Bronte and Sam wiped the sweat and sand from their brows. They'd spent the morning loading the last of the equipment onto the Bluebird (the name given to the sloop by the owner on the day of launching) and getting everything tied in. It now floated offshore, the blue they painted it blending with the sea so you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began, fitted out and ready to sail.

Sam and Bronte became anxious when Blackwater sent a message to the ship owner that very morning. They'd finished ahead of schedule and he was hoping to bring himself a bit of renown by showing off the ship immediately. The two friends had already had to up the pacing of their plans for commandeering the ship and now they feared if the new owner took possession today, all their careful planning would be for naught.

The morning had worn on with Blackwater becoming increasingly difficult to please as he hurried them along with the finishing touches.

Now that everything was complete, the poor man resigned himself to pacing the shoreline, mumbling under his breath. He'd fully expected the owner to arrive straight away to admire his work, but he'd yet to appear. Now it neared noon, the ship happily bobbed in the clear blue waves with her sails neatly furled, and his impatience grew.

"I hope the fellow shows up soon," Sam mused, "or Blackwater is going to wear a new canal on this beach."

"Is your end ready for, you know?" Bronte asked in a hushed tone.

"You bet. As long as he doesn't take over the ship today—tonight's the night. Should be easy sailing too. Weather's been fair."

Bronte looked around anxiously; wanting to be sure they weren't overheard. "Just make sure those two men you procured know what to do. I'll take care of the rest."

"Right," Sam affirmed. Then after a moment's silence asked, "What was it you needed them to do?"

Bronte cast him a caustic look but before she could answer the shipwright flashed by (as fast as a middle-aged, over-sized person could flash) and they turned to see where he was headed.

Four white horses pulling a grand looking carriage trotted to a stop at the shipyard. A striking young man, uncommonly tall and well proportioned, stepped from the carriage. His pale hair fell in curly locks around wide blue eyes, set in a strong, broadly chiseled face. The shipmaster, looking comparatively short and oafish, flurried toward the gentleman and bowed respectfully. Another man, slighter and much older than the first, also exited the carriage. The shipmaster bowed to him, too, and waved out to the harbor, indicating the sloop awaiting its master. They began the short walk to a waiting cockboat.

Bronte almost felt a wave of pity for the would-be owner of her sloop. Almost.

When the men were level with her and Sam they both gave the gentlemen a nod of respect. As she looked up her eyes locked with the young man's momentarily and her heartbeat quickened. His blond hair ruffled in the breeze and his deep blue eyes sparkled like the sea in the sun; he smiled politely and continued on. A peculiar feeling of loss swept through her as she watched him go. Sam made a movement beside her and she jumped.

"Did you say something?"

"Yeah. Let's get a drink! I'm drying up like salted meat here!" Sam answered.

They turned and headed up the beach, discussing the night's plans discreetly.

Not long afterward, Bronte practiced the knife throwing techniques Sam had showed her near the house while trying to digest the new feeling she'd been confronted with. She held the handle loosely in her hand, brought it over her shoulder and released. It spun and hit the wall handle first, then clunked to the ground, like always. She thought, not for the first time, she'd just stick with pistols. Sam made it look too easy. Her solitude was interrupted as Sam hurried toward her.

"Blackwater needs us at the dock. Captain Bellemare wants to sail and the pilot says he needs two more hands! Bellemare was pleased with the outfitting and about it being finishing before scheduled. Blackwater is eating it up. Looks like he's gonna bust outta his shirt!"

"I'm glad someone's getting the reward he deserves for pushing us so hard to finish," she responded bitterly as she put the knives away.

"It's nice of them to include us for the test sail though, don't you think?" Sam remarked, undaunted by her quip.

"Aye, quite thoughtful," she smiled back. Sam could coax the sun out in a hurricane with his bright smile.

They headed down to the cockboat and rowed out to the ship. After they climbed aboard Blackwater introduced them properly to the gentlemen and his servant, even passing on a few compliments about their help in the building, before directing them to the pilot. "Sam here's looking real promising to be a master shipwright himself soon, and Bronte there already has years of sailing under his belt."

The two bowed and after exchanging a greeting they moved to their positions to ready the ship.

Bronte reveled in every moment—the deck moving beneath her—the wind blowing her hair. She eagerly climbed the rigging to unfurl the mainsail and took just a moment to look out over the harbor and breathe in the sweet breeze coming off the crystal waters. She took the directive to set the sails and kept a close eye on Sam, who was near the helm, to be sure he was paying close attention to the passage. Muscles she'd not used in too long tightened and threatened to cramp as she moved about the ship, but she ignored them: She was home again.

They stayed near the island, but gave a wide berth to the dangerous reefs and corals surrounding it. They took her through a few sharp turns and tacked back until finally beginning the return to the point they departed from.

The owner approached her in a rare moment of stillness; she'd been daydreaming about a name for her conquest. She decided Huntress would be perfect.

"Bronte, wasn't it?" he asked.

Taken a little off guard by his direct approach, she fumbled for the proper response, "Aye, my lord," she bowed.

"Please," he chuckled, "Bellemare's the name. I'm no lord. Address me as Captain."

Bronte smiled, liking his candor. She felt a twinge of regret over her intentions for this evening.

"I've been watching you for some time and I hope you don't mind my saying, you're quite the sailor," he complimented. "You could sail circles around me, though I hope you think no less of me for it."

"Why would a gentleman concern himself with the opinion of a poor sailor?" she asked.

His eyes wandered over her briefly and after a moment he answered quietly, "God created us all equal. He values me not higher than the scullery maid in my father's house." He hesitated, and then continued, "I wonder, would you be interested in sailing aboard my ship? I mean in a more permanent fashion?" he asked.

Aye, in a very permanent fashion.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I've other ... employment in mind," she declined.

"I see. I can't help but be disappointed. I'll need fine sailors such as you on my coming adventures."

"I'm truly sorry I must decline." I'll be busy with my own adventures aboard this ship. Bronte ignored the guilty feelings steadily creeping in.

"Tomorrow I shall take over the ship; if you change your mind by then, let me know," he continued.

Bronte nodded curtly and then tried to look very busy coiling a line, hoping he'd go away, and also trying hard not to look pleased he wasn't taking over the ship until the following day.

After her acknowledgment, he moved toward the rear of the ship. That same sense of loss she'd noticed before came over her. She didn't like the way his presence affected her.

***

Lucien strolled to the bow and clasped his hands behind his back. After a dull morning of endless gossip with Ysabeau (who'd visited on the pretext of returning the coat he had wrapped around her on the eve of the ball) the exchange with the dark-haired sailor intrigued him. Lucien had put an honest effort into enjoying Ysabeau's impromptu visit after considering Johnstone's earlier admonishment, even delaying his trip to the docks this morning, but the only thing of interest Ysabeau said in the long interim before she finally left was that several of the neighboring manors had been broken into. Silver and precious jewels were stolen. Apparently the culprit got in and out of the homes completely unnoticed, always through a gate or door left carelessly unlocked ... not unlike the gate in her garden Lucien himself had escaped through.

But this sailor was anything but uninteresting. Why? He wasn't sure. Lucien truly hoped he'd sail with him, in fact, had counted on his acceptance. Why turn down such an offer? There was something peculiar about this boy, but he was certainly no land-lover.

He couldn't rest his mind about it, like an itch that needed scratched. Everything about the boy seemed contradictory. His demeanor was too bold and forward for someone not old enough to shave. Where'd he gain such confidence? Not as a cabin boy to be certain. He'd seen the lad look questionably at some of the pilot's orders, as if he disagreed with them. His skill surpassed that of men twice his age, even if he'd somehow accomplished the seven years it took to be a full-fledged seamen, which at his age seemed unlikely. And the way he moved, it was all wrong; lanky boys were notorious for their clumsiness, this he knew firsthand, but this boy was precise, powerful, yet—graceful.

He turned to watch the boy again. Something was definitely wrong. He looked carefully at the dark eyes, the thin black brows and the full lips above the small square chin. An idea nagged at the back of his mind but he couldn't bring it to the forefront.

"You should be pleased," Johnstone remarked, bringing him to attention as the ship slowed to a standstill. "She sailed well."

"That's it!" Lucien exclaimed, smiling triumphantly.

"What's that?" Johnstone puzzled.

"Nothing. Yes, I'm very pleased. Let's anchor and head for home. She sails well indeed."

Lucien's curiosity was peaked; tomorrow he'd have another chat with that sailor. But, in the meantime, he would enjoy the thought that his plans were complete and he would soon be underway, sailing far from the entrapments of this place.