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A nd so, she was Chow’s wife.

At least for as long as she remained on the Ghost .

Rebecca did not allow herself to dwell on it—not on its implications, nor on the exquisite delight of feeling Chow inside of her—as they rushed to set sail.

This was far from her first sea voyage, yet always before, she had been a mere passenger who had retreated to whatever meager quarters were hers when sailing was under way.

Now, she merged into the orchestra of men preparing the vessel for voyage.

She had learned enough to be able to untie this rope and retie it there and to hoist the sails in unison with the other sailors.

Old de la Cruz took up his spot at the helm to navigate them out of the lagoon, while Chow barked orders to catch the proper wind.

Rebecca refused to contemplate that the men around her—throwing her a line and ordering her to haul sails—had just ten minutes before been listening at the door.

And when Captain Boukman meandered over to stand beside de la Cruz with a view down upon all the activity on the ship, she resisted the urge to meet his eyes.

She did not need to prove to anyone, least of all him, that she made her own choices.

No matter what happened to her next, and no matter what had happened to her in the course of her life since being left on the steps of Trinity Church as a baby, Rebecca would always choose her own destiny.

As the activity died down, Rebecca leaned against the railing to take in the view.

To the port side, Fortune Island was growing smaller and smaller, so that its trees looked miniature and its beaches mere slivers of pearl in the late afternoon sunlight.

The water beneath the ship morphed into a darker, truer blue, with little waves whipped up by the wind that didn’t quite grow white at their peaks.

While she watched, a trio of dolphins leapt into the air, one after the other, keeping pace with the ship until the wind pushed the Ghost faster and faster into the deep ocean.

“There’s nothing better in the world than sailing,” came a deep voice behind her. Rebecca turned, without surprise, to see that Captain Boukman had sought her out.

She ducked her head deferentially, as she had done all her life to those she served. “I’m grateful to be part of the crew.”

He leaned a hand against the rail, close enough to her that she smelled the days of sweat lodged in his coat. There was no denying he was a large man: he towered over her, and she was as tall as the doorways in Placid Manor.

If he had claimed her for himself, as he had clearly intended to do, Rebecca would have had no choice but to submit.

She had already begun to prepare herself to feel those rough hands on her skin.

She would have found ways to minimize his touch.

She did not allow herself to be miserable, not even when her choices were limited.

Yet his smell did not entice her, and his eyes—though just as dark as Chow’s—were not kind.

That was what surprised her the most about him.

After all the stories she had heard of Captain Boukman, the pirate who fought the slavers, she had expected a man whose kindness beamed from the center of his heart.

“We have never had a wife on board before,” the captain said. “Chow took considerable risk bringing you along without permission.”

Rebecca considered the purpose behind his words. She did not think he believed Chow’s story; that was why he had humiliated them both in front of the crew. Did he want her to say something now that would prove the lie?

Or did he only intend to threaten that this husband she found herself tied to was in danger of the captain’s wrath?

She did not know much about being a wife, but she knew she would not betray her husband, no matter how temporary the marriage.

“He respects you more than any man on earth. I am sure he did not mean offense.” She hated being so deferential, and so she could not help adding, “Besides, I’m afraid I left him no option.

I told him he could have neither me nor my goat unless he allowed me to join the legendary crew of the Ghost . ”

Captain Boukman smiled in a way that Rebecca suspected he thought was flirtatious. In effect, it was more of a continuation of the threat. “I still haven’t seen this goat.”

“She’s below with the other animals, sir.” Rebecca did not offer to show him, for she sensed that was what he wanted her to say.

If they disappeared below deck while the crew was busy sailing, she knew what he would try to make happen. She knew even better what the men would believe had happened. And she did not want any of it, real or fiction.

The ship swayed with a wave, giving Rebecca an excuse to step backward—not quite out of reach of the captain, but far enough away that she could no longer smell the coffee and rum on his breath.

She turned her head, too, and caught sight of Chow on the starboard side, shouting up at one of the boys on the masts.

No more than an hour ago, he had been between her legs, coaxing her into oblivion. A rush of possessiveness and gratitude and deep, undeniable desire washed over Rebecca, and she wanted more than anything for him to come protect her from Captain Boukman again.

Sharkhead looked at her in the half-second that her gaze lingered. Almost immediately, he jerked his eyes away—but not back to the boy on the mast. He looked behind her, towards the aft of the ship, and then Rebecca heard old de la Cruz shout, “Captain!”

Boukman acknowledged the navigator by raising one hand in the air. Eyes still on Rebecca, he said, “A wife can be set ashore as soon as she is troublesome. There is always another one in the next port.”

It was the only threat he could make aloud, yet Rebecca knew abandonment was not really the punishment he would mete out, should he find it necessary.

The words still locked around her like manacles on a prisoner. She did not want any of the captain’s punishments, but she could stomach his body on hers, brutal workdays, or even banishment to the hold better than being left behind.

She ducked her chin once more. “I will not make trouble, sir. I want only to serve the Ghost as best I can.”

“Captain!” de la Cruz shouted again, and at last Captain Boukman turned away.

“See that you don’t.”

Rebecca retied the knot she had just completed to soothe her trembling hands.

B y the time land disappeared from sight, the Ghost had settled into its easy roll through the Sargasso Sea, nary a storm nor a bad wind to be found.

Chow permitted the crew to relax; those on watch remained so, but the rest of them carried their meals and rum to the top deck to watch the sunset.

The sky was a bright, brilliant red at the horizon, pink in the higher wisps of clouds, and a startling midday blue above their heads.

The brown grasses that gave the sea its name floated eerily in the water as a counterpoint to the palette.

It was a beauty incapable of being described. Even a painter could not do it justice. One had to breathe the lightly salted air and hear the gulls cawing around the sails and feel miniature in the face of such vast nature in order to comprehend it.

It was the kind of sunset that made the pirate’s life worth living.

Yet even with such majesty spread before him, Chow couldn’t shake off his nerves. He felt as if he had been carried away in a riptide. He was no longer Sharkhead, the captain’s trusted mate and quiet second-in-command. Nor could he hold himself grumpy and aloof from Rebecca.

She was his responsibility now. Even more than that, everyone on the ship knew it.

There was a small part of him that was gratified by that—the macho part of him that flexed his muscles whenever he met a larger man.

But mostly, the fact made Chow feel as if he were walking around naked.

Worse—as if he were walking around naked for the entertainment of everyone except himself.

His instinct was to ignore her. That would show she didn’t mean a thing to him.

It would prove to the crew—and Captain Boukman—that even though he had claimed her as his own, and even though she was the first woman he had shown interest in, and even though they had witnessed him fucking her, he didn’t care about her enough for them to use her against him.

He ignored that instinct. He had claimed her, and now she was his responsibility, whether he wanted it or not.

Chow settled onto the deck beside where she sat cross-legged with a bottle of rum. She was alone, and as he sat, she angled herself with more than a little gratitude to welcome him. “Red at night is sailor’s delight, isn’t that what they say?”

“Aye. No storms ahead.”

“Our good fortune continues.”

He studied her, unsure if she meant that sardonically. The pink in the sky colored her in new shades, darkening her skin and warming her lips. He forgot his thoughts, lost in the idea of kissing her.

“There’s much I don’t know about you,” her lips said, touching themselves in interesting ways with every word. The most interesting of all: “Husband.”

Chow shook his head, fixing his gaze on the crimson horizon. “My parents have been married for thirty years and I’m sure there are still things they don’t know about each other.”

“You know your parents, then?” There was something hungry in her question, and Chow couldn’t help giving a contrary reply:

“I haven’t seen them for over a decade.” He didn’t want to get lost in her hunger. Theirs was an arrangement to protect Rebecca, not a real marriage.

She took a swig of rum. “I’m an orphan. Left as an infant on the steps of Trinity Church. I don’t even know my birthday, much less my parents’ names.”

There were plenty of orphans in the world. Still, Chow felt a pang of sympathy for her. “That you survived shows how strong you are.”

“Or lucky.” She offered him the bottle.