Several of the pages fluttered to the floor. Jocelyn followed and picked them up. She read the flowing signature at the bottom of one of the pages.

"I thought your name was Tupper?"

"It is. Alice Tupper Quinn." She crushed the pages in her arms. "Gavin was the only person to still call me Alice." She drew a shaky breath. "I'd always said 'Alice' died on Port Royal all those years ago. At least the Alice I'd been. When I joined this crew, they all called me Tupper. All, except him...when we were...alone. I guess Alice died again on Port Royal...with Gavin."

"That's not true." Jocelyn told her. "You're still her." She watched as Tupper's eyes filled with tears. What she had said earlier all at once made sense to Jocelyn. "Before, when you said he called out your name.... He called you Alice."

Back on deck, the rain fell hard. Jocelyn stood under a protected canopy in the bow. She shivered at the damp chill of the air. Her heart still aching for Tupper or Alice, or whichever name she was called. Tupper had begged her to leave and let her grieve in peace. Jocelyn had honored her wish, but promised to check back before she left the ship.

She'd wanted to ask about the letters. Curiosity pricked at her. If Tupper was Alice and the letters belonged to Gavin, then why were they signed, "Your Beth?" Perhaps she'd never know.

"How is she?" Ric came to stand beside her.

"She's mourning the man she loves." Jocelyn glanced at him. "But she's no longer on the floor, and I got her to eat a bit of food. How about you? Did you find the boy?"

"Aye." Ric gave a slow nod.

"How is he?"

"Hard to say with Bump, but I've put him to work. It be the best thing for him, and we need all the hands we can get."

"I can help, as well."

Ric snorted and shot her a smirk. "I don't think so. I'm desperate for more crew, but not that desperate."

Her jaw dropped at his condescension. "Why not? I'm smart, strong."

"Pampered," He countered. His eyes made a slow appraisal of her. "Soft."

There was nothing soft about the tension in her jaw. She could easily chew nails--and not the ones tipping her fingers. "Then what would you like me to do?"

"You're not going to be here long enough for me to teach you to do anything. You'd help me best by staying out of my way."

Jocelyn turned her glare back out through the rain. "I have learned one thing even without you. Seems pirates all have special nicknames. Bet I can guess yours. Is it Jack? Short for Jackass?

Ric threw back his head and laughed. The sound rankled. "No. You'll have to guess again."

"Cabbage Head?" She offered. "Impudent Oaf?"

He was still laughing. "All good guesses, but no."

Jocelyn huffed and glared at his broad retreating back. "I have a good name for you," she mumbled under her breath. "Son of a...Fils de pute!" she grumbled. "But that is more of an insult to your mother."

"Whose mother ye be insultin'?" MacTavish startled her as he came up behind her. He tugged at a rope.

I'm forever forgetting to look behind... How many times had she been caught at the abbey? Heat flared in her cheeks. "No one. I was muttering to myself."

His bushy brows knit into a solid line above his eyes. "If ye say so." He pulled sharp on the rope once more. "Come hold this line fer me, so I can tie it off."

"Are you sure I'm capable?" Her anger at Ric spilled over onto the Scotsman.

MacTavish gave her a side glance. "Seen ye hold a fork, pretty sure you can curl them fingers round a hank of rope."

"Forgive me. Of course, I can hold it for you." She grabbed the rope above where his wide rough hands held it.

"Hang on tight, it's gonna want to pull away," he warned before he let go. "Just be for a blink whilst I tie her down."

Jocelyn held on with two hands and nodded to tell him she was ready. When MacTavish let go, she was surprised at the strength of the "pull." Following the line up, she saw it connected to the line of the sail. Worry tugged at her stronger than the line. She hoped he wasn't lying about being quick to tie the rope. The last thing she wanted was Ric to be right about her being too soft. The roughness of the rope bit into her palms.

MacTavish threaded the end of the line through an iron ring, looped it back on itself, made a twist, and a second loop, and jerked the knot tight.

"Ye can let go now."

Jocelyn held fast. "You think that little knot will hold?"

"Lass, I been tying bowline knots fer more years than ye've been breathing. Let go." Rain dripped off the ends of his beard.

She opened her hands, poised to grab hold again if it slipped. It held. "I shouldn't have doubted you. You tied it so fast."

"Like I said, 'ave had lots of practice. Not a proper seaman if ye can't tie yer knots blindfolded, one-handed, behind yer back in the dark." He turned to leave.

"Could you teach me?" she blurted.

"Why ye be needin' te know?" He crossed thick arms over the barrel of his chest.

"Why not?" She lifted her shoulder. "Never know when a good knot may come in handy."

Chapter 9.

Ric peered through the rain. Was he lost? He pulled the long brass eyeglass and gave another look. They couldn't be lost. He lowered the glass and ran a frustrated hand over his forehead. This was Port St. Maria, but where were the ships?

He scanned the surrounding area. The docks still stood. All looked as it should.

Ric ordered White and Summer to take the skiff into port. "Find out what's happened. The quake hasn't left carnage in the port, but the only ships I can make out are a handful of small fishing boats."

"So maybe they all weighed anchor when the ground started to shake." reasoned White.

"It'd be what I'd done," added Summer. "We don't need to be dragging the skiff through this mess of weather to figure that."

Ric repeated his order and gave Summer's shoulder a shove. "No, but you need to be finding a ship to take one small French woman to her Admiral father at Fort de Rocher on Tortuga."

"I knew we should have tossed her over," White continued to grumble.

It wasn't long before they returned.

"Rain's comin' down harder than horse piss." Summer wrung out his hat.

"I can see that," urged Ric. "What about the ships?"

"Quake started a panic like I figured. Then Judgment Hill took te moving and headed toward the sea," added White.

"Between the shaking and this weather, it ain't a wonder there be a landslide." Summer shook his head. "Least they didn't sink like them poor bastards in Port Royal."

Ric ran a hand through his damp hair. "What do we do now? The whole reason to come here was to put Jocelyn Beauchamp off the Scarlet." And out of his mind once and for all. Even given all that had happened, all the worries, pressure, disaster and grief that had filled his hours, somehow his thoughts would circle back to her. As if she were a balm as well as a bane for his tortured mind.

"I told ya. Dump her." White prompted snapping Ric back to the problem at hand.

"We can't dump her," argued Ric. He looked aft. The one small French woman in question huddled under the bulkhead overhang and seemed to be winding a length of rope around her hand. Why had he done little else since meeting her, than fight to protect her? Why her? And why did the possibility of her being hurt tear at his gut?

"Why not?" White wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"'Cause if her father finds out we have her, he'll hang us by our nuts," explained MacTavish. "If he finds out we had her and dumped her, he'll feed us our nuts before he hangs us."

White's hands moved over his crotch as if to protect his jewels.

"So, where does that leave us?" Ric waved a hand toward White. "Other than nutless."

MacTavish tugged on the braids in his beard and thought. "Ifn' I were capt'n...and I ain't, we'd be heading through toward the Windward Passage. I'd dump the wee lass all right, but I'd dump her on dear daddy's doorstep."

"That's days away," Ric sighed. "That's if the weather doesn't churn things up worse than they are now. More than that, seein' we can't raise the main with seven of us. We'll be crawling at less than six knots, fighting against the winds the entire way. I've been going over Quinn's charts. I was thinking after we left here, we could lay low, head up the coast of America. Meet up with the Raven Wing, and gather some extra men. By then Tupper would be Captain, and I'd go back to polishing my cannon. Now I'm taking us into Tortuga?"

"Might be we ken pick up more hands in Tortuga. Wouldn't be a wasted trip," added Summer.

"If we could git close 'nuf. Sailin' into Tortuga be like sailin' into the lion's mouth." White whined. "How do we know we ken even get in there? Or better yet get out?"

MacTavish shook his head. "Yer all fergettin' another thing. Windward Passage ain't no stroll on the beach. We cross paths with a few unfriendlies while we're standing here with our willies out, we might as well take turns shooting each other now. Get it over with quicker. Be a might less bloody that way, too."

Ric rubbed at the scruff on his jaw. "Well, we can't sit here doin' nothing."

Jocelyn dashed through the rain to join them. "Are you taking a vote to see who brings me ashore?"

No one answered her. Their gazes passed from one to the other. The sound of rain on the canvas overhead turned to a roar inside Ric's skull. There was no getting away from it. He was the captain. He couldn't wish it away. Drinking it away only gave him the king of all hangovers. Avoiding it until Tupper was ready wasn't an option either.

God help them all. He was truly in charge.

"Luck seems to be on our side, and it's all been bad. Ye won't be going ashore. Looks like we're goin' to have to be the ones to take ye to Tortuga."

No sooner than the words were out of his mouth, something dark and fast hit the foresail and fell to the deck.

MacTavish ducked. "Luck's out te get ye from all directions," He laughed. "Next ye'll be struck by lightning and come down with a case of the pox."

"What is that?" asked Jocelyn, stepping to the edge of the canopy's protection. Rain sheeted past the edge to splash at her hems.

White rushed out to recover the wet lump and brought it back under the canopy. "It be one of them jabberin' crows."

"Ain't jabberin' no more," Summer observed. White flipped in on its back and checked it over.

Jocelyn reached out a hand to touch. "Poor thing."

Her compassion warmed Ric. "They're usually farther inland. Landslide probably forced it off shore. Got confused in the rain."

Worry marred her face. "Is it dead?"

White ran his fingers over the span of the bird's wings. "Not yet. But he be a goner. Bunged one wing when he hit. I'll put him out of his misery and drop him over the side."

"No," Jocelyn's eyes got wide with panic. "You can't." She shot a pleading look toward Ric. "Don't let him do that. Give him to me. I'll tend him. Back at the abbey we nursed a dove back to health after it flew into its reflection in a glass window.

"This ain't no dove. It's a filthy crow," scoffed White.

"It's still a living thing." She took it with great care and cradled it in her skirt. "I'll save you, you'll see. What shall I call you?" She glanced around at the group. "You're all so clever with names, what should we call it?"

"How 'bout Stew?" joked MacTavish.

Summer snorted and slapped MacTavish on the back. "See if Hornbach knows any good recipes fer crow pie."

"Crow a l'orange?" added White.

Jocelyn gasped and turned away shielding the bird. "You can't eat crow or raven. It says so in the bible. Leviticus." She stroked the bird's sleek black head and tipped her face to peer at the sodden creature. "That's what I'll call you. Leviticus." She shot an angry glance back at the jokesters. "That will remind you not to eat him."

"Stick with us for much longer, lass," MacTavish jerked his chin toward the galley making his braids dance. "Once all that food starts te spoil, and the only thing left te eat is hardtack and salt cod. That there crow is gonna look mighty tasty. Bible or no."

She whispered to the bird. "Don't listen to him. No one is going to cook you. I won't let them."

"All right, you three," Ric stepped in to end the debate on how best to eat crow. "Turn this ship north and we'll start our crawl toward Tortuga. I'll be lookin' over the charts again. See if I ken find us a better route." To Jocelyn he added. "Follow me."

"I don't know anything about charts and routes." She said to his back.

"Dinna think ye did." He led her down to the galley where he was using one of the long tables as a desk of sorts.

"You're not going to try to cook this poor bird, too?"

"Of course not." He moved to the back where the food was kept and retrieved a wooden box, lined in straw used to store eggs. He removed the last few remaining eggs and gave it to Jocelyn. "Can't be carrying the thing about in your skirts, now ken ya?" He gathered a few bits of fruit and bread and added it to the box. "If he survives the day, you may get him to eat."

She lifted her eyes to his with that look upon her face. The one of adoration he had come to both favor and fear. "Thank you." She laid the bird gently into its new nest. "I'm sorry I called you a jackass earlier. It was unfair of me."

"'Twas yer right." Ric unrolled the charts and looked at them with unseeing eyes. The tenderness in her voice was like a siren's song. Reaching past the noise of his stress and frustration and offering him a soft place to lay his aching head. She couldn't know such kindness only raised a longing in him he didn't dare think about.

"I only wanted to help." Her quiet words reached deeper into his heart. "It's true, I have led a pampered, cloistered life. But it was never my choosing. Now I find myself in a situation where I must be strong and capable, and fight to survive. It's a powerful feeling and I'm confident I'm up to the task. Whatever it shall be."