The Pirate King may not have gotten me a pretty dress like Willie had joked, but he did leave me some other clean clothes that may not even be second-hand. Although clearly a man's cut, they're smaller than average and therefore, fit me well.

I've never worn anything but a skirt before, andhaving fabric rub between my legs feels awkward. My nightgown, however, isunsalvageable, and I end up wearing the loose, black breeches and frilly, white shirt to bed. When I awake the next morning, they're both a bit crumpled, but it soon becomes clear that's not my biggest worry.

Although I'm still lying on a comfortable mattress surrounded by puffy pillows, I'm in a totally different room than the night before. Gone are the fabric-covered walls and fireplace.Instead, almost everything around me is made of wood. I knew I had been tired,but I guess I didn't realize how much this ordeal had taken out of me. Afterseveral restless days and a few glasses of rum, my slumber last night must havebeen deep enough to miss being moved. My throbbing head makes me wish I stillwere in such a blissful state. Slipping out of bed, I hobble to the wall of windows and confirm my suspicions. Beyond the glass, a foamy wake splashes below. I'mback on a ship, and we're at sea.

Pressing my forehead to the cool pane, I take a deep breath consider my options. One, I can crank open the window and jump to my most certain death. Two, I can keep a low profile, perhaps even gain the sympathy of a crew member or two, and attempt to escape at a better moment. Not dying before breakfast seems more practical, and Ichoose the second alternative.

I remember the captain's words from last night and know that I'm nothing more than an asset. He needs me—or rather, he needs Luciana—to get something. What that is, I don't know, but until Kincade achieves his goal, I can't reveal I'm just a housemaid born to a lowlySpanish soldier and a poor, native girl. As long as the Pirate King continues to believe that I am the daughter of Admiral Francisco Mercado, chief officer of the Fort of Portobelo, Panama, I am safe.

This is affirmed when I find the cabin door unlocked. Kincade also obviously agrees that as long as we're in the open waters, I'm not prone to escape. This gives me hope, and I peek into the empty hallway. Returning to find my boots, I pull them on while testing my knee's movement. Although it's still a bit stiff, walking gets easier with every step. I'm so focused on this progress I almost head out before realizing there's something I've forgotten.

The captain has displayed chivalry towards me, but I can't expect his men to do the same. Twisting my hair into a knot, I cover my head with a drab kerchief. Even though I can't hide my gender, the less attention I attract to myself, the better.

Ready to tackle the unknown, I leave the room and walk past the mates' quarters. Pushing open a door, I exit onto the main deck. The bright sunlight hurts my eyes, but I squint upward at the sky. Apart from a few small clouds, the weather is clear and it leaves the rays unobstructed. I walk forward, enjoying the newfound warmth on my face.

"Hey! Wotchit!" someone yells as my boot connects with wood, and water sloshes out of a bucket.

Sidestepping around the puddle, I look down at a boy about my age kneeling in my shadow. I mumble a curt "sorry," but he's already gone back to scrubbing the knotty planks. Uttering the small word is enough to make me aware of my parched mouth, so I turn back toward the lad.

"Is there anything to drink around here?" I force a smile.

He doesn't look up, but instead nods toward a large, upright barrel behind the door. "Ova' there."

After removing the container's lid, I fill the attachedcup to the brim. I take a large swig, but instead of the sweet taste of fresh water, I get a mouthful of the vilest thing I've ever tasted. It's what I imagine water tastes like after being used to wash soiled linens and left out in the sun for a week. I didn't think it was possible, but it's even worse than last night's rum.

My reflexes make me cough, but I've already swallowed the drink, so it ends up being a dry hacking, instead. "What do you call is this?" I hold up the cup.

The lad smiles at me with a spiteful glee. "Grog."

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, trying to get all remnants off me. "What's grog?"

"Dunno. But ya better start liking it soon 'cause that's all we'ves got until either it rains again or we hit land." He goes back to scrubbing.

I may have to eventually relent, but I can't drink any more right now. After pouring the rest of the cup's contents back in the barrel, I replace the top. My stomach is doing flips, and it's making it hard for me to concentrate. The cup slips out of my hands as I try to replace it on the hook, and it rolls across the planks.

I scurry after the metallic cylinder and reach it just as two sailors run toward me. One is carrying a triangular board attached to a reel of line, while the other's holding a small hourglass. Moving aside, I press my back to the railing to allow them to pass.

I watch them head toward the rear of the ship along the narrow pathway and disappear outside the cabin. Other crew members also start moving about, with two men climbing up each of the three, tall masts. They have the natural agility of monkeys, but nothing to secure them in case they slip. I get dizzy just watching them scurry up and hug the thin logs with bare feet. With so much activity on deck, I decide to stay where I am and soon hear counting coming from the rear. Each number is followed by a pause of several seconds.

"One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six."

Another few seconds of silence passes, when the last number is repeated. "Six. Six knots it is, Mr. Smythe."

"Aye. Full sails, gentlemen," a familiar voice echoes from nearby. Looking up, I see the man with the red cap standing on the deck above me.

I guess Captain Kincade was either lying when he said it wasn't his men who took me or Smythe was the exception. Either way, I'm actually relieved to see his friendly face.

Rustling above us draws my eyes skyward again, just as the sails unfurl to their full potential. The men at the top store the ties, while the ones below secure the corners. Suddenly, the captain himself comes into view and joins Smythe. He has his jacket's hood pulled over his head, shading his face from the sun. The cutlasses hang once again at his hips, and a pistol is stuck into the baldric across his chest.

I get a decent look at his profile and can now see that his beard is more like a dirty blonde color rather than brown. His skin is also lighter than what I'd expect for a man who has spent his whole life at sea.

I wonder if he's been on deck the entire time, and if just I hadn't noticed because of all the commotion. From this position, he could've had a perfect view of the entire ship, including me and my petty complaints about the drink.

Neither man acknowledges my presence, so with the cup still in my hand, I turn toward the water. Its undulations are mesmerizing, and the light spray of seawater on my face is refreshing. Now that I'm no longer locked up below deck, I may finally be getting my sea legs. The water sparkles, but strangely enough even with all the sails drawn, we seem to have slowed. When Mr. Smythe asks for a new reading, the answer comes back at four knots.

There's an audible grumble from the crew. When the two navigators emerge from the back of the ship, the second bumps into me even though there's plenty of space to get by. I turn to protest, but I bite my tongue when I notice several pairs of eyes watching me. I hear whispers of Jonah, and several of them cross themselves or kiss talismans hanging around their necks. Even with my limited knowledge of sailing, I know women aren't usually welcome on board. It's obvious these men consider me bad luck, so I decide to look for a less conspicuous place to linger.

It's not an easy task, but I end up finding a suitable stack of crates toward the front of the ship. Sitting cross-legged on top, I'm both out of the way, but also have a good view of almost everything around me. I continue to sit and observe for what must be hours.

While at first it's as if the men are speaking a whole new language—apart from their commonplace butchering of English, that is—I slowly start to pick up the sailors' unique lingo. Bow for front, stern for back, starboard for right, and port for left—those aren't too difficult. Apart from the main deck, there's also talk of ballast, which apparently can be emptied to make us go faster. This is still necessary because we're basically "dead in the water" as the lad I saw earlier—who I now know is called Petey—remarked.

I'm still not exactly sure of Petey's station on board, but since they make him do the dirty work, his must be one of the lowest ranked amongst the crew. He's not allowed to touch the sails' rigging, nor does he help with making repairs like some others are doing. I hear yet others speaking about powder for the cannons, while another few successfully spear fish from the gangplank.

At first, I think it's just his young age that's doomed him to such servitude. Then I notice another boy who's barely in his teens standing next to the captain as he converses with the helmsman. Unlike most of the others, this lad is clean and well dressed. Apart from me, he's the only one who looks like he doesn't belong on a pirate ship, and his presence makes me wonder. My curiosity, however, will have to wait.

When I see some of the men bringing food up from below deck, I decide to use the occasion to change their mind about me. I was on friendly terms with everyone at the Mercadoestate from the stable boys to the groundskeepers, and being cordial to mykidnappers may help me in the long run.

Following the curious aroma, I find the ship's cook in the cramped galley, slopping a large spoonful of gray goo on a plate for each man. I politely get in line and attempt small talk.

"This is a magnificent ship. It quite rivals any I've seen in Portobelo." I address the burly, balding man in front of me.

He grunts and takes a step forward, so I turn to the lanky fellow behind me. "You must be incredibly brave to climb all the way to the top of that mast. I wouldn't have gotten two feet above deck." I laugh, but no one else around me finds my comments humorous.

Looking around, I get a sense that these reactions were probably the best I could have achieved. One of the men is actually clenching his fist, while his companion is preparing to hold him back. Realizing how badly I misjudged the situation, I collect my share and run back to the safety of the crates.

I only get half way there before Smythe blocks my path, nearly making me wear my food. "The captain would like you to join us for the midday meal," he says.

I blink a few times while the words sink in. My heart's beating out of my chest, and I know it's not just from my sprint. "Did the captain mean that as an order or an invitation?"

He thinks for a second and furrows his brows. "Well, I s'pose it was just a request."

I exhale in relief. "In that case, please tell him thank you, but no. I'm going to eat down here with the rest of the crew. They already think I'm the reason why we've lost the wind. I don't need them to have any more reason to resent me."

Surprisingly, he doesn't try to change my mind. "Aye. I'll convey your regrets to the captain, miss." He winks at me before leaving.

While I could use some company—along with better food—I manage to eat the sticky, bland ration in peace. The day gets warmer with each passing hour. Eventually the shadows shift, leaving me unprotected from the scorching rays. We remain at a near standstill, making very little progress on our journey. The crew is noticeably agitated—several fights almost break out over seemingly petty disagreements—and there's no reason for me to stay outside.

Retreating to the relative comfort of my cabin, I pull off my boots and quickly drift off to sleep otherwise fully clothed. Memories of Luciana return to me, but this timethey're from our younger years. I remember how she'd let me play with her chinadolls when no one else was around or slip me some of the sweets her fatherindulged her in.

When I wake, I miss her more than ever and say another prayer forher well-being. I don't know how much time has passed, but my grumbling stomach tells me I should go look for something to eat again. As I open the cabin's door, I almost step into a tray of food on the floor.

Taking the delicious-smelling meal inside, I set it on the small table in the corner and sit on the lone chair. The portion is small, and I quickly devour the grilled fish and salty biscuit. Only after washing it down with the accompanying goblet of red wine do I consider the source of this treat. There are only a handful of people on this ship who are privileged enough to eat like this. And there's only one man with the authority to decide who belongs in that group. I refused that man earlier today, but he's now made sure I am in his debt.

I kick the table leg in frustration, but what's done is done. Because I'm already at a disadvantage in this relationship, I can't let myself be manipulated by anything as trivial as food. No matter how delicious it would be. My mouth begins salivating again at the thought, but my plate's empty and nothing I'd find in the galley can match what I just ate. Having no other reason to head back on deck, I look for something in the cabin to occupy me.

The space is utilitarian and sparsely decorated. The walls and ceiling are the same bare wood that makes up the entire ship. A rug from the East in a beautiful, deep red does cover a large part of the floor, adding welcome color to an otherwise bland setting. Apart from the bed and table, there's a worn, leather wing-backed chair and matching footstool in the corner. There's no wardrobe or bookcase to hold anything of interest, just a large, wooden chest at the end of the bed.

I try to lift its lid before noticing the sturdy lock clasping it shut. Whatever's in the chest, its owner clearly doesn't want anyone else to get to it. The only place I haven't checked yet is under the bed, so I get on my knees and peer into the darkness. A set of small, glowing eyes stares back at me.

Amidst my frantic screaming, I push myself up and run to the farthest point away from the bed. This puts me right next to the door and the scraggly, gray rat also scurries in the same direction. Alternating between jumps and shrieks, I manage to avoid the pest as it squeezes itself under the door and out of the room. Before he has a chance to backtrack, I roll up the rug and push the heavy, wool obstacle against the door, effectively blocking the gap.

Satisfied with the results, I sit with my back to the wall and catch my breath. I'm sure someone is about to come check on me for making such a ruckus, but even after a few minutes have passed, no one has come asking about my well-being.

I guess I'm not such an important commodity, after all.

Figuring I'm probably better off doing as little as possible for the rest of the evening, I head back to bed. This time, though, I can't sleep. I toss and turn, as the cabin gets increasingly warmer. I get up and crank open a window in the center, but it doesn't help. I do notice, though, that we're moving at a considerable speed again.

The more I think about how refreshing the breeze must be above deck, the more stifling my cabin feels. My shirt's sticking to my body and the stale air chokes me.

Hurrying to the door, I push aside the rolled-up rug and turn the knob. Peeking into the hallway, I'm relieved to see it's deserted. I'm assuming most of the crew is asleep on an uneventful night like this, so—still in my bare feet—I creep into the hallway before exiting.

I shiver as the cool air hits my skin. My unbound hair twirls around me, and I tuck the unruly strands behind my ears. The last thing I drank is the wine with dinner, so I stop by the barrel of grog. This time it doesn't taste quite so bad, probably because I knew what to expect.

I walk across the deck, careful not to drag my feet lest I catch a splinter. Reaching the railings, I get a sudden urge for mischief. Grabbing a section of rope securing the mast, I place my foot on a beam running horizontally between the deck and the top of the rails. Pulling myself up, more than half of my body is now above the protection of the ship. I raise my free arm above my head and close my eyes. The wind whip into my body, but the sensation reminds me of what it must be like to fly.

"It would be a shame to lose you overboard so soon after your arrival." The smooth, calm voice startles me, and I wobble a bit before regaining my balance. Hopping back on deck, I turn to face the source of the interruption. There's no one around me.

"Join me, Ana." This time, it's clear the voice is coming from above, and I look up toward the quarterdeck. The light from the moon and the lanterns hung throughout the ship illuminate Kincade's tall, muscular figure standing at the helm.

My knees go weak when I see that he's a lot more underdressed than I've ever seen him in our short acquaintance. He's not wearing his hooded jacket; in fact, his shirt is so unlaced that he may as well not be wearing one at all.

I lower my eyes, giving myself time to think. I could retreat to my cabin without acknowledging him, make up an excuse and then leave, or accept his invitation. I don't dwell on the decision for long. My curiosity—or perhaps my cowardice—gets the better of me and I slowly scale the steps leading to the middle level of the ship. Doing so allows me to observe the Pirate King in increments.

At first, all I see are his boots. The toes are scuffed from use and the shaft reaches almost to his knees, where the leather folds over the top. His trousers hug his legs perfectly, until they disappear under the un-tucked, white, cotton shirt. His bare torso is pure muscle with each grouping distinct as if chiseled from stone. I dare not look directly at his face until I've made it all the way up and even then it's only through quick, sideways glances.

I draw in my breath because the sight shocks me. Captain Kincade is not who I thought he'd be. From his legendary reputation, I imagined the Pirate King to be around my father's age. The age he'd be if he was still alive, that is. But the face of the man in front of me has no wrinkles and no sags. In fact, his skin is tight and flawless. He has also trimmed his beard, and now it's more of a long stubble that covers the strong jaw line. Far from balding or going gray, his hair's thick, sun-streaked, and tied back with a thin, leather strap. Combined with his athletic build and noble stature, this youthful appearance is making me increasingly dubious of his identity. Until recently, I had assumed I was the only impostoron this ship. Now it appears her captain may be, as well.

I'm probably being ridiculous. A lack of proper sleep and the stress of being kidnapped by a gang of pirates are obviously messing with my common sense. I need to stay vigilant, but ignore these suspicions. Unfortunately, my companion adds to the mystery by remaining silent, stoically standing at the helm just a few feet from me. He dutifully grips the wheel, and soon enough, I find myself staring at his features again.