Dead Whores Tell No Tales [Monroe & Bathos]

With a mighty roar of laughter, Captain William Blackburne - assumed name, naturally - threw down his hand of cards and stood. He was a mountain of a man, easily the largest in the room, with wavy dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. His hands, reaching for the pile of loot in the center of the table, were more akin to bear paws, massive and sprinkled with the same wiry black hair that covered his arms and the triangle of flesh that was exposed by his v-neck tunic.

"Well, gents," his voice boomed, even using an indoor volume, "sometimes luck can be a cruel, vindictive wench. But tonight she's a sweet, willing whore come to warm my bed."

The loot fit easily into his hands and he dropped his winnings, coin by coin, into the purse he wore on his belt. If any of his opponents - a sorry handful of drunkards and gamblers - thought about challenging his hand, they were stopped short by the single shot, black powder pistol which hung at his other hip.

"Won't you stay a while and give us the chance to win back our loot?" implored one of the men in English heavily colored by his French accent.

William smiled. His teeth weren't perfect, but they were healthy and, against the blackness of his stubble, they practically glowed. "Sorry, friends. I've got a load due at Plymouth. Perhaps on my way back through."

The other men didn't look happy, and understandably so, considering William was walking away with their money. No one said another word, instead choosing to glower at one another. As William stepped out of the dimly lit tavern and into the salty night air, he inhaled deeply. It'd been a good night for him; modestly priced rum and the kind of rare winning streak that allowed him to double the weight of his coin purse. He smiled as he headed back to his boat, a long, thin sailing ship with multiple masts and a square rig. He was thankful no one in the tavern had seen his ship, the Fiona, or else they'd have known he was lying through his teeth. Fiona wasn't built for cargo, anyone could tell by looking at her. She was built for speed with a few custom modifications to allow three carronades to run out each side.

William caught a flash of movement out the corner of his eye and tensed, hand shooting straight for his sidearm. "Who's there?"

Moonlight caught the silvery blonde hair of his first mate, Julian Bancroft, as he stepped forward from the shadow of the building and William relaxed. "Good God, Jules, I nearly shot you," the captain grumbled.

Julian didn't argue, though amusement did twist the corners of his mouth into something approaching a smile. The expression didn't reach his flat, gray eyes. Anyone who'd ever seen the two men in action would know the source of Julian's amusement. Captain William Blackburne was a fierce man and not a safe person to anger. He was faster than he looked, packed a punch that had been known to kill a man or two, was a wicked shot with a pistol, and he didn't suffer fools. Still, when it came down to it, Julian was the more dangerous man by far. He was slender and not especially tall or imposing in stature, but what he lacked in mass, he made up for with deadly precision and stealth. He was a masterful, ruthless swordsman and he was never without his rapier. It was well known among Blackburne's crew that the captain did not tolerate nonsense, but it was also widely believed that Julian Bancroft didn't know the meaning of the word. He was serious, always alert, and unflinchingly logical. It would almost have been a comfort to the crew if Bancroft had taken some malicious pleasure out of his work, but he'd never hinted to anyone, save Blackburne, that he took pleasure in anything.

Without being prompted, Julian fell into step beside William as they headed back to the ship. "Everything's in order. We're ready to set sail on your order."

William knew Julian well enough to gather his meaning. The younger man was growing impatient in his own stoic way and he was irritated with his captain for delaying their departure. William smiled, clapped Julian on the shoulder and shouted, just for show, "Then let's not delay, friend. To England!"

“Aye, love. How bouts a go, then?” asked a very drunk Englishman with dark yellow hair that was escaping it’s bow at the nape of his neck. He smacked the prostitute’s bottom, and she turned to scowl at him, arms crossing over her barely concealed chest.

“I am steel recovering from zee last go, you pig.” she huffed, pointing to the yellow bruise on her temple where he had struck her last week. “You sink I am so stupid? I will not ‘go’ wiz you ever again!”

The man pulled a heavy coin purse from a pocket of his vest, the gold clinking heavily together. The prostitute paused in her descent down the stairs, ears straining to hear the beautiful tinkling of money again.

“Not even for this?” asked the man with a smirk. The French whore slowly turned, a soft, exasperated smile on her face as she sauntered back to him.

“Well, maybe just zis once…” she purred, leading him toward her room. After all, money did make the world go round.

After an uneventful romp (at least for the prostitute), the Englishman lay sweaty and spent on top of her. No clothes had been removed. He had just hiked up her skirts and pushed down her top a little more so he could fondle her during his ‘efforts’, if they could even be called that. The whore sighed and pushed him off of her, rolled onto her side, and propped herself up on her elbow after straightening her clothes a little.

“Tell me, ‘enry. Why ‘ave you come to France? Are you seduced by zee idea of ’Ole Pari?” she asked. The man caught his breath and smirked at her.

“Nothing so romantic, my pet. In France there are just prettier whores!”

The prostitute scoffed at him, slapping his arm. He laughed robustly.

“Don’t be offended, love. All the women in England are too busy makin’ ladies of themselves to learn how to please a man proper, like you.”

The woman quirked an eyebrow. “Zee ladies… Zey have jobs?” she asked curiously. The man nodded.

“Aye, all becoming seamstresses and such. Not a decent whore in town no more.”

She played with a hole in the sheets absentmindedly. “And… ’ow does one get to England…?” she asked, green eyes flicking upward to the blonde haired man. He frowned in response, beginning to pull on the trousers that were around his ankles.

“Mimi,” he chided. “You ain’t thinking of leaving, are yeh?”

She shrugged one pale, freckled shoulder dispassionately. “Per’aps.”

Henry frowned, and then shrugged too. So what if there was one less whore in the brothel? Mimi had her talents, but she was far from the prettiest prostitute in town. “Well, I suppose you’d need to get yourself voyage on a boat.” he told her. “One’a those cargo ships, most like. They’ve room for passengers, from time to time. Come to think, there’s a cargo ship in the harbor right now.”

That was all Mimi needed to hear. Before he’d even finished pulling on his trousers, she was pushing him out of her room and into the hall. She shut the door firmly behind him and put her hands on her hips, surveying the space. She needed to act, and fast. Who knew how long that ship would be there? She weighed the gold in her hand. It didn’t seem like enough for a ticket to England, and even if it was, she needed it for once she arrived. Sadly, she had very little by means of savings. A large portion of her earnings went directly to the brothel, and whore’s didn’t make that much money once everything was said and done.

Michelle Molyneux had made up her mind. She hadn’t liked whoring from the beginning, she just didn’t have very many options in France. But maybe England would be different. She could sew, and she could learn a trade. Perhaps there would be someone willing to teach her.

The woman grabbed a satchel and stuffed another dress into it, then threw in all the gold she had, her jewelry, her rouge, kohl, and powder, her fine combs, and a shawl. That filled the satchel up, but she didn’t mind. She wouldn’t need these things once she got to England. They were all reminders of her life as a whore, not that she was ashamed of her profession. Michelle was just ready for the next stage in her life.

Mimi looked into her mirror, letting her bright auburn curls fall free from their combs, then pulled it once more in a neater, loose knot atop her head. The curls that were too short escaped the knot, falling around her face and neck. She pinched her pale, heavily freckled cheeks to bring a little color to them, then threw the bag over her shoulder and strode from the room she had called home for so long.

On her way down the stairs, the other prostitutes looked at her and her full bag in confusion. She waved to them in the manner of the queen, a haughty expression on her face. They scowled at her, rolling her eyes. “Farewell, ladies!” she called to the whores, ignoring their customers. “Eet was fun while eet lasted. You all are the most ‘orrible friends a girl could ask for!”

The other women turned away from her coldly, but one young, blonde haired woman raced forth.

“Oh Mimi!” she cried, throwing her arms around the woman’s hips. “Where are you going? Are you leaving? Don’t leave me here with all of them!”

Michelle sighed. “Giselle, calm down. I am moving on to bigger and better sings.” she said. The blonde frowned, then dawning struck her face.

“Sings? Oh, things!” she laughed. “I always knew you’d get out of here. Good luck, Mimi. Don’t forget about me, okay?”

The auburn haired prostitute shook her head. “Never. Be good, Giselle.” she cautioned, and her friend saw her to the door, but didn’t dare leave the light and warmth of the brothel.

Mimi hurried to the docks, looking at the ships. There were only three, but she wasn’t sure which to get onto. One was very large and looked like a cargo ship. Another looked like a fishing boat, and the third looked to be built for speed. She was standing in the shadows, about to get on the largest ship, when she heard a voice.

"Then let's not delay, friend. To England!"

The French whore frowned; the men were boarding the ship that looked too small. But then, what did she know about cargo ships? And the man had said it was going to England. That was good enough for her. When she men disappeared into the ship, Mimi hurried forward, looking at the ship anxiously. Swallowing her doubts, she climbed on board, and then quickly climbed down below, careful not to be seen. She was lucky- there was no one in the narrow hall she stepping into. She peered into a small room that was filled with barrels and slipped in, hiding behind what she could only assume was the cargo.

Settling down onto the floor behind the barrels, the woman felt fairly assured that she was well hidden. She got comfortable and closed her eyes, hoping she would be able to sleep through the voyage to avoid seasickness.

William was not surprised to find that Julian had not been exaggerating, for Julian rarely did such a thing. When captain and first mate arrived at the Fiona, all hands were at the ready. It wasn't an uncommon scene; the ship's delayed departure, the captain's slightly drunken return at dark, the first mate following on his heels with an expression set to motherly disapproval. It made the crew nervous to navigate the potentially dangerous port town waters without the aid of the sun's light and without the captain at full capacity, but he hadn't run them aground yet and William considered this reason enough to carry on pushing his luck. Of course, Captain Blackburne attributed his perfect success rate to his skill level, not luck.

"All right, boys," William called, clapping his hands together loudly as he made his way to the helm. "Git yer sorry carcasses a movin'!" This display was all bluster, for the captain was last on the scene, but everyone enjoyed the tradition of a grand production when setting sail after a lengthy port. William kept only a small crew, fifteen men strong not including the captain and his first mate. Now they were all in motion, moving with confidence in the moonlight, working the rigging, cranking up the anchor, and shouting commands to one another. After several minutes' hard work, the ship lurched away from the pier and the crew's actions grew more frantic.

Their anxiety was all for naught. Soon the moonlight and the captain's strong hands had guided them out of the harbor and into the open water. The wind was low, but steady. They wouldn't be sailing full speed - Fiona's record was an impressive 18 knots - but they weren't in a particular rush just then. When they were headed southwest, hugging the continent about a mile off the coast, William handed over the wheel and swaggered into his cabin where Julian sat, reclined against the arm of the soft, worn lounge, legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded over his chest. His trusted rapier, never far away, was propped against the wall next to him. Julian rarely took part in the actual sailing. He was a swashbuckler through and through; a gentleman pirate, always dressed in high collar shirts, vests and overcoats with sparkling buttons, and pristine, polished boots. His value lay not in the quality of his labor, but in the indiscriminate point of his many blades.

The captain's cabin was small, like the rest of the ship, but it held all the comforts befitting a nobleman. The bed wasn't wide, but it was stuffed with feathers. There wasn't a large selection of liquor, but when the rest of the crew subsisted on grog and spoiled water, William kept a modest stock of whiskey, wine, and ale. His wide desk was fastened to the floor and littered with charts and various other parchments. The bed, the curtain divider, the lounge, and the two armchairs were all the same pattern of gold and black damask.

When he stepped into his quarters, William slouched a little. Gone was his swagger and the booming volume of his voice, replaced by a serious, weary rumble. "Before ye ask," he said to Julian as dropped heavily into the desk chair, "I didn't hear a damned thing." He dug into his desk, producing a small, sturdy glass and a half empty bottle of whiskey. He didn't offer a drink to the other man, knowing too well the gesture would be refused.

Julian cocked his head to the side, pale blonde hair falling delicately across his too pretty face. "I wasn't going to ask," he said curtly. "Your taste for vengeance has abated as your appetite for whiskey and gambling has flourished." William fixed him with a sharp look, but Julian went on. "I've actually come to let you know that our mutual friend has been spotted heading South."

William's eyebrows went up, followed in short order by the rest of his head as he tossed back two fingers of whiskey. The glass hit the desk with a dull thunk and the captain poured himself another. "Quite a coincidence."

"It's not my intention to play games with you, Bill. I've known for some time that we were on his trail and I'm here to offer you a choice. Plot a course to Cape Town." His words held the hint of a threat, but his voice was calm and somewhat melodic.

The glass thudded against the desk again. "Thought you were here to offer me a choice."

Julian smiled, sort of. At least, William was left with the impression that he was smiling, but the humorless twist of lips didn't suit the definition of a smile. "Would you have me say it out loud?"

"No."

Julian rose, slid his rapier into his belt, and gently inclined his head. "Very good. I've taken the liberty of making a few notes on your chart there. Just some suggestions." Not another word passed between them, and then William was blessedly alone.

---

They sailed through the night and the men worked in shifts. It was mid morning before anyone had reason to go down into the hold in search of breakfast supplies. A man called Geoffrey - Geoff to his mates - was selected to go down to fetch a barrel of grog, on account of his effortless strength. He wasn't as tall as the captain, but he was barrel chested with arms the circumference of cannons. A smaller fellow accompanied him to haul up a crate of salted pork and biscuits.

"Y'hear we're makin' fer South Africa?"The smaller fellow asked Geoff.

"Aye, and the Cap'n didn't look none too pleased," Geoff said, eyes on his companion as he hoisted the barrel onto his shoulder.

"Stowaway!"

Geoff swung around to follow the path of the smaller man's gaze, eyes going wide when he set his eyes on the newest member of the Fiona's crew. His jaw went slack in surprise.

The sensation of the ship rolling over the waves had done nothing for her stomach. She felt like she needed to vomit, but knew that if she did she’d have to smell it till they reached England. For that reason, she kept her mouth firmly clamped shut, a hand over her churning stomach.

She was behind a couple of barrels, leaning her head against one as a poor excuse for a pillow, when she finally drifted off to sleep. She contented herself with imagining what her new life would be like, and dreamed of England. In England, whores could be seamstresses, she thought. Of course, if that didn’t work out… Well, she always had the one thing she was good at to fall back on. No matter where a woman went in the world, there would always be someone who wanted to hire a prostitute.

The sound of shuffling awoke Michelle of her light, fitful sleep, and her eyes widened anxiously as she realized that there was someone in there, retrieving a barrel. She tried to make herself invisible, trying to squeeze into the tight space between two barrels, but it was no use. She wouldn’t fit, no matter how much she sucked in her breath or prayed to god. She concluded that god had long ago given up on her, and she couldn’t blame him. The only time she even remembered him was when she was in trouble or something was going badly, in which case she would ask, ‘why does god never help me?’ She altogether forgot to thank him when things actually went right, and instead would congratulate herself on being the cleverest whore in France.

From the crack between two barrels, Mimi spotted a huge, barrel-chest man with enormous arms. He looked like the kind of man who could, and possibly would, snap her body in two. He was certainly capable of it. She shrunk back an inch further, not even breathing, fearing he would spot her any moment.

And he did.

Oh, thanks a lot God, she thought sarcastically as the man hollered up that there was a stowaway. It was then she noticed that he looked a lot more like a pirate than a member of a cargo ship. What had she gotten herself into this time?

“Alright, alright, you found me.” she huffed with a strong French accent, standing uncomfortably as her bones popped from sitting in one cramped position for so long. “What are you going to do wiz me? Murder me? Rape me? I do not care, jus’ do not make me go back zer.”

The smaller man, Byron, looked up at Geoff in askance. They both still held their loads, staring dumbly at the woman, then at one another. They'd been through a lot in their miserable lives - not together, they scarcely knew one another - but the presence of a lady on a pirate ship was proving a difficult concept to get their rum-preserved minds around.

Finally, Byron put the crates on the floor, wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers, and said, "Right, then, guess it's to the cap'n wiff 'er?"

Geoff shrugged. Even with the barrel hoisted onto his shoulder, the gesture seemed effortless. After the several moments it'd taken him to gather his wits, he'd decided not to say a word. Women were trouble, even when they weren't. They changed the dynamic, anywhere you went, and he wasn't saying a word to the wench unless the captain said she was okay. With a heavy sigh, he turned and headed topside.

"Beg pardon, miss," Byron said, with nerves obviously in shambles. "But, uh, I prolly ought to bring ye before the cap'n now." He took her arm with a light grasp, like he thought she might break or, worse, collapse into a crying fit, and escorted her up the steps into the bright light of day. By the time they'd ascended the steps, Geoff was already at the door to the captain's cabin, the barrel of grog several feet away and already swarmed by the crew, calling through the shut door.

"Cap'n! There's somethin' out here that, er." He paused, glancing back to Byron and the stowaway, who he imagined were about to stir up quite the fuss. "Requires yer attention," he finished vaguely with uncharacteristic eloquence.

Several beats passed before William appeared, wrenching the door open and stepping through it with the expression of an angry grizzly. His hair was loose, his shirt was pulled free from his breeches, and he was barefoot. He'd obviously been in the process of sleeping off the whiskey he'd consumed the previous night, bleary-eyed and looking more haggard than usual.

"What is it?" He growled, then immediately regretted it when his head throbbed in response. He didn't need to wait for a reply, however, as Byron strolled up with a woman on his arm. William swayed a little, suddenly disoriented. He looked around, seeing nothing but open waters and sails at full mast, but there was a woman on board - a gross violation of the captain's short list of rules, even when they were docked. "What in blue blazes?"

"Found 'er in the hold," Geoff said blandly, then turned and fled the scene. Shortly, he joined up with the men surrounding the morning ration of grog and delivered the news in his clipped, monosyllabic fashion. No one approached, but all eyes were on the young woman, her escort, and the captain.

"Fetch Jules," William barked at Byron, then yanked the woman roughly into his cabin.

The two men stared at her as if they had never seen a woman before. Michelle rolled her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. “Of course,” she muttered too quietly for the men to hear, swallowing the ‘r’. “Not only am I on zee wrong sheep, I am wiz complete imbeciles.”

One of the men took her arm, holding it more gently than she would have given him credit for. She raised an eyebrow. Sheep in wolf’s clothing? He led her out of what she realized was more of a storage room than a cargo hold, and up into the sun. She blinked hard, shielding her eyes from the suddenly bright light, not yet used to it after sitting in the darkness for so long. In the sunlight, her bright auburn curls looked fiery red, but her bun was badly coming undone, and her curls were more frizzy than pretty. The full skirts of her dress were rumpled, and the scooped neck of her dress was almost as revealing after her horrible night’s sleep as when she was on the job.

The prostitute reluctantly followed the man she decided was either a pirate or a sailor. Currently, she wasn’t sure which was worse. What was the difference, really? To a woman- very little. To a whore- even less. She had no idea where they were taking her, but she followed without too much dragging of her feet. She’d been discovered, and it wasn’t as if she could run. She peered to the sides. All there was out there was sea and more sea. Miles and miles of blue-green salt water, full of sharks, she was sure. Michelle didn’t fancy swimming with sharks. She’d take her chances with a ship full of deprived men any day. Men she could handle.

The other man was already at the cabin, and at his words she scowled, groaning quietly. The captain- of course. This did not bode well for her. “Can’t we just keep zis our lee-tle secret?” she asked, but the man holding her arm didn’t seem to hear. Her face fell as they stood before the door and someone within was shuffling around. The door finally opened, and she frowned apologetically at who she assumed was the captain. Kind of an intimidating fellow, she thought, but kept her mouth shut till he pulled her into his cabin.

His fingers were tight and slightly painful on her upper arm and she scowled. “Unhand me!” she said angrily, wrenching her arm away from him. She stepped away, crossing her arms over her chest moodily. “Okay, so you found me.” she said, raising her palms in acquiescence. “Now what? Are you going to throw me ov-air board?” she asked sarcastically.

She instantly backtracked, realizing she was probably only giving him ideas. “I mean, I only need to go so far as England. Zen I am out of your ‘air.”

William did let go of the woman once he'd pulled her out of sight. He slammed the door behind him and whirled on her, as if he were about to lay down a string of curses to make the both of them blush, but he stopped short when she opened her mouth and from betwixt her lips spilled the word, England. The fury smoldering in his dark eyes was immediately doused, replaced by a quiet calm. He drew back a little, standing a little straighter as he regarded her thoughtfully.

Abruptly, he turned away and went to his desk, where he took a seat. He drew the whiskey and glass from their home and propped his bare feet upon the piles of charts and papers. He poured himself a drink, but this time rather than tossing it back with a businesslike intensity, he tucked the bottle away and sipped at it like a hot soup. Last night had been about the celebration of Fiona's return to the open waters. This morning was about forgetting the festivities, and that meant slowly chasing away his hangover with the hair of the dog.

"So, ye heard the Fiona was headed fer England and ye thought ye'd catch a free ride," he said, more to himself than to his guest, but in the close quarters she couldn't help but hear him. His voice held some amusement, but irritation was the prominent emotion radiating off the pirate captain. He scrubbed at his stubble darkened fast with the heel of his palm, still shaking off the sleep he was enjoying just moments ago.

"Woman, ye sure know how to pick 'em," he said, and then looked over at her for a full, appraising look for the first time. He took in her wild hair, her low neckline, and the rumpled quality of her garments. She looked like she'd just enjoyed a tumble through the sheets. This line of thinking brought William to the obvious answer to a question he hadn't yet thought to ask: she was a little French strumpet. There was a whore on his ship and nothing but tanks of grog and a handful of lawless men to keep her company. This could be very good or it could be very bad. If the last several hours were anything to go by, it was going to be very bad.

"We aren't goin' ta England, sweets. Not for a very, very long time."

Michele stared at the captain as he poured himself a drink and proceeded to slowly sip it. The man was absolutely massive, she thought, swallowing hard. He was tall and obviously strong, with an enormous pair of hands that looked even bigger when clutching the little glass. Not a man to be trifled with, she recognized immediately. It was too bad she’d never had much in the way of sense. Mimi knew not when to bite her tongue and keep her mouth shut. Being raised and reared in a brothel had caused the young, feisty woman to readily speak her mind and put up a fight.

“Fiona?” she repeated incredulously, raising an eyebrow. “I do not know who zis ‘Fiona’ woman ees.”

She shrugged one shoulder and the sleeve of her dress slipped off of it, revealing pale, freckled flesh. She didn’t bother to fix it, having become too used to her clothing coming off over the years. “I needed a ride, and I ‘eard you say zees ship was going to England.” she explained matter of factly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. She had the impudence to speak to the captain as if he were a simpleton or a small child.

When he informed her that the ship was in fact not headed to England, Mimi spluttered, grasping the edge of his bed to steady herself. Her heart thudded in her ears, eyebrows knit together into a confused, disbelieving frown. She sat down, clutching her lowered head between her hands, staring mutely at the floor for a long, tense moment.

“….But… But I ‘eard you say zees ship was going to England yourself!” she exclaimed, glaring up at him. She shook her head, trying to make sense of the situation. Not going to England? Now what was she supposed to do? “Zen you must turn zee sheep around, take me back to France!”

Her head was swimming and she could feel a sense of panic settling over her. Her chest felt tight, as if her corset had been laced too tightly, and she was having trouble breathing. The prostitute began to hyperventilate, her pale hands clutching the fabric over his bed. “You must take me back to France zis instant!”

William couldn't help but smirk at the woman. She was already proving to be quite the little contradiction, doling out orders like a marchioness despite her obvious station. Under any other circumstances, he would have liked that, but not on his ship. Her spitfire attitude was going to do her some good, though, if she was going to throw in with pirates.

William scrubbed at the side of his face again, a nervous tic of his, prompted this time by exasperation. He was already plotting how she'd fit in with the crew, which was a bad sign. He couldn't throw her overboard - his quirky moral code would never allow that. He also couldn't port right now. The coast wasn't far away, only a few miles now, but if his calculations were accurate - and they always were - there wasn't another suitable port town for days. Although there was only a single day's travel between the Fiona and the port town behind them, Julian would never tolerate such an unnecessary delay. Besides, if they sent her home now, all of France would soon know that Captain William Blackburne was a liar and, subsequently, a pirate. The local magistrate would have him and his crew before they knew what hit them.

For now, it seemed, the whore was stuck with them. The captain didn't like this and his face became a study in annoyance and frustration, but still he didn't speak. He continued to sip his drink until a knock sounded at the door.

"What!"

There was a short pause, then an obviously amused Julian responded through the door, "You beckoned, my captain?"

"Get in here, Jules."

The door opened and in strolled Julian Bancroft, dressed impeccably as ever, all in black. His rapier lay at his side, his hair hung around his shoulders in recently combed waves, and he stood as rigidly straight as ever. Still, there was something different about Julian this morning, and the captain struggled to pinpoint the change in him.

"Since when do you knock?"

Julian shrugged, tearing his eyes away from the young woman with obvious difficulty. "Since you started entertaining guests in your quarters." At that moment, William was able to put his finger on the difference between the cold, serious first mate he'd encountered last night and the smiling - yes, smiling - bastard standing in his quarters that morning. Julian thought this was funny. In fact, he was eating it up with a silver spoon. Although he wasn't outright laughing, William hadn't seen Julian so tickled in many years, possibly ever.

William slammed his fist down on his desk. "You're enjoying this!"

He was offered another shrug and the usually flat, gray eyes that were now practically glittering with mirth slid back to the woman. "Perhaps."

William let loose an explosive sigh and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. "What the hell am I supposed to do with her?" When Julian's eyebrows went up and his smile started to grow, William realized exactly what he asked. "Dammit, Jules, be serious."

"Solemn as the grave, sir."

"Where's she supposed to sleep?"

"Why, here."

William looked at the woman again, forlorn. He realized Julian was going to be no help. "Well, woman, have ye eaten?"

At the sound of a sharp rap on the door, the captain roughly admitted the newest member of the room- a smiling man with impossibly fair blonde hair, clothed all in noir. She had managed to calm her erratic breathing, and was now listening to the conversation the two men held as if she wasn’t there. She pouted angrily, arms crossed under her chest, a sour look on her face.

“You mean, you are not taking me back to France?” she asked, needing clarification on this subject before she officially lost it. The two men- seemingly opposites in appearance- continued talking, but she wasn’t understanding the gist of their conversation. It sounded as if they intended to keep her on board though. Her stomach dropped.

“I cannot stay on zis sheep!” she protested. “I get seasick!”

She realized her exclamation was hardly going to pull at their heartstrings. She needed something better, even if it was a lie. “Please sirs,” she implored, standing, holding her hands together demurely, head tilted down, though her green eyes never left the odd duo. “I ‘ave children back in France. Six! Zey need zeir mère!”

Michele adjusted the neck of her dress discreetly, trying to appear more modest. She certainly didn’t look like any mother she’d ever seen… except, perhaps, her own. Her mother had been a French whore too. Indeed, prostitution was a family business of sorts. The young, ginger haired woman was unsure how far she could trace that back. After all, prostitution was the world’s oldest profession. By that round logic, shouldn’t it have been more respected?

Her eyes studied the man who seemed… amused. The blonde haired one, apparently named ‘Jules’. She wondered why the captain of the ship would seek his advice and opinion. Perhaps he was a poor captain. Maybe it was this other, smaller man that she should be convincing.

“I will surely only be in your way.” she told him, trying to seem innocent. She brushed her fallen curls behind her ear. Only the back was still held up; the sides had completely come undone. “I know nussing of sheeps. You would be much better off, sir, jus’ taking me back.”

Julian sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes going a little wide and sympathetic. He glanced to the captain, who was still glaring daggers at anything and everything in sight, and took a step closer to the little Frenchwoman. His eyes roved over her delicate form, taking in the revealing bodice of her dress which flared out into alluring little hips. He imagined those hips could convince a lesser man of just about anything her saucy mouth was selling.

Julian reached out slowly. His smile softened, his eyes went a little heavy-lidded, and he touched the woman's cheek with just his fingertips. She was pale and clammy, he noted. She had not been lying about the sickness. He ran his finger down the length of her face, her neck, the most delicate of touches, almost affectionate. He shied from her breasts, but settled his hand upon her waist, gripping it firmly, but not roughly. With his face mere inches from hers, he said in a quiet, soothing tone, "If these hips have borne six children, mademoiselle, then I am Marie Antoinette."

William had watched this grotesque display of mock tenderness with a mounting sense of disgust. It wasn't like Julian to be so playful. Of course, William had never seen Julian in the company of a woman. Even when his first mate came into the port towns to fetch his captain, he hovered just at the threshold of the establishment - tavern or brothel - and waited patiently for William to come to him. He'd always assumed it had something to do with his past, which William chose not to dwell upon (ever), but could see how it would cause him some discomfort to be in the presence of a female.

"Julian, that's enough," the captain barked.

Casually, as if he'd decided to do so all on his own, Julian dropped his hand and stepped away from the woman. As if only just now hearing her words, Julian turned to William, all traces of good humor gone and said, "She wants us to return her to her homeland?"

"'Pears that way."

"Are you going to oblige?"

William looked thoughtfully at the whore, just realizing he didn't know her name. "You'd see me dead before the order was given."

"Yes," Julian said, sounding almost sad. There was no doubt that he would do it if the captain forced his hand.

"She'll have ta stay 'til we port next."

"And until then?"

William looked at the woman. "Yer stayin' with me, sweets. Ye keep outta trouble and ye'll probably do just fine."

It wasn’t that Michele was attempting to smile at the flaxen haired sailor -or pirate?- in a coy, alluring manner. It just came as second nature when a man looked at her that way. She could feel his sympathy toward her and silently began congratulating herself on a fine performance. Yes, claiming one child would have seemed insignificant, she decided. Six had been a good move.

The man’s fingers softly brushed against her cheek, but it was in a very different manner than any of her clients. The men who visited her knew very little of tender caresses, and even less of pleasing a woman. Not that this man’s touch brought her any pleasure, but it was an odd sensation to have him touching her so delicately. She frowned slightly, unsure of what he was doing, and his hand firmly grasped her waist. She sensed an inner strength in him that his form belied. He leaned forward, and she felt almost certain he was going to try and kiss her, which she found quite odd. He didn’t, however. What he did do was even worse.

At his words, her fingers itched to reach up and slap him. Her lips pursed as if she had bitten into a lemon, a disbelieving look on her face. The captain barked at Julian and Michele lost her moment to vent her frustration on his face. Instead, her hands clenched into small fists, her nails digging into her palm.

These men intended for her to stay with them, she realized, infuriated. Had they heard nothing she said? “I cannot stay wiz you!” she protested, not sure which man to look at. She decided on the captain, since she was still nursing a healthy grudge against the blonde who dared to mock her. “Eet ees indecent for a lady such as myself to stay with sailors.” she said haughtily, putting her hands on her hips.

She gestured around the small cabin, an indignant look on her copiously freckled face. “And where weel I stay? Zair ees no room! You sink I weel share a bed wiz you?” she asked the captain. “What, do you sink I am some kind of-” whore? Oops.

Her head fell, her chin hitting her chest, and her shoulders drooped. “Alright, alright zen.” She looked at William with a fearful, anxious look in her eyes. “How long until your sheep reaches zee next port?”

"Ye won't be sharin' a bed with me," William corrected, jerking a thumb in the direction of the lounge. "Ye can sleep there. It's a damn sight better than wherever they found ye, I can promise ye that."

Julian was surprised by this and it showed on his face. He assumed the captain was the kind of man to be bowled over by the presence of a woman, no matter the situation. He would have guessed that the captain would give up his bed and take the lounge, himself. He was impressed by William's capacity for progressive thinking.

"As fer yer question, I dunno when we're goin' ta be portin' next. We don't get down this way often, but I can guarantee ye don't want to be gettin' off at our next stop. We're gettin' away from civilization, pet, headed to South Africa. If ye value yer life at all, ye'll wait 'til we're back in France. It's the best chance ye got."

Julian was mentally figuring how many days William would be forced to room with the woman. "That's quite generous of you, Captain."

"However," William continued, casting a sharp look at Julian, "if ye find a better prospect along the way, yer more than welcome to jump ship. Nay, yer encouraged to jump ship." Changing subjects, he said, "Now, don't worry 'bout that mal de mer ye got," surprising even Julian with his French vocabulary. "Stay outta the sun for a while and ye'll get over it. If not, see Byron about some ginger root. The fool seemed taken enough with ye."

"Is she to remain cooped up in here?"

William considered this for a long moment. "I reckon not. Put the word around that she's not to be fiddled with." He paused, glanced at the woman, and added quickly, "Less o' course, it's a consensual, er, transaction."

"Captain, I must say you're taking this all with a little too much levity."

"Jules, it's just a girl. What am I supposed to do? Throw her overboard and leave her to drown? Toss her to the crew? Like it or not, she's here. A tantrum won't fix it."

Julian shrugged. "I know that. I just didn't expect you to see it that way."

"And I didn't expect you to get so much sick pleasure out of the whole ordeal!"

Julian could see that the captain was now well and truly miffed. He gave the whore one more look, up and down, and smiled. "This should prove to be very interesting, indeed." He then inclined his head to the captain and left the two alone once again.

Michele raised an eyebrow at his words. The lounge? Well, it was obvious this man was no gentleman. And though life in a brothel could be quite rough at times, Mimi had grown very used to her creature comforts. Her room had been very comfortable, with a large bed that worked equally well as a place to sleep when business transactions weren’t being conducted. The little sofa hardly looked appealing, but it wasn’t the time to argue. The fiery little French woman was used to getting her way. She was sure the captain could be persuaded.

Julian left, leaving Michele to look at William plainly, a ‘now what’ sort of look on her face. It was slowly dawning on her that she was most likely going to be on the ship for a long time, and neither of the men seemed particularly keen on her company. She also wasn’t crazy about his assumption that she would be having ‘consensual transactions’ with his men. Sex had become a perfunctory motion that she got no enjoyment out of. It was a profession, just like collecting taxes or baking bread. Well, perhaps not. But it was a profession, and certainly not a hobby.

“If zair ees nussing else, I need a beet of fresh air.” Mimi informed the captain, looking at him dubiously, still doubting the man’s intelligence. She looked at him expectantly, obviously awaiting his approval. She wasn’t sure why though. Why did she care what he wanted her to do? He’d said so himself that she wasn’t going to be cooped up down there. Deciding she was being ridiculous in waiting for his consent, the prostitute turned sharply, striding out the door the way Julian had moments before. She stepped out into the sunlight, comforted by it’s airy warmth, and pulled the comb out of her hair, letting her curls fall down, where they hung loosely to the middle of her back. She slipped the comb into the front of her dress where it would be securely nestled between her breasts and the fabric, and then strolled leisurely to the railing.

Michele looked over the side at the rolling blue waves, and suddenly her seasickness returned. Hadn’t he just told her to stay in for a while? She should have heeded his advice. Her hand flew to her lips and her face whitened, then she vomited over the side of the ship, ridding her stomach of all it’s contents. She hugged the rail weakly, hunched over, and closed her eyes.

How on earth would she survive?

Byron watched from a distance for several minutes before he finally worked up the courage to approach the woman. He never would have spoken to her again, if not for the fact that the first mate had come to him. Julian had pulled him away from the other crewmen, who were abuzz with gossip about the Fiona's newest passenger. Julian had explained to Byron, quickly and succinctly, that the woman was officially a guest of the captain's and should be treated with the appropriate level of respect. He had also made mention of the girl's weak sea legs. Byron was sometimes similarly afflicted, much to the amusement of the rest of the crew. He'd only found one source of relief; aside from dry land, that was.

"Beg pardon, miss," Byron said as he inched closer to the lady. 'Whore,' the other men had called her, drawing their conclusions upon first glance. Byron had blushed and sputtered at this news, but he didn't afford the woman any less respect. "I'm Byron. Word has it yer not takin' to the sea too well, so I ..." He pulled what appeared to be a mutated potato out of his pocket. "A bite of this does settle the stomach, I've found, if you'd like some?"

From the opposite side of the ship, Julian watched the two interact. He leaned, arms folded and ankles crossed, against the railing. He knew Byron was a simpleton with a gentle nature, hardly fit to sail with pirates. Still, some men were compelled to do uncharacteristically vicious things to women when they thought no one would care. Until he was certain Byron was not one of those men, he would watch him - along with the rest of the crew - carefully. He'd made it clear to the men that the whore was not to be harmed, regardless of her station, but he detected a restlessness among the men that stank of mischief.

It would be hard for the crew to respect the virtue of a proper lady, but parading a strumpet under their noses was twice the invitation for trouble. And now, with her curling red hair swaying obscenely around her shoulders, she was practically begging for it. Julian turned his head for a temporary reprieve from watching such foolishness. He didn't care for the memories that surfaced when he looked at her. His own mother had been a prostitute, foolish and impulsive just like this young Frenchwoman. Only, unlike their unwanted guest, Julian's mother had given birth to two children and promptly traded them off when they became too much responsibility for her. He'd treated this stranger with perfectly deplorable manners in response to her lies. He resolved not to let his emotions get the best of him again.

Julian chose to watch the scattered crew members, rather than the whore, herself. It seemed they all had one eye on their duties and one eye on the woman. This distressed Julian not at all. Looking was fine, as long their work didn't suffer and it remained confined to just looking.

With her stomach emptied, Michele was feeling ever so slightly better. Not much, but a little. Her eyes were still closed as she clutched the railing, face buried against her arm. The sound of a voice drew her attention, but she was reluctant to look up. Surely any motion at all would increase her nausea. When she finally managed to flick her eyes upward, she realized it was one of the men from before. She looked at the thing in his hands, unsure. She had no idea what it was, and she didn’t much trust the home remedies of sailors. Or pirates. She still wasn’t sure.

“I suppose eet couldn’t ‘urt.” she shrugged, taking the potato-like thing from him and gingerly taking a bite. She chewed slowly and swallowed it down. She’d had worse. She looked at him gratefully, but couldn’t quite manage a smile. “I am Michele Molyneux.” she told him. “But, my friends call me Mimi.”

She turned away from the water so that her back was to the railing and she was no longer staring into the endlessly churning waves. That helped a little, or maybe it was whatever Byron had given her. She pushed her hair behind her shoulders, face still white, with a slight sheen. “Do you know where I could geet a leetle water to wash my mouth out?” she asked, swallowing hard.

Michele was unsure of the man before her. He seemed nice enough, but found herself unwilling to trust anyone who lived on a ship of all men, at least right off the bat. She studied him with a curious frown, and from the corner of her eye she caught sight of Julian.

The man was in the same position as her, leaning against the railing, but his arms were crossed over his chest. She had felt like his eyes had been on her, but when she looked up he was watching the other men innocently. She chewed on the inside of her lip. She’d be keeping a close eye on everyone, she decided. Even the incompetent captain.

"Not a whole lot of fresh water," Byron said apologetically. "'Cept what's rationed out at night. Plenty o' water in the grog, though. An' lime juice, too. Ye want I should fetch ye some?"

It wasn't long until the captain emerged from his cabin, no longer in his bare feet. His shirt was tucked into his breeches, his hair was combed back into its usual ponytail, and he wore his typical morning expression - a generally dour face with eyes squinted against the reflection of the sun angling off the water. He went directly to where the morning rations had been spread out, plucked himself a ship biscuit out of the crate, and chewed it as he went to join the current helmsman at the wheel.

He checked their heading, stared out at the water, and left the wheel, descending the steps to join Julian on the lower deck. He was finishing the last of his biscuit when he settled against the railing next to the younger man. The wooden rail creaked a little under his considerable weight, but the captain was used to that. Apparently, so was Julian.

"Where's the wench?" William asked.

"Over there," Julian answered, pointing to where she chattered with Byron. The first mate hadn't heard anything they'd said over the wind, but whatever was going on, Byron was certainly taken with the young woman. At least he appeared to be.

"Makin' friends already. I knew that fool was smitten with her, just by lookin' at 'im."

Julian looked up at William, trying to understand his captain's tone. William was disgruntled about something, but Julian didn't now what it was. This was rare. For thirteen years now, Julian had been at William's side and almost always knew what the other man was thinking. Now he was a complete mystery.

Rather than say so, Julian continued with the current topic. "Someone should have her do her hair up. It's obscene."

William's eyebrows rose. "Her entire profession is obscene. You're a pirate. What do you care?"

"It's not me I'm worried about," Julian said, rolling his eyes around the ship to indicate the rest of the crew.

"Ah, I see," William said, realization dawning. "Ye think we've got somethin' to worry about?"

"Absolutely."

William sighed, pushed off the railing, and marched across the deck to where the whore stood talking to Byron. "Byron," he bellowed, slipping easily into the role of the harsh, disgruntled captain. "Quit slobberin' over the wench and get back to work!"

Byron jumped as if slapped and hurried away from Mimi in the middle of their conversation. "Aye, cap'n!" he squeaked as he ran off.

"And you!" William said, turning the force of his narrow-eyed glare onto the woman. "What's the idea, workin' my men into fits with all them curls flyin' around in the wind? If yer gonna pretend yer a lady, then act like one, dammit! Pin that hair up or I'll chop it off for ye. Ain't no violence gonna break out on my ship on account o' yer stupidity!"

She shrugged. “Sank you, Byron.” she said kindly. He was the first man to actually treat her nicely on that ship, and it was a pleasant change after the rough captain and the even worse, mocking first mate. Just thinking of Julian made her scowl, but she hid it from the man before her. “Zat would be fine.”

The wind blew, sending her long, loose, bright auburn curls flying into her face. The wind died down a little and she pushed the fiery locks away, about to pin it back up for convenience’ sake when the captain arrived, sending Byron away with a barking command. Michele frowned at the man, amazed that anyone could be so infuriating. And it came so naturally to him too. She raised her eyebrows, placing one hand on her outthrust hip, pursing her pale pink lips.

He glared at her and she was taken aback. He mouth fell open in surprise, but after registering his words, she quickly snapped it shut in an indignant manner. How dare he tell her what to do, she thought angrily. Mimi was never one to hide her thoughts though, and she told him exactly what she was thinking.

“I am not one of your men!” she told him, glaring back at him, though she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She didn’t allow herself to be intimidated by the huge man, even if he was a pirate, which she suspected he was, along with all the others. “You cannot order me around! I do not ‘ave to leesten to you!”

She brought her other hand to her hip, scowling at him defiantly. “Eef I wish to wear my ‘air down, I weel wear my ‘air down.” she informed him. Michele was a woman who worked for herself, and she always had been. In her line of work, she had always called the shots. She made it clear what she would and would not do. And the moment a man broke one of her rules or got too rough, things immediately ended.

Of course, circumstances were different now that she was a stowaway on this man’s ship, but he’d already said he wasn’t going to throw her overboard. She glared at him obstinately, daring him to argue with her. She was uncommonly cocky for a woman, and not used to the dictations of normal society. Wearing her hair down didn’t strike her as odd in the least. His outburst, however, did. She ignored his threat and straightened her back, trying to appear a little taller. She wasn’t prepared to back down.

Color flooded into William's face, painting the sharp edges of his cheeks an angry red. I don't have to listen to you, she'd said. This was not a response to which the captain had become accustomed, especially not on his own ship, where his word was law. This woman had willingly stowed away on his ship, which was as good as a signed and sealed contract of consent by his standards. She was a member of his crew, no matter how pathetic her situation. That was Blackburne Law.

"By God, ye do!" He was still shouting and, as if they needed added incentive, the crew stopped what they were doing - which was mostly nothing, now that they were in calm, open waters - and watched with rapt attention. "Yer on my ship, which means ye follow my rules. If ye think I've been inhospitable up to this point, yer in fer a treat if ye carry on with this notion that yer above my men. Like I say, the hair goes up or ye can kiss it good bye."

Julian pushed off the railing and enjoyed a leisurely stroll to the captain's side. This was how it had always been, as long as William had been a captain and Julian his first mate. William was the bark and Julian was the bite. He'd come by the ship in a game of chance - cards, to be exact - and he'd taken it gladly, happy to see the end of his dependency upon lesser, luckier men, and happier still for the sense of freedom and adventure that came along with being his own man. But William had never wanted to wield power over anyone else and was fully aware of the fact that he had no natural talent for it. He also didn't have the stomach for enforcing his own rules, which was why Julian now stood at his side. When the captain gave the order, he wouldn't hesitate to do exactly as he said. In many ways, Julian was the most insolent first mate the ocean had ever seen. However, in this he was unflinchingly loyal. They wouldn't have worked together for so long if it had been any other way.

William didn't want to give the order, but this woman was pushing him. The life of a pirate attracted a certain kind of man, the kind of man that didn't respond well to authority or possess the sense of morality which came to most men so naturally. They were jackals and opportunists. If they sensed for one moment that their captain had lost his backbone, they would use it against him and he'd lose control of his ship.

"Ye'll just be gettin' the one warning, pet," William said, voice a little softer now that Julian was at his side. To William, the presence of his first mate was as serious as a loaded pistol.

Julian didn't particularly relish the idea of cutting the woman's hair. The whole situation seemed absurd to him and he was bored with it. However, he understood the captain's need to keep a tight leash on the woman. He also understood the pride one associated with one's hair and assumed it would be especially devastating for a woman to have hers taken away against her will. He was aware of these things, but he truly didn't care how the situation played out. It might even be good for the woman to learn early and easy not to test the captain's resolve.

Michele glared at William insolently, green eyes fierce. A smirk lit her features at his choice of words.

“Yer in fer a treat if ye carry on with this notion that yer above my men.”

The prostitute couldn’t help the reply that instantly bubbled to her lips. “Wouldn’t you razzer I be ‘above’ your men zan beneath zem, capitaine?” she asked with raised eyebrows, and crossed her arms over her chest.

Julian approached, turning her smirk into a scowl, and situation became apparent. He meant to enforce the captain’s word if she refused to obey him. Perhaps one man would have difficulty chopping off her hair, but with two men it would be quite easy, she conceded. She looked at William’s strong arms and Julian’s sword. Ah, yes. One to hold her down, and one to cut it off.

“Fine, I weel put eet up for you.” she spat, and made an obvious, leisurely show of removing the intricate, decorative comb from her cleavage. Her long fingered hands removed the fine, ivory article, and then she wound her hair into a twist and jammed the comb through it to keep it in place. The ivory and jade of the hairpiece contrasted with her auburn locks, and despite her efforts to put her hair up, a few short curls still escaped as they had before, cascading along her cheeks and neck.

She stared at the two men crossly, freckled face bearing an expression of utmost loathing for both of them. “’Appy now?” she asked moodily. She couldn’t believe they had threatened to cut off her curls. Hadn’t they ever heard ‘a woman’s hair is her crown and glory’? But then, neither of them looked like the kind to read the bible. Neither was she, in all honesty. The only parts she actually liked were about Mary Magdalene. None of the whores in her brothel read the bible, but they were always being hailed by Christians set on making them repent. A good half of them ended up staying the night, enjoying the pleasures they condemned. For that reason, Mimi found the whole of religion a hypocritical contradiction.

Michele didn’t understand the reasoning behind the captain’s ferocity or the way he insisted she wear her hair up like a lady. Since when had she pretended? Maybe that once, she admitted, frowning inwardly. But still, she wasn’t ashamed of her station. Besides, it seemed these men knew what she was. She wondered how they could so easily tell just by looking at her, as if she were branded like cattle. Was she so obviously a whore?