"You have yet another mysterious letter, Abigail," Miss Margaret said, coyly laying the envelope on the tea table across from her new friend. She didn't miss the pink flush that warmed the other woman's cheeks or the way her golden eyes widened and brightened as she fought to present a composed response.

"Why thank you, Maggie," Abigail Ashe set her teacup down next to the letter before picking it up, each motion measured and timed to prevent her first inclination, which was to toss the delicate china cup to the ground and rip the parchment open as fast as she could so she could drink in every word on those pages.

Maggie smiled into her own steaming cup. She had the distinct pleasure of presenting these missives each time one graced their mail. The first one had found Abigail startled and confused, before she blossomed and exclaimed, "He wrote back to me!" The young Miss Ashe had quickly remembered herself and buttoned up tighter than shutters in a hurricane. Now, wheedling out information about her family's houseguest's elusive epistolary suitor had become one of Maggie's favorite pastimes.

"Mr. Smith must have quite the penmanship to keep you so enraptured every time one of his letters arrives," Maggie said, smoothing her skirts and enjoying watching Abigail squirm under the scrutiny. "You hardly even notice any of the fine young men of Savannah, despite their best efforts, and they're right here in town."

Abigail folded her hands neatly in her lap, refusing to touch the letter while Maggie watched her with that wicked gleam in her eyes. Miss Margaret, the daughter of yet another prominent family Abigail had been passed to, had almost overnight become her closest friend since her kidnapping. Slowly, Abigail had shared bits and pieces with the other woman, unsure of the response she might receive. Others, at even the slightest mention of pirates and Nassau and her shocking sympathies toward their plight, had generally recoiled in horror, turned back to their tea, admirably ignoring everything their now unwelcome guest said, or otherwise couldn't begin to fathom the girl. Here she was, ostensibly ruined by all that time with pirates, with Captain Flint and Lady Hamilton of all people (whom, Abigail had been shocked to discover, polite society deemed far worse than the likes of the vicious and lecherous Ned Lowe), her father killed, her pirate sympathies read aloud for the world to hear, and she still professed the same outlandish ideals. Publically, at that. She would be lucky to find any man willing to marry her (for her inheritance, of course, because no man would otherwise shame himself by taking on some ruined girl).

Maggie, however, had nodded and listened, truly listened. She listened the way Captain Flint and Lady Hamilton had listened to her. She did not dismiss her new acquaintance's wild ideas or shame her for her anger at her father. She understood Abigail's agreement that the pirates should be pardoned, that they were wrongly painted as monsters, even after the attacks on port cities began.

But there were things Abigail had yet to share with Maggie. She hadn't told Maggie about overhearing Lady Hamilton moments before she was murdered in her family's dining room, professing such rage as she did not know a proper lady could even feel. Within seconds, Abigail knew that rage for herself. She didn't tell Maggie that when Captains Flint and Vane launched their assault on Charles Towne, she had felt a measure of satisfaction on behalf of that kind woman. She had even understood Captain Flint's rage. Seeing the city crumble and its denizens in panicked fear had been like watching her own feelings on some kind of bizarre stage; a horrific play acting out all the fear and anger and hurt she'd built up in her own heart.

These were thoughts that she only shared, and only recently, with the man who so diligently replied to her correspondence despite their mutual agreement that they had no business writing to each other. At first, she had been angry. The man read her journal, took it, and arranged to have it read before a public court against her own father's testimony. After yet another host's horrified gasp at the slightest inclination that Abigail did not view James Flint as a monster, she had unloaded her burdens onto paper, and to the one person who had, unbeknownst to her at the time, already read her innermost thoughts and feelings and had still gazed at her with hopeful longing when he thought she didn't see him.

Mr. William Manderly was perhaps the only person left in her life who truly understood her. He knew what it was like to have your life ripped away by some scheming monster. He knew what it was like to have no home to return to. He knew what it was like to be judged by everyone who saw him, simply because of his manners, dress or just the implication that he might not be one of them. He was so smart and even educated. In another life, they certainly would never have been in the same social circles, but she might have known him as a successful merchant or even a representative to the House of Commons, with his keen desire to help other people before himself and improve the system, as he called it.

The quiet snickering brought Abigail out of her reverie, staring sightlessly at Billy's neat handwriting on the envelope, and she felt another rush of pink flooding her cheeks. She cleared her throat, "Well, Maggie, the young men of Savannah are perfectly nice, however, we both know they are interested in my purse strings and not my person."

Maggie sighed and rolled her eyes in an extremely unladylike fashion. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Abby. Besides," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "I think you only have eyes for one young man, who addresses himself as 'Mr. Smith.'"

Abigail hid her face behind a slow sip of cooling tea. "We are simply old friends who enjoy each other's correspondence."

"Hm," Maggie arched a skeptical brow and snatched the letter off the table. Abigail spilled a bit of tea jerking forward to stop her, before she collected herself and gently dabbed the small spill off the table with a napkin. "I've figured it out, you know," Maggie batted her eyelashes innocently at Abigail's paling face. "These letters arrive at such random times, and usually within days of another port attack. Almost like they were sent by a young man sailing on a boat, who can only post a letter when he arrives at port. Like, perhaps, a handsome and colossally large Quartermaster you told me about once."

Abigail blanched, all that pretty blush leaving her cheeks at once.

"It is!" Maggie squealed and jumped from her seat so she could practically collapse next to Abigail's stiff form on the loveseat. "Oh, my dear, I won't tell anyone, you know that," she smiled up at Abby, who relaxed only enough to let Maggie take one of her hands in her own.

Abigail watched her friend skeptically. She seemed so genuine, and thus far had been nothing but open and accepting of Abigail's situation. She relented. "You cannot tell a soul," she kept her voice low, in case anyone might be lurking the halls nearby.

Maggie mimed locking her lips with a key and then even tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder. She proffered the letter back to Abigail, with the stern order, "Now you must read this and if you don't, I'll take it back and read it aloud. This is honestly so romantic I could scream."

"Oh, because screaming is just so romantic," Abby pursed her lips and took the letter back, running her fingers over the worn paper before gently breaking the seal.

"It is if you're doing things right," Maggie waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

The blush rushed back to Abigail's cheeks, this time encompassing her neck and ears. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. "Margaret Sommers!" she gasped and Maggie bubbled over with giggles. She shot Maggie a cautioning look, but couldn't fight her smile at her friend's impropriety. She was, after all, opening a letter from a pirate.

Her heart sank as she soaked in his first lines. When they first started corresponding, and her first letter being notably formal, and perhaps a little scolding, his reply had been equally formal, but apologetic and insistent that she bring no risk upon herself by corresponding with a criminal. After that, their exchanges had grown increasingly familiar and warm, each time pouring a little bit more of herself onto paper for him and eagerly absorbing each detail he left of himself.

This letter, however, was particularly curt. Even cold. A frown furrowed into her face so distinct even Margaret sat up and took notice. Abby first thought that perhaps she had said something wrong to earn such a chilly reply, but as she read, her chest constricted and the blood left her head so rapidly she felt dizzy.

Abigail sat up with a start, rising to pace as she read and re-read the brief missive, unwilling to believe what she was reading and flummoxed as to what to do.

Maggie sat forward and reached her hand out to Abigail, pulling her to stop. "What is it? Is everything alright?"

Abby's eyes flew to her friend. "How…how many days does it take to sail here from Beaufort?"

"Beaufort?" Maggie blinked and then considered. "A few days, I'd imagine. Honestly, Abigail, you've spent more time aboard ship than I have. Why, is he coming to Savannah?"

Abby pulled away to continue pacing. She checked the date on the letter and the postmark. It had taken five days for this letter to reach her by land. Was that enough time for a large ship like a brigantine to sail here? At what speed could that ship travel? How much distance did a knot cover? All that time on the deck of the Siren and she'd never bothered to learn. Stupid, stupid girl.

"Abigail!" Margaret was standing now, gripping Abby by her shoulders. "What is the matter?"

She held up the letter, grimacing and struggling to catch her breath against the all-too-restrictive corset under her dress. "He says he knows I have to alert the governor, and Captain Flint doesn't care. They're coming here, Maggie. He says we have to get as far inland as we can."

"He truly is on the Walrus," Maggie covered her mouth, her eyes turning to large green saucers.

"You said you knew!" Abigail's voice rose with her panic.

"I didn't really believe it!" Maggie's hands dropped to her side then returned to cover her worried face. "Alright, alright," Maggie regained a modicum of composure. "We know they don't always attack if the magistrate concedes to Captain Flint. And Captain Flint knows you and apparently Mr. Smith told him you'll be warning the town. I'm sure the Navy and the governor already know the ship could be coming this way any day now. Our fort is more defensible than some of these other towns, especially if they know an attack is coming."

A sickness rose up into Abigail's throat. Memories of people running and screaming, people crushed under falling debris, blood exploding out of gunshot and shrapnel wounds rushed through her mind. Then images of Billy, shot, stabbed, hanged warred with her concern for the townspeople. She never wanted anyone to die, even if she understood Flint's reasons. Maggie was hopeful, but Maggie hadn't seen the sheer destructive force of that ship firsthand. She also hadn't seen what men were capable of doing to each other when they all believed the other was wrong.

Maggie watched her friend spiraling and took control. "Listen, we'll take a carriage to the magistrate's house right away, and tell him everything."

"We can't tell him everything!" Abigail was seized by panic. "If they know I've been corresponding with one of them, I'll go to jail. They'll make me tell them everything I know. They might even use me to trick Billy…"

Margaret pulled back, genuinely surprised. Her new friend had worked out every devious possibility the British government might cook up with this information in a matter of a breath. "Alright," Maggie continued slowly, "we'll tell him…ah! We'll tell him one of the pirates on Flint's ship fell in love with you and despite your lack of response, he periodically sends you anonymous letters. This is the first one with any information about their activities. And you panicked when you got it and burned it. He'll believe we are just that silly."

Abigail nodded, biting her bottom lip and considering the possibility. "Yes, that might work. But what if he doesn't believe me?"

Maggie smoothed Abigail's hair. "It's true, he might think we're silly girls stirring up nonsense, but you will have done what you needed to do. I think Mr. Smith, Billy, wanted you to tell someone. He wouldn't have written to you otherwise."

Calmer now, mollified by Margaret's easy confidence, Abigail could feel her breath slowly returning to her tightly compressed form. "Will your family be alright here?"

"Oh, they'll be fine," Maggie waved a dismissive hand toward the inside of the house. "Mother and Father are staying in tonight, no plans for the week as far as I know, and we are well into the interior of Savannah. We're perfectly safe here. Now get your hat, we have a governor to visit."

"Whose house is across from the port, who will no doubt accuse of hysteria. What could possibly go wrong?"

It turns out, a lot could go wrong.

First, the carriage was broken and it took the stable hand several hours to get it serviceable. It was dusk when they arrived at the magistrate's mansion, and even later when he finally ended his dinner, his evening meetings and could properly receive his uninvited guests.

Abigail grew more anxious with each passing moment, knowing that Flint's attacks always commenced in the evening. If by chance they were already here, Flint and his men could be making their way to the house at any moment. If she and Maggie got caught in the crossfire, there was no telling what might happen.

Then came the magistrate's response. He had, as Margaret predicted, been largely unimpressed with their story and information. The Navy had already briefed him on the likelihood of an attack in the coming days, he'd already increased security around his own home and ensured that the fort was properly reinforced.

He was equally unimpressed with the young women. Apparently Margaret had quite the reputation for gossip, and of course, Abigail's ruined status and pirate sympathies had become well known.

"As far as I am concerned," the older man said crisply, "this is nothing more than the hysterics of young girls who have heard rumors about Captain Flint's attacks and perhaps wish for a little excitement in their lives. Perhaps even you, Miss Ashe, are hoping to restore some of your reputation by expressing concern over the welfare of Savannah and her citizens?"

Abigail watched the graying man in his brocade and calico, looking down his nose at them, and felt the indignant fury welling up in her chest. This was, quite possibly, a taste of the anger that James and Miranda had felt.

"Sir, please," Abigail restrained herself and tried to keep her voice as pleasant and unassuming as possible, despite her desire to scream as Lady Hamilton once had, "I know we must seem rather…silly," she chewed off the word that, in the course of a single evening, had grown so distasteful she could spit, "but I assure you this threat is quite valid. This man has never shared information like this with me. I believe -"

"I believe it is equally likely," he interrupted her without much thought, "that if this pirate is so infatuated with you as you say, and you have spurned his attentions, as you say, that perhaps he wrote something inflammatory in order to get your attention." He raised an expectant brow at her, his lips pressed into a firm line. "Ladies, please, leave the protection of Savannah to me. If you don't mind," he nodded meaningfully at the door, where a footman now waited.

Margaret was the first to rise, though Abigail remained seated, dumbfounded at this man's outright dismissal. These attacks had happened at port cities up and down the coast. Charles Town had burned, for God's sake. And yet he could sit there, so smug, with his hands folded over his belly, utterly content that she had said nothing of value, and had, in fact, wasted his time. "Abigail," Maggie said gently when she was safely away from the desk.

Abigail reluctantly joined her, still desperately searching for something, anything, else to say that might convince him. Maggie looped an arm through hers and whispered, "It's fine, Abby. Besides, what are the odds that tonight -"

She didn't finish that thought. Maggie abruptly stopped speaking when the shouts of guards and soldiers started echoing down the halls. Both girls pulled up short at the door and the rotund magistrate shouldered past them, demanding to know what was going on.

The crack of pistol shots rang out, inspiring quick, surprised screams from the women as Abby jerked Margaret back toward the heavy oak desk, hoping to find some measure of shelter there. They only made it to the center of the expansive room when the magistrate was shoved back away from the door by men in head-to-toe black wielding an array of pistols and swords and knives unlike anything Abby had seen since disembarking the Siren.

Both women screamed again when the French doors leading to the office balcony burst open in explosions of glass and black-clad pirates. They clung to each other, Maggie's cool exterior long gone, her fingers digging into the flesh of Abigail's arms, trying desperately to pull each other closer and away from the threat that seemed to emerge from all sides at once.

The black extended to menacing fabric wrapped around their heads and faces, revealing only their eyes, like some kind of bedouin raiders she'd read about in an illustrated book. The leader corralled the magistrate with a knife to the shorter man's neck. Behind them, a familiar throaty voice breathed, "Fuck me."

Maggie stayed focused on the leader, who ripped the fabric down covering his face, revealing a weathered complexion and reddish orange facial hair. "Billy, what the fuck is she doing here?" he barked at the giant towering behind them. The giant that had Abigail's full attention.

He was even taller than she remembered. His blue eyes flashed like the sea after a storm and even behind the mask she could see he was just as gobsmacked as she was. As he struggled to speak, Captain Flint snapped again, "Get them the fuck out of here, Billy!"

"This is Billy?" Maggie took the opportunity to point at the alleged "Mr. Smith" whose size she had sorely underestimated. He shot her a furrowed look before pulling the scarf off his own face and jutting an impressively large hand out to Abigail.

"Miss Ashe, we have to go," he practically growled, as if he didn't want anyone else in the room hearing him address her. His eyes flashed around and back to the increasingly impatient Captain Flint, then he nodded meaningfully between Abigail and his outstretched hand.

When she finally took it, she felt the wind leave her lungs. With the exception of his brief assistance helping her into the longboat to depart the Siren, she'd really never even touched the man. After just one time, which seemed so long ago, her tiny hand fit into his so neatly. It was calloused and warm and could crush her own in an instant. He could exert even a fraction more strength and force her to follow him, uncaring about the pain it would cause her. They truly needed to run, but he held her hand so gently as spun glass. Abigail had to catch her breath against the tingling sensation racing from her hand up her arm and coiling deep in her core.

His mouth went dry, drier than it had after he'd crashed through the glass and wood doors like some kind of animal and realized that one of the two women he'd sent screaming and cowering was Abigail, his Abigail. He planned to thoroughly apologize for that later, but just right then he needed to get these women as far away from here as he could manage without being left behind by his own crew. But at this moment, he couldn't get his feet to move, not in any direction away from Abigail at any rate. In the candlelight, her cheeks had a rosy glow and her mouth was open just enough from exertion and trying to force oxygen past her corset to send him instantly spiraling into heady, lascivious thoughts about what those lips would look like after he thoroughly kissed her, or what they would look like on him.

Not that he hadn't entertained these thoughts, and worse, since first laying eyes on the soft-spoken brunette, especially during those lonely hours in his hammock after his watch had ended. Once he first started receiving her letters, even the angry one, he'd hadn't thought of anyone else. He'd known she was smart, and kind, and witty, and independent of mind, when he'd first seen her on the Siren. Her journal had confirmed that, and now their correspondence - letters he read and re-read until his grimy, sailor's hands smudged the ink - reminded him every day that for some insane reason a no-account pirate like himself had caught the attention of a unique young lady.

But now was not the time to stand there like an idiot trying to puzzle out why a beautiful, smart, successful, proper lady was looking up at him with wonder and a smile tugging at her lips despite the utter chaos exploding around them. He blinked twice when he realized Flint had barked at him again, scowling in confusion and frustration at his first mate's sudden ineptitude, and his crew were moving to hold off another round of guards making their way to the office door.

He assessed the situation and determined there was only one safe way out. "This way," he said louder, pulling her gently along behind him and leading both ladies in what was for him a light jog back out the balcony the way he'd come in. Margaret pulled the brakes as they passed a felled soldier. Abigail and Billy both whirled in confusion until Margaret straightened up with a loaded flintlock pistol in one hand and a dirk in the other.

"You've shot before, right Abby?" She held the gun out to her friend, who gave a small nod in response and took it in her free hand. For the second time that night, Billy had to pause to truly take stock of the fact that Abigail Ashe continued to surprise him. Her friend could stay, too, as far as he was concerned.

"Right," he nodded and pursed his lips in appraisal, "there's a back stair this way."

The balcony wrapped around, as was the fashion for such a house overlooking the bay. From her vantage point behind Billy's near six-and-a-half-foot frame, she couldn't even see where he was leading them. She trusted him instinctively, though, as she had since he first sat down across from her at Flint's table.

He released her hand, gave them both a small "stay back" wave and rushed forward with more grace than a man his size ought to possess. Separated from him, Abigail could now see the two soldiers attempting to rush up the stairs and get to a place of cover before Billy got to them, but they weren't as quick as he was. Maggie and Abigail reached for each other, each jockeying to shield the other.

But it was unnecessary. Billy got to the men quickly, knocking one soldier's musket out of the way with his sword while simultaneously elbowing the other man across the jaw, which sent him tumbling over the rail at the top of the steps to the stone pavement below. The other soldier recovered himself enough to swing the butt of his weapon into Billy's chest, though he may have been aiming for Billy's face. Billy grunted and fell back a step, only to snarl and catch the next swing in his bare hand. They struggled for control of the musket until Billy released the hold he had with his sword arm and pulled the soldier in close while running his sword into the man's gut.

Maggie shrieked and recoiled, but Abigail covered her mouth to stop her own outcry at the sudden gore. Billy pushed the man off his sword and held out his hand again, which Abigail took without question. Whether he was unwilling to look at her in that moment, or simply entirely focused on moving the group safely away from the house, she couldn't be sure.

"This way!" Maggie suddenly called, recovering herself from the violence she'd seen. Outright insanity had spread like wildfire throughout the street. Flint's crew had made quick work of the soldiers guarding the port and the magistrate's home, and now his ship was firing unceasingly into the fort, sending stone and wood shrapnel raining in all directions. Other miscreants seemed to be taking advantage of the anarchy and distracted troops, breaking shop windows and assaulting men and women trying to escape. The Savannah port was a war zone. "The stables are through here!" She led them now at Billy's side under a large archway back toward the house.

The carriage was, by some miracle, still secure with the horses, though they appeared ready to run as soon as they were free of their yoke.

"It's too slow, no time," Billy ordered when he realized the women were inspecting the carriage to ride in. He was already cutting one of the horses free. With her dirk, Maggie mimicked his actions on the other horse, cutting away the breeching but keeping a firm hand on the animal's reins. Abigail watched the archway with her pistol held by two shaky hands. When a soldier rounded the corner and shouldered his musket, Abigail closed her eyes, gripped the weapon as tight as she could muster, and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked around her ears and the smoke started to clear, she cautiously opened her eyes with a grimace. The soldier was on the ground, moaning and clutching his leg. She let out the breath she'd be holding in relief. She hadn't wanted to kill him. An impossibly large hand gently covered hers, lowering the weapon and then taking it away from her and dropping it callously to the ground. She looked over her shoulder to find herself nearly engulfed by Billy, standing over her and looking down at her with a mix of shock and pride. His full lips ticked up ever so slightly at the corners. "That was unexpected," his voice sounded more hoarse than she remembered, which could be the smoke, the exertion or just their nearness, she couldn't tell.

Maggie used the stable fencing to hoist herself onto the unsaddled horse she'd freed, petticoats and all. "You two are about bloody useless," she reined the horse around. "Let's go already!"

Billy started as if a spell had been broken. He eyeballed the horse and then Abigail's encumbering dress. He nodded at the decision he made in his own head and without asking, he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse as if she weighed nothing. "Up you go. Sorry about this, Miss Ashe."

Her skirts and petticoats bunched dangerously high over her knees. She had not dressed at all appropriately for an impromptu horseback ride. Billy threw a long leg over the back of the animal and seated himself behind her. She was deeply glad for the darkness, as surely she had to be the color of an apple in this moment. Abigail Ashe had never been this physically close to any man, let alone one such as Billy. For all the fineness of the Savannah gentlemen Maggie kept on a constant parade for her at parties and dinners, she was certain none of them would feel quite like this up close to her. His legs behind hers were solid muscle, as was the torso that dwarfed her already small frame. With one arm, a large wall of muscle locking her in as safe as she would ever be anywhere, he gripped the reins. With the other, he placed a firm hand securely on her waist, a hand that had no business covering as much surface area on her as it did.

"Sorry about this, too, Miss Ashe," he cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. His eyes were filled with a mix of genuine remorse over what he knew to be totally foreign and wildly inappropriate contact for a proper lady, and something else. Something playful. Something boyish and utterly unrepentant.

Her eyes narrowed and she could feel her own mouth pulling up at the corners. "You already know you can call me Abby."

The boyish gleam overtook the remorse. "Abby," he corrected, just loud enough for her to hear. He pulled the horse and gave it a light kick to follow Maggie's lead. Abigail had to hand it to the woman, she was certainly great to have around in a crisis.

They made their escape away from the port following back roads and trails only Maggie knew, leaving them relatively unencumbered. The few criminals who tried to approach, believing they were taking advantage of easy targets, were quickly sent scurrying at the sight of Billy decked out in the all-black raiding uniform Flint's crew had adopted, with his sword out, his own pistol held by Abigail and an impressively threatening Maggie with the dirk she'd commandeered.

After a few minutes traveling east, the sounds of the battle behind them faded. The haze of smoke and blood lifted and they were left with only a starry night.

Abigail snuck quick glances over her shoulder at him. The bedouin-style scarf wrapped carefully around his head only seemed to make his jaw seem more harsh and masculine. No, none of Maggie's Savannah gentlemen had a jaw like that, certainly not dusted with a few days worth of light blonde beard, or the sheen of sweat and rich, salty scent of the sea clinging to his skin.

"It's a cheche," he answered the question he thought she must have, the way she kept gazing up at him under those thick, long lashes. "We have a few Berbers on the crew. It's a good way to hide our faces."

Maggie lead her horse a little further ahead on the trail, doggedly feigning that she wasn't listening to every word.

"Oh," Abigail squeaked, then she cleared her throat. She hadn't been around nearly enough smoke to warrant that effect on her voice. "I guess that would be important, as this is...dangerous work."

His hand tightened on her waist and his jaw clenched for a moment before he responded, without looking back down at her. "I'm sorry. I know it's not pretty. When I knew we were coming to Savannah…" he trailed off, staring into the inky blackness of the Georgian woods. "I didn't want you to see any of this. I thought the letter would get to you faster and you'd be long gone."

"It's fine," Abigail attempted to reassure him but he only shook his head.

"It's not fine, Abby," he finally let his eyes drift back down to hers. "I killed a man in front of you tonight. You and your friend have been in danger because of me. There's nothing fine about this."

Abigail shifted in her seat to face him more fully, resting her small hand on his expansive chest. Even beneath the layers of heavy clothing and corded muscle, she could feel the heat radiating from his skin and his heartbeat thumping, a little faster now, beneath her touch. "We would have been in danger no matter what. We certainly weren't going to get out of the port side on our own. I shot someone tonight," she raised her chin. "It's not like I haven't seen -"

"You shouldn't have to," his voice grew stronger, his eyes set and adamant. "You can have any life you want. You can have anyone you want, and you keep getting mixed up in this...this bullshit. This life is violent and dangerous and fucking filthy. You're not any of those things. You're a good person. I should never have written to you, I'm sorry. I was only thinking about myself."

She pulled back as if bitten. Her face crumpled, but then anger overtook the searing pain of rejection. Her amber eyes narrowed up at him through the dark. "Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't have? You know full well I've been passed from family to family since Charles Town like some unwelcome piece of flotsam. They all blame it on the pirates, but I never belonged with them. Ever. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I write to you because I don't belong anywhere else?"

He stilled and pulled the reins to stop the horse, watching the small woman before him carefully. His eyes wrinkled in the corners, trying to unpuzzle her.

She took his silence as further rejection and almost visibly puffed up like a small, angry bird, something he had to fight to hide his smile from. "I liked being on that bloody boat. I liked being around people who wanted to hear what I had to say. I liked being around people who had something more interesting to talk about than the god damn weather and gossip. I liked reading what you had to say," her voice cracked. She turned back away from him, entirely missing his stunned expression at her words and coarse language. "But no," she continued, refusing to look at him, "please, leave me to my wonderful fate. Any day now some fat, middle aged rejected son will grace me with his hand in marriage so he can take my money and try to get a child on me whenever the mood strikes. What a lovely future everyone wants for me." She huffed a shaky breath, then tried uselessly to kick the horse back into motion. "C'mon, we're almost there."

Billy pulled on the reins and laid a hand on her thigh to stop her from confusing the horse. She gasped under her breath at the feel of his hand on such an intimate place, despite the many layers of dress shielding her. He let the reins fall slack so he could take her chin and tilt her face back up toward his. He paused, jaw clenched, doubting himself again. "You deserve better than me, Abigail."

"I'll be the judge of that," she breathed. Neither could say who started it, but in the next breath they were leaning into each other, his hand sinking into her loose, messy dark mass of hair at the back of her head and pulling her lips to his. A fire lit from her mouth into her core, curling through her toes and back up again. She turned back toward him, letting her hands wander up his muscled core, up to his chest, across his shoulders and to those arms, those blasted arms she'd been so distracted by in his short sleeves on the Siren.

He smiled into the kiss, pulling her tighter and far too pleased with himself in that moment. When she sighed - a sound he realized he might never get enough of - he tested his luck, teasing at her now open lips with his tongue. When she opened for him, he groaned and felt his head spinning. Hopefully the horse knew where it was going, because at this moment, Billy didn't give a fuck as long as he was still kissing Abigail.

She felt him harden against her back and reveled in the groans rumbling out of his throat and the effect she was having on him. One of her hands moved to trace his jaw. His stubble was coarse against the soft skin of her face and under her hands, but she found that she enjoyed it. It was so purely masculine against her.

"Ahem," Maggie's small cough sent Abigail startling as far away from him as she could get while sharing a horse, and Billy visibly wincing before shooting the woman the darkest look he could muster. "The stables around the corner. Everyone's buttoned up in the house. I'll just leave you two to it," she winked and lead her horse back around the trail.

Now that she was regaining some of her senses, Abigail could indeed see the lights from the Sommer's estate and even hear some of the activity coming from within. Billy reluctantly took up the reins and spurred the horse forward. They rode in silence the short distance, but Abigail let herself lean back against him. Instead of staying firmly in place, Billy let his hand wander lower to Abigail's hip, tracing small circles with the pad of his thumb.

When they got to the torchlit stables, neither moved to dismount. Billy leaned down to rest his temple against hers, taking in the flowery scent of her hair and the sweetness of the sweat and soap on her skin. He wouldn't smell anything like this again for a long time. "I have to go," he murmured into her hair.

"I know," her head and shoulders drooped in response.

"Though, given what I've seen tonight, I have half a mind to take you and Miss...Maggie is her name? back to the ship. A few months with our crew and the pair of you will be giving Anne Bonny a run for her money," he placed a feather light kiss against her forehead.

Abigail shifted again back to him. "Would you? Would you really?"

"This ship?" Billy's brows rose comically. "Fuck no. But when this war is over, if you'll still have me, I'm coming back for you."

Her heart stuttered over itself. Months of correspondence had left her wondering if he was only humoring her, or was just bored and lonely himself. But on this night she knew. She knew by the total fear in his eyes when he saw her in the governor's office, the shame after she watched him kill another man, and the way he held her and kissed her like she was the first drink of water for a marooned man. He cared for her the way she cared for him.

He slid off the back of the horse without waiting for her reply, then pulled her down with him so that she landed ever so gently. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face and leaned down to kiss her again. Even though he tried to keep this more chaste, more controlled, her soft mew in response to his lips pressing onto hers, the way she leaned her body into his, and then, dear God, the way she sucked his bottom lip, nearly sent him over the edge. His mind raced immediately to the possibility of kicking open an empty stall and finding out just exactly what kinds of sounds and tastes this woman could produce for him.

He brought a hand up to cup her cheek and chin, and forced himself to slowly pull away. He couldn't get far, but his forehead rested on hers as they both panted for breath. "I have to get back to my ship."

"Do you?" The way she blinked those big golden eyes up at him almost broke him.

He bit down on the insides of his cheeks and forced himself to nod and press further away. "I do. I can't offer you anything yet, but Abigail, I promise I will come back for you."

"I have money," her voice wavered. "I don't mind…"

"No, no," he pressed another kiss into her forehead, smiling in spite of himself. "Money is only going to get us so far if I'm a wanted criminal, sweetheart."

Abby relented. "You'll come back though? And I can still send my letters to Max to get to you?"

"Of course I'm coming back," he rolled his eyes skyward as if he couldn't imagine any other outcome. "And yes, mail will be slow because of what we're doing, but honestly Abby, I live for those fucking letters."

"Good," she let her hand run down his face again, memorizing the way his short, unkempt beard felt beneath her fingers. He brought one massive hand to cover hers, turning it toward his mouth for one last kiss.

"I'll see you soon, Abigail Ashe," he smiled down at her as he remounted the horse.

"Take care of yourself, William Manderly," her hand fell out of he gave her one last look, set his face with determination and trotted the horse out of the small barn and back toward the chaos at the port.

Abigail sat down on a hay bale, the wet cold of the evening finally starting to dig at her flesh. She sat in silence, staring out the stable door, as if by pure will of heart she could magically return him.

Margaret appeared soundlessly in the door, a shawl around her shoulders. She stepped forward and offered the extra she carried to Abigail. "I thought I might find you out here. So that was Mr. Smith."

Abigail smiled, colored and stared down at her hands in her lap. "Yes, I guess it was."

"Hm," Maggie couldn't hide her wicked little smile. "He is quite a bit more than what I imagined."

"Isn't he just?" Abby replied too quickly.

"I hope he'll be back," Maggie sighed. "He did take one of my best horses."

Abigail licked her lips and turned to openly grin at her friend. "Well, he is a pirate."