All I can see are their boots, but I can tell these men are savages. They've been at it non-stop ever since they broke into the manor. Rummaging through drawers, overturning furniture, and occasionally ferreting out one of the residents from their hiding spots.

They found Señora Ayala, the cook, first. From the sounds of it, she tried to ward them off with one of her copper pots, but it didn't seem to do any good. She was still screaming when they dragged her out into the courtyard. Only the harsh bang of a pistol could silence her. The footman, scullery maid, and laundress met the same fate. I pray that the servants who lived outside the great house had more time to escape.

Huddled under the bed, I draw myself smaller as a man runs past, stomping down the stairs two at a time. There's a distinct rattle of porcelain before a newly heated exchange. "¿Qué pasó?" someone asks angrily as dishes crash to the floor.

Cringing, I realize they've most likely just destroyed my mistress's bone china. It's a shame. The one with the little, blue flowers was always her favorite.

"We ain't here for no picnic," the same man continues to yell, switching languages. "Leave that, you feckin' idiot."

"No, señor. Lo siento, señor," another stutters, the fear palpable in his voice.

There's a muffled boom, and a shiver runs through me. I wish I knew what they were looking for. I'd give them anything they wanted just to make them stop. Instead, all I can do is watch their scuffed boots occasionally pass by the open door. Even in the faint candlelight, I can see the fresh blood splattered on top of the caked-on mud.

"Ikheb iets gevonden!" The exclamation—in what I think is Dutch—comes from nearby. Boots clatter against the floor, and men laugh. I hold my breath, hoping their enthusiasm grows from the discovery of a silver candlestick, not an innocent soul who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fortunately, this room hasn't interested them much. A younger man, judging by the sound of his voice, did come in briefly. Seeing as this is just a housemaid's quarters, he quickly left without poking around. Had he done a better job, he'd have found the estate's most prized possession.

"Ana." I hear the girl's faint whisper from behind the wardrobe's doors.

I push myself up on my elbows and toes, gently lifting my body from the cold floor. Slowly inching forward on my stomach, I only hesitate when the wood below me creaks from my weight. Eventually, I get a clear view of Luciana's hiding spot, but not before she continues.

"Ana. My legs are numb. I don't have space to move. I can't—" she pleads in quiet desperation, but I raise a finger to my lips to hush her. She must see me through the small crevice between the panels because she goes silent.

But it's too late. The sound of heavy footsteps from the hallway gets increasingly louder.

"Did ya check in here, lad?" A figure in the doorway grumbles in English. The torch he's holding fills the room with not only a soft, yellowish glow, but also with the putrid smell of burning pine tar.

"Aye, sir. Just an empty room," the youth responds with a slight quiver in his voice.

A massive boot takes one step inside. "The deal was 'no prey, no pay' and I'll be damned if all we're splittin' is the price of a few knick-knacks. Unassuming bedrooms are perfect hiding places for the bounty we're lookin' for, so if I were to find somethin', you'd be mistaken?"

"I can check again," the lad offers.

"No, this one's mine," the other rebuffs with chilling confidence.

I hold my breath as he comes further into the small space. He takes his time, putting one, large foot in front of the other with deliberate calculation.

Every single thud reverberates in my chest.

Passing the long side of the bed, he stops in front of the wardrobe. The now-familiar boots are just mere inches from my face.

My hands begin to shake uncontrollably, followed by the rest of my body. In just seconds, the brute is going to rip open the wardrobe doors and find her. He's going to take her outside and shoot her just like the rest of them. Or worse! God knows what they'd do with a raven-haired, seventeen year old beauty like Luciana Mercado.

"Hold this, lad." The shadows change as he passes the torch to his lackey. "I'm gonna need my hands free for this."

He slams his palms together and chuckles. All the while, I imagine the future Luciana would miss out on: marrying a high-ranking sailor, running a lavish household, raising precocious children.

I have no family. I have no possibilities. I have no hope. But now I know what I have to do. Taking a deep breath, I grab the dirty, leather shaft of the boot with both hands and yank with all my might.

"Well, blimey! What do we got here?" he asks, stepping away and dragging me halfway out from under the bed in the process. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he mercilessly pulls me to my feet.

I flail my arms, but it's no use.

"Let go of me!" I struggle, but his clutch just tightens.

"Who are ya, my sweet?" He leans down, exhaling a warm, rotten smell that not even the torch can mask. His face is twisted into a grotesque grin, showing off a mouthful of blackened and missing teeth.

My heart beats feverishly, and I look past him for courage. An arm's length away, my friend's still safely tucked inside the wardrobe. If my plan works, she'll stay that way.

"L-l-l-uciana," I stutter, unable to meet his eyes.

He tilts his head and looks at me suspiciously. "Luciana, you say? Lookee here, Baldwin. She says her name is Luciana."

I take a small step back and bump into the bed.

"Isn't that the name of the admiral's girl?" The younger man—Baldwin—perks up in the doorway.

I gasp. How would these strangers know her name? Could she be the prize they were seeking all along? What do they want with her and what use is wrecking everything else?

"Aye, it is," the other acknowledges with another tug on my long, dark hair. "But what would a delicate young thing like the only daughter of such an important man be doing in a maid's room, I wonder?"

My answer could be the difference between (my) life and death, and words fail me.

"I can't hear ya, darlin'. Ya gotta speak up for old Willie to understand." He cackles, releasing his grip, while pushing me backwards onto the mattress.

As he climbs on top of me, I stifle the urge to scream. My body, however, follows its natural instinct to protect itself. I quietly fight back, whipping my head from side to side and using my legs as leverage against my assailant.

But he's too strong. Pinning my pulled-up knees against my chest, he easily clamps both of my wrists in one hand. Holding them above my head, he leans toward me again.

"I—I was hiding." I manage to form the words before his grimy whiskers reach my face.

"Hiding, were ya?" He licks his lips. "From what, pray tell? We don't bite. Do we, Baldwin?"

"Only if you want us to." The young man grins in the glow of the fire, and I feel the urge to vomit.

Luckily, their hearty laughs draw the attention of another of their kind. After pushing Baldwin aside, an older, stout man in a red cap barges into the room.

"Willie! What in tarnation are ya doin'? Ya know anything of value must be delivered outside." He pushes the larger man off me and takes my hand.

"My apologies, miss. Willie here never proper learned his manners." He smiles.

"This ain't no ordinary plunder, Mister Smythe. This here is the lady of the house." Willie is clearly trying to save face.

Smythe's mirth disappears and he furrows his brows. "Are ya indeed the daughter of Francisco Mercado?"

I nod and hope that my faint resemblance to the real Luciana—in looks and age, if not demeanor—is enough to persuade these men of the lie.

"In that case, I don't know whether to shoot you for the disrespect you've caused the lady or to reward you for finding her." Smythe pounds the large man on the back before leading me by the wrist out of the room and down the stairs. The other two follow, unsuspectingly leaving my friend behind, and I try to hide my sigh of relief.

Everything in the residence is in shambles. What they haven't taken, they've destroyed. We step over the broken pieces of the once magnificent entry door and stop in front of the whitewashed Colonial mansion.

Lightning crisscrosses in a flash of purple in the distance. A clap of thunder follows it closely, and I jump. In all the commotion, I hadn't even noticed the weather turn. The wind blows the palms almost parallel to the ground, their fronds flailing against the force like a bouquet of green eels. Drawing my arms around my chest, I stroke my bare shoulders.

Another strike—this time directly overhead—illuminates the flat courtyard. The sight of the nearby pile of bodies reminds me of my impending fate and my legs buckle.

My thin, cotton nightgown's no protection against the rocky ground. As Smythe helps me up, I see a streak of red blood mingling with the dirt on the white fabric. My injured knee should be throbbing, but oddly enough, I can't feel any pain.

The realization saddens me. I'm going to die any minute, but the sensation of feeling has already been stripped from me. Tears flood my eyes, and my hair flaps wildly in the wind, obscuring everything else from view.

Other men run around us, carrying anything of worth in their arms. It's not just precious metals and antiques that interests them. One has a sack of squawking chickens and another is leading a sleepy pig on a leash off the property.

"Move along, girl." Willie shoves my shoulder, and I almost lose my balance again. The sharp rocks dotting the ground cut my bare feet, but I'm happy to see my captors lead me past the dead.

Suddenly, a sense of hope fills me. Perhaps the admiral has gotten word from neighbors about the late-night disturbance at his otherwise quiet home. On horseback, Fort Portobelo is just a five-minute ride away. Even with just a handful of his best men, he could easily stop these animals. Years ago he lost his beloved wife to marauders; there's no way he'd let his remaining family come to the same fate.

We head past the stone wall marking the estate's perimeter and turn onto the path toward the beach. I think about trying to escape, but Baldwin and Smythe both have their weapons drawn. The muzzles of their pistols shine, which doesn't strike me as unusual until I look behind us.

Although a dense grove of magnolias now hides the manor, its location is unmistakable. I momentarily freeze as I watch bright, orange flames climbing toward the night sky in that exact spot.

"No!" I throw myself in its direction, trying to run back.

Back to the house. Back to my home. Back to Luciana!

Willie has had enough of my insolence. With barely any effort, the brutish man picks me up and drapes me over his shoulder. I have to strain my neck to helplessly watch the growing flames in the distance. I can only pray my friend had managed to escape in time. The alternative is unthinkable.

Quickening their previous pace, the men don't stop again until they reach the water's edge. Several rowboats are already floating in the waves; the splash of oars breaks the monotony of the howling wind. Willie dumps me into the remaining boat, and the three men push it off from shore. Climbing in over the sides, they each grab an oar and begin to paddle.

While I wasn't quite sure of my future before this moment, I'm now fairly confident that they'll let me live. My luck as a hostage may not be much better, but the momentary reprieve calms me. I'm too tired to worry about myself any more, but with the smell of smoke still lingering around us,it's impossible not to think about my friend's fate. Thankfully the wind dies down as we head further out to sea, to be replaced by a steady rain. I pray that it's enough to damper the fire consuming the Mercado estate. But the dark smoke blocking out the stars above the property tell me otherwise.

With my back to the open ocean, I only notice our destination when we finally round an adjacent peninsula. A dual-mast ship waits at anchor, gently bobbing up and down with the swaying tides. Given the rain and darkness, it's impossible for me to see what flag she's sailing under, but if my suspicions are correct about my captors then it doesn't matter. Pirates are known to fly false colors.

Glancing down at my tattered sleeping attire, I shake my head. It may be a trivial matter, but how I present myself may be the only thing I still can control. If my kidnappers have any sort of decency, they'll allow for certain requests. "I'm going to need proper clothes," I demand of no one in particular as the rowboat moors at the larger ship.

"Don't ya' worry, lassie," Willie cackles. "We're taking you to the Pirate King! I'm sure the first thing he'll do is get ya a right pretty dress."

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Author's Note: Thanks for giving this story a try. If you liked what you read, make sure you add it to your library. Also, feel free to vote and comment!