Billy tossed his arm up to cover his eyes with a groan. The men in his barracks were unusually loud this afternoon. Or maybe they were always this loud, but he was never here to know otherwise. For the first time since discovering his refuge, he made the resolution to spend Sunday in bed resting, as one does on a Sunday. Without Abigail, the place didn't feel the same. It was empty, like every other part of his existence. The emptiness mocked him.

He would go back the next time Marcus needed money and the place would remain a secret. Marcus never asked where a convict shipped from London had acquired a seemingly endless supply of precious jewels.

The acquisition of his share of the Urca treasure had been the culmination of the very, very few good decisions Billy made after waking up on that island. Finding Flint's buried chest hadn't been particularly difficult and he had little else to do while there. During his marooning on Skeleton Island, in a fit of what he now realized was paranoid insanity, he'd split the treasure up and buried or hid it all over that bloody rock. Some was even secreted away under the coral that made the island a death trap for ships. When a lucky ship had gotten close enough to send a launch, he'd cut a simple deal with the captain: in exchange for his help safely getting them back out to sea and his help locating just under half the treasure, they'd ferry him back to England and not bother him about the two equal shares of treasure he intended to take for himself.

His share went right into a safe deposit box. He never felt right using it, but liked the idea that if he ever needed to run, he had the means to do so. The other he'd personally delivered to Ben Gunn's home in Ireland. He assured Ben's flabbergasted mother that it was rightfully theirs, arranged a trustworthy jeweler to make regular exchanges with, and left without ever telling them his name. Ben would figure it out.

Although he had done this out of a genuine sense of guilt and responsibility for Ben, his little act of repentance had been a wise investment. When he was arrested, he was allowed to notify his closest living relative of his pending banishment. Given that Billy didn't even know if he had any living relatives, and wouldn't contact them regardless, only one name came to mind. Billy sent word to Ben, who had conveniently already returned to Ireland to investigate the mysterious treasure now in his mother's possession. Ben, in turn, collected Billy's loot from the bank, took a small percentage of it for himself, and made the Atlantic crossing once more. First he deposited Billy's share at a little hidden water feature just a mile or so outside of Camp Jackson, then he ventured back to the West Indies with the rough map Billy provided him of all the hiding places he could remember on Skeleton Island. No doubt by now he had acquired the remaining treasure and should be living the good life. The tales of Long John Silver's frenzied quest for Flint's Spanish prize were a point of private hilarity Billy couldn't share with anyone, and that was alright.

Everybody wins, and Billy could sleep with himself at night. About this subject, at least.

Giving the bits of his treasure to Marcus and his people was the first thing he'd actually done with it that didn't make him feel dirty. It was a start.

He tossed in his rack first this way, then that. It was bloody hot in this tent. His skin itched and stung, but he couldn't see any mosquitoes or biting flies. The chiggers and biting gnats and God-only-knows what else were both unseen and inescapable.

The fucking tent stank of men, men without the benefit of a fresh ocean wind. It always smelled fresh by the pond, and when the bugs became a nuisance, he could just slip into the water until the sun lower and they retreated to wherever it was insects went in the cool evening air.

The impulse to leave the crowded, reeking tent and escape to his retreat was overwhelming. It warred in his body against the knowledge that he would find no peace there, not anymore. But he had no peace here, either. At least out there it was quiet, and he could stay out and watch the stars all night, if he chose to. No one would bother him and no one would notice any difference when he formed up tomorrow morning with the others.

Surrendering to habit won out in the end. He could berate himself for his weakness later, at least he didn't have to listen to the chattering, yelling, utter bullshit that apparently went on in the barracks on Sundays. With his hands firmly in his pockets and head down, he marched out of the camp and into the woods, seeing nothing but his booted feet kicking over the earth, splashing across the shallow stream, then ascending the boulders to their hidden passage.

When he emerged on the other side, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the late afternoon sunshine, but he immediately recognized the figure sitting on a blanket on the opposite shore, arms wrapped around her propped up knees and her head resting there, hiding her face from the sun and from him. He stopped mid-step, but she didn't look up or even move at all. She hadn't heard him approach. Her hair hung in loose waves, shining in the low sunlight. He could turn back now, and she would never know he'd been there.

Anger rippled through his core, licking at the heels of his battered pride. He shouldn't have come here. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, and demand an answer, an explanation, anything.

Instead, he took a slow step forward, and then another, slipping into the shallow water then back onto the shore with hardly a sound. As he got closer, he could see the subtle shake of her shoulders and heard a soft hiccup and sniffle. Oh, fuck . The impulse to shake her instantly became the impulse to hold her, and he cursed himself. If he couldn't learn to tell this woman "no," she'd be the death of him.

She jerked, startled by the sudden awareness of his presence. Her eyes were glassy and red, like the tip of her nose and her cheeks. She sniffed again and stood while wiping her eyes, though nothing could hide that she'd been crying.

"I thought you weren't going to come." Her voice was surprisingly clear. She dropped her hands from her face, only to wring them together in front of her skirts. "I thought I'd really ruined everything this time."

He stamped down the urge to take her into his arms, fisting his hands at his sides. "What are you doing here?" It came out more gruff than he intended, but that was for the best. Her lips pursed into a tight frown and her eyes dropped.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said in a soft voice.

No. No no no . He would not, could not, surrender this easily. "I'm not sure that's a good idea." Abigail swallowed at that and, God help him, her eyes started to glass over. No, he couldn't quit. He took a step away from her, and she didn't follow. "And then what? We go back to pretending like we're not doing anything wrong until you have another crisis of conscience? And then you push me away again and we start all over? I can't do it, Abigail."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I've done that to you."

He took another step back. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You and I both wanted something we can't have, but it's over. I will not continue this."

"Will you at least hear what I have to say?"

Billy shifted his weight from foot to foot, considering his options. If he was a stronger man, he'd just leave. There was nothing she could possibly say to change their situation. There was no running away, no erasing their reality and pretending they could have what they both wanted. With that in mind, he started to turn back to the passageway, then her voice stopped him.

"He knows, Billy."

A chill ran down his spine. He knows ? His mind began ticking off the escape he'd never really planned, but always felt the need to consider. He had his money, he'd leave a portion for Marcus. He'd need to get his record from Jacobs' office, along with the pardon. The pardon would do him no good if he didn't destroy the records identifying his pardoned identity as a convict, and his freedom would do him no good if he was immediately identified by one and all as an ex-pirate. Where would all this leave Abigail? Would Locke set her aside? For a moment of selfish madness, he was a little too eager with the idea that he might have to take her with him, for her own good, of course. The questions and problems turned and turned like a top, until one dangerous, traitorous thought gained traction.

"What do you mean, 'he knows '?" Billy spoke the words carefully, each syllable turning the thought that he could keep her to ash. Had she told her husband, knowing damn well what would happen if Locke should take his complaint to literally anyone?

"I didn't tell him." She fiddled with her hands, but he could still see her trembling. "He just knew."

"Fuck," he muttered. He started to pace back the way he'd come, then turned and paced back in Abigail's direction. A headache was crystallizing right in the center of his forehead. "Do you know what he's going to do? I can't stay here anymore, I have to run."

He was so distracted by competing concerns over what move to make first, he didn't notice her approach until her hands gently pressed into his biceps. "You don't have to run." She worked her way into his vision, forcing him to be still in body and mind, and for the moment, all he could see were those bright, rich eyes. "He won't tell anyone."

That didn't make any sense. He could feel himself shaking his head, still preparing for his flight from Jackson, but her touch kept him in place. He must have been murmuring arguments because she was quietly countering his every thought.

"I know it sounds mad, but he was happy. He's not angry. He told me to come to you."

"No, no." He pulled away, but she followed. "This is a trick. It's a set up. They want a reason to get rid of us. Abigail, we both have to go-"

"It's not a trick." Her hands fluttered up to cup his jaw. If she would just stop touching him, he could think clearly and get moving. "Billy," her lips formed his name, "it's not a trick. I don't know how to explain it, but everything is fine."

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on making sense of her words. He opened his eyes and she was still there. "No, that's not possible." He had seen his fair share of liberal relationships. He spent most of his adult life on a pirate ship or in Nassau, after all. But that wasn't her, and it definitely wasn't her nervous, blushing, stammering husband.

Her hands dropped and damn it all, he already missed her touch. She chewed her full lower lip and faltered. "I don't understand it either, but you have to already know that he and I don't have," she paused and swallowed, drawing his eyes to the delicate column of her throat, "well, it's never been a conventional marriage."

Damn right, Billy didn't understand. Were their roles reversed, and Billy was her husband and Albert the interloper, Billy would kill him. Of course, if their roles were reversed, he would leave no room for Abigail to ever describe their marriage as unconventional .

This was not at all what he'd expected to find at the pond today.

Billy pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It was simply impossible that she could be standing before him saying these things.

"I meant what I said." Her voice was so soft, Billy might have imagined it. "I understand if you don't want anything more to do with me. The way I treated you was unforgivable. But I want you to know that I meant everything I said."

I'm yours . He'd allowed himself to believe her. Billy closed his eyes again, terrified that if he faced her, he would believe her again, and when she ran from him again, he'd be lost. He finished turning away from her and fixed his gaze at a point deep in the woods, where it was already getting dark. If he could just not look at her, he wouldn't fall into the abyss.

He heard her exhale a shaky breath, and then the air shifted with her movement. "I'm sorry." She was leaving. She was really going to walk away.

He shot his arm out, snaked around her waist, and pulled her tight to him until their lips finally met.

Abigail knew she'd hurt him, but she didn't realize how badly until today. He could hardly stand to look at her. It didn't help that she still couldn't quite verbalize whatever agreement she and Albert had come to. She still wasn't sure exactly what that agreement was, but the implied idea was real enough.

If she could only say it, speak the words out loud, then he would look at her and know she was telling the truth, and that she was here for good this time. She had nothing holding her back now, no more secrets to keep or betrayals eating her alive from the inside out.

It was too late, though. Abigail could see it in the hard set of his shoulders, and the clench of his fists that was so tight, the veins in his forearms were almost pulsing.

A lump rose in her throat. It was outrageous that she could still feel like crying after all that she'd already done. All the courage she'd worked up to come out here evaporated. It had been slowly simmering away with each passing hour that he didn't arrive, and now it was gone.

"I'm sorry," she said, though she couldn't hear her own voice over the hot rush of shame and defeat. What part of all this she was more ashamed of she couldn't say.

She moved to make a dignified retreat, but an iron arm looped around her waist, pulling her up short so suddenly she gasped. His lips were on hers in a bruising kiss, silencing any further apologies or explanations, even coherent thought. All she could feel was him, from the hard wall of muscle she was caged against to the hands cradling the back of her neck, tipping her head back for easier access, taking what he wanted.

His hands left her head and neck, and Abigail was scooped off her feet, their lips only parting long enough for quick, shallow breaths before crashing back together. They shared a fervent urgency, pushing and pulling against each other with almost violent abandon. This close to him, wrapped up against him, her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt, his scent washed over her. She loved the heat radiating off of him, and the way his short hair felt choppy and soft against her palms, and the way the scruff of his jaw burned her skin. Her lips and cheeks and neck and god-only-knows what else would be red after this, and a primal corner of her mind wanted it. She wanted everyone and anyone to look at her and see that he had branded her.

Her back found cool earth and she distantly remembered she had actually brought a blanket. It was spread neatly next to the shore where she'd sat for two hours before the despair really began to set in. It didn't matter; she didn't care. Anything that might interrupt this was a loathed enemy.

Billy's body covered hers, enveloping her in that masculine, sea-swept scent she so loved and the powerful, unforgiving strength that still managed to distract her on sight. His weight on her, molded against her, felt delicious and sent every nerve tingling. She was entirely at his mercy and that wild, untamed part of her reveled in it.

She was tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, as he was making quick work of pushing the skirts and petticoats and underclothes out of the way until she could finally open for him. He settled between her legs, but didn't stay settled for long. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him closer. She needed him closer. He apparently felt the same; one hand gripped her bottom, keeping her pressed tight against him, and dear God, she'd never felt anything like that . His other hand was tangled with hers, working his belt and trousers free much more efficiently than she was.

Their lips never parted, save to tear apart for a gasping breath and then crush back together. He had a feral quality she hadn't seen before. The heat between them burned from a mutual exigency - more dire and demanding than before, spurred on by the unspoken shared terror that if they did not take this step right now, their final chance would vanish into the wind.

She felt him and a moment later he entered her in a flood of sensation that overwhelmed and seared so keenly she cried out. Billy froze over her, tore his lips away and staring at her with a look of agonized shock and confusion. She wanted to speak, to tell him it was alright, that it was more than alright, but he was so much more than she'd experienced. It left her spinning and racing to catch up with what her body already understood. The initial shock faded as her body adjusted to him, replacing that keen ache with an intoxicating pressure and fullness.

Billy braced himself over her, a tremble rolled from his shoulders down his arms, she could even feel it in the muscles at his core. "I thought…I thought…" he struggled to get the words out between his strangled breaths. His eyes were so bright, wavering between intense focus on her and, a flickering haze as lost as she felt. He brought a hand up to her cheek, suddenly gentle and soft. "I'm sorry." He shook his head and his mouth struggled to form words, but fell short. "Oh, God, I didn't mean to-"

Abigail captured his lips, tugging the lower lip between her teeth, and rocked her hips against him. He groaned into her mouth so she did it again. It was like lightning had struck. He filled every part of her and the friction was unlike anything she'd ever felt. He finally relaxed just enough to return the gesture, slowly, tentatively, still hyper aware of just how easily he might hurt her, but too lost in the moment to stop.

They found a cadence together. It started slow; Billy pressed his forehead against hers, never taking his eyes off her. He cradled her face between his hands, rubbing small circles against her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She could get lost in those impossibly blue eyes.

Something was building that she couldn't name, but it drove her to meet him thrust for thrust. She could feel his heart thundering where her hands dug into the material of his shirt. His heartbeat matched her own; a wild, hammering staccato so strong it might burst from her chest.

When it finally happened, Abigail saw stars. Waves of pleasure exploded until she couldn't control cry that escaped her throat. Billy followed her over the edge. One hand fisted in her hair to bring her still-moaning lips to his while the other returned to her bare hip, slamming into her and holding her in place as his own release pulsed hot inside her.

The world finally began to slow down and settle again. Blood was returning to her lust-addled mind, with it came a sense of peace. She didn't want to move from this spot and the idea of physically parting from him was abhorrent.

Billy's forehead returned to hers and his grip relaxed until he pushed up, carefully smoothing away the hair he had pulled loose. His face was a flushed mask of concern and for a terrifying moment, Abigail wondered if he was about to tell her how wrong this was, or how awful she must have been. Her own husband hadn't been able to bring himself to complete this act with her. It stood to reason that she was displeasing, but she couldn't bear the thought of Billy confirming that fear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through a hoarse voice. "You've been married, I thought… why didn't you tell me?"

Abigail couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. Her lips grazed the line of his jaw and she could taste the sweat that had accumulated. "I wasn't a virgin." She trailed a series of small kisses down his jaw, tasting him, feeling the muscles there jumping at the contact.

He pulled back just far enough to give her a single arched brow of such exaggerated doubt, Abigail erupted into laughter. Muscles she hadn't known she possessed flexed against him and his skepticism vanished into a wince and sharp intake of breath. He reluctantly withdrew, covered himself, and resettled next to her, still stroking her hair and cheek. "Are you sure? Because that was…" he trailed off and shook his head.

"Yes," Abigail nodded, "I'm sure. I mean, just once. We tried again, but I'm afraid I must not be very pleasing."

Billy scoffed, then brought his fingers to cover his eyes and groaned, before scrubbing his hand down his face and returning to her hair. "There are many reasons why a man may not want to fuck," he cringed at the word, "but I feel qualified to say that you are not displeasing." He studied her carefully, the worry knitted his brow. "I'm so, so sorry, to just take you like that. I acted like an animal."

Abigail took his hand and brought to her lips, were she could place light kisses on his fingertips. "I'm not sorry." He looked like he wanted to argue until she let her mouth linger on the pad of his forefinger. "I wanted this."

He bent his head, embracing her in a slow, easy kiss. "I promise it can be better. Next time." Doubt flashed in his eyes. "There will be a next time?"

"Yes," she answered immediately. "I'm not going anywhere, Billy."

"Thank Christ," he muttered before pulling her in again. They tumbled together, laughing and kissing as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon.

"Ouch." Abigail pressed her wounded fingertip to her lips and tasted the tiny drop of blood. She would be lucky if she didn't lose the use of her index finger entirely.

Lizzie arched a dark, slender brow, no doubt counting the number of stray needle pricks Abigail endured that afternoon. "And why did you want to join us this afternoon, Ma'am?"

"I just need to keep my hands busy." It was true enough. Normally she'd be hauling water out for the men and women working on the fields, and then join Kanuna, but today brought a heavy storm that kept nearly everyone in their tents.

"If they stay any busier, you're like to ruin that shirt." Lizzie pushed her material and re-centered it, keeping her stitches neat, even, and blood-free. "You've been stitching bridles for the past month. Leather's harder to sew than this."

Abigail's hand stilled. "I'm just bad at this."

"No you're not." Lizzie leaned back on the bench until her back rested against one of the heavy tent poles. She narrowed her eyes at Abigail and pursed her lips. "Your head's not here. Trouble at home?"

Abigail inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. This tent was crowded with women, but most were absorbed in their work or in conversation with each other, and the steady patter of rain on the canvas created a natural sound buffer. It certainly wouldn't do to have any of them overhear Lizzie's studious scrutiny of Abigail's distraction.

Lizzie scooted forward, studying Abigail much too close to be polite. Abigail felt the distinct sensation of being some kind of medical experiment. Her eyes flashed bright with triumph. "Oh, it's not trouble at all, is it?" She abruptly returned to her work with a self-satisfied hum. "To be perfectly honest, I didn't think he had it in him."

The blood left Abigail's face and her hands froze in place. How could she possibly know? There were a grand total of three people in Camp Jackson who could know about her relationship with Billy. If others knew, it meant one of them was a gossip or much worse, someone had seen them.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." She cursed the telling quaver of her voice.

Lizzie scoffed. "Come on, I'm a working girl. I know what a woman who's been good and fucked looks like, and you, my dear, are glowing. I just never imagined the reverend…" she trailed off in thought, then her eyes narrowed again. "He doesn't have it in him," she practically hissed under her breath. "What did you do? You little doxie!" Lizzie unleashed a string of teasing accusations, grinning and wagging a finger at Abigail.

Abigail snatched the finger and shot a panicked look around the tent. No one seemed to have noticed, but Lizzie quieted nonetheless. As best she could at any rate, still struggling to keep her giggling under wraps against Abigail's hushing. "For the love of God, please stop before someone hears this."

"Sorry, sorry." She didn't look the least bit sorry. She scooted even closer, so they could properly whisper. "I just wouldn't have expected it from either of you."

Abigail clutched the mostly forgotten material in her hands. If anyone looked hard enough, it would be painfully obvious she wasn't working on it. "I guess sometimes people can surprise you."

"Apparently so." Lizzie was still practically vibrating with excited energy. She nudged Abigail with her hip. "Are you going to make me interrogate you? Who? What are you going to do about Mr. Locke? You know it's not going to stay secret out here for long. Unless you're both stepping out, though I still don't really see him having that much of a wild side. Or maybe, does he, you know, want to watch? Religious types always surprise me."

Abigail knew she must have been staring at Lizzie like a fish, because Lizzie finally looked back up from her shirt and snorted. She took Abigail's hand and gave it a light squeeze. "No need to panic, it's more common than you think."

"Oh."

"You look like you're eating your cheeks."

Abigail relaxed a measure and abandoned the effort to look busy. She kept her attention firmly on her tender fingertips. "This is new to me, you know. Anyone who so much as discussed something like this would have been…"

"Banished to a penal colony?"

"Precisely," Abigail said, finally matching Lizzie's amusement.

"They make such a fuss, and for what, you know?" Lizzie picked up her needle again. "I don't like potatoes. I hate 'em. They taste like dirt and begging. No one tells me I'm going to Hell because I do or don't like something."

Abigail frowned. The air inside the tent was stifling with the confined smoke of the lanterns trapped by the moisture outside, mingling with the smells of moldering clothes and women who had gone too long without a real bath. She might never get used to the smell of bodies packed into a too-small space. "And no one could ever make you want… potatoes? Not if they were fried or cooked with different spices?"

"They'd have to hide it pretty well."

"And you wouldn't be angry if your husband decided to make potatoes for himself?"

Lizzie snorted again. "I wouldn't be married, but no, I wouldn't begrudge my imaginary husband all the potatoes he wanted, or getting potatoes at his friend's house or from the inn. The man can have all the bloody potatoes he wants because I love him – this imaginary man – and it's not skin off my nose if he wants to enjoy a plate of mash."

Abigail hummed under her breath, working the rough material between her fingers.

"A piece of advice?" Lizzie waited until Abigail could face her. "If you're going to do it, you ought to be able to say it."