Now that we're out of danger, reality hits me. With the exception of a short, restless nap yesterday afternoon, I haven't slept in almost a day. I struggle to keep my eyes open, and my legs can hardly support me. I'm so tired all I want to do is fall face-first into bed and not get up until tomorrow. I notice Mister Smythe limping, however, and offer to look at his injury.

"Oh, it's nothing, miss. The lads out there have it much worse." He points toward the deck. Following him outside, I'm ill prepared for what I see.

The ship is littered with remnants of the battle. Broken crates and barrels have spilled their contents, mixing wheat and spices with molasses and rum. Their sweet smell combines with that of blood and gunpowder, turning my stomach. To keep from getting sick, I breathe through my mouth as I survey the full extent of the damage.

The able-bodied men are laying their worse-off mates in a row on one side of the ship. On the other side, one unlucky man places the dead into sacks in preparation for burial at sea.

The body closest to me is Petey.

I cover my mouth and run to the railings. I lean overboard and wretch, but only a bitter liquid comes up.

"You really should go back inside, miss," Smythe kindly advises from behind me.

Turning around, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before I answer. "No. I want to help. Do you have a surgeon on board?"

The old man nods toward the dead. "Second from the end."

I shudder. Straightening my shoulders, I take a deep breath and point to the men moving the injured. "Someone should tell them they're making it worse. It's too hot up here. You have to get them below deck."

With my head clearing, I look over the scene again. My attention focuses on a man who's vainly using a dirty rag to stop the bleeding from another's thigh. I run to them, remove my belt, and kneel on the sticky planks before grabbing the blood-soaked material away.

"Give me that!" I throw it behind me, all the while tightly wrapping the belt around the man's leg above the wound. The native healers on my mother's side of the family had always employed more effective methods than any Spanish physician. "Have someone boil seawater. Soak all the rags you can find in the still scalding liquid. Only then can you use it to wipe the blood away, do you understand?" I ask the surprised-looking sailor.

He nods, but remains motionless.

"Well, go on." Smythe instructs him, affirming my command. "What else can we do, miss?"

I try to remember everything else I learned about medicine back home. "Get me the clean rags and a pot of hot water as soon as possible. I'll need needle and some sturdy thread, as well."

"You heard the lady! Get 'er anything she needs," Smythe yells at someone, but I'm now focused on my patient.

"What's your name?" I ask, ripping his trousers to get a better view of the wound.

"Butler," he whispers. His face is soaked with perspiration, making his dark hair stick to his forehead.

"Butler? You're the lookout from up in the crow's nest, aren't you?" I remember the captain addressing him last night.

He sighs. "Aye, miss."

"Very well, Mister Butler. You don't need to talk any more. I'm going to fix you up, all right?" I smile, but he's already closed his eyes.

"Can I help?" Henry asks from behind me.

I look around again. The remaining crew is taking the injured below deck, and I think Smythe's gone to find the supplies I requested. "Yes, there's actually something very important I'll need you to do, Henry."

His eyes light up at the potential severity of the task, and I continue. "I need you to make sure every one of these injured men drinks at least one cup of grog each hour. If they can't do it by themselves, you help them. Understood?"

"Yes, miss." He straightens his shoulders and grins, before running off toward the drink barrel.

Until Smythe returns, I take the chance to evaluate each of the men's injuries. They range from simple cuts in the flesh to deeper punctures of their insides. I know I probably won't be able to help them all, but I know I have to try. Hopefully, we'll reach port soon and find a proper physician.

They move Butler down into the bowels of the ship last and place him on a cot. Here, I have to work by the light of lanterns, but it's cooler than in the full sunshine above. Smythe assigns two men to help with holding the injured down, while I clean and stitch their wounds closed. I've never done this before myself, but I've seen it done plenty of times. Cuts to the hands from a butcher's knife in the kitchen or gashes from a sword in a battle are surprisingly similar in the end. And sewing up a man's skin is only harder than hemming a skirt because the man doesn't tend to stay still. Those that are lucky pass out, while others clench their teeth stoically. I make the more severely hurt drink two servings of rum before starting. This seems to either ease their pain or make them not give a damn. The result is the same either way.

We work for hours until the last man is stabilized. I never see the captain this whole time, but the men reveal he's on the captured ship negotiating terms.

I rejoice when we're finished not only because all the original survivors are still alive, but also because I can now get some rest. I quickly wash up, but as I head up the stairs to the main deck, someone shouts, "Land ho!"

Running to the railings, I look southward at a palm-tree-topped strip of land in the distance. It's futile for me to lie down now; we'll be dropping anchor before I can even start dreaming. I sigh and slide into a sitting position with my back against the hull.

Someone hands me a stale biscuit and a cup of drink. I take them without even bothering to look up. The twice-baked bread is bland and the grog is warm, but it's the first I've eaten all day. By the position of the sun, I'm sure it's nearing dinnertime so after quickly emptying the cup, I munch on the dry staple even as my eyelids become increasingly heavier.

"Ready, miss?"

I open my eyes at the words. I must've dozed off, and now Smythe's standing above me holding out his hand. I take his offer of help and get to my feet before following him down a rope ladder to a rowboat bobbing in the water.

Sitting down, I squeeze between Femi and another man whose name I still don't know. They both escaped the fight relatively unscathed, but most of the others in the small boat are ones I worked on earlier. After untying the tether, the healthy men begin to row. When we leave the ship's side, I notice the enemy vessel is no longer nearby, but far off on the horizon. For some reason, Kincade has released his hard-won plunder while I slept.

We follow another rowboat that's halfway to shore, and soon enough, we also disembark on the beach. I never did manage to put my boots on, and the hot, white sand feels wonderful between my toes. I don't get a chance to dally, however, because more than a dozen locals emerge from the tree line to meet us. The dark-skinned men—similar in stature and facial features to the indigenous tribes back home in Panama—are wearing nothing more than loincloths and shell necklaces, and their toned bodies glisten in the setting sun. The pirate crew must know our hosts because they readily greet them and even hand over sacks of offerings.

The natives assist with carrying the wounded to nearby huts. I'm grateful we don't have to walk far, and I'm hopeful these islanders can provide whatever the men need to regain their strength.

Dear God, things are in your hands again, and I trust your judgment. I sigh and cross myself. Quietly following the somber procession, I listen as one of our sailors does his best to translate the locals' unfamiliar language.

"They say you can stay here for the night." He points to the first hut in a row of several tucked amongst the trees a few hundred feet from the beach. Palm fronds cover the top and sides, with a small opening left for the door. The entire structure stands raised on palm trunks, taller than a grown man's height.

"I have to go with them—"

Smythe holds me back. "No, Miss Ana. You just get some rest. These lads know what ya did for 'em today. I'll make sure they get taken care of. Now, I think I saw a tub o' fresh water behind those shrubs so ya can get cleaned up. We'll rustle up some vittles for ya, too."

He doesn't wait for me to object further, but rather follows the rest of the group to the other huts. I don't have any more energy to argue. Slowly placing one foot over the other, I climb the ladder and push aside the woven panel that serves as a door. When I step inside, I see a man reclining on the floor. In the semi-darkness, a lantern illuminates the figure in shirtsleeves.

I freeze. "You?"

Captain Kincade sits up, takes a swig from a bottle in his hand, and smiles. "Expecting someone else, love?"

"I wasn't expecting anyone at all." I take a step further inside the sparse space. Apart from the mat he's sitting on—and a few small items surrounding him—there's only a raised mattress made of packed leaves.

"Well, I was starting to think you'd never come. The water's almost gone too cold." He motions toward a bowl in front of him.

"What's that for?" I ask.

He takes another gulp from the bottle. "I need your help." Turning his head to the right, he reveals a dark line running down his left cheek.

"You're injured." I crouch beside him and reach toward his face. The blood has long dried, but the gash is still open. I lean closer to examine the wound, but suddenly feel his breath on my neck and panic. "You should get the locals to patch you up."

I begin to stand, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back beside him. He looks me in the eyes and shakes his head. "I want you to do it. Everything's here." He motions not only toward the water, but also a relatively clean looking rag, needles, and a spool of thread.

I lean back on my heels, covering my face with my hands. "I can't. I'm so tired."

When I look up, Kincade is still staring at me. "I know you can. Please, Ana."

I want to refuse; he's a pirate after all. But so were all those other men I helped today, and I didn't hesitate then. Besides, he could have easily forced me to do it and still chose not to.

Lord, help me.

I dip a corner of the cloth into the lukewarm water and begin to wipe the dried blood from his cheek. The cut doesn't appear too deep, but his whiskers cover most of the damage.

"You're going to need to shave." I put the rag down.

He pulls a wide knife from a silver sheath on his baldric. The harsh sound of metal against metal hurts my exhausted ears, and I lean back at the sight of the sharp blade sparkling in the fire's light.

Turning the handle toward me, he smiles. "You do it."

I sigh. "I don't suppose you have any shaving soap? Coconut or even olive oil, perhaps?"

He shakes his head, but I take the knife. Setting it down, I dip the whole cloth in the water, squeeze out the excess, and wrap it around his face. Letting it soften the hair for a minute, I finally remove it and begin the shave.

I start on the uninjured side. Holding the blade perpendicular against the skin, I slowly pull it down against the grain. A faint scraping sound follows the motion, which leaves a narrow strip in its wake. The result isn't completely smooth; the blade is much too stiff for that. A barber's knife—one that's so thin it bends when pressed against the cheek—would be preferable. Still, the edge of my tool is sharp and I try to concentrate on the precise movements lest I cut the captain further. My mind also wanders to different scenarios of how I could use the situation to my advantage.

Slitting his throat in one, swift motion is my first thought, but I abandon it almost immediately. I'm not a killer, and won't consider becoming one until it's my last resort. He's probably expecting me to try something with the knife, anyway. Any pirate worth his salt would anticipate and be ready to prevent any such attack.

Whatever I could do, I'd have to make it unexpected.

I continue to slowly scrape and wipe, gradually moving toward the center of his face. I hesitate when I reach his lips. They're wet, full, and slightly open. I wonder how they'd feel . . .

"Ana?" They form my name.

I snap back from the distraction and continue the shave without explanation. After scraping off another strip of whiskers, I wipe the skin and put the rag in my lap. The movement triggers something in my memory. I reach to my waist, but realize I'm no longer wearing my belt. I took it off when I used it to stop Butler's bleeding. I must have dropped the dagger at the same time.

"Looking for something?" he asks, a slight amusement playing in his tone.

How did he know?

"No," I lie.

"Not even this?" Kincade holds up the dainty, bejeweled weapon.

I reach up to his face again and continue to work around the wound. "That's not mine."

"Yes, well I guess technically it isn't. But Henry did give it to you." He offers it to me. "Go ahead. Take it."

I cock my head to the side and furrow my brows. "Why are you giving it back? Aren't you afraid I'll use it on you?"

He chuckles, and the lyrical sound bounces off the walls. "You've had a much larger blade against my neck for a while now. If you wanted to hurt me, you would have already."

He's perceptive, as well as powerful; that's a dangerous combination. "What if I use it to get away?"

"I wouldn't recommend that." He clears his throat. "You wouldn't get far anyway. This island has nothing more than just one native tribe. You'll need me if you ever want to get back to civilization and, of course, to your father."

My father? Oh, he means Admiral Mercado. So then his purpose for Luciana was ransom, after all. But he didn't get her, and no one would pay anything remotely close in value for my return. I suppose I will need to drag out pretenses as long as I can and try to save myself at the first opportunity. My heart sinks. That chance obviously won't come now so I finish scraping the rough whiskers off the captain's face. After using the warm water to wash it clean, I lean back and look at the results before tackling the wound. For a brief moment, I may even forget to breathe. The perfect lips—for better or worse—belong to a perfect face. A strong jaw line, prominent cheekbones, and a masculine nose accentuate his appearance, making Captain Alestair Kincade the most handsome man I've ever seen. I'm now convinced about my prior suspicions regarding his youth. There's definitely less than a decade between my seventeen years and his true age.

I could stare at him for much, much longer, but drop my gaze again as I notice him watching me. "So, was it actually worth it?" I pick up the needle and thread.

"What's that?" He furrows his brows.

I focus on getting the coarse thread through the needle's eye. "Sacrificing six of your men for whatever you looted off the Dutch."

He picks up the increasingly empty bottle and drinks. "In hindsight? Of course not."

I hold his face in my hands and turn it so the light falls on his wound. "Those were soldiers on that supposed merchant ship, weren't they?"

He sighs. "Yes."

"They weren't supposed to be there," I say, more as a statement than a question.

His silence confirms my suspicions, and I continue. "Was that why you let the ship go? Was there anything of value on it at all?"

Straining against my hold, he turns back to look at me. "Not what I was looking for, so it doesn't matter," he snaps.

I take this as a cue to stop asking questions and prepare to start on the stitching. I know it will be painful, and I already feel guilty for having to inflict the feeling. I take a deep breath and pinch the two edges of the split skin together. Captain Kincade only makes a sound with the first poke. He endures the rest by squeezing his eyes shut and only showing discomfort with an occasional sharp intake of breath.

I try to hurry so I don't drag out his torture, but I'm also conscious of the size and placement of the stitches. This isn't the hidden hem of a dress. It's the face of an otherwise handsome young man, which will be on permanent display for the rest of his life. I do my best not to mar that picture.

"You're really good at this. My men owe you their lives," he says as I finish one knot.

I cut off the excess thread with the knife before answering. "No thanks to you. You were more interested in the plunder than their well-being."

"I'm not going to defend my actions to you, but I do appreciate your assistance. And I'll replace your shirt as soon as I can." He nods toward my blood soaked top, but I shake my head.

"It just needs a good scrub. Besides, I don't mind the stains. Those men died to defend us. The least I can do is think of them every time I put it on. Now hush so I can finish."

He lifts the bottle again and empties the last of the contents into his mouth. Swallowing, he wipes his lips with his sleeve. "Go ahead."

I'm almost finished—one, maybe two more stitches to go—when he speaks again.

"You're quite beautiful," he murmurs.

I huff at the unwelcome distraction. "And you're drunk."

"I suppose I am loaded to the gunwales." He nods. "But that hasn't made me blind."

My cheeks flush, but I continue to knot the second-to-last stitch. In a spontaneous attempt to test exactly how drunk my captor-turned-patient really is, I try something. "Thank you, Alestair," I say, calling the Pirate King by his Christian name, instead of the preferred "captain" moniker he instructed me to use the night we first met.

He pushes my hand away and sits back, vehemently shaking his head. "Oh, no. Don't call me that. My father's Alestair, not me."

"Oh, really?" My eyes widen at his revelation. I don't dare press him further lest he realize the admission, so I sit motionless, hoping he'll continue on his own.

"Well, technically I am also Alestair Kincade. But no one ever calls me by that name."

This is getting interesting. "What do they call you then?"

He straightens his posture. "Captain, of course!"

I bite my lip to keep from laughing at his earnestness. He really is quite far gone thanks to the rum. "Even your friends?" I tilt my head in confusion, hoping he'll provide clarification.

He sighs. "I don't have any friends, Ana."