If so, please consider leaving a review!

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Mark Bell is being haunted.

Ever since his friend, Samantha, drowned in the Treasure Pit, he's been running from her ghost. When his path takes him to a historical site and shipwreck in Texas, he hopes the past will stay where it belongs. However, the more he uncovers, the clearer it becomes that something is not right. Old friends need his help, and he doesn't know if he's the man to get the job done.

Samantha O'Rourke is a time traveler trying to survive in the past. Trapped in the social pyramid of the French Court and the secret society her husband, Tristan, defends, she feels more out of place than ever before. Nothing ever stops a treasure hunter for long, though, and she soon finds herself caught up in another mystery, only to have life yanked to a precarious perch, where only the truly strong will survive.

Can the future be changed? Or is everything set in stone, destined to follow only one course?

Here's a taste of Carried Away for your reading pleasure!

Mark Bell, Present Day

The old Mission building at Los Olvidados had been one of the lucky ones, escaping destruction from the Native Americans. While most of the others had been abandoned, burned down, or torn apart by attackers, the priests here had somehow managed to keep the peace. We weren't exactly sure how, or why, for that matter. The Spanish conquest of the New World had been a brutal one for all involved, resulting in the almost complete annihilation of several peoples. For whatever reason, though, the warring nations had managed to coexist here at the southernmost tip of modern day Texas, helping to begin the Spanish colonization of North America.

Missionaries didn't excite me, to be honest. Indian wars kind of did, but I was here for another reason entirely.

It had been a little less than a year since Samantha Greene had followed in her father's footsteps and was claimed by the Treasure Pit in Maine. Understandably, I knew why she had snuck onto the land owned by Duke McCrery, awarded to him after their legal battle. I'd felt the thirst to discover the treasure at the bottom of the Pit as much, if not more, than she did—we both owed it to her father. But something always went wrong on Oak Isle, and, with Sam's accidental drowning, the state declared the area protected land. Not a soul was allowed to dig for anything, whether they possessed the island or not.

I'd spent years studying and searching for answers on Oak Isle, earning the title of Pirate Historian Extraordinaire. In my mind, I was still plain old Mark Bell, the man who knew (or at least thought he knew) all the answers to the island. Now, all I had to show for it were two dead friends and an empty bank account.

When October break arrived six weeks after Sammy's death, I caught the first plane out of town and headed south, meeting up with some of my buddies in Florida. The university I taught at hadn't been very happy to hear I was leaving mid-semester, but there was nothing they could do.

Everyone knew what had happened on the island; it was no secret what I'd lost and never found.

With its fresh, humid air, Florida turned out to be just what the doctor ordered, the Caribbean only a short distance away. It made a man knowledgeable about pirates a good thing to have around, especially when your friends owned a dive and salvage company and wanted to look for lost ships.

So, we set to work, combing the ocean for anything and everything. Business wasn't bad—we took tourists out on dives every now and then—and I finally started to feel like maybe I could find a new passion besides Oak Isle. Life was simple there. It was a welcome respite from the endless imaginings and failed attempts at trying to solve the Treasure Pit.

Maybe it was my lot in life to always have some mystery that couldn't be solved hanging over my head, though.

It was hot. Of all the things I could have remembered about the night that set all of this in motion, that seems the clearest. Tangled in sweaty sheets, I tossed and turned, shrouded in the blackness that filled the little shack we called home, the wood walls barely held together enough to keep mosquitoes out. The house wasn't bad, not really, but it felt much more like a fishing hut at times. Every penny the business earned was spent on equipment or food and, as a result, the living quarters suffered. Sometimes, I wondered why we didn't ditch the hovel all together and live on the boat. It would have been slightly more cramped, but at least then I would have had the breeze off the ocean to brush against me, while the rocking motion of the waves lulled me to sleep.

Nine months. Two hundred and seventy days, give or take. That was how long it had been since Michael's funeral. Only a month less than that since Sam had been caught on tape, climbing into the hole that would flood a short time later.

They never found her body.

Somewhere in my thoughts, I finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the young woman. Her body floated eerily in the ocean, arms spread out, eyes wide and locked on me, brown hair fanning out around her head like a halo of darkness.

"Mark," she whispered, her face somehow still unmoving. "Mark!"

Jerking awake, I tumbled off the small mattress, taking the sheets with me as I rolled across the wooden floor. "Good gods, Joe!" I yelled. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Glaring up at the man who'd actually been saying my name, I began trying to untangle myself from the cotton mess I'd gotten into.

"Sorry." The beefy, bald man didn't seem all that regretful of his actions. In fact, he appeared to be the most excited I'd ever seen him. His hands shook some as he licked his lips, his feet doing a slight dance of anticipation.

"What is going on?" Frowning, I paused in my Houdini-like actions, letting the covers stay as they were for the time being.

"Stephens, the guy I told you about, who you replaced—he just called." He was worked up about something, that much was certain. It didn't seem to be anger, like the last time he'd talked to me about the man who had up and left with only a day's notice.

"About what?" I asked grumpily, rubbing the spot on my elbow that had connected with the floor in a very unfortunate fashion.

"He's at the Mission they asked him to come help with." Joe's thick, brown mustache twitched as he smiled and licked his lips again.

By this point, I was almost dying with anticipation—or annoyance—at what he would say. Eyes narrowing, I watched the way he bounced up and down, his tan skin even darker in the night. "Would you get to the point?" It was as polite as I could muster at three in the morning.

"They found a ship sunk in the bay! They thought there had been mostly fishermen in the area, but he said this is a big one—a galleon. Their equipment suggests that it was either sunk on purpose or taken down in a battle. Some of the hull shows signs of fire damage."

"Really?" My interest spiked, but the thought of returning to bed was sounding more and more promising. Only if Sam stays in her grave, I thought suddenly, my skin prickling uncomfortably at the memory of her in my dreams. Trying to shake the feeling of the ghost, I focused on the man in front of me. "What's the ship's name?"

"That's the best part," he answered almost giddily, staring at me with renewed fervor. "It doesn't have one."

"What?" I stood up straight as a board, tripping until the sheets lay forgotten on the ground. It didn't even matter that I was only in my boxers, my body super exposed in the cramped space. All I cared about was the seemingly nameless vessel. "You mean they don't know the name because their equipment isn't good enough, or it actually doesn't have one?"

"Their equipment isn't good enough, but they were able to get preliminary sights with a diver. She checked the stern. There's no name painted there." Joe grinned, the hair above his lip twitching as his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Of course, there is a chance that the name could have been burned or rotted away, but still."

Could it be? An unknown pirate ship, sunk right where we could get to it? If that were the case, it would be extremely lucky for us. Those vessels were the hardest to find, with only two or three ever being loosely confirmed. Unless the ship had been stolen from someone and already had a name, pirates didn't give their boats one. The anonymity of attacking with an unnamed craft aided them greatly in their escape, since no one could say who had confronted them specifically. Of course, no name was a dead giveaway to the Navy, but the buccaneers didn't seem to care.

"Mark," Joe said happily. "They want all of us to come. They want the equipment—and they want you. Stephens told them that you're the best Golden Era expert he's ever heard of."

"That was nice of him." I chuckled, not caring that I'd never even seen Stephens, let alone met him. Joe had made him sound like a level one prick, but I was sure we'd be singing his praises from now on.

A small voice in the back of my mind whispered to slow down, to forget the excitement. Remember what happened to Michael and Sam? it whispered. Their treasure hunt killed them. You left to get away from that. What if you're next?

Steadying myself with a deep breath, I looked Joe in the eye and smiled as wide as I could. This was no mystery pit waiting to be solved, but something sitting in the plain light of day. Swallowing hard, I grabbed his hand and shook it firmly. "When do we leave?"

Bursting into enthusiastic laughter that could've woken anyone within three miles, Joe clapped me on the shoulder, pulling me into a hug that made me feel like I finally had a team again, after months of running away from the ghosts of the ones I'd left behind.

Brown eyes stared back at me now from the front window of the boat. We were sailing Joe's Explorer, the one and only ship in our "fleet." In the two days we'd spent making our way to our final destination, I'd had a lot of time to plan what our newest job would entail. Yet, all I could think of was Michael and Sam. It was as if signing up to help find this treasure had triggered everything from the last one. Half the time I looked at my reflection, I saw theirs staring back.

Blinking hard, I checked myself in the window again. It was my own eyes I saw, though, and my short, black hair, spiked up like usual. The face was my own, tan from working at sea for so many months. It wouldn't have been so bad to see Sam's smile in the place of my own goofy one—she'd always had the type of grin that could make anyone feel happy—but I was relieved to look like myself all around.

Glancing down at my hands, the tattoo of the skull and crossbones on my wrist appearing in the corner of my gaze left me needing to banish the thoughts of Sam once again. It wasn't the memory of her that made me uncomfortable; she was a good friend, always willing to listen and help out. In the short months I'd known her, she'd become like a little sister to me. The brotherly love I'd acquired for her was what made me wish she was gone from my mind. How many times could I think about her in the bottom of that pit, dead, before I went crazy?

"You doing all right, Bell?"

Sighing, I looked over at Joe. He was steering, his large hands wrapped around the tiny helm of the boat, large, black aviators covering his eyes as a slightly smoking cigar hung from his lips.

"Yeah. Just thinking about some stuff. Trying to decide what all we're going to need for our first surveillance of this boat." Taking my own sunglasses off the collar of my shirt, I slid them on and shoved my hands in my pockets. "I imagine it's going to be pretty fragile. It's a miracle that it even survived at all."

"I was thinking the same thing," he replied, nodding. "The salt count in the water is just barely low enough. Anywhere else and the wood would have dissolved within a hundred years."

"And it's just cold and deep enough. If it hadn't buried itself in the ground, there probably still wouldn't be anything left."

"What are you thinking? Will you want to raise it if we can?" He glanced away from the ocean stretching out in front of us, taking the cigar from his mouth and blowing out a puff of smoke.

"There might be wood worms in anything that's left," I answered, shaking my head. "I don't know if we can bring it back up at all. It could be that everything under the sand is charred and fallen apart anyway. I've never dealt with a ship that was burning when it went down."

"Either way, we're in for the find of our lives." Grinning, he placed the cigar back in his mouth and turned his attention to driving, leaving me with my thoughts once more.

The shore was visible in front of us at this point. We'd decided to leave the coast and travel in open water to save time. The sight of land made me feel comfortable, even though I didn't mind being on the ship.

"Stephens is going to meet us at the dock a few miles from the site," Joe continued, smoke curling out around his cheeks. "They don't want us sailing right in just yet. Don't want to tip off other treasure hunters, you know." He laughed slightly at that, shaking his head. However, it was a real threat, and one we constantly had to be on the lookout for. If someone else came in and tried to claim the find, they could seriously damage the ship and even steal any artifacts that might be on board.

We sailed up to the harbor as the sun was setting, the lights of civilization twinkling around us. As Joe had said, we had a welcome committee, with a tall, gangly looking man at its head.

"Joe!" The man raised his hand in greeting, his suit looking extremely too formal for the dingy dock he was standing on. A gold ring graced one of his fingers, shining almost as brightly as his slicked down, white blond hair. Joe had said Stephens was only a few years older than me and in his early forties, but he looked ancient, like he'd spent every day in a tanning booth, purposely making his skin appear the same consistency as a crocodile's.

"Hey, Stephens." Joe smiled and waved back, leaving the captain's cabin and hopping onto the wooden planks beside him. The other member of our team—Hal—was already on deck, waiting to toss a rope out so we could tie the Explorer down.

Hal, by contrast, really was in his early sixties, with light blond hair that was blowing all over the top of his head, but looked to be about my age next to Stephens. I half expected the latter to open his mouth and suddenly reveal that he had fangs and drank blood to survive, he looked so out of place.

Following Joe out, I hesitated on deck, waiting to see if Hal would need help tying off. My presence was immediately noticed, though.

"And this must be the famous Mark Bell," Stephens said, beckoning me toward him. "We're very happy you could join us, sir."

"Thank you for the opportunity," I replied warmly. "When will we get to see this ship of yours?"

"He doesn't beat around the bush, does he?" The group laughed at my expense, friendly smiles greeting me from the men and women behind him.

"Mark is serious about his work. It's what makes him so good." Joe winked at me as he passed, heading down the dock. Stephens, who apparently hadn't been ready to leave the spot just yet, hurried to catch up with him, the rest of the group doing so as well.

"He's a mystery, Stephens is," Hal said as we watched them all go on without us. "There was always something about him. I can't quite describe it. He's a nice man, though, despite his appearance."

"You're talking like you're my dad again, Hal." Laughing, I looked back at the man, comforted by his remarks nonetheless.

"And you better listen up, sonny!" he teased, finally hopping over the rail and onto the dock himself. "We'll see the wreck tomorrow. Stephens may have some theatricality to him, but he's as anxious as any for a good find."

It was decided we would send the cameras down first, after scanning the entire bay with a special machine that would create a map of the wreck for us. Ashley, one of the archeologists helping sort through the items at the Mission, had been the diver who found the ship to begin with. She looked more like a super model than a scientist, but it was instantly clear she knew what she was talking about.

"It was my day off," she explained, tucking her long black hair behind her ears. "I hadn't been for a dive in a while and the water looked calm enough. The site is about one hundred feet under water, just inside the opening to the bay. The only reason I found it was because of the metal detector I'd brought with me; I'd been hoping to find some artifacts linked to the missionaries that lived here, maybe uncover how they interacted with the water."

"What pinged the monitor?" I asked, watching as the printer slowly pushed out a sheet detailing the area. "A cannon?"

"I'm not exactly sure." Her tone was apologetic and she shrugged. "It might have been. Once I saw all the stones laying in a row, though, I knew it must have been a boat. There's not much left on the surface. Not of the actual craft, anyway."

Nodding, I continued to watch the map forming before us. "Just things that were on board." We'd driven over the location five times with our equipment, hopeful that we'd get a good enough scan to really see what was there. So far, it looked like we were stumbling into the find of a lifetime. "Good catch with the stones, by the way. Most people would have thought they were just rocks sitting funny."

"I am an archeologist," she said, laughing. "I know ships had big stones like that in the hold to help keep balance. Nature doesn't really make perfect lines, either."

"I guess you wouldn't be most people, then." Looking over at her, I smiled warmly. She was very pretty, intellectual, and didn't seem to shy away from the fact that she knew those things about herself. Confidence was very appealing to me; maybe I'd ask her to dinner one night.

The printer made a final ding and the large map slid the rest of the way out, onto the table, a mess of lines and numbers. In the middle of it, though, plain as day, was a vessel lying on its side.

"It looks like there's quite a bit left under the sand, if these readings are correct." Gingerly, I picked up the map, holding it so we could both examine it better. "This is where you tried to look for a name, right?"

"Yeah." Moving closer, she pointed to a spot on the ship at one end. "I didn't dig very far, though. It's pretty stuck in there. There was no sign of extreme decay, but I didn't want to risk it. Based off what I was seeing, it looked to be a good size site, as well. There wasn't exactly enough oxygen for me to stay down there all day and search through everything."

"Do you want to? I mean, when we send divers down. You can help me catalog everything, if you'd like." Blushing slightly, I cleared my throat, aware that I'd phrased it like I would have if I were asking her on a date. I hadn't meant it that way, but I could tell from the expression on her face that she had heard the proposal.

"We'll have to see how the work on shore goes. There's a lot of books here. Maybe I'll just keep an eye out for something about your mystery ship." Grinning, her hand brushed across mine as she leaned in to study the sketch I held again.

"Bell!"

Turning, I waved at Joe, who was waiting to deploy the camera that would give me my first glimpse at the site below. "I have to go." Focusing back to Ashley, I smiled, feeling a few butterflies at her presence.

"I can see that." Gracefully, she left the cabin, moving to get on the jet ski she'd rode out on. "Let me know if you have any more questions."

"Thanks, Ashley," Joe said, beaming like an idiot as he watched her climb over the side and zoom away. After she was gone, he glanced at me knowingly. "Who knew they made the smart ones so pretty now, eh?"

"Everyone, Joe." Chuckling, I carried the map over to him, discussing a few key points of interest. "I can't wait to get down there myself," I added eagerly as I rolled the sheet up.

"Me either. But we need to see what is down there first before we go running off like school kids. There's no telling how old this thing is. I've seen them pull things up that were down there for almost five hundred years. Granted, there wasn't as much salt, but who knows, right?" Falling silent, he helped position the expensive lens over the side of the boat, waving when he was ready for it to go under.

Nodding, I watched as the high tech camera was carefully lowered, Hal working a small crane mechanism above us. Once everything was set, he'd join us in the cabin to steer the craft and see what showed up on our screen.

As I went back inside and took my seat, I silently marveled at Ashley. Normally, it wasn't recommended for divers to go below one hundred and thirty feet. It was surprising that she'd even gone as deep as she had, especially for a simple, unplanned dive. We were partly using the camera now because we wanted to make sure it was worth risking going down there. If there were a large amount of the ship buried, we'd be taking an even bigger chance on our lives to uncover it.

"Is there a picture in there yet?" Hal called from above, still working the controls of the crane to drop the equipment while Joe watched.

Shaking the anticipation and wonderment off, I leaned over and turned the television on, a vision of water filling the screen. "Yeah!" I yelled, scooting the metal seat I was on over so there would be room for all of us.

The two men joined me, settling back as Hal took the remote control in his hands. "And they said video games weren't worth the time," he muttered, laughing. This elicited snickers from me, which I quickly masked as a cough. Hal had probably played three video games his entire life, and yet he still cracked the joke every time he used the deep sea camera.

Silence fell over the room as the descent to the ocean floor began, nothing on the screen but some white flecks and lots of water. The deeper we got, the darker it became, until the overhead lights on the machine were triggered and lit up the space around the tiny craft. Along with the sunlight that still managed to penetrate the distance, the illumination gave us almost perfect vision.

"Look, there," Joe murmured pointing to a small object as the lens drifted over it. "That look like a bottle to you?"

"Kinda," I agreed softly, leaning forward. It was dirty and half buried, with organisms growing on it, but there was a faint outline that looked like a regular, glass bottle.

"We're coming up on the bow now, according to our last scan," Hal stated, slowing down some.

"Look, boots!" In awe, I watched the leather items as they lay on the ground, undisturbed for who knew how long. The sand around them swirled gently as the motion from the camera's propellers moved over it. Suddenly, it occurred to me that there could be more than just artifacts here. What if there were human remains buried in the sand as well?

"There's the first stone from the hull," Joe replied, already moving on to the next thing he saw. "And look at that bit poking up right there. Looks like a box to me. See the metal corner, coming up out of the mud? The rest of the chest could be buried in the sand."

Everything was covered in growth from the ocean, as was expected, and only a small portion of the actual ship was visible above the silt. After three hours of careful exploration with the camera, it was clear that we would need to dive to the wreck ourselves.

"Pistols, cannons, dishes—I can't believe how much stuff is down there!" Popping some candy into my mouth, I smiled happily, leaning back in my chair. The ship was definitely from the same era as the Golden Age of Piracy, based on the outlines of the weapons we'd seen. Once we'd raised a few things and studied them, I was positive we could give the vessel a date.

"It does look like she was taken down in battle," Joe said, continuing the conversation. "If they'd burned her to the deck and sank her on purpose, don't you think they would have taken those things with them? Why destroy all of the stuff as well?"

"I think the greater question is what were they doing here to begin with?" Hal interjected from the doorway, having just hoisted the camera out of the water and set it back on deck. "This isn't a good place to careen. If it came in the time frame we think it did, all that was here were the missionaries. What would pirates want with them?"

"I suppose the battle that sunk the ship could have been with the Mission." Joe looked doubtful even as he said it.

"Because missionaries are the burning and sinking type." Hal barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "No. I'd bet good money that there was another ship here, one that would have been a fair fight for No Name. Not some dinky fishing raft ran by religious types."

"But that leaves an even bigger problem, doesn't it?" I interjected, standing. "One ship could be a coincidence. But two? There's no way. A fight suggests they were enemies, or a reluctant partnership that went bad. What were they looking for that brought them both here?"

No one had an answer for that. As we all stood there, contemplating what could have happened in this place so many years ago, I suddenly felt as if the ghosts of my friends were nearby. The notion sent a chill through me and I could practically feel the color draining from my face.

"You all right, Bell?" Joe asked suddenly, lurching forward to grab me as if I were tumbling over.

"Yeah." The reply was stronger than I meant it to be, but it stopped him from saving me like some fainting woman. "My, uh, stomach suddenly doesn't feel so well."

"There's a storm blowing in." Hal covered for me, changing the conversation as he looked out at the clear horizon. "I can smell it. The waves are picking up some, too. We'd best get back in to shore. The visibility below will be gone before we could get down there."

"A touch of seasickness?" Joe was joking, knowing that I had fine sea legs as he looked at me with slight concern, but I nodded all the same.

It's happening again, the tiny voice in the back of my mind whispered. You're getting yourself into another mystery that could kill you.

Pursing my lips, I tried to steady myself, banishing the voice and ghosts from my head. It was ridiculous that I kept feeling like I was on the brink of death. How many dives had I been on since I'd come to Florida? I'd never felt danger through any of them, besides the occasional things that all divers experienced. Sure, Michael and Sam weighed on my thoughts a lot, but this was . . . different.

Why did I feel so terrified?

The radio on the dash beeped in, saving me from the complexities of my own brain.

"This is Explorer," Joe answered, talking into the mouthpiece and steering the boat at the same time.

"Are you guys planning on coming in soon?" It was Stephens, his high voice as smooth as silk. For some reason, whenever I heard it, I had to fight the urge to frown.

"We're on our way back now. Why?"

"We've been going through some of the manuscripts here," Stephens answered offhandedly. "Records, journals, that kind of stuff. It looks like we've found a couple entries about your ship."

"What year?" I immediately asked, holding my breath as Joe repeated the question.

"These entries are dated sixteen ninety-seven. Once in a log book, another in a personal journal."

Shocked silence fell between us. There it was—the boat, if it was the same one, was indeed from the period we wanted.

"Well, I'll be damned," Joe said softly. He looked at Hal and I, thinking over something before he turned back to the window and pressed the button to reply. "We're going to need to call someone about this, right, Stephens?"

"I've already contacted the local authorities and informed them of the historic value of the site. Hopefully, they'll get back to me soon and send some help to keep it secure."

"Can we see the documents?" I pressed again, impatient as the message was relayed.

"We've got them in a holding room for you. Ashley is looking at them right now to see if there's anything we could possibly match to the wreck."

"We'll be in as soon as we can," Joe announced. "Thanks, Stephens."

"These books are from right before the Mission was abandoned," Ashley said, leading us through one of the many work tents that were set up outside the old building. "Around seventeen hundred, the missionaries packed up and moved down the coast. We think they were headed for Veracruz, but we aren't exactly sure what prompted them to leave in the first place." She paused, a frustrated look passing over her before she shook her head and sighed. "There are stories that relations with the indigenous people were becoming more difficult, but I personally feel that there had to have been some type of catalyst to make them run so suddenly. I was hoping to find some answers in this journal that was left behind, but it stops before anything occurs. For some reason, all of the records stop at sixteen ninety-eight. It's like they decided what they were doing wasn't worth saving anymore."

"That's why you're so interested in what happened here," I continued, trying to fill in the blanks she was leaving. "There's two whole years missing."

"Yes. There's some things here and there, but it's not enough to really understand why it was abandoned. I mean, look at it! It's beautiful—a real oasis, surrounded by green forest that leads off into desert and mountains. This was a good place to put down roots. Why did they run?"

We left the work area and moved into the actual building, following an already excavated path to the holding room we'd been told about. It felt like the building was going to fall down around us; it looked so worn and old. The government had put it under protection decades earlier, constructing a large fence that surrounded the entire area, but they'd never brought anyone out to go through everything. Preliminary findings had made them conclude that the building was empty—that is until someone broke in one night and discovered a door beneath the rubble of one wall. The secret basement behind it had immediately drawn curious eyes and the team that was working in the space now.

"Here's some gloves," Ashley said, pulling them out of her pocket and passing them out. "Don't touch anything without them. The room you'll be in is just a holding area, but we've filled it with a lot of artifacts."

Unlocking the padlock of the entrance in front of us, she stood to the side, allowing us to scoot by her. The room itself was small and boring, the walls carrying a somewhat crumbled appearance. The workers had lined them with tables, though, all of which were covered with various odds and ends that had been brought up from the basement. In the center of the room, one long bench sat with only a few items laid out, among them some very old looking books.

"It's all written in Spanish," Ashley said from behind us, watching as we slowly gathered around the table. "Do any of you speak it?"

"We each know a little," Joe replied.

"I read it better than I speak it." I felt confident that I could decipher anything, as long as it gave me the answers I was searching for.

"I'll leave you to it, then." Smiling, she closed the door, the sound of the lock never clicking shut on the other side.

Carefully, I pulled my latex gloves on and picked up one of the books, slowly thumbing through the pages. "This is the log," I murmured. "This line is saying they bought fish from someone. This one about herbs picked from the garden."

"The brothers were good housekeepers," Hal said, smiling. "They would have needed to keep track of everything, especially their stores." He frowned then, glancing down at the objects on the table. "But that makes it even more strange that they just stopped writing it down."

"Maybe they had a change in leadership?" Joe guessed, shrugging.

I continued my perusal, ignoring their banter, hunting for any signs of a galleon, but all that was mentioned were fishing boats. Then, finally, on almost the last page, I found it. "Here!" Excitedly, I set the book down for the other two to see, pointing to the entry. "One galleon, nameless. Paid to drop anchor; ten pieces of silver."

"Sounds like a lot to just let your ship sit out in the water." Hal frowned, obviously put off by the price. "Doesn't it?"

"There's no mention of it leaving, either," I said, ignoring him. "The log ends with it still there."

"Let's look at the journal," Joe suggested, picking up the other book and flipping it to the back. He perused the pages for a few moments before nodding and sitting down in the chair beside him. "Here, I think I found it." He struggled over a few words for a second and then began reading the passage out loud, translating as he went.

I do apologize for not writing for so long—this past week has been filled with so many strange occurrences! It has made life here something I have not experienced in quite a while; exciting.

It began on the Sabbath. We had just finished evening prayer, when there was a knock at the chapel door. A married couple—an Irishman and his wife by the name O'Rourke—had arrived seeking shelter. Apparently, they had been looking for a friend of theirs, a Father, whom they had been separated from in Mexico City. Their informants had told them he might have headed this way, but none of us had ever seen or heard of him.

All in all, they were nice people. The man helped care for the animals while the wife assisted in making dinner. They were quite put off by the ship in the bay, though.

Oh, the ship! I forgot to tell you about the ship. I didn't think it important until I saw how nervous it made them. I also suspect that the men who anchored here are pirates, and I did not wish to write too much about them, should they indeed turn out to be of a vicious nature.

It was some weeks ago when the galleon arrived out of nowhere. I confess, up until I saw it in the water, I did not know the bay was deep enough for a craft so large to come in so far.

Now that I think of it, I wonder if the couple were also of a pirate's mind? Why else would they have been so put off and so secretive about any information they had on it? All they would say was that it would have been better if we'd never set eyes on the thing.

To continue with my narrative—the ship came into harbor and dropped anchor. A long boat appeared almost immediately, full to the brim of men who looked as if they'd just experienced the worst time of their lives. We fed them, even though we had very little, and inquired as to what brought them so far north.

(Some of them were French, I am certain. They didn't ask after any settlements by their people, though.)

It became clear that they wanted to leave their ship anchored for some time, however, they wouldn't say how long. It was all very secretive. They paid a handsome sum and we entered it into the logbook.

I do wish to mention here that the ship had no name and the men refused to tell us what they called her. They also refused to give any of their own names, which was alarming to say the least. We didn't dare refuse them at that point, not when we were so obviously working with evil men. However, I would listen when they weren't paying attention, and believe I managed to hear their captain's name.

Thomas Randall. He was a very fierce man, though not as menacing in appearance. His hair was long, black, greasy, and the only thing that really made him look like a man who should be left alone when it hung in his face. Still, I remember the ring he wore on his finger; gold, with a cross etched into it. In the middle of the cross was a black dot. It seemed out of place on his person, but strangely his at the same time.

I digress. The O'Rourke's only stayed the one night, thanking us warmly for the accommodation. We tried to warn them of the natives and traveling on alone as they wanted, but they wouldn't listen. One can only hope that they will find their friend and make it home alive.

"The rest is just stuff about the natives. I guess it was exciting for him." Joe shrugged, closing the book and frowning. "There's nothing that ties the ship we've found to this one, other than the fact that we don't have a name for it."

"Have you ever heard of this Thomas Randall, Mark?" Hal stared at me expectantly, like I would suddenly spout out the man's birthday, home, and every other fact about him.

"I have no idea who he is," I confessed, rubbing a hand over my face. "But I might be able to find some information on him. If we can tie him to something we salvage from the ship, then we'll have it identified for sure. Otherwise it will all be guesswork."

"Where do you plan on going to look? Surely not anywhere around here." Joe was still frowning. I knew how he felt; here was the evidence we needed, but it was maddeningly out of reach.

"Probably the New York City Public Library. They have a really extensive naval history section there." Except that New York City was much closer to Maine and the Treasure Pit than I wanted to be. Scott had been trying to reach me for months. If he found out I was nearby . . .

"I say take as much time as you need," Hal said, agreeing with me. "Turn over every rock until you find him."

"We'll get started on the diving here, so we have something to match him to when you get back." Joe stood then, shaking his head. "We'll solve it. I know we will."

Disappointed about missing the dive, I nodded, knowing I needed to go find something out. This was just like Oak Isle; every answered question spouted fifty more unanswered ones. Thinking over the entry, I hedged, coming across something I didn't understand.

"Why would he mention the ring?" I was talking mostly to myself, but the other two men stopped to listen, watching me expectantly. "I mean, it's not important. Why would a missionary feel he needed to describe the ring the man was wearing?"

"Because it's important?" Hal guessed. "Maybe you can find him with that information."

"Ask Stephens," Joe said suddenly, laughing slightly.

"Why?"

"Because he's got the same symbol on his ring. I should have recognized the description earlier, but I was too involved in trying to find something about the boat. I bet he can tell you what it is. He treats that thing like it's his baby. Remember that time he took it off and almost lost it in the sea, Hal?"

"Oh, yeah! He acted like he was going to die without it. Big baby." He chuckled with Joe at the memory. "I suppose it's the same symbol, isn't it?"

"I'll ask him before I leave." Smiling tightly, I exited the room. Something about Stephens made me uncomfortable, but I still hadn't been able to put my finger on it. What were the odds he would magically have the same kind of ring as our pirate captain? It all sounded very fishy to me. "I'm going to turn in for the night, guys," I said, glancing back from the doorway.

Leaving the two of them behind, I made my way through the Mission and into the tents outside, lost in my own thoughts about the journal entry as I trudged through the sand. It was all very strange.

An Irishman? The Spanish were the only ones in this area at that time. What was he doing here, and with his wife nonetheless? Why hadn't more questions been asked about the mysterious ship and her crew? What did the symbol on the ring mean? Why was it so important that it was recorded in a journal? Did the priest just really like the trinket, or did it hold a higher meaning?

"Find anything interesting?"

Jumping, I turned and forced a smile for Stephens. He was sitting at a desk, examining an old vase with what appeared to be gold inlay. The cautious feeling I'd always had around him grew with force.

"No Name still has no name, if that's what you mean."

"I didn't have a chance to look at the books before Ashley let you at them. I was simply curious as to what they said." He smiled nicely, folding his hands on the tabletop, the vase put aside for the moment. I could clearly see the symbol on his ring, matching exactly the description of the one Thomas Randall had been wearing. All of my intuition was saying that something was wrong.

"Cool ring," I said nonchalantly, nodding in his general direction. "What's the symbol mean?"

"Oh, this? It's nothing. I picked it up at a pawnshop in Florida. Thought it was cool."

He's lying, the voice in the back of my mind said. You can see it in his eyes.

"You should have it checked out." My mouth was going dry for some reason, my heart hammering in my chest. I knew I shouldn't say anything else, but he would most certainly look at the books and find out later. "It matches a ring the journal described. It could be worth a lot of money."

"I see." His eyes seemed to darken some at my comment, a slight shield appearing to fall over them.

In an instant, I suddenly felt like I was being pulled into a trap. I needed to escape, and now.

"Anyway," I continued, trying to act as normal as possible as I faked a yawn, stretching dramatically. "I'm going to hit the hay. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Sleep well," he replied cordially, going back to his examination of the vase.

Turning on my heel, I left the encampment as quickly as possible, all the while cursing myself for being so jumpy. What was it about this project that had me so keyed up?

Once I was in the rental car I'd driven over that morning, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed the number to the airport.

"Yeah, I need a flight to New York City, as soon as possible. Return date?" Glancing out the window, I saw Stephens again, his form moving slowly toward the parking lot, the glow of his own phone lighting up his face as he raised it to his ear.

"No return date," I told the woman on the other line. "I don't know if I'll be coming back."

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A woman from the present . . .  
A man from the past . . .   
A war to defy all odds.

Olivia Blake loves her job. Restoring art and discovering the history behind it is a regular--and well loved--part of her simple life. So, when her boss presents her with a damaged portrait of a British soldier from the American Revolution, she jumps at the chance to work on it.

When her journey to discover who the man was is cut short by a bad car accident, Olivia surfaces in the icy waters of the Delaware River, staring at George Washington as he crosses with his army. Panicked, she flees into the woods and right into the arms of a very surprised British soldier--the man from the painting.

August Bancroft has no idea that the woman he saved from the American Rebels is from the future, or that the man who traveled through time with her is not their friend. All he knows is that he feels compelled to protect her, even if it means sacrificing his honor in the end.

Torn by the political leanings of the time and his own personal beliefs, August struggles to find what freedom means for him. Threats lurk close by, though, and there is no time to argue when danger reveals itself.

I'd never observed a painting that spoke to me in the way this one did.

The portrait had seen better days, as had everything I worked to restore, but there was something about this one. Even before starting my process, I could tell whomever had rendered the young man had cared deeply for him. The strokes were long and carefully laid out, as if they had been delicately considered, one by one. Smiling slightly, the subject of the work remained unaware one corner of his mouth was missing, due to a tear in the original canvas. Cracks laced through the pale pink of his face as well, but I could still make out the shape of his strong cheekbones and jawline. Light, brown hair adorned the top of his head, the curls pulled back at the nape of his neck.

It was his eyes that convinced me his painter had loved him, though. They shone like stars in the heavens, the stunning blue color of them threatening to take my breath away. Even more, the artist had managed to portray them as if they were truly staring back at me, the man's gaze extending through time.

Breaking away from the captivating stare, I studied over the rest of the image, noting a few nicks and rips in the red coat that clothed his upper torso. It was interesting to me, that a portrait of an anonymous member of the British military would survive all this time in America, especially given the rowdy and contentious actions of the early colonials during the Revolutionary War. However, that fact alone made me all the more interested in it.

The man was the only subject on the canvas, surrounded by a black background. Peering at the bottom right corner, I leaned in, holding up a magnifying glass to the tiny, white writing there. The inscription was slanted and almost impossible to read with the decay around the edges of the piece, but I managed to make it out.

August, 1777.

Sitting up straight, I set the magnifying glass on the table beside me and switched the bright, overhead lamp off. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the natural light of the room, the painting seeming even more incredible as I stared at it on the large easel before me.

"What do you think, Olivia?"

Josh, the Philadelphia Museum of Art's head conservator and my boss, bounced on the balls of his feet beside me. As I turned to look at him, he anxiously brushed a lock of his dark hair out of his face and back into the swept-over style he so often wore.

"There's extensive damage," I said lightly, knowing he already knew this. "But, I'm pretty sure I can fix it."

He grinned, nodding. "I knew you'd be able to. You're the best art conservator that's ever worked here. Probably the best in all of Pennsylvania, if I'm being honest." He breathed a sigh of relief, beaming at me like I was his own child and I'd just made him the proudest he'd ever been.

Blushing slightly at the over-exaggerated praise, I laughed. "I don't know about that." Glancing back at the portrait, I wrinkled my brow. "Why all the fuss over this one? Is there something special I should be aware of?"

He scrunched his nose, a touch of uncomfortableness returning to his features. "Well." He hedged, suddenly apologetic. "It's going in the special exhibit on the Revolution. Which opens the second week of January."

"And it's the end of December." Pursing my lips, I studied the broken down piece of work again. Two and a half weeks was not very much time to do the research this project would likely take. Part of my employment as an associate conservator was discovering the history behind the works I handled. There wasn't much information for me to start with, and many of my normal research haunts would be closed for the holiday after today. Besides all that, it would take hours to restore the art and make it suitable for display.

"Listen," Josh said softly, sensing my hesitation at taking on such a rushed project. "If it was any other time of the year, I would be more than happy to help you do the studying, but Christmas is tomorrow. I promised my wife and little girl that I wouldn't do any work stuff this time. I'm already in the dog house for taking the call about this new piece and coming in today, but I couldn't pass up an offer from the Mercer estate, especially when they submit things to us so rarely."

Smiling tightly, I closed my eyes for a moment, not particularly enjoying the stark reminder I had no family to spend the holiday with. Traditionally, I spent my required time off at home with a good book and my favorite freezer meal. Josh had known this for two years now, after discovering my parents had passed away in a car crash when I was in high school.

But, I didn't talk about that.

Fixing my gaze on the Redcoat once more, I breathed in, banishing the memories of that horrible evening. Then, nodding slightly, I rose from my stool, clasping my hands in front of my slacks. "I'm more than happy to work through the break."

"That's the spirit." He clapped once, with an air of finality. "Thank you so much, Olivia. I couldn't do any of this without you." His fingers grasped my shoulder, squeezing slightly, and then he was gone, leaving me in my own preferred company—myself and my work.

Sighing, I turned back to the portrait, fiddling with the edge of my blouse. It was unclear what I should do first—fix the art or trek out through the snow to the nearest archive of military personnel during the American Revolution.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, I bit my lip. It was just past eleven. Anything that would possibly still be open was probably getting ready to close for the next couple days. Not to mention, most of the data there would be from the American side of things. Of course, there was someone I could visit who might be able to help me . . . No. I couldn't do that, not now.

Decision made, I turned the spotlight lamp on once more, tilting my head to the side as I studied the easel. "First things first," I muttered.

Going to the closet on the other side of the room, I began pulling out the required supplies for repair and laying them across my work table. Then, carefully removing the canvas from the rotting frame it was mounted on, I started the long process of restoration.

Several hours later, after I'd managed to clean the art and remove a few odd patches from the back, my cellphone rang, pulling me from my meticulous assessing of one tear. Setting my pencil and measuring tape to the side, I paused the classical music I'd been listening to and scooped the device out of my purse on the floor, smiling at the name on the screen.

"I was just thinking about you and your husband's history books," I said by way of greeting, sandwiching the phone between my ear and shoulder as I sat on the seat and examined my fingernails.

"Really? I thought you'd forgotten who I was." Emilia's voice rang through the speaker, joyful and teasing, as always. "We haven't talked since, what, the end of November? You promised you were going to call me and then never did. It's certainly added insult to injury, after you ditched out on us for Thanksgiving. I'm starting to think you don't like me anymore."

Chuckling, I rolled my eyes. It was just like my best friend from high school to be so melodramatic. She knew I was busy. I'd worked hard to get my job at the museum and that required sacrifices at times. As it happened, most of the things that got pushed to the side were our plans together.

Guilt pricked at me as I realized just how much I'd put off. We actually hadn't spoken since before Thanksgiving. I'd been in my own little bubble, trying to ignore all the reminders of the anniversary of my parent's passing. It'd been that way for several years, actually.

"I'm sorry, Em. I lost track of stuff again."

"Are you feeling alright? I know this time of year is hard." Her tone immediately turned to sympathy and understanding, a sound that made my defenses rise angrily.

"I'm fine," I replied as offhandedly as possible. "Busy. Josh gave me a new project just a few hours ago."

"On Christmas Eve?" she practically shrieked. "That man has no concept of time off, does he?"

"It's nothing. I wasn't doing anything." Pressing my lips together, I fought the urge to sigh.

"You are this year," she announced seriously. "Drive over here to New Jersey and spend the day with us."

"Em—" I started, only to be cut off.

"We want you to come, Olivia. Dan is off from the University and thinks he's dying because Jacob keeps asking him to spin him around the room every five seconds. I've already drank almost a whole bottle of wine by myself, trying to keep from going crazy. Having a toddler in the house is destroying me. Please, Olivia—I need grown up, female interaction." There was an underlying tone of seriousness to the humor. "I need my best friend back."

Hesitating, I gazed at the picture in front of me, face down on the table. It would take another hour or two to measure all the rips and tears for repair. A few beyond that to correctly cut and place all the patches, not including the time it would take to dry afterword. Then, I would have to varnish the original piece, to protect it and keep it separate from my own painting. The new frame would have to be cut and put together, too, so the finished product would have a base to rest on.

Emilia's husband, Dan, was a history professor at the state University. Their home was an unofficial library, filled with all the books one person could ever need about the Revolutionary War. He could have something to help point me in the direction I needed to go, research wise, as I'd considered earlier. However, interrupting their family holiday felt rude. I didn't want to be the odd man out, sitting in the corner while they celebrated among themselves.

"Please come, Olive," she pleaded, using my childhood nickname. "We miss you. I miss you."

"I don't want to intrude," I muttered, suddenly wishing I hadn't answered the phone.

"Pfft. Like you ever could. Come on, Olivia! Am I going to have to drive over there myself and get you? Because I'll march my butt right into Garden Court and pull you out of your home, kicking and screaming, if I have to."

Laughing at the image, I shook my head. "Fine," I told her. "I'll come."

"Yay! Oh my goodness, I'm going to make your favorite for dinner. Jacob's never had chicken cordon bleu before."

"Don't put yourself out Emilia," I responded quickly. "I can eat whatever."

"Olive, you're not putting me out. I'm excited you're finally coming over! You haven't been to visit in forever. Jacob probably doesn't even remember who you are." She sighed happily.

"I'll head over in the morning," I continued, ignoring her ribbing. "I have some work I need to finish here. Don't wait to open presents."

"I'll see you then."

The call clicked off to the jingle of baby laughter in the background, leaving me in silence. A strange sense of happiness and annoyance mixed inside me. Emilia meant well. She always did. Ever since my parents had died seven years ago, she'd been trying to distract me from it all. I'd slipped far away at times, but she never stopped attempting to bring me back.

That was what good friends did.

Staring at my reflection in the glass face of the phone, I frowned. Was I a good friend? I didn't know. My reflection didn't reveal the answer—long, black hair, curled and pulled away from my pale face. Brown, almond-shaped eyes stared back at me, and lips that a boyfriend from long ago had called "positively kissable," much to my embarrassed horror, puckered slightly. It wasn't so easy to tell what kind of person I was just from looking at myself, though.

Picking my pencil up, I shoved the uncomfortable self-studying thoughts aside and started the music, humming softly under my breath as I went back to work.

****

"Are you sure you have to leave?" Emilia pouted as she stood in the doorway, Jacob's limp, sleeping body cuddled in her arms. She'd worn her favorite Christmas sweater and leggings, in honor of the holiday, her form shivering as the cold wind of winter brushed past her. "It's so late. You can stay the night, you know."

Smiling, I nodded, wrapping my black coat around myself tighter. "I know. But, I have a lot I still have to do. Dan was super helpful with everything. I want to finish restoring the painting tomorrow and go to a few of the places he suggested the next day."

It had been a wonderful evening, filled with laughter, games, and work. Dan had been more than happy to help me look through some of his stuff, searching for information on my mystery soldier. Granted, he was somewhat tipsy after all the eggnog, but I'd really enjoyed myself through it all. Her invitation was tempting, but I knew myself better than to accept.

"If I stay the night, I'll end up never leaving."

"What's wrong with that?" she asked innocently, a grin spreading across her face.

"Em, it's almost three in the morning." Dan chuckled, appearing in the entrance behind her and wrapping his arm around her waist, kissing her forehead. "Let the poor woman go home."

"You'll come back for New Year's." she pressed. "Promise?"

Laughing, I hurried down the sidewalk and opened the door to my car, calling over my shoulder. "I promise."

"You'd better." Raising an eyebrow, she grinned at me. "Get in your car. You'll freeze to death in that dress, if you're not careful."

"Hey," I argued, motioning to the knee length, white garment. Then, taking care to point out the black leggings and ankle boots I'd worn with it, I giggled. "I'm covered enough to stay warm." As if betraying myself, a shiver moved through me as the wind picked up, the first snowflakes of a Christmas storm floating down.

She laughed, adjusting her hold on her son, and waved. "I'll see you in a few days."

"You too."

"Oh!" She called out to me, stepping into the elements in her bare feet for a moment as she remembered whatever last minute thing it was she wanted to tell me. "Take the George Washington Monument Bridge. The freeway one is covered in construction madness. Plus, it'll be poetic. You know, you crossing the river in the same spot Washington did on Christmas."

I snorted. Glancing overhead, I watched as the white flakes increased threateningly. There was no construction—I'd crossed the larger bridge this morning on the way over—but I knew why she was trying to keep me from going there now.

The Christmas after I'd turned seventeen, I'd spent the day with my parents, excitedly counting down the hours until I got to go to Emilia's place and exchange presents with her. Mom and Dad were driving into Philly to volunteer at a soup kitchen while I was with her. I'd kissed them both goodbye, told them I loved them, and had a wonderful evening with my best friend and her family.

The police called after ten. There had been an accident on the bridge, they said.

They asked if I could come to the morgue and identify my parent's bodies.

Christmas had never been the same after that. I had never been the same. For years now, I'd refused to do anything to celebrate. Em was probably shocked to death she'd managed to convince me to come over. If I hadn't needed Dan's help, I probably would have been tucked in my bed by now, sound asleep, with no memories of my dead mother and father to haunt me through the night.

My friend meant well. I could see the concern in her eyes as she watched me, waiting for me to agree to take another course. If I was honest with myself, I probably wouldn't be able to cross the larger, freeway bridge now, in the dark and with so many horrible thoughts swirling in my mind.

Nodding, I smiled tightly. "I'll do that," I told her. "Thanks."

She gave me a kind of happy and sad look, walking backward to her family. "Love you, Olive," she whispered.

"You, too, Em." I waved to Dan one last time and then slid into the driver's seat, quickly turning the car on and putting the heat on its highest setting. As I pulled out of their driveway, they watched from the porch, smiling, the lights from their house some of the only ones still glowing on the entire street.

Sighing heavily, I turned the radio up, hoping the loop of Christmas carols would help distract me from the weight I felt in my chest now.

The snow began to fall in bigger flakes, swirling through the air in a cloud that obscured anything more than a few feet in front of me. In the five minutes it took to get from the cul-de-sac to the tiny crossing, the entire area transformed into a frozen wasteland of nothing.

As I pulled onto the bridge, I felt my wheels slipping a little. The sensation made my stomach clench in nervousness and I gently pumped the brakes as I went along, trying to maintain some traction on the icy surface. The storm wasn't helping any, the metal barriers on each side almost invisible through the fray. A glow of headlights shone from the other side, heading my direction, and I swallowed, images of losing control and sliding into the other vehicle grabbing hold of me.

Suddenly, there was a man right in front of me, standing beside the barrier, looking over the water. Then, without so much as a glance my way, he flung himself into the river.

Shouting in surprise, I slammed on the brakes without thinking, sending my car into a spin that there was no saving. My cry turned into a scream as I released the steering wheel, covering my face in fear. With a sickening crunch, I slammed into the barricade, my head slamming against the window as the driver's side broke through the metal bars. Thankfully, I didn't go all the way through, suspended over the freezing waterway by some act of divine intervention.

Gingerly, I touched my hairline, wincing as I eyed the blood on my fingers. Further investigation revealed my seatbelt had locked in the spin, the bruise from its grasp already painted across my shoulder and chest. The airbag hadn't deployed, even with the front of the car busting through the partition.

Groaning, I leaned forward, trying to see the deranged man. It was cold enough for him to freeze to death, if the shock of it hadn't killed him already. Try as I might, I couldn't see anyone.

Looking in my rearview mirror, I felt a rush of relief. The headlights from the other car were still visible. Someone would be here to help me in just a moment.

Undoing my seatbelt, I grabbed the handle. The person behind me started honking and I glanced in the mirror again, freezing.

The truck was sliding across the ice, barreling toward me much too fast. With a screech of tires and horn blasting, it rammed into me, pushing me the rest of the way off the bridge and into the rushing liquid below.

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Acknowledgments

This book's acknowledgments are little bit different than what I normally write (thank you family and friends for all of your help getting here, I haven't forgotten you!), but it's for good reason.

Perhaps, as you were reading, you noticed that there were several elements of Swept Away that sounded like a place and mystery that really exist. You're right! I changed a few things around to suit myself and the story, so it could lay out how I wanted. However, I would like to talk now about what inspired me—in part—to write Swept Away.

In Nova Scotia, Canada, there is an island called Oak Island. On this island is a pit, called the Money Pit, that was discovered over two hundred years ago. It was seventeen ninety five when the three teenaged boys came across it and, with pirate treasure in mind, began to dig. That was the start of the world's longest and least successful treasure hunt, continuing on today.

Over the years, hundreds of hopefuls have come to the island, dreaming of finding what's hidden at the bottom of the pit, including famous movie stars and a former president. Until recently, nothing of value was ever found. The island has bankrupted everyone who's ever tried to solve the puzzle.

The myths and curses of Oak Isle in Swept Away are the same as the real life Oak Island, including the prophecy that seven must die before anything can be found. At the time of this publication, six men had lost their lives in search of the treasure.

Currently, two brothers—Rick and Marty Lagina—run the operation on the island. They found a gold coin in the swamp and became the first treasure hunters to turn up something of value. You can watch their efforts on the History Channel show, The Curse of Oak Island.

While Swept Away is pure fiction, it excites me to see just a little mystery left in the world, and the desire to discover what all is out there. Several people do believe that the treasure of the Knights Templar is buried on the island, as well as the other theories brought up in the book. It's also worth mentioning that most of the history of the story is based off of alternate history theories, which are a whole realm of research and discovery on their own.

I encourage you to take a look at it for yourself—there is much, much more to the real story than there is in Swept Away—and decide for yourself what you think is really happening on Oak Island.

Thank you to my beta readers—Heather Garrison, Tyanne Romney, Raquel Auriemma, Dawn Povijua, Laura Collins, Julie Engle, Nikki Rawson, Kassidy Carter, Sabrina Shoup, Holly Cooper, Kayla Hyden, Lisa Markson, and Annie Angelich—who helped out on this project, y'all are awesome! Thanks to Miles Romney for looking over the tiny bit of Spanish. An extra special thanks to Belinda Boring and Lacey Weatherford, who are both so awesome that there are no words to even describe it. You helped me through this so much and I can not tell you how much I valued your honest opinions. Thank you for helping to make Swept Away what it is!

~Kamery

About The Author

#1 Bestselling Genre Author, Kamery Solomon, has been delighting readers with her God Chronicles series, featuring modern day adaptions of Zeus, nominated for Book of the Year and Cover of the Year, Poseidon, Hades, Adrastia, & Exoria. Kamery has also wooed her readers with her #1 bestselling fantasy novella, Forever, and her contemporary favorites, Taking Chances and Watching Over Me. Her most recent blockbuster series and #1 bestseller in Time Travel Romance, The Swept Away Saga, has had readers captivated on the high seas of romance and adventure! Kamery currently lives with her beautiful family in The White Mountains of Arizona and can often be found singing something from a Broadway musical with her siblings.

www.kamerysolomonbooks.com
