Chapter 7: The Prisoner

The sounds of heavy footsteps above brought me swimming back to consciousness.

I groaned as a queue of pain began to clamour immediately for attention: telling me I was cold, I was bruised, and I was lying on something hard and uncomfortable. I opened my eyes. Dim, bluish light told me it was early evening. Above me, I blearily distinguished a low ceiling of grey wooden planks.

The footsteps stopped.

I strained to hear more, but there was nothing. Just the mellow sounds of the sea, and the occasional creak of the ship… But there was no more cannonfire. No more shouts or screams. Whatever the outcome of the battle had been, it appeared to be over for now.

I turned my head a little. I could see corroded iron bars surrounding me, and a rusted padlock securing the battered-looking door. I was a prisoner. In the brig, I guessed; though it was little more than a cage, barely six feet across. I sat up with another groan. I felt like I'd been hit by a bus, and then slammed into concrete a few times for good measure. One of my arms was covered in long oval-shaped bruises – marks left by the Capitán's grip; and it felt like I had more on my chest and back. I had no recollection of anything after being choked out.

A pained wheeze punctured the quiet. I twisted around, afraid I would see Capitán Salazar – but it wasn't him.

Scarfield lay unconscious on the rotting floorboards, his uniform soaked through with blood. Crawling over to him, I saw he was still alive – but his breathing was shallow.

"Beatrice…" he opened his eyes a little.

Oh, shit.

Scarfield was conscious, trying to focus on me as I knelt beside him. I had no idea what to do: the blood was everywhere. His coat and vest was gone, and the shirt he wore was more red than white, a tear in the side where he'd been wounded by Capitán Salazar's sword.

"We should – we should at least take your shirt off," I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.

He closed his eyes and swallowed.

"No." he said. "No – don't take it off – yet… just – pull… it apart. I need to see."

I gingerly pulled the shirt apart wider. A nasty gash curved up from his hip to just below his ribs, the skin on both sides swollen and angry looking, and still bleeding sluggishly.

Scarfield sucked in a breath through his teeth and fell back, worn out from just the little amount of effort he'd made. "I'll survive," he murmured, eyes closed. "Had worse. Can you – do you have anything to – to bind it?"

I looked down. All I had was what I was wearing. But it was better than nothing.

"Yes," I told him. "Just give me a moment."

I turned away, reached up under my dress, and slid off the petticoat. Stepping out of it, I lifted it up, examining it for seams. The petticoat had definitely been made by someone with a rapturous passion for frills and flounces. It was impossible to even find which way to begin. Eventually I gave up and just started to tear at it – and fortunately, it tore easily. I soon had several ragged but serviceable strips with which to wrap him in.

When I knelt back down beside him, he insisted again on sitting up. I helped him remove his bloodied shirt, so that I could wind the long strips around his chest and waist. He was lucid enough to give me some direction as to how to tie each strip off, and when I was finally done he lay back down, exhausted.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"No problem," I said automatically.

He opened his eyes to look at me curiously. "Pardon?"

Dammit. Once again, I'd forgotten to be Lady Stanhope. I'd forgotten this was the 1700s. As innocuous as it was, no one in this time period said, 'No problem'. I turned away to hide my panic.

"Try and rest," I said neutrally, my back to him.

"I will…" he murmured.

Overhead, I heard the footsteps start again – slower this time, as though their owner was deep in thought.

Scarfield started to speak again.

"You know…" he said drowsily, "I don't regret anything Beatrice. I want you to know that. I'll never regret meeting you. I was – so angry, when your uncle sent me to fetch you. I'd been slated to be – leaving on the Essex… sailing to win the Trident for the glory –" he snorted a little, "Of the British crown… glory . Stupid word. I used to think it was so important… but that was before I met you. The only glory worth having is just the glory of being in your presence, my darling..."

His voice trailed off.

A few minutes later, I heard the unmistakable sounds of his deep and even breathing behind me, and drew in a deep breath of relief myself. I'd never felt more awkward and uncomfortable, listening to his feelings.

As he slept, I looked around again at the small cage we were in. It was barely big enough to move more than six short steps from side to side, but I was so full of nervous energy, I couldn't help pacing.

Icy cold shivered over my skin in the gradually darkening cell, and I crossed my arms, trying to keep warm as I paced.

A soft creak between the door and the bars halted me.

Someone else was there.

"What do you want?" I called out. There was no response. And yet I could feel it. Someone – or something – was watching us. I strained to see, but it was too dark now to make anything out. "Who are you?"

A faint chuckle greeted my demand, and another shiver swept over me. I hated being afraid. I was on a shipful of ghosts, and there was one right here, probably having a big old laugh scaring me.

"Listen here, you little bastard," I hissed into the dark, "I've faced scarier things than you, so either tell me what you're here for or fuck off ."

There was absolute silence.

And then, clear as a bell, a male voice answered, "All in good time, love. All in good time!"

Definitely not Spanish, I immediately realised. In fact, their accent sounded vaguely like a cockney accent, which was strange, since I could have sworn all the crew of the Silent Mary were distinctly Spanish. And more than that, it sounded like it belonged to someone far too cheerfully amused to be any of the crew I'd met so far... I strained to see who the owner of the voice was, but I couldn't make out anyone else in the brig.

Suddenly, there was the sound of Spanish voices above us, followed by a door opening and closing, and a burst of insistent arguing. I heard several swear words in French being fired out rapidly.

Eleni…? I frowned.

A low growl that I thought might be the Capitán's voice followed, and then more low conversation between him and who I was now positive was Eleni. I tried hard to distinguish the words being said, but it was impossible. The sound of a door opening once more seemed to mark the end of whatever was being said.

"What's going on up there, do you know?" I asked my mysterious visitor – but he seemed to have gone.

And then the door in the far end of the room rattled and opened, and a figure strode towards our cage.

"¡Levántate!"

It was Lieutenant Lesaro. He forced a key in the rusted padlock.

"¡Levántate!" he repeated coldly to Scarfield. "You are wanted."

Scarfield struggled to sit up. I helped him to stand, feeling Lesaro's restrained impatience as he waited. Scarfield draped a heavy arm across my shoulders.

"Just one step at a time," I reassured him. I helped Scarfield take a step towards the open door of the cage.

"Not you, Señorita," Lesaro was firm. "You are to stay."

I shook my head at him. "If I don't help him, he's not going to make it."

The iciness of Lesaro's demeanour could've frozen the Antarctic. "Oh?" He raised his eyebrow. "My heart weeps."

"If he can't make it, you'll be disobeying orders!" I snapped.

Lesaro's single-eyed glare cut into me. "Then so be it."

"It's – it's perfectly alright," Scarfield's voice was hoarse with effort. "I can do it, Beatrice. Don't – don't antagonise them. I'll be back, I promise."

Scarfield pulled himself from me, staggering a little as he found his balance, clutching at the iron bars, before slowly straightening, and managing to take a step out of the cage.

Lesaro slid the door shut at once with a loud clang, and locked it.

"Capitán Salazar will come to speak with you shortly, Señorita," Lesaro said. "Pray he is in a more generous mood by then."

As the bluish light outside deepened, and pitch black began to stifle all senses, I paced faster. What was happening up there? What was taking Scarfield so long?

"Please let someone come soon," I whispered.

I was losing air. I tried to slow my breathing, like I'd been told to do whenever I started to panic, but it was getting harder and harder to do. This was a shrinking box, edges moving closer and closer to me no matter how I tried to keep pacing around, and soon I wouldn't be able to move at all. I stopped pacing when dizziness started to take over, and wrapped my fists around the iron bars, fantasising about shaking the cage apart in a wild rush of power, crashing up through the ceiling into the fresh night air.

The iron bars were badly corroded, and as I grated the palms of my hands around them in frustration, I heard the damp rust flaking off in a shower onto the floor.

A lot of rust.

On an instinct, I tapped the bars with one foot. More rust crumbled onto the grey rotted floorboards. I listened to see if anyone would come to investigate the sound I'd made, but there was no one. I studied the bars, remembering Eleni telling me it had been thirty years…

Thirty years of exposure to seawater and air.

Thirty years of corrosion.

My eye on the dark outline of the door at the end of the room, I decided to risk it. I drew my foot back, and gave a firm kick to one of the bars. It snapped at once out of its welding, and I grabbed onto it in shock before it could hit the floor. I waited, breath caught in my throat.

Still no one came – but now I was glad no one did.

I pulled the bar carefully inside the cell.

The body of the bar was still strong, though badly rusted – I could not bend or break it. I felt the ends, jagged where it had snapped. Perhaps a weaker metal had been used to weld it, speeding up its corrosion. Or perhaps it was just too old and badly made. In the end, it didn't matter.

If it was this easy, even in the body I was in, to kick a bar out…

I almost grinned in triumph. I might be able to get out of here.

Suddenly I heard footsteps, coming down wooden steps. Coming down towards me.

Swearing under my breath, I hurriedly managed to wedge the iron bar back in place, and prayed it would stay.

The next moment, the Capitán appeared – but not at the door. He melted through the walls like they were nothing, his coat floating out behind him, his eyes shining in the dark, as he came to a halt in front of the cage. He stood there, sword seemingly loose in his hand – but one look at his face and I know he could force that sword through my heart between one beat and the next, without even flinching.

Finally, he spoke. "Who are you?"

Something about the way he was looking at me told me I couldn't lie. And I instinctively knew I couldn't tell him I was Lady Stanhope – especially after what Eleni had said in front of him before. But the truth?

"Where's Eleni?" I deflected.

"The French girl?" he said softly. "She offered a bargain. An exchange. Which I confess, I am considering…"

I frowned, wondering what on earth Eleni had offered Capitán Salazar that would interest him.

He leant in close to the bars. "She had quite a tale to tell me. About you."

"I bet she did," I muttered. "How much did she tell you?"

"No more than what I already suspected." He became impatient, and his sword-hand twitched. "I do not like repeating myself, Señorita. Tell me your name."

I couldn't.

I knew how it would be.

Answering one question, would just open the floodgates to more questions. One answer became many answers. And anything I said could irrevocably change the future. And then the future I returned to – if I returned – would not be the same one I left.

"It doesn't matter," I told him. "My name's not important."

There was a long silence.

Then, directing an abrupt command in Spanish towards the door, Capitán Salazar took a step back from the bars.

Lieutenant Lesaro appeared through the door again at one end of the room, followed by two other crewman, carrying a barely conscious Scarfield between them. He unlocked and held the cage open, and without ceremony, they thrust him through the door. I barely had time to catch him from hitting the floor, as Lesaro re-locked the door and handed the key to the Capitán, before all of them left. I did not dare look at the broken bar while I knew I was being watched, but at least it hadn't fallen yet. I was intensely grateful that I'd wedged it back hard enough not to have fallen when the cage door had slammed shut.

I risked a glance up to see that Capitán Salazar was still standing there. His eyes flicked to Scarfield, as I did my best to lay him gently down on the floor.

"Thank you," Scarfield whispered, before falling unconscious again.

Capitán Salazar clicked his tongue in disappointment.

"Pity he still lives, eh?" He sneered. "You should let him die, Señorita, it would be much kinder."

I shook my head, but didn't answer. Instead, I reached for the sad remains of the petticoat, and started to ball it up into a pillow.

"You don't agree?"

"I think your idea of kindness is very different to mine," I said, lifting Scarfield's head and sliding the makeshift pillow underneath.

He lifted his eyebrows a little, coming even closer.

The floorboards creaked. I swallowed, hoping the loose bar wouldn't fall.

"Stand up," he commanded.

Bristling at the order, but unable to do anything else, I stood and faced him.

He studied me for a full minute, his wheezing breath scraping in the quiet, his eyes still holding the faintest glimmer of red in their black depths. I had never had anyone look at me the way he was looking at me right now. I didn't know what to do with my hands, I didn't know if it was better to look down at the floor or look directly back at him; he held the power of life and death for the Lieutenant passed out unconscious in the brig with me, and angering him with a mere look was not only possible, but probable - and would be the worst thing I could do.

When he suddenly and abruptly stalked forward, right through the bars , I stumbled backwards from him in alarm, too shocked to even scream. I hit the rough wooden wall hard behind me, grazing my elbows and winding myself.

"Still! Be still , Señorita!" He drew his lips back in a snarl, hissing, "I want to see your face!"

He stood so close now that there was barely three inches between us; and here in the brig, without the noise of cannonfire or the smell of bitter smoke, I became uncomfortably aware of so much more. For the first time I could hear the way his stiff, burnt coat crackled and rustled with his movements, the smell of old blood that came from each rasping exhale, and the bright sheen on the black fluid that seemed to permanently trickle out of his mouth and down his chin.

"Why won't you tell me who you are?" he asked harshly, staring hard at me. "You do not speak like the others. Where are you from?"

I was fairly certain the place I'd been born in didn't even exist yet, but there was no way to explain that either. Not without explaining everything else. So I went for the most obvious, hoping it didn't conflict with whatever Eleni had already told him.

"I'm not Lady Stanhope. I'm – an imposter," I swallowed at the intensity of his gaze, and hurried on, "I'm just pretending to be her... to get to St Martin."

He was silent, measuring me, his disbelief evident in the way the corner of his mouth twitched.

"An imposter…" His gaze flicked again to the unconscious man on the floor, and his next words were soft, as if he restrained his apparent incredulity. "And yet, that man believes you're the woman he proposed to..."

"I'm not." I admitted faintly. "I just – I just look like her."

"Do you?" he tilted his head again, and this time he did not restrain the sharp bite to his words. "To me, you do not look the way the others see you. I know this, because I took other prisoners."

Quicker than I could follow, his hand moved: he was pulling on a loose lock of hair that had escaped to trail over my shoulder, twining it around his finger. I pressed myself back into the wall, too terrified to move as he wound it around and through his knuckles, seemingly distracted for a moment.

"And when I questioned them…" he looked back at me shrewdly, tugging on the lock of hair, "About the bella dama with the long hair the colour of the sunset, they were confused. They told me there was no such lady. There was only a French maid, and Lady Stanhope… and neither of them have red and gold hair." He pulled on the lock of hair again, forcing me to lean closer, until there was barely an inch now between us. "But I know what I see."

For a moment, I was too overwhelmed to speak. He could see me?

His eyes glittered with a kind of curious malice as he drank in my expression, and I felt his wheezing breath, cool against my flushed skin.

"I see you," his eyes roved over my face. "And I feel you – there is magic, all around you. You've been taken and forced into this body, haven't you, Señorita?"

I tried to shake my head, but the movement as it yanked the lock of hair he still had wrapped around his hand made me gasp in pain.

"Is that a no?" He asked.

My hands started to sweat at how close he was, and my dry throat was threatening to close up.

"Are you telling me I am wrong ?"

I couldn't deny it, and yet I had no idea how it was possible that he could see me. I wanted to deny it – needed to, because I knew what his next questions might be. I struggled to think of the safest way to answer, any way that would not mean having to talk about myself or where I had come from. Unhelpfully, my brain flashed the image of the last time he'd looked at me this way – on the Proserpine – the way he'd stalked the deck, entirely focused on me, inquisitive interest mixed with cold mercilessness in this same hard stare, before it had fractured into shock once he'd put his hand over my wrist.

I remembered then what Eleni said: that even if everyone else thought I looked like Lady Stanhope, those with magic could see what I really looked like. Could see my real face. And Capitán Salazar's very existence was nothing if not by magic. Dark magic, but magic nevertheless... that was how he was able to see me.

"No," I finally whispered. "No, you're right. I'm – this isn't my body."

His eyes were bright, with a feverish sharpness to them that made me afraid. "So you are not his fiancée?"

For a moment I was completely bewildered. It was such a strange question. Strange, that after telling me he knew I was in another woman's body, that this was the first thing he'd think of asking.

"No." I said quietly. "No, I'm not his fiancée."

I looked away towards the unconscious Lieutenant, glad to see he was still asleep, and that he wasn't awake to hear this. I couldn't imagine how he'd cope, finding out that another woman had been shoved into the body of his fiancée. In his state, the knowledge might put Scarfield into complete shock; he might not recover. That is, if he even accepted it in the first place.

A sly expression came over the Capitán's face, and he leaned back a little, letting the lock of hair slip back out of his fingers to rest over my shoulder. "And yet, you have so much compassion for him, bandaging his wounds, being so attentive..."

"Anyone would," I swallowed, irrationally nervous at his subtle insinuations. "He was injured, trying to save me. Bandaging him… is the least I could do."

"Is that so?"

I didn't answer.

His eyes reddened with irritation when I didn't speak, and he suddenly slammed his fist against the wall, right next to my head. "I do not like being refused, Señorita! Tell me who you are!"

"I'm not sure I should tell you that!" I blurted. Shocked at his frightening change, I looked down, afraid to meet his fire-tinged eyes again... but now I couldn't help seeing his other hand, and the tightening grip he had on his sword hilt.

"Not even your name?" He ground out, in barely contained rage.

I hesitated, knowing I was walking a very fine line with him – but also knowing that there was an even finer line when it came to potentially changing the future. Even something as seemingly innocuous as giving my name, which I knew would definitely cause more questions, might affect my future. "Probably… not."

Inexplicably, his mood changed again, and he stepped back, sweeping an amused but derisive gaze up and down my dress. "I cannot call you Lady Stanhope, even though you are dressed like her..."

He eyed my low neckline, and in spite of the danger I was in, I couldn't help feeling both embarrassed and annoyed at his mocking scorn. I knew the damn thing was ridiculously low, the whole dress was a horror, I didn't need to be reminded of it. Or judged for it.

"I didn't exactly have much of a choice about the dress –" I bit my lip when his eyes flared bright at my sharp retort, and looked down again.

"Then must I think of a name for you?" He said it like it was a burden, though when I glanced up he looked suspiciously as if he was trying to hide his continued amusement behind a mask of condescension. "I cannot always call you Señorita..."

"Call me whatever you like," I said tightly, trying not to show my exasperation at his patronizing tone of voice, "It makes no difference."

He chuckled at my reaction.

"I have never had to name a lady." His eyes roved over my face. "I think... until you tell me your name, I will call you… Edelina."

"Why?" I asked, frowning. "Why that name?"

He smiled. "As you say, it makes no difference."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Edelina means 'Spoils of war'