She was extremely youthful, with a willful naïveté that pushed her forward
as she capered and pranced down the loading docks of Barbados. The thirteen
years of age that she displayed proudly in her already developing stature
and glossy golden hair had been mainly packed with intellectual learning,
and streetwise intelligence she lacked almost to a standstill. One thing
she had been warned of, though, were taverns filled with drunken men. This
she had learned by listening at walls to a sobbing laundry girl relating
her story of woe to her chambermaid, and what she had heard had filled her
with shooting curiousity. Advantage? Crazy? Men? These were words as
strange as the demanding passion that it had filled her with, willfully
swaying her to learn more, and do more than listen at walls. After all, a
commodore's daughter had to know such things that simple maids could. She
had figured that the best way to learn this was obviously not peeking and
eavesdropping, but finding these things out herself.
Her pretty head was held high, all the faintly supported glory of nobles coursing through her already excited blood. She had sneaked out at the crack of dawn to hide in the garden, and then slipped through the old and rusty door that she had discovered on previous missions. Proudly she surveyed herself: she had worn her most common garments - a fawn traveling gown underneath a ragged servant's cloak that she'd snitched, leaving a prettier one of her own in its place.
In her mind, she fitted perfectly into the crowd of the Queen's soldiers and sailors. She surveyed some of the regal ships up close - awe striking across her attractive visage, craning her neck to stare up the immensely altitudinous masts and beautifully starched sails, straining faintly in the sunny zephyrs that went flying about the tropical island.
Then her curiousity grew even greater, for she boldly minced into a less grand part of the dock. Ragged men scurried back and forth from their ships to horse-led carts, unloading barrels and crates from the dark cargo holds. Innocently she danced forward on perfectly trained feet, inquisitive hazel eyes scoping out the inky shadows of one particular ship.
She didn't notice the grubby man sneaking up behind her until it was too late, far too late. She collapsed into his outstretched arms, shock written across her stunned features. The old man cackled almost maniacally, then turned and scampered away with his pretty captive.
Her pretty head was held high, all the faintly supported glory of nobles coursing through her already excited blood. She had sneaked out at the crack of dawn to hide in the garden, and then slipped through the old and rusty door that she had discovered on previous missions. Proudly she surveyed herself: she had worn her most common garments - a fawn traveling gown underneath a ragged servant's cloak that she'd snitched, leaving a prettier one of her own in its place.
In her mind, she fitted perfectly into the crowd of the Queen's soldiers and sailors. She surveyed some of the regal ships up close - awe striking across her attractive visage, craning her neck to stare up the immensely altitudinous masts and beautifully starched sails, straining faintly in the sunny zephyrs that went flying about the tropical island.
Then her curiousity grew even greater, for she boldly minced into a less grand part of the dock. Ragged men scurried back and forth from their ships to horse-led carts, unloading barrels and crates from the dark cargo holds. Innocently she danced forward on perfectly trained feet, inquisitive hazel eyes scoping out the inky shadows of one particular ship.
She didn't notice the grubby man sneaking up behind her until it was too late, far too late. She collapsed into his outstretched arms, shock written across her stunned features. The old man cackled almost maniacally, then turned and scampered away with his pretty captive.