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closed it and said, "You realize you can't force me to marry you"

At that moment, he fastened his breeches and slid a knife into a leather strap at his leg. Sylvie wondered whether there was a threat implied in the gesture.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He smiled hauntingly. He looked so handsome, the muscles on his shoulders and arms rolling under his soft, tan skin as he reached for each new piece of clothing. "Getting dressed," he replied mildly. He covered his chest with a clean cotton shirt that had ballooned sleeves, then slipped a pistol in his sash.

"Why are you wearing so many weapons?" she asked.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Is it so strange?"

"Well, I... I suppose not, but you don't usually . .."

He slid another knife into his boot, strapping it against his strong, slender leg. Sylvie could have spent all day watching him dress, watching him move. At last, he straightened up and clanked toward her in full weaponry. He even had a sword dangling at his side, and not one of those ornamental ones her father wore to supper and for special occasions. His was real. "Sylvie, we're attacking a merchant ship late this evening." He touched her chin with his knuckle, but it was not an entirely tender gesture. When she tried to retreat, he clutched her. "We intend to win, but I do not intend to let them kill the vessel's captain. He'll need to do something before he dies." He met her eyes as one who was not inviting a discussion. "I'm going to have him marry us."

"But I... Jacques, you know I... why, I can't!" she cried, stepping away from him. He decided to let her take just the one step back. "Jacques, I am betrothed! I must marry Etienne. Do you understand me? I absolutely must! I ... no, no." She was scared to death by the look in his eye. This

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comical situation was growing rapidly serious. He looked as though he were really going to do this. "Jacques, no! I cannot. I have no wish to hurt you, but please understand."

He could see that her pleading was sincere but he was unmoved. If she had meant to use him, then she'd made a sore mistake. If she'd been caught in the throes of passion, well then, she should be lucky it was with a man who would make her honorable and not one who would mistreat her. And if she simply didn't want to marry a pirate, or ... or a man who couldn't hear ... well, then, she was getting what she deserved. No matter how he tossed it about in his mind, he could see no reason to release her. To be sympathetic to her fear? Certainly. But to let her persuade him? No. He touched her shoulder with reassurance and with strength. "I'm going on deck. I'll be up there until the ship raid tonight. We're all working through the evening meal." He spoke to her more as a figure of authority than as the tender lover he had been only minutes ago. "When the ship is secured, I'll send for you. There's a gown in the trunk over there—Sebastien got it from an earlier raid and has no use for it. It might not fit, but it will be better than what you have on. When I send someone to fetch you," he added with a nod to make sure she understood, "you'll stand before the ship's captain and become my wife."

Sylvie hated herself for it, but her mind had suddenly turned from the urgent matter at hand to the fear that he might be maimed, or worse, in the raid. She looked at all his weapons and cringed at the thought that the merchant sailors would carry the same. She was tempted to ask him not to go, for that reason alone, but she shook the thought away as soon as she was able and said something more appropriate. "What if I refuse to take the vows?"

He had the grace not to touch or even glance at any of his weapons, but he answered in full awareness of them. "That

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won't be an option.* 1 And it really was warmth she saw in his eyes. It was as though he were asking her not to make him issue a threat.

Sylvie swallowed hard. "Jacques," she said, staring quak-ingly into his moist eyes, "I can't do this. You know I can't."

His shrug was callous. "I don't know how much more plainly I can speak" he said, "I was the first man inside you, and I'm going to be the last. That's the way of it." She crossed her arms against the embarrassment he had raised, and against the possessive bite in his eyes. "You can try to fight me at the altar/" he said, "but don't. It won't do you any good, so just don't. It'll be all right." He tried to kiss her forehead in a gesture of reassurance, but she backed away angrily.

Sebastien and Pierre burst in behind him before he could think of a way to retaliate against her withdrawal. "Did we interrupt?" asked Pierre jovially.

A light caught Jacques's eye as he noticed the opportunity to prove his point to Sylvie. "Not at all," he said. "In fact, it seems we're going to have a wedding tonight."

"Ay!" cried Sebastien. "A ship raid and a wedding! Excellent. Didn't that Englishman, George, do that also? Didn't we have a wedding for him some months ago?"

"Yes, we did. Don't know what ever happened to the poor maiden, though. I think he tired of her after only a week and dropped her off at a port."

"Oh yes, that's right. Well, we're well due for another wedding, then."

Jacques's eyes sparkled triumphantly at Sylvie. She could see that he had won, that nobody would protect her from this marriage. But to reassure her that he was not a complete sod, he told them, "I assure you, I have no intention of dumping Sylvie at a port. I'm going to keep her, and if the captain grows weary of having her on board, he'll have to toss us both."

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"Excellent," they muttered, getting their weapons in order for the upcoming battle. It was clear they did not take his words to heart, but imagined he was merely uttering pretty platitudes before the lady. "Is she willing to be married to a bloodthirsty pirate?" asked Sebastien. "Or will this be one of those ceremonies where we help her speak her vows?" They both chuckled at the word help.

"I'm afraid she's a bit reluctant," said Jacques.

"Ah well, I'm sure you'll make her feel better tonight." There was some crude laughter.

Jacques cast Sylvie one last stern look before joining his friends on their way out. For the first time since she'd met him, he looked like a real pirate, the kind she'd heard stories about. His shirt was puffing at the sleeves, his breeches were tight and seductive, his boots were sturdy and strapped with secret knives. A worn sword was at his side, too experienced to shine. His face looked as fresh and excited at the prospect of battle as it looked stern and capable of lodging one of those knives into someone's neck. Only his short, sun-bleached hair made him look just a little too boyish for a pirate. "Stay down here until you're summoned," he told her. "It'll be dangerous up there." She neither spoke nor nodded, but he knew she understood. "I expect to be obeyed," he added richly. "In about ten hours you're going to be my bride, so you might as well get used to listening to me." Satisfied that she'd heard, despite her dazed, furious, wide-eyed silence, he punched Pierre affectionately on the back and led the men from the room. The moment they were gone, Sylvie could hear them talking loudly about swords and cannons and old battles. They sounded excited. They sounded like they were going to have fun.

Sylvie found the strength to lift one of the heaviest trunks in the room and slam it at the closed door with a scream of anguish. All of its contents spewed across the room, spread-

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ing gold silver, and silks from corner to corner. !n her fit of rage, she called, "1 hate you!", her booming voice vibrating er very hips, and tearing at her throat. She screamed again, this time in such a high pitch that it pained her own ears. She punched the wall, tugged at her hair, and then collapsed. Burying her face in her sweaty palms, she began to weep. And of all things, she found that she wasn't weeping at all over her ruined life or her forced engagement to a man who was already acting as though he were her king. God help her, she was weeping a prayer that he would not be harmed in battle.

Fifteen

There was nothing better than the anticipation of a ship raid. Like the experience of falling from a wall or swimming under water, it was so unlike any other sensation that it could not be described to outsiders. The first thing that happened when the victim vessel moved into sight is that the raid took on a reality for the pirates. They had planned it, talked about it, and eased their tensions by laughing about it all afternoon long. The schedule of the merchant vessel had been well known to them. But until they saw the square-rigged ship alight with lanterns, lanterns that real human beings were using to guide their eyes, it had all been an abstraction, a memory of raids gone by. As soon as the ship came into view, it was no longer "a raid" but "this raid," and anything could happen.

Fear was always the first emotional surge. Even pirates were afraid of dying, afraid of losing, and afraid of squandering their courage. But fear is one of those emotions which moves quickly through the blood, clearing the way for slower, richer emotions like hatred. Hatred was the key to fighting. A man who fought in defense of his life would do better than

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a man with no motivation at all. But a man who hated, a man who placed wounding his enemy above protecting his own self, would win every time. As the ship neared, each pirate tried to find his own hatred, remember its source, and see it manifest in the sails ahead. They needed to hate the ship before they could destroy it.

The pirates were crowded on deck, prepared for a fight. Their loose shirts, sashes, and bandannas blew all around them in the wind, like the black-and-red flag overhead. They knew they were a terrifying sight to the crew of the neighboring ship, and knowing they were feared gave them confidence. "Watch my back," Jacques muttered to Sebastien, spitting out some tobacco. "Remember, I can't hear what's behind me."

"I've always got your back," said Sebastien with his hands.

During the three long years aboard Blanchet's ship, he and Jacques had grown so close that he had been let in on the secret language of Jacques's asylum. Jacques had not been as good at reading lips in the early years. He often had to ask people to repeat themselves so often that they would turn away in frustration. If it were his captain, he would be beaten for his "stupidity." But Sebastien had been drawn to Jacques from the very beginning. Jacques just had that independent way about him, that quiet confidence that did not fade even after a beating, a glint in his eye that said, What is it now? as one who took nothing to heart. Sebastien couldn't help being attracted to his companionship. As the friendship tightened, Jacques taught him the language that was easiest for him to understand—the use of the hands to make words. It was something deaf people had always done, but the signs were completely different in each country, in each town, in each village. So Jacques could only communicate with those with whom he'd been incarcerated, and now, with Sebastien. For some reason, Sebastien had enjoyed the new language, even found

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it to be fun. It felt as though the friends now shared a secret code, like little boys who had built a clubhouse and invented passwords. The intimacy of a private language bonded them more than brothers.

"So are you really going to marry that girl?" Sebastien asked with his lips.

Jacques was standing like a man who had no doubts. His legs were apart, though he leaned into one hip. His hand was clasped casually about the hilt of his sword as he watched the enemy vessel draw nearer. He looked at Sebastien only from the corner of his intense eye. "Yes," he said, hoping his voice could be heard over the wind, which he'd been told could make tremendous noise. Hearing people were so disadvantaged, it seemed to him. They could not communicate when competing with other sounds.

"Why are you marrying her?" asked Sebastien, not that he cared a great deal. "Are you in love?"

Jacques hadn't thought about that. He chewed hard on his cheek, fixing his gaze even more intently on the upcoming ship. Did he love Sylvie? Well, he liked her a great deal. He definitely liked her. But as for love, he had to answer, "No."

"Did you render her with child when you were on shore?"

Again, he answered, "No."

"Then what is it?"

Jacques met his gaze squarely, a glint of self-effacing humor in his stern smile. "I'm a jealous bastard, I think. I've had her and now I can't stand the idea of someone else doing it"

Sebastien laughed brightly. "That would have been my third guess."

Captain Roberto's voice cried out from the gun deck. His order to fire rang clear, and all but Jacques covered their ears to avoid the burn of loud cannon fire. Orange light was blinding to the men whose eyes had adjusted to darkness.

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And it did not stop. One warning shot after another was fired past the helpless merchant vessel like a display of unwelcome fireworks. The pirates knew the ship would not surrender. Their cargo was too valuable—they would have been ordered to surrender it to no one. But some had held a glimmer of hope that no blood would be shed. No such luck. The square rigger, with its full suite of shimmering sails, moved forth, showing no sign of retreat. "Fighters!" called the captain, and they all readied themselves.

The pirate barque grappled the enemy vessel, causing a jolt that made Jacques nearly lose his balance. Sebastien stumbled into him, nearly knocking him over, but they both regained their stances in a hurry. Forty-three fighters prepared to board the other ship. It would be an easy fight, as the merchant vessel could carry no more than a couple dozen crew. But Jacques was at the front. He would be one of the first to board, and one of the few at risk of getting hurt. He clutched the hilt of his cutlass. It was not an elegant weapon; it was more suited to chopping meat than fighting a duel. But it was heavy and sharp, and good for short-range work.

At the cry of the captain, boarding axes were tossed upon the high wooden wall of the victim vessel. The men began to hoist themselves aboard the strange craft. Many of them did this with shouts of anger and excitement, using their voices as a means of summoning their most vile instincts. But Jacques had never learned to use his voice in that way. The only thing he had to help him gather courage was his memory. He would remember his days on a merchant vessel, not unlike the one under attack, and he would use his rage to lend him strength. He was one of the greatest fighters on board. That's why he was always put in the front. Despite that, however, it was always hard for him to get started. Driving a cutlass into the heart of a stranger was not an easy thing to do. There was an awkwardness about it, a feeling that one ought at least to