Whitecaps

Fierce brown eyes swept across the deck of the ship, and despite the freezing sea water that was whipped up and across his face in an icy mist, the captain didn’t falter. He didn’t so much as shiver. The man was too focused on the incoming ship to consider allowing the weather to affect him. King Charles II was expecting the captain and his men to return with riches from enemy ships, and he was determined to succeed. Attacking Spanish ships and returning with their bounty was the only way to ensure that the HMS Oxford was left in the hands of the man who adored her the most.

“Oliver!”

The captain turned over his shoulder, allowing the knuckles that had gone white from gripping the rail to relax. His first mate approached, asking after Connolly’s intentions towards the obviously Spanish vessel heading past them. Oliver hesitated only a moment before gesturing towards the mainmast, giving the silent order to raise the black sail. The poor men transporting cargo for Spain were in for a nasty shock when they caught sight of that flag.

His men might have fit the profile, but Oliver himself was most certainly not a pirate. That much was clear just from his appearance alone. He held himself with the stature of someone of a much higher and nobler rank, though none of the men could say they knew why. Except, of course, Connolly’s first mate.

As it were, Oliver had no intention of explaining his backstory to them, even though a few had asked. All they needed to know was that his position required privateering. So long as he did that correctly, the King would not see fit to take the newly built ship out from under her captain’s command.

The year was 1674, and Oliver was technically part of the Royal Navy, though he rarely acted like it. This was the life, he mused to himself. This was the best way to spend one’s time: sailing freely and doing a job that both kept him safe from a life back home, but also kept him out on the sea. It was a questionable job in the eyes of most, but he hardly minded, provided his men followed the rules he set forth. If not? Well, they could easily be dropped off when Oliver next made port.

The HMS Oxford was not one to be outrun. She was quick, sufficiently gunned, and the men on board weren't half bad, either. Oliver could attest to that. And, frankly, he should have done, considering he was the leader of the lot. If he didn't think someone could handle themselves, they were not invited upon his ship. Mind, not everyone who spent time on his ship had been invited in any pleasant sort of manner. Those sort were few and far between, however, because Oliver and his crew cared more for the cargo of a ship than for taking prisoners or harming unnecessarily. Most of them did, anyway. Most of them knew better, and knew their captain well enough. There were a few exceptions that he had to keep his eye on, but he was just lucky that his first mate was not one of those men. Hayes had never been one to kill without the proof that he had no other choice.

"Captain," Hayes began, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the ship.

"It's time," Oliver agreed, a slow smirk taking his features. Hayes knew his rules about handling the other ship's crew, so he wasn't particularly concerned that anything would go wrong. He had no clue what - or who - was on that ship. But that just meant he was all the more interested in finding out.

"Pull her up close, men!" Hayes demanded, leaving the Captain's side to stride towards the helm. Oliver had no qualms about his first mate taking the wheel at times - particularly when he needed to be focused to ensure a clean win. So those who were below deck were called, and Oliver made his way over to the deck canons, which were vastly less impactful than the ones below. If his men could get a warning shot and perhaps one across the bow, it was probable that there wouldn't be much of a fight at all.

He frowned, however, when he noted that the men on the enemy ship appeared to be preparing as well. They wouldn't be taken down easily, it seemed. Oliver gave a frustrated sigh before nodding to the man to his left. The canon hissed for a moment before launching its contents across the waters. The cannonball landed a few meters away from the deck of their target, and a second nod brought one directly into the side of the ship, aimed for a space that would merely slow them down instead of invading one of the cabins that would likely hold members of their crew.

Hayes brought the Oxford in a great, arcing circle to lead the ship alongside La Rosa Blanca. The White Rose. In a matter of moments, Oliver's crew had thrown ropes, hooking them onto the deck of their opponent, and - as always - Connolly was the first to board. Drawing out his sword the instant his feet hit the deck, he managed to parry an approaching attacker. His sword slid up the length of his enemy's, locking at the hilt so Oliver could twist and disarm the other man. The sword was lifted with Oliver's foot and tossed through the air in the direction of the ocean. One of his shipmates, Krum, snagged it, however, and used it to defend himself against another sailor. It probably looked planned, Oliver realized as he turned on his heel to take on another man, and it curved his mouth into a rather secretive sort of smile as he fought. A little intimidation did a privateer - or, indeed, pirates - some good.

It didn't take long to realize who their captain was. Oliver caught the looks that were sent back towards the man in question, as though waiting for him to tell them to just give up so that they wouldn't be killed. A twinge of remorse registered as Oliver sliced a man's torso. It didn't look too deep, though, and could be healed if given time, so he continued to block the swings that the other man sent his way. In truth, Oliver and his crew had spent time thinking up a number of creative ways to disarm their opponents, so it took less time and less bloodshed than even Connolly himself expected. He had no intention of harming their captain, so once he felt sure no one would sneak up and take another swing at him, Oliver replaced his sword and crossed his arms over his chest, squaring up to the other commander.

"We have no plans to truly hurt any of your men. Or you. But if you fight us, that may not hold true," Oliver warned. He began pacing back and forth a bit, as though to show that he had control over this other man's ship without outright saying it. "I'm a reasonable man. My crewmen are understanding. If we don't have to kill, we won't. And we are willing to refrain from taking personal items. Cargo, on the other hand, will need to go."

He lifted his chin towards the stairway that would lead them down to the hold, and about half of his men took off to see what there was to be had. The others stayed to watch the Rosa Blanca’s crew. After a pause to see if they were going to be attacked again, Oliver smiled, pleased with how simple it had seemed. Then he, too, started down towards the cabins.

Down below, Oliver could hear his men rummaging through the cargo hold, but a creak sounded behind the door to his left, and he paused. After glancing at it for a moment, the thud of his heavy sea boots started up once more and he approached, nudging the door open with his elbow.

A flash of blonde hair and a glimpse at the woman’s face was all he saw before a book flew towards him, making Oliver duck and lean to the side in an attempt to avoid getting hit directly in the face. It caught his shoulder, but he was more offended that someone had attacked him with it than that it had managed to hit its mark. That, too, was admittedly rather impressive.

“Wench!” he uttered angrily, his brows drawing together. As Oliver watched, she frowned back at him, pulling her skirts further behind the chest.

“J'ai aucun intérêt à traversée avec des pirates, monsieur.”

For a moment, he just stood there. But then Oliver glanced down at the floor and chuckled. She must have seen the flag, or heard the men shouting. She was obviously not Spanish, which was interesting. Although most people who sailed were able to speak multiple languages, Oliver excelled at this one. The privileges of court life, he thought, mentally scoffing. She was a French woman, yet she was on a ship from Spain. That did not sit well with him at all.

Perhaps she preferred her current conditions to being captured by men she thought were pirates. That did not mean, however, that she was safe on this vessel. Oliver didn’t even know where this ship was heading, so it was entirely possible that she was not heading somewhere she wished to go. Just as he was about to ask her if she needed help, a voice met his ears.

“Captain!”

Oliver turned to look over his shoulder. “Oliver!” The voice called again. Boots thudded down the stairway and a younger man looked in. James. “Captain, they’ve begun fighting again.”

In the moment of silence that followed, he could hear the cries of angry men on the deck above them. “Right,” the captain replied after a moment, nodding to the other man. “Worry about that before the cargo.”

Oliver stayed, debating whether or not to leave, but finally realized he could not do so without knowing on what grounds she stayed on this ship. “Are you safe with these men?” he asked finally, inclining his head towards her to show his concern.

“Father do not shut me in here! I will not die in the dark! Father!”

In a flash of temper, Alice Amelie Rousseau threw her fist at the cabin door. She gasped, sorely wishing she had thought before laying into it. The door had barely flinched but, already, her skin was smarting. She let out a strangled curse and pulled her hand into her stomach as she doubled over, trying to absorb the pain. Gritting her teeth, Alice tried to tell herself that she was made of sterner stuff than what she was currently showing but her skin was hissing at her in dismay, confirming her suspicions – she was nothing more than a pastry in a patisserie window. Delicate – and poufy and frosting covered to boot.

Shaking out her hand, Alice crossed the small cabin to the port window. Leaning up onto her tiptoes she unhooked the latch and pushed it open, her ears listening keenly for the sound of the pirates on the deck above. She shrank back unconsciously at the sound of boots beating on the boards a little too close to her window and she took a breath, her hang straying to the rosary that hung from the strip of satin that hung about her window. Her fingers rubbed over the familiar beads but she could not bring herself to pray in that moment. She knew it would be a waste of breath. This wasn’t God’s territory.

Huffing, she pulled the rosary from the belt and tossed it onto the bunk that she had been reclined on that morning, reading. It had been peaceful then. Her sea-sickness – not to mention her home-sickness – had even abated. She had been optimistic. She had even been inclined to acquiesce to her father and attend mass with the ship’s priest. She hoped the priest was the first one they ran through – the idol-worshipping … Alice took a breath and closed her eyes, trying to summon her faculties. She needed to find a way out and then to the longboats and then … well, she wasn’t sure. Something. She’d do something.

She closed her eyes and shrank back against the wall as the tell-tale clunking of feet on the boards confirmed her fears that the pirates had gone below deck in search of the cargo or other valuables that they had. Alice’s eyes flicked towards her jewellery box, sat on the rudimentary chest of drawers that the captain had purchased for her at Cadiz. He’d glowed with pride at such thoughtfulness. She had uttered terse thanks, entirely reluctant to lay her clothes inside there. She sorely wished he had bought her something practical like a knife – but then if she managed to injure one of the pirates would that not just incur the wrath of their captain and thereby ensure her death.

Alice gave a little whine, now considering whether praying was a good option.

She pushed away from the wall. One of the boards gave a hideous squeak as she moved and Alice looked down at it, her eyes the size of saucers. It had given her up! The nerve of that bastard piece of wood! She turned, hearing footsteps approach the door, and she reached for the closest thing at hand – a copy of Shakespeare’s folio. It had been a gift from her father to her mother after they had first been married. She was almost reluctant to throw it but in the end she decided she would have rather gone down with a fight than without it. So hurl it she did.

When the pirate appeared fully in the doorway, Alice spat out her obstinate declaration that she would be having nothing to do with him. She picked up another book, hoping that it was threatening enough. She sincerely doubted it but it didn’t stop her all the same. She rocked back and forth lightly, getting ready to throw herself forward and, in turn, the book. His expression changed, suggesting he was going to engage her in light chat – something she found absurd to even consider – but before he could do so, his name, no, his title, was called. Captain? He was the captain?

When he finally spoke, an incredulous laugh lifted from her chest. She lowered her arms, letting the book bounce lightly against her hip. She was almost disappointed he wasn’t a total rogue. She almost felt sorry for throwing the book at him in the first place. Almost.

“A pirate with a conscience, that’s rich!” She rolled her eyes, forgetting all protocol and gentility in that moment. “Of course I’m not safe with these men – your men are holding them captive!” She drew herself up proudly, her mind straying to the man that waited for her in Havana. Her betrothed. She barely suppressed the shiver of revulsion that wobbled through her. “Suppose I wasn’t,” she hedged, opening her eyes, “what of it? What should it matter to you?”

"Privateer," he returned sharply, unable to resist correcting her. "What do you lot call us? Corsairs?" Oliver frowned, tilting his head. "Either way, consciences do not belong to most sailors, though I assure you there is one lodged within me, madame. Whether your ship's crew has ownership of any of them is beyond me, however."

It hit him quite belatedly that the woman in front of him had a sort of dainty beauty to her, despite her unfortunate bout of anger. Even still, something was going on behind her eyes that he found interesting. Her questions did raise his curiosity, though. He had glanced towards the door again, but his eyes lifted slowly back to hers.

Oliver wasn't sure if she was trying to tell him something, or if she just wanted to see what his reaction would be.

"You have no reason to trust me," he conceded, lifting his hands to either side in a sort of shrugging gesture, "but if you need help, lass, I need you to tell me." Oliver lifted his eyebrows, offering his most sincere expression and extending his hand towards her, palm up. "I can get you out of here, you just have to say so."

"FIRE!"

Oliver spun around, his hand jerking in towards his stomach and curling into a fist. He released an entirely inappropriate smattering of curses under his breath, and looked back towards the woman. "The time will come for you to choose a side in this, lass. I hope you do so wisely."

With that, he turned and charged back up the stairs, boots pounding and echoing off of the corridor's hall. He expected to find a lineup of some kind, with weapons pointed at his men. Or, equally, at theirs. But instead, he came above deck only to find men desperately trying to put out flames that were eating their way up the mizzen. Once that was gone through, the entire ship, starting with the areas aft of the mainmast, would be doomed.

Almost immediately, thoughts of the woman below deck were suffocated by the black tendrils of smoke crawling towards the sky.

"Hayes! Krum!" He shouted, turning about in search of them. When one appeared at his side, his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Get what you can while there's time, but we'll need to abandon ship sooner rather than later."

He didn't wait for them to take off. Instead, he turned and began searching for his crew in and among the chaos. A yell caught his ear, though, and he unsheathed his rapier, fingers sliding into position beneath its guards even before he turned and lifted it into the air to parry the almost surprise attack. "Next time," he shouted at the sailor in question, "keep your mouth shut."

Take only the essentials. That had been what her father had told her. Shouted, rather. He had frightened his daughter’s maid half to death in doing so. The butlers were entirely wrong-footed by their otherwise genial master shouting so. She had done as she had been bid and her maid had helped by stuffing valuables down her bust into her corset to make sure her mothers jewels were kept with them. She seemed to understand, even if Alice hadn’t at the time. As the shout of fire rang out overhead, she was reminded of her father’s words. She also supposed that, given the fire, she was no longer safe and she indeed need help.

She half-scolded herself for being so glib but didn’t dwell on it too long. Whipping around the room, Alice pulled her stowed-away items from their hiding spots. She found a sack sand shoved everything she could fit haphazardly inside, knowing that she didn’t have the time for the care she had taken when she had put it all out upon first boarding the ship. She cast her eyes quickly around the cabin, checking for anything she might have missed, and then she hurried out – throwing all caution to the wind.

She staggered up the steps, tripping over her skirts as much as anything else. She landed with a bump on the deck and began to splutter and cough as the smoke batted at her senses. She rubbed at her eyes furiously and scrabbled to her feet. She spotted the corsair, sword drawn. Her stomach leapt with fear but she knew that he was her best bet. Her only chance. The fire was quickly getting out of control. It was him and his ship or Davy Jones’s locker. Alice had no intentions of dying that day.

“Pirate!” She exclaimed, ducking across the deck towards him. “Take me with you.”

Oliver disarmed the man in front of him just in time to catch the woman's attempt at getting his attention. He turned over his shoulder to frown at her as the crackle of the flames became ever louder.

Letting out a sound of frustration, he sheathed his sword before moving to her side. "Stay with me, d'you understand?" He said seriously, warning laced into his tone.  "Don't stray, or it won't be my fault if something happens to you."

Looking down at her things, he pulled his eyebrows together. "Of course," he muttered, turning to shout out and pull Darren's attention as he came up the stairs. "Put this in my cabin directly," Oliver demanded, turning back to the blonde.

As the flames crossed the deck of the ship, Oliver watched the other crew register their fate. They knew there was little chance - zero, actually - to save their vessel. The captain led his new... whatever she was over towards the railing nearest his own ship, and essentially placed her there.

When his men came back across, Oliver stopped them. Eyes turned towards the blonde stranger, but no one made a move in her direction. It amused the captain a bit, really, because he had them pretty well-trained, one might say. They pulled off the pretense of such things, at any rate.

"Men!" He shouted, turning towards the crew of La Rosa Blanca. Once he had their attention, he made the obvious ultimatum: Either they would stay and sink with their ship, or they would divest themselves of their weapons and come with him until they made port next. Smoke filled his nostrils, frustrating him all the more. He hated the smell of it as much as he hated the idea of a perfectly ship being destroyed.

As they started to make their decisions, Oliver turned to Elijah. At least he felt he could trust Krum with what he needed to ask of him. "This is... Well, I've no idea what her name is yet," he admitted, glancing back towards the blonde, "but I need to stay whilst this all happens. So I need you to take her down to my cabin where she'll be safe."

Alice’s chaplain, who had been lost to the stresses of sea voyages early on in the trip, would have counselled that to do a deal with a pirate was to do a deal with the devil himself. Corsair or not, he was not a man in whom she should put her trust. Of course, her chaplain had his own ideas, influenced by her father, about what sort of man, indeed which particular man, she should entrust her confidence in. The gobernador. That was who. A good, dependable, Catholic citizen of Christendom.

The chaplain had crowed delightedly upon first hearing of the deal struck between her father and the Spaniard. Her “little heresies” would not be tolerated by her betrothed, he had informed her, puffed up with the satisfaction of a resolution he agreed with. Her unnatural opinions would be met with a firm hand. He took time and spoke at great length with intense detail about how, unlike her father, he would not relent, nor feel a shred of guilt for he was a true man of God. He would right her, come hell or high-water.

Needless to say, she didn’t miss him. Although she had taken great care to nurse him during his sickness. It was a pity that, so often, he could not find the strength to drink. When he did, he complained bitterly, swearing on the Bible whose Latin lettering he could barely comprehend, that it was seawater. The ship’s physician declared him mad, assuring him that such a nice, temperate girl would hardly do a thing like that. She knew the difference between water for the deck and water for drinking. Alice had nodded, assuring her chaplain she’d take good care of him.

He died three days later. The physician commiserated, pouring her a generous tot of rum. There was nothing she could have done.

She’d already made a deal with the devil, on her own terms. She didn’t know what route she was going down but she knew salvation had been off of the menu the moment that she stepped foot on that god forsaken ship. The pirate was the least of her worries. Her soul was now as black as the flags that flew from more than a fair share of masts in the Caribbean.

And she had no intention of dying that day.

When the captain flagged down one of his men, Alice did a double take. He was enormous. Well, certainly larger than any man she had come across in her time. He had clearly not wanted for a meal as a child, although he had the look of someone who knew what hard work meant. Spoiled and unafraid of toil. Although, he also had a look of danger about him. Of course. Pirate.

He didn’t even bother to introduce himself. The man merely nodded, bent down, and before Alice knew what was happening she was upside down, strung over his shoulder like a barrel or another piece of ship paraphernalia. Her face shone red with indignation and she beat her fist hard against the man’s back with one hand while the other flew round in a vain attempt to keep the skirts of her dress from rising up.

Elijah chuckled and bounced her lightly on his shoulder as he sheathed his sword. He eyed her kicking legs and gave half an ear to the barrage of French that was irately parting her otherwise very pretty, kissable lips. He blinked a little, his rudimentary knowledge of the language allowing him the pleasure of translating one particular word that left her mouth.

“My dear captain, you’ve found one hell of a lady.”

“If I’m such a lady, do me the respect of putting me down!” She burst as the pirate began to walk towards the railing. “I am quite able to walk! Stop!”

With a grin, Elijah changed ships, monumentally glad to have the boards of his captain’s vessel under his feet once more. He didn’t set her down until they were at the door of Oliver’s cabin and she rounded on him, pushing her hands against his chest, scarlet, seemingly head to toe, with fury.

“How dare you manhandle me like that! I am a—”

“Guest of my captain,” Elijah finished for her smartly, opening the door, offering her a condescending bow. “Milady.”

Alice opened her mouth to shout at him again but before she could find the words, Elijah pushed her inside the cabin and shut the door with a bang behind him. The silence was stupefying. The room was unnaturally cool. It was furnished in a manner suggesting that the pirate captain knew a little thing or two about good taste. Blessedly, her things were there.

Small mercies.

Oliver hadn't intended to overhear the woman's outrage, but he did, and it would have drawn a laugh from his chest if he had heard it under lighter circumstances. He certainly wouldn't be forgetting what she had said, though. As his attention focused elsewhere, he allowed himself to drown out their bickering as they moved back to his ship.

Onboard the flaming rose, men were making their decisions. Oliver's half lingered near the cross, uninterested in being left behind to be devoured by the sails when they finally fell, but the other crew did not have that luxury while they still held rapiers in their hands.

He turned and leveled them all with a questioning look that was actually something of a glare, and within moments he heard the clatter of metal attacking the deck as the men let go. Well, most of them. A couple looked put out, their captain was having none of it, and one of them was ignoring Oliver entirely, instead looking almost wildly around the deck. Rolling his eyes, he told his men to lead the way with whomever clearly did not possess any dangerous objects.

They began crossing, and the flames crept closer and closer. When all he was left with were a few men and their furious glares, Oliver decided it was time to, literally, abandon ship.

Oliver was preparing to bid them farewell when their captain stepped forward to address them. "Sir," he began. "You cannot fault me to wanting to go down with my mistress," he argued, gesturing to his ship, "but I must ask if you might provide us with at least a small boat."

Glancing towards the ones going up in smoke, Oliver was tempted to say that they had fought him and thus did not deserve it. But that was hardly unexpected. Instead, he calculated that it would not be long before the boards of the deck became too dangerous for them to remain and converse. So he called out to his men, who lowered a boat down, and the captain and his remaining sailors began to board as Oliver returned to his ship.

The plank they had used as a walkway was pulled back, and it wasn't until the Oxford began drifting away that the shouts began. Someone was still on the other ship, searching about for something, apparently. They hadn't noticed him before, and now it was too late. Oliver was about to turn and tell his crew to bring the ships together again, but the mainmast creaked ominously, and then it was too late. Sails collapsed, the wood fell like a tree, and there was nothing they could do except hurry it along.

Hayes was hardly pleased, but he did what was necessary: he helped load the canons on deck before firing them off, shaking both ships, and speeding up the inevitable. Once the man had been trapped, all they could manage was to shorten his period of suffering.

Heaving a sigh, the Rosa Blanca's crewmen took a moment of silence, which Oliver and his men followed without much thought on the matter. As people began to disperse and discuss things, Oliver turned to his first mate, Darren, and they began determining where they could safely house the new men until they reached the nearest port. At that point, if people wanted to stay, perhaps a compromise could be reached.

Oliver had something else to take care of, though, so he turned around, expecting to go downstairs and find Elijah still bothering the blonde - or the other way around, perhaps. But Krum was not there when the captain made his way down the stairs and across the corridor to his cabin. He gave a knock, but entered afterwards anyway, not bothering to wait for her response.

Upon losing that rush of adrenaline and after his time wandering around on deck, Oliver was starting to register the pain from what he assumed were bruises from their fight. As he walked into the room, he glanced down as his side, stopped short, and cursed a little too loudly when he realized he'd been cut. It wasn't bad, mercifully, but he was irked. His shirt was torn, which meant it would need to be mended.

Reaching for a new shirt, Oliver looked towards the stranger. "Would you like to tell me your name? Or am I going to call you Madame for the rest of your time here?" He asked, pulling the title out sarcastically.

The cabin shook as the canons sent their shot careering into the belly of her ship. Alice thrust a hand out to brace herself against one of the chairs and closed her eyes, her ears listening keenly to the groaning of the vessel and the splintering of the wood that precipitated its descent to the locker despite her desire to hide from it. Silence took hold around the bubbling of the water and then the sea seemed to settle. The ship regained its gentle, almost rhythmic bob to and fro. It was almost as though none of it had even happened.

But of course, it had.

Bringing a hand to her stomach, her corset suddenly feeling too tight, Alice sank down into the nearest seat and tried to regain her countenance. She took breaths as deeply as the unforgiving whale bone would allow and sorely wished that she could have been married off to that baron in Normandy her father had been so fond of at first. She could have been living in peace, swollen with child, and left to her own joys.

God seemed hell-bent on making her life that little bit more tumultuous, though. As it was, she wouldn't have enjoyed the quiet of the North. She had always unwittingly invited tumult into her life. Finding herself on a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean with no sensible heading for her had just taken it all to its logical extreme. The issue was that she was now betting her life on the benevolence of the ship's captain. Who even knew if her father had made it?

Alice's stomach twitched unhappily at the thought, filling with nausea that she wanted to say had more to do with the boat than the sudden feeling of dread. She could have been all alone in the world without a shred of kith and kin. She brought a hand to her face, sour in the feeling that she probably was.

At that moment, the door opened. Alice lifted her head, dropping her hand with a clunk against the table top. She blinked in surprise when he gave rise to the curse and her eyes followed his to the bright red stain in his shirt. Blood. He'd been hurt.

She got to her feet of her own accord and found herself moving to stand before him, a hand straying to his side before she could help herself. His skin burned beneath her fingertips, caused by a myriad of differing factors she presumed. She stole her hand away, her face lighting up scarlet as propriety caught up with her. It was wrong. Wrong to even see him like that. She didn't know if she'd ever seen a man in such a state of undress before. Ashamed, she took a step back and averted her eyes. She twitched her fingers against each other absently, feeling the blood move between the pads.

"Mademoiselle Rousseau," she answered him, her eyes lifting to his as her forthright brusqueness returned. "You need to put something on that. A bandage of some sort. Otherwise you'll ... well, you'll only ruin another shirt."

Or get fever and die and leave me all on my own with a bunch of pirates who haven't known the skin of a woman for so long that taking it seems like I viable idea, she thought sourly.

"Do you have a physician on this ship?" She asked, already bending down to rip off some of her underskirt which was remarkably cleaner than the dress she wore. The material's tear made her wince, especially as she remembered how much it had cost her father. She buried the thought. It hardly mattered. Not now, anyway.

"Arms up," she demanded, fixing him with a look that dared him to disobey her.

She tried not to think of his proximity to her as she worked, her nimble fingers lithely bringing the cloth about his middle. She tied it tightly into a knot that would rival - in her mind - any his sailors could do and then, to make sure it was secure, she reached up and took a pearl pin from her hair.

The heavy, blonde locks gave way, then. A soft "oh" left her lips as the other pins tumbled heavily to the floor and her hair bobbed around her, settling in long, slightly curled waves about her body, falling down around her behind. She sighed, blowing a loose tendril out of her eyes, and focused on pinning the cloth.

"Alice," she said, finishing up. She looked up at him briefly before bending down to pick up the pins. She straightened up once more, curling her fingers over the pins so they were safe in her palm. "Captain...?"

Oliver, typically, would not have rid himself of his clothes in front of a lady unless there was something interesting to expect afterwards. Interesting in the positive sense, that is. He had not had such experiences very often, as he had more important things to worry about and a moral code left over from his days in England, but he did know that this felt highly unusual.

He was about to touch the injury himself when the blonde did, shocking him through and through. Not physically, obviously. Because that would be cliché and more of a Hayes thing than a Connolly one, most like. But he was befuddled completely by this woman, and he still hadn't the foggiest who she was or what she was doing on that Spanish ship when she was so obviously French - and of noble birth at that. Much that Oliver thought of court, of course...

He said nothing, simply closed his lips and let his jaw clench instead of sucking in his stomach as he was tempted to do. Luckily, she turned away before his brain gave him anything to say about it, and he searched about for a flask, intending to pour it on the cut. But she spoke, then, answering his question and drawing his gaze back towards her.

He wasn't sure if he imagined the color fading from her cheeks or not, but he merely shrugged at her suggestion. He had seen much worse, after all. He frowned when she voiced a question, tearing up her dress. "We did," he returned. "Most of us can handle scrapes and scratches, though, Madam." He would not go so far as to trip into French every time she was around. Not unless it somehow benefited him or prevented some irritating crew member from following their conversation. That, he realized, could actually come in handy later on.

Filing that thought away, he looked down again. Okay, so it was a bit more than a scratch. Wincing slightly, he didn't realize that she had approached until it was too late. Wide-eyed, he glanced down at the alcohol in hand before holding it out towards her silently. There was no use in fighting it, even though it would hurt like hell once it made contact with the gash across his side.

His eyes followed her hands - at least until she reached for her hair and he let his brow furrow in confusion. Everything tumbled at that; the pins, her hair, his focus. As she finished her work, he wondered after why anyone in the world would want hair that long. Surely it just got in the way? Sure, his was a bit long for a normal man's, though not necessarily for a normal sailor's. Or pirate's, arguably. But he was, as ever, holding onto small bits and pieces of his past that suited him, throwing away the ones that did not.

His gaze, rather obviously, did jump to her lips when she let out a sound of surprise. He wasn't sure any man could have helped it, but that was what made him turn his head away. That, and the interest he had in his now-finished bandage. It wasn't appropriate, this whole situation. He knew that, even if his men mightn't have.

"Connolly," he supplied. "The alliterative nature is quite amusing at first, but it does grow old, I assure you. Oliver will do. I daresay you'll have heard it a good few times by now, hm?"

He couldn't linger too long, really. He wanted to, but he couldn't. The clean shirt he pulled over his arms and then lifted over his head was smoothed a bit before being tucked a bit into his trouser's waistline. Letting out a bit of a sigh, he knew it was time to explain and set down a couple of ground rules. He just didn't know if she would accept them.

"Several of the men chose to join us, if you were curious. Until we make port, at any rate. The captain and a few of his men decided to take a small rowing boat - God help them - but one man didn't make it. I think it best I be above deck, should anyone be distraught and do something foolish. I would... advise," he went on, choosing his words carefully due to her apparently fiery nature, "that you stay below deck when it isn't entirely necessary to be above, if only because I cannot assure your safety unless you are here, or within my sight. There are a few men that I feel you should be able to trust, but a fair few I do not. And those new men are nothing if not dangerous, as far as I'm concerned.

"So you may wish to spend time with Hayes or Krum - if you haven't scared him off already - whilst I'm busy. I will warn that, although I have chosen Isaacson as my first mate, that does not mean I trust him implicitly. There's something to be said for the idea of keeping an eye on those one isn't certain of. So I've kept him close. You may not wish to, though."

Oliver wasn't sure if his warnings or suggestions would end up backfiring on him, but he sorely hoped they didn't. He could not have explained himself if anyone asked him why he cared, and he didn't dare try to rationalize it for himself. There was no rationality when it came to innate interest or attraction - not that Oliver was saying the latter applied here. It did, obviously, but he hadn't the time nor the ability to consider that without getting thoroughly distracted from the task at hand: keeping her safe.

"I need to know where to take you. I'll be making port in a few days - a usual stop, if you will - and I hope that you will have made up your mind by then. I'll have to figure out how to explain whatever route we're taking to the men. For now, though," Oliver concluded, feeling he had gone on far too long, really, "I should head up. You're welcome to do with this cabin as you wish, provided nothing burns or gets thrown out to sea. Understood? I will determine my own sleeping arrangements after the new additions to the crew have been sorted out."

Turning towards the door, he reached out and took the handle, pulling it open. Looking back at her, he added. "As long as you put a bit of faith in me, Alice, I will get you home safely."

“Je suis désolé,” she whispered as the alcohol wetted his skin and slicked across his wound. Part of her had not wanted to offer an apology to him as they both knew that it was going to hurt. She didn’t want to be sorry, either, because it was he who had caused all of this. Him and his ship. Although, she was certainly glad it was him rather than a different sort of malevolent seafaring creature. Bringing the flask to her lips, Alice let a swig of the liquid spread over her tongue before she handed it back to the pirate. She swallowed headily and shook her head as the burn streaked down her throat. Refocusing herself on the work at hand, she pushed away the sudden, overwhelming homesickness that the taste inspired in her heart. It was the spice of long evenings spent at court, watching with laughter in her chest and delight in her eyes as fortunes were lost at cards. It was a world away from the one she found herself perched perilously on now. No solace and safety could be found in the creaking of the wood as it bobbed to and fro on the ebbing waves.

“Little laughs enchant small minds, captain,” she assured him softly as she attached the pins to the soot-stained bodice of her dress. They were at odds there, shining clean and bright next to the darkened fabric. Her lip curled in distaste, imagining what her chamber maid would have said if she had seen her. She raised her shoulders in discomfort but decided not to pay it mind as he detailed the developments that his interference with their ship had caused. She reached up and rubbed at her neck, the muscles underneath her skin smarting with discomfort. Part of her wanted to turn in and sleep, entirely in the hope that when she awoke she would be in Lyon once more. Home. Closing her eyes, she banished the thought briefly before bringing her hands together at the base of her torso, where the elaborate skirting began in her dress.

“They’re as dangerous as pigs on slaughter day,” she retorted primly, raising a delicate eyebrow at him. “If they knew how to use the pointy end of their swords or the cannons someone paid good gold to have installed on that vessel then we would not be at this impasse, now would we, captain?”

She was not entirely sure if she wanted to spend any more time with Krum if it meant that she stood the chance of being picked up and thrown around again. She bristled, almost tempted to declare she would stay in the cabin until they made landfall. She didn’t want to, mind you. She loved the feel of the sun on her face and had grown to love the sound of sailors at work, especially when their voices lifted into song. Pirates were an entirely different beast all together, after all. So, perhaps she would forego that and wait until she was on a French ship bound home once more.

“I’ll get off at the first port you land at,” she declared, a hint of hesitance in her voice. She had no clue where that would be. But she knew she had to get back to France as soon as possible. “I don’t want to encroach on your hospitality for any longer than I have to.” She held her breath as he pushed off to leave and she nodded, not entirely sure if she wanted him to go. She didn’t know what thoughts her mind would lend itself to if she was on her own.

“Thank you, captain.”