This day of all days would be unnaturally hot. The late afternoon sun rose high and punishing. The air held a particularly steamy quality. Abigail's thoughts kept wandering back to Billy, languishing in the camp's brig. As quickly as they turned his direction, she remembered everything she'd learned and grew angry all over again. The sweltering heat only fueled her feelings. After learning that every man in her life had in some way conspired to lie to her, she turned to the one person who preferred brutal honesty in all dealings: Lizzie.

Lizzie was, naturally, also aware of some sort of plot, but quickly reassured Abigail that while everyone knew something, no one knew everything, not even Albert and Ned. The general idea was that as long as there wasn't a plan, per se, there was nothing any one person could reveal to the Marines.

The people of Camp Jackson were the cogs and spokes and levers that, if fully assembled, would coalesce into tangible action. The blacksmith, for instance, knew only that he had made keys. On Abigail's prompting - possibly the only bit of sedition she could take a measure of credit for - Auba and Mimba located the most important record books in the Kent estate. Should that tenuous something happen, they knew precisely where to go to destroy all official documentation of the slaves in Jackson. There would be no way for anyone to track how many might have run off, making them that much harder to track down.

The two women slogged through freshly tilled dirt in the field, hauling fresh water up and down the lines for the men and women working. As they went, Lizzie periodically shook hands with a slave, slipping them a key before moving on. They looked surprised and then a little grim. They all knew the time for action had come. How or why Lizzie chose the individuals was a mystery Abigail was too tired to ask.

It was backbreaking work, but it kept Abigail busy and feeling at least sort of useful. If Jacobs had any suspicions about the activity she'd chosen for the day, he had yet to act on them. It was simultaneously a relief and dreadful. The man had feigned ignorance on so many other things, she couldn't help but believe that he must know about this, too. She felt his eyes on her every move.

A thought occurred to her at random that at first startled her and then became unbearably funny. Abigail giggled until she had to stop and put her bucket down so she could properly laugh.

Lizzie turned, her thick curly hair blowing across her face. She looked like she thought Abigail might be losing her marbles, which was a decent possibility. She wiped the sweat off her brow with an ancient handkerchief and put her hands on her hips in a posture that mirrored Hannah when she was feeling particularly motherly. "What are you doing?"

Abigail had to catch her breath, sniffing and wiping tears from her eyes. When she pulled herself together, she picked up her bucket so they could resume their trek. "When Albert asked me to come out here with him, he said we were going to help people, but look at this." She tilted her chin down the line. "Everyone here has already helped themselves."

They stopped to let one of the slaves drink. A few more gathered around the bucket and Lizzie must have seen her target because she slipped her hand out of her pocket and shook the woman's hand.

"What'd you think, you and the minister were gonna save every convict and slave you met all by yourselves?"

"You may find this hard to believe," Abigail paused to let Lizzie snort, "but I was precisely that naive. I've been that naive up until this moment, which is also something that would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic given everything I've been through. As if I didn't already know better."

They picked up and continued on in silence until Lizzie said, "Sometimes the problem with you lot is you think you're going to fix everything. You miss what's right in front of you. You've done plenty, certainly more than the last minister and his wife."

Abigail kept her eyes on the horizon. The Smoky Mountains rose up behind the camp, so dark they were nearly purple, wild and untamed. There was a whole world out there completely untouched by her people. It made her feel as small as she felt on the ocean. "I'm not sure I know what's right in front of me anymore. I can forgive Albert, I know he meant well, but Will…"

"What did Will do?" Lizzie stopped, her face a knot of concern.

"Captain Jacobs showed me his charge sheet."

"And?" Lizzie tipped her chin expectantly.

Abigail huffed and scowled. "And he lied to me. Severely. For selfish reasons. I don't know if he's the person I thought he was. He did unspeakable things."

Lizzie's eyes narrowed in the way that usually preceded some manner of tongue lashing, but she took a deep breath and schooled her expression. "What would you say if I told you I helped a man abuse more women than I can remember?"

That stalled Abigail's thought process. "No, that's…that's different."

"Is it?" Lizzie cocked her head. "I was on contract with this blue blood. He was gentle with me, but he always wanted something more. We'd take an unmarked hack to Cheapside and pick up the type of whore no one misses. I'd hand him the strap he'd use to beat them, choke them until they were nearly dead. And do you know what I prayed for? I prayed they didn't die because I knew I'd be next."

Lizzie's expression glassed over with memories Abigail could only imagine. Despite the heat, a chill shivered down her spine.

"The world we come from - me and Will - it's ugly. We do ugly things and we don't think twice about it because everything is ugly. I don't know what he did, but I'd imagine he's just as disgusted with himself as I am."

They walked on in silence. Abigail didn't know what to say and Lizzie was lost thought. When they finished their rounds in a haze, both women stood between the fields and the camp, unsure how to move forward. Their jobs were basically done; all that remained was to wait.

Lizzie reached out and squeezed Abigail's hand. "Don't be too hard on them. Everyone's doing their best."

Waiting was the worst part. Abigail had never been good at twiddling her thumbs, nor was she a fan of not knowing what was coming. She'd had quite enough of that for one lifetime. What were they even waiting for?

She survived the sack of Charles Town, though she imagined this experience would be different. There were no stone buildings to blast with canons and only a fraction of the population. No, the camp would burn and burn quickly. All those great canvas tents would go up like tinder, despite the waxy waterproofing on the material. Her home and the chapel sat far enough way that they might be spared, but it wasn't going to be her home for much longer, was it?

The Kent and Rowling estates were doomed. The thought of those children being trapped in a burning house made Abigail's chest constrict. Her first instinct was to rush over there and tell them, but tell them what? If she raised any alarm, she'd be dooming her own friends and loved ones.

I am as helpless as I was in the hold of Captain Lowe's ship, she thought. It brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

A sense of purpose blossomed and with it an idea. When faced with an impossible choice, one must come up with an alternative solution. She would not risk one woman's children to protect another's.

Precisely one hour later, she was leading Clarissa, Gertie, and their troop of children trailing behind her on Abigail's well worn path to the pond.

"Truly," she said over her shoulder, "the sunset from the pond is spectacular. I can't believe you all didn't know this was here!"

She kept up her best smile despite the grumbles from Gertie's oldest. At three-and-ten and five-and-ten, they were never happy. The younger children, however, chased each other and raced around the group, delighted by the late afternoon adventure. Abigail wasn't quite sure how she would cajole them all into climbing up the boulders, then through the tiny crevice and into the shallow water, but it was the safest place she could think of. Any raiding party heading east to the them would likely miss it - if the party even made it this far today - and anyone on the run out of Jackson would be in too much of a hurry to stop and harass a group of women and children.

"We're putting a great deal of faith in you, Mrs. Locke." Clarissa caught up, though a sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. "This is awfully far away from our homes."

Abigail waved a dismissive hand and kept her eyes on the trail, certain that too much eye contact would reveal the lie. "Oh, I come out here almost every night to pray and watch the sunset. I assure you we are much closer to the camp than it seems."

"It is terribly dark," Gertie said between pants. "And this exertion is rather unseemly."

"On the other side of those boulders," Abigail pointed ahead, "I promise you won't be disappointed."

"Boulders?" Gertie recoiled, but continued walking with the group.

"You are making a lot of promises this evening," Clarissa said under her breath. "We so seldom socialize, I was beginning to think you didn't like us very much."

They made it to the base of the rock formation and the younger children were already scrambling up. Gertie and her oldest girl tried calling them down, but it was no use.

Clarissa stayed by Abigail's side and leveled her with a hard stare from which there was no escape. "What are we really doing out here, Mrs. Locke?"

A sheen of sweat broke out on Abigail's palms underneath the scrutiny. "Lady Kent, I only wanted to share this with you."

"I have entertained this," Clarissa said, "because I believe that despite our differences, you would never willfully endanger my children. Since you were so determined to get us all out of our homes, I must presume you know something of grave concern. Or you have truly taken leave of your senses dragging us out here. Which is it?"

"What's the matter?" Gertie couldn't quite manage to split her attention between the tense standoff and the loose children.

Clarissa cocked a perfectly shaped brow at Abigail. "Yes, what is the matter?"

The debate in Abigail's mind didn't last long. She set her jaw and straightened her shoulders. "I need you all to follow me up these boulders and to the other side. You'll be safe there."

Shock registered on Clarissa's face, then fear. Her eyes flashed back the way they had come and Abigail could see her thoughts as plain as day.

"You will not be able to help them," Abigail whispered. None of the children had yet registered that anything was wrong and Gertie was still trying to call them all back down.

Clarissa swallowed once, nodded, and schooled her expression into the command that came so naturally to women of her station. "You will all follow Mrs. Locke and do exactly as she says." Her voice came out clear and strong enough to silence even the youngest giggles. The group stilled, frozen in place by the sudden shift from lighthearted fun to stern orders.

Gertie opened her mouth to argue, but Clarissa silenced her with a single look.

Abigail lead them the rest of the way with only a few quiet complaints. By the time the entire group was settled, the first war cries and shots rang through the still night air.

The uprising of Camp Jackson had begun.

Billy strained against the chains, craning his neck near to the breaking point to get a better look out of the tiny stockade window. The shouts that rose up were a surprising mix of French and a native tongue he didn't recognize. It wasn't Kanuna's more familiar Cherokee. Dancing orange light and the acrid stench of smoke told him the camp was on fire and it was only a matter of time before the flames spread to this building. Or a stray flaming arrow found its way to his cell.

How lovely it would be to have survived Nassau, Skeleton Island, and everything in between, only to burn to death while locked in a brig.

The guard abandoned his post as soon as the attack started. Billy's helpless ignorance grated on him. What was going on out there? The shouting from the Marines was disorganized, far too disorganized for what he knew them capable. This had to be more than a simple revenge raid by the French. The French army wouldn't risk starting a war over some dead trappers, no matter whose cousin they were. This was off the account, lightly manned and likely out of uniform. So why hadn't the Marines put it down already? Billy rapidly ran down the possibilities.

His manacles dug into his already bruised wrists, but the pain barely registered in his racing mind. None of these scenarios, good or bad, mattered if he couldn't get out of these bloody chains.

Just when he thought he'd burst from the not knowing, the stockade door flung open and Albert rushed in.

"What's going on? What are you doing? Who's out there?" He battered Albert with questions he didn't bother to answer. Billy only had more questions when Albert produced a key that looked suspiciously like one of the keys the sergeant of the guard always carried.

"Kanuna thought he'd beat them here," he said between heavy, puffing breaths, sweat bleeding through the front of aging white shirt, "but I guess he was wrong."

Billy had no idea what to make of that, but before he could form a question, a red-coated figure appeared in the doorway. He shouted something useless enough that Albert only squinted at him as he brought the key up.

The key made it into the lock but no further before Corporal Howland snatched back by the collar of his coat with a vicious yank. He collided with the wall while Howland spat obscenities and Billy roared, surging against his restraints with renewed vigor.

His vision colored with helpless rage. The fight was only feet away and entirely out of his reach as Howland mercilessly hammered away at the much weaker man.

"You fucking traitor!" He shouted in Albert's face. The sounds of the blows echoed throughout the small structure, the sickening sound of flesh and bone colliding.

In his rage, Howland didn't notice that they weren't alone until the rifle butt cracked him across the temple and he crumpled over Albert's lap. In the momentum of her strike and tangled in her own petticoats, Lizzie stumbled over the mess of legs and the long weapon in her hands.

The brig came to an abrupt silence, save the panting of every person in the room and the noise from outside while the three of them stared at each other in shock.

Albert blinked up at Lizzie owlishly while he righted himself and then offered her his hand. "Thanks," he practically breathed.

Lizzie's lip curled at Howland's prostrate form. "Bastard had it coming. He's lucky we're in a hurry."

Albert straightened his glasses and his collar and finished unlocking the cell.

Billy stood on embarrassingly unsteady legs when the irons dropped. Thankfully, Albert was there with a steadying arm. Billy eased back just far enough to lightly clap Albert on the shoulder and gave Lizzie a once over. "You alright?"

Ash had collected on some of the ridges of her face and down her decolletage, but she otherwise looked fine. She pushed her loose hair back and nodded until her lips curved in a sly smile. "That was satisfying."

It brought an unexpected, shallow laugh to Billy's throat. "Right." The trio stood there, staring at each other in a daze until Billy cleared his throat. "We should tie him up."

They shook to life and together they disarmed and rolled Howland's unconscious form into the cell and locked the gate, which was oddly satisfying from the other side. Keeping the others behind him, Billy poked his head around the open door, aghast at the sight: Camp Jackson was in chaos.

He now understood why the Marines had sounded as if in total disarray. French and Chickasaw raiders rushed in and out in uncoordinated attacks while the slaves and some of the convicts attempted to flee in any direction. The Marines couldn't predict where the raiders would strike next before disappearing into the shadows. Some Marines shouted for a formation to defend against the attacks while others shouted for pursuers to stop the escapees.

It didn't help that the Frenchmen were recognizable only when they shouted with their native counterparts. They otherwise blended in with the convicts, darting in and out of the tents, laughing as they lobbed torches onto the canvas tents and took shots at anyone who had the misfortune to run across their lines of sight.

"We've got a team of horses and a wagon ready. Kanuna's watching them," Albert spoke, taking a peek over Billy's shoulder.

"Where's Abigail?" Billy asked the question absently as he collected Howland's rifle and pistol, as well as the extra powder and shot they'd taken off him. He slid the baldric and sword on and flexed his shoulders, a weight that was at once familiar and foreign.

"I believe she went to the Kent estate to burn their records."

"You believe-?" Billy whirled on Albert.

"No," Lizzie said, "I saw Mimba on my way here. She and Auba cleared out both homes, except for some slaves no one was there."

Billy yanked the man nearly off his feet by that bloody ridiculous reverend's collar and shook him. "Are you telling me you don't know where the fuck she is?"

Albert's face went even redder from the restriction to his breathing. He wheezed out an answer as best he could. "I saw…her go…to the Kent's…but too busy…"

Billy dropped him with a disgusted growl.

"If she went to the Kent's earlier," Lizzie pushed around Billy to help Albert back to his feet, "and no one was there when Mimba and Auba checked, then maybe she took them somewhere. They've got about eight kids between the two of them, it's not like they could have just vanished."

Billy and Albert shared a knowing look. That did sound exactly like Abigail.

"Do you know where she might have gone?" Albert asked.

Billy nodded and wordlessly strode into the flaming night, driven by a sense of purpose he hadn't felt for many years. He and a mounted Chickasaw warrior saw each other at the same time. As Billy shouldered the long rifle, the warrior let out a battle cry and urged his mount into a gallop. At the last possible moment, Billy sidestepped and instead of firing, swung the rifle around and cracked the man in the chest with it, knocking him clear off the back of the horse. Without pausing to ascertain whether the rider lived or died, Billy caught up to the animal - a massive, saddle-less paint with feathers woven into his mane - leapt on and urged him into a reckless dash straight into the woods.

He had to get to Abigail before someone else did.

"Wait!" Clarissa picked up her skirts splashed through the shallow water to stop Abigail before she disappeared back the way they came. She grabbed Abigail's arm in a surprisingly fierce grasp. "If anything happens to my family tonight, I want you to know I will never rest until I see you hanged for your part in this."

Abigail gulped and nodded. Only when she said, "I understand," did Clarissa release her death grip, turn, and march back to shore with all the dignity she possessed as a woman of breeding.

As much as she wanted to stay to confirm that everyone would be safe throughout the night, Abigail had to get back to her own people. Albert would surely be wondering where she went. They may even be waiting on her at this very moment.

She slid and scrambled down the boulders until her feet hit the soft earth running. The closer she got to the camp, the more distinct the sounds became: rifle and pistol shots, undulating cries, women's screams. Jackson was an orange glow in the distance, far off but so engulfed in flames she could already smell the smoke.

Her feet flew over the familiar path, bounding and leaping as fast as they could carry her. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Billy, first for showing her this place and then for giving her a reason to come out here so often she was shockingly fit. Few other women of her station could - or would - boast being able to run like this. She was so focused on her destination, she didn't see him until it was too late.

Captain Jacobs materialized from behind a tree, close enough that Abigail had to skid to avoid barreling into him. He snaked an arm out and caught her about the waist, preventing her from stumbling in a mockery of chivalry.

"Why Mrs. Locke," his voice murmured in her ear, "what on earth are you doing out here all by yourself on a night such as this? You might run across any manner of criminal."

She struggled uselessly against his arm, earning a wry chuckle.

"Let me go!" She kicked her feet and pummeled his arm, but this only elicited more laughter. Finally, she reached back over her head and raked her nails across his cheek.

Jacobs snarled and threw her to the forest floor. Her arm landed on a rock and she cried out in pain, but still forced her feet back under her. His boot connected with her ribs, sending her back to the ground, wheezing and gasping.

"As I said, anything at all can happen to a woman alone in the woods during an enemy attack." Jacobs paced behind her like a jungle cat.

Strong fingers laced into her hair and jerked her to her knees. Abigail brought her hands up to his wrist, still fighting him despite getting absolutely nowhere for her efforts. Jacobs stepped around and bent at the waist so he could bark in her face, "You were supposed to leave!"

He released her scalp only to deliver an open-palm slap across her cheek that sent her reeling. A coppery taste filled her mouth.

"I never wanted to hurt either of you!" He kicked her again, this time with more force. "The others left when they got sick. But oh no, not the Locke's. You had to stay and cause trouble."

Abigail's vision blurred with pain and the blood roared in her ears so loudly it was a wonder she could hear him at all. Whatever horrors Lowe had visited on her had been primarily of the psychological nature. He made threats, he kept her sick and locked up, but for all his evil he never actually laid a hand on her. His crew had operated under the penalty of death that she was to remain unharmed unless her father refused to ransom her.

She'd never been struck a day in her life, not even by her most strict governess. Her father forbade it.

It was astonishing how the pain made all coherent thought come and go at random, like balls on a billiard table. Just when her mind grasped a thought, it fled in a rush of blinding physical agony.

Jacobs had her by the hair again, he was yelling at her and pointing toward the camp. It took a moment to sort out his voice from the discordant nonsense in her mind. "This is your fault! You did this! I've lost everything because of you!"

His eyes stalled her. He'd been so cool and collected every time she'd seen him. Captain Jacobs had intelligent eyes that were always calculating. As they came into focus in her blurry vision, they were wild. The whites where unnaturally bright and the irises unnaturally dark, stark and animalistic. She'd seen this look in men before, most recently during the siege of Charles Town. Those men had been beyond reason or human thought, reduced to their most primal selves.

Captain Jacobs was going kill her.

"You made him sick?" Her voice trembled. Taking in the air necessary to speak was sparking sharp pains in her chest. "You almost killed him."

He tossed his head back and laughed. "Make no mistake, I will kill him tonight, after I'm done with you."

This time when he hit her, it was with his fist. Pain exploded across her face and a fresh wash of blood filled her mouth. She was dimly aware that she was on her back on the ground. Her hands clawed at the ground for purchase, but it didn't stop the dizzying spinning or nausea.

Pain, she learned quickly, was something a person could adapt to. She looked up to see Jacobs looming over her. "He's going to kill you for this."

"Your husband?" Jacobs smirked. "Not bloody likely."

"Billy." Tiny droplets of blood spit from her lips as she formed his name. "He's going to rip you apart when he sees what you've done."

It was strangely comforting to know that no matter how they'd last parted, Billy would go to the ends of the Earth to make sure she was safe. She knew he would come for her the way she knew her own name, the way she knew the sun would still rise tomorrow, and which books her students would actually enjoy. She knew in her bones that he was coming for her and he would blame himself until his dying day for what was about to happen. That part hurt.

"I'll deal with him, too."

If she wasn't mistaken, there was a quiver of doubt in his voice.

Jacobs dropped to his knees, straddling her hips. Her arms rose of their own volition, scratching useless at him, but he easily pinned both wrists with one hand. With the other, he encircled her neck. "I didn't want to do this, but you've left me no choice."

Salty tears ran down her cheeks, burning into an open gash where his fist must have split the skin open. The muscles of his hand squeezed for one terrifying moment, then relaxed. He squeezed again, harder this time, wrapped like an unforgiving vice. Her lungs and eyes burned and she could feel all the bits and pieces that made up her neck fracturing. Then he loosened his grip again. Jacobs was hesitating and Abigail didn't know why. His grip on her wrists was crushing, maybe even breaking the delicate bones there. She almost wished he'd just get it over with because these tenuous seconds were dragging into a lifetime of fear and regret.

She'd never told Billy she loved him. Their last words had been in anger. Her last words to Albert were in anger. If she had just a moment to pen a few thoughts to each of them, it would be alright. She could die if she just knew they knew how sorry she was.

"Please…" She croaked. She could ask him for a moment, couldn't she? They had time. No one knew where they were, except maybe Billy, but who knew when he would figure it out. It could be hours before anyone remembered to get him out of that cell.

As Jacobs hovered over her, his face collapsed into an anguished howl. His closed fist came down. Abigail screamed and closed her eyes, but the pain she anticipated never came. She slowly opened her eyes and saw his fist the wet earth next to her head.

Jacobs remained over her, huffing as if he'd just run a great distance. "I will not be reduced to murdering women alone in the woods because of some pirate's whore."

He rocked back on his heels and stood, leaving Abigail where she lay.

"Let the crows and the savages have you." Jacobs took one final look at her before turning away. She remained in the dirt, bleeding and aching, long after his footfalls disappeared.

Soon the acrid scent of smoke from the camp was impossible to ignore. She had to get up. She had to get back. Jacobs was right: if she stayed, if she let the pain win, she'd be easy pickings. She'd be easy pickings as it was, but at least on her feet she stood a chance.

At the moment the simple act of breathing was inducing sharp pains beneath her breast and neck and her stomach still roiled with pent up vomit. Abigail rolled to her side with great effort, but completing the journey to her hands and knees would be another battle.

After the nausea faded, Abigail mustered the strength to get to her knees. Her heart hammered erratically and each motion was an exercise in physical torture, but she refused to simply lay down and die. In a herculean feat, she staggered to her feet. The pain in her chest spiked then blessedly receded to a dull throb.

She took one step. Her head spun, then she took another. When she was able to put one foot in front of the other, she began a staggering journey back to Camp Jackson.

A figured appeared through the darkness, still too far off to clearly discern, but Billy's heart hammered with the hope that it might be Abigail. He urged his horse faster despite the lather that already frothed on the animal's neck. Anxiety danced up his spine and pricked at his flesh. Everything in his body screamed that something was wrong, though he kept telling himself his fear was driven by the general state of the camp and not some true instinct.

The figure gained more clarity and Billy's teeth ground together: it wore a red coat. He knew it was Captain Jacobs without needing to get any closer. Fury warred with terror in his blood. Jacobs would only be out here for one reason.

Billy pushed the horse to its limits, dangerously skirting the rough terrain until he got within drawing distance.

Jacobs stopped with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The bastard had the audacity to chuckle. "She did tell me you'd be on your way."

"What the fuck did you do?" Billy threw his leg over the animal's neck and stormed into Jacobs' space until they were nearly nose to nose. Jacobs was disheveled and red in the face in a way that made Billy's hair stand on end. He looked like a man walking away from a fight. His cheek bore the red welts of fingernails having recently scraped away at the flesh.

"I will not explain myself to a pirate." Jacobs didn't so much as flinch.

Billy stepped back, discarding the pistol and rifle he'd acquired, drawing his sword, instead. "You will explain yourself to me."

From his vantage point, he saw slick red on Jacobs' knuckles and smattering on his collar. The anger and dread weren't just simmering, they were boiling over until his vision narrowed to pinpoints and his head swam. Visions of how he might find Abigail danced across his mind, each more horrifying than the last. He killed her.

"So," Jacobs' eyes flicked to the sword and he drew his own, "looking for a fight? You should have just shot me. Surely you already know-"

Billy didn't let him finish. White-hot rage flared to life, burning out all logic and reason until all that was left was an all-consuming anger. He swung wildly with all his might. It was only Jacobs' superior skill that prevented the fight from ending right there. Even with his speed and dexterity, the force of Billy's blows sent him stumbling backward, but he kept his feet and gamely adjusted his grip.

"Just as I thought," Jacobs sucked in a breath, "you have the finesse of an ape with a club." He feinted to one side, now anticipating both the ferocity and complete lack of control to use both to his advantage.

Jacobs' sword danced lightning-quick circles around his own, darting out to cut and slice, which only infuriated him further. The cuts stung, a few might require stitches, but they were shallow. Jacobs was toying with him. He snarled and lunged forward, only to catch several inches of sword embedded in the meaty flesh of his shoulder. Jacobs ripped the weapon back and snickered. Jacobs would nick and cut Billy couldn't stand anymore.

Billy let himself be baited once more before his more calculating nature resurfaced. Instead of throwing his full weight into his next swing, he held back and shot his left arm out, knowing Jacobs would feint again, and caught Jacobs face-first against his outstretched forearm.

Pain lanced from his wrist through his shoulder, but it only served to sharpen his thoughts. Billy would never win this by flying into a berserker rage, as satisfying as it would be to pummel this man's face into a pulp. Perhaps that could come later when he had a firm hold on the upper hand. Jacobs didn't let a bloody, broken, nose slow him down for long.

Jacobs shook his head and grinned with blood pouring from his nose down his mouth. "I always did appreciate your trainability, never one to repeat your mistakes. That is until you started dipping your wick-"

Billy relaunched his assault, but with more care than his initial explosion. He learned from trading strikes with Jacobs: he learned that he would need to be quick and decisive, or Jacobs would cut him to ribbons. He learned that he wouldn't win with swords.

He kept up with Jacobs' precise, vicious strikes until he saw his opening. With a well-placed foot, Jacobs was launched flat on his back, grunting and wheezing. Billy didn't give him a moment to get his breath back before he was on him, raining blow after blow. Blood and spittle - whose, he couldn't quite say - flew with each hit.

The primal need to destroy sang a siren's song. Abigail was out here somewhere, undoubtedly dead. That meant he had only one thing left to do and he was well on his way to success.

True to form, Jacobs wasn't out of the fight yet. Billy let out a bark of pain as pain arced through his thigh and in the next instant their positions reversed. Jacobs' face was mottled and bloody, almost unrecognizable, but now it was his turn to mete out some punishment. Jacobs produced a small knife, now darkened with blood, but Billy caught his wrist before he could bring the blade down.

Jacobs bared his teeth, a broken visage of white and red. "I think I will explain myself. I beat her to within an inch of her life."

His tactic worked. One of Billy's hands dropped away, allowing Jacobs to force the blade closer.

"I was going to leave her for dead," blood dripped down his chin onto Billy's face, "but after this, I think I'm just going to go back and finish what I started."

Billy's free hand closed around the hilt of the knife he'd stashed in his boot. The serenity of decision enveloped him like a cool blanket. He couldn't help Abigail, but he could kill this fuck.

The corded muscle of Billy's neck flexed and bunched as he leaned up so far the sharp edge of the knife pressed into his skin. "You'll have to be satisfied with just me."

He twisted the blade up to Jacobs' gut and watched his eyes widen with fear. They both knew that a deep wound there might would fester and rot within the day if he didn't bleed out immediately. Jacobs gritted his teeth and pushed with one last burst of effort against Billy's single-arm defense.

Billy sent up one final thought for Abigail, for his lost family, for the life he never had. He had a sudden thought for the Walrus: Gates laughing, sharing a swaying table shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, he could even smell the ocean. He shoved the blade up into flesh and waited.

Blood splattered from Jacobs' head in an explosion of matter and gore. Billy stared dumbly at the corpse on top of him. His ears rang from a thunderingly close pistol shot. He could even smell the gunpowder. Billy was not dead. He never felt the knife slip into his neck. Now he only felt the weight on top of him, suddenly so much lighter without the muscle and bone forcing itself down.

He turned his face until he saw Abigail, swaying, battered, and brandishing the pistol he'd discarded before the fight.

Confusion and disbelief warred in his mind until he shoved Jacobs aside and stood. He stumbled over to her and reached a muddied, bloody hand toward her face, but stopped short. She was as pale as a ghost and far too beaten to be an angel sent to usher him into Hell.

"You're alive." His voice cracked.

The pistol slipped from her grasp to the moist forest floor with a thunk. Abigail nodded and replied softly, "Yes."

He dropped his forehead to hers and breathed her in. He felt her answering, shuddering breath. He could smell her sweat and tears. Billy fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his face against her breast. Her breath was as ragged as his own. She wrapped her arms around his head and neck, pulling him closer. He squeezed her a little tighter, but the pressure on her ribs made her yelp. Billy immediately jerked back, searching for the source of her injury. He wouldn't find it unless he undressed her.

The pain ebbed and flowed like a living thing visible throughout her whole body. "He beat me."

Billy cast a scowl over his shoulder at the dead Marine, considering the ways he'd like to kill the bastard all over again, though the mangled mess pistol shot had made of his head was good. He reached for her again then hesitated, searching for a place she hadn't been bruised. When his hands brushed her hips, she nodded and he pulled her in close again, taking comfort in her warmth, her familiar shape, alive and breathing in his arms. "I knew he killed you."

"No." Abigail ran her fingers through his hair, which could only be a remembered action from their many interludes together. "He wanted to. He was going to, but at the last second he had a change of heart."

Her voice was raspy, no doubt a side effect of the bruising already mottling her neck. Tears welled in his eyes, so unfamiliar he almost didn't recognize them. "I was too late. I thought you were dead. You would have died."

"I didn't." She must have been in extraordinary pain, though she was as poised as a dame in a ballroom. Not that he'd ever been in a ballroom. She was in shock; Billy had seen it plenty of times. The break down would come later and he had to get her off her feet.

"I'm sorry." Billy leaned back to look her fully in the eyes, desperate to give voice to every thought racing in his head, but for once at a loss for words. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

She stared at him for a long while, long enough to let Billy know he was a great distance from forgiveness. Abigail finally nodded and Billy let out a slow breath through his nostrils. Standing was more difficult than he anticipated; the wound in his leg and the others on his torso were finally flaring to life as his adrenaline faded.

Billy eyed the horse he'd rode here, lazily gnawing at a patch of tall grass. The beast had probably been doing that since the moment Billy dismounted. "Do you think you can-"

"I'll manage," Abigail answered.

"Right," Billy swallowed the lump in his throat.

She pursed her lips at his injured leg. "Will you at least wrap that?"

The cravat around Jacobs' neck would do, though it was probably filthy with sweat and grime before he'd been shot. Bending to fetch it proved to be more difficult than he anticipated. His breath expelled in a sharp hiss between his teeth at the spike of pain in his leg. He gritted his teeth and prepared to try again when a light touch settled on his arm and the fabric of heavy petticoats brushed his boots.

Abigail bent and retrieved the cloth without flinching away from the gore. His heart clenched over all she had been through. She should be horrified over all this, instead she was bandaging him up while he stood there like an idiot.

He bit back a wince as she tightened the fabric and stepped away, eyes cast downward.

"It won't take long," he said. "I can't leave you out here alone."

She didn't look up, she just walked back to the horse, absently stroking its neck. With a muttered curse, Billy followed and helped her onto the bare-backed horse as gently as possible. He still heard her muffled sob in spite of her effort to hide it.

He mounted the horse and let out a relieved sigh when she leaned back into his chest, in part because he knew she didn't need further strain, and in larger part that she at least trusted him with this. Billy put a soft but steadying hand on her waist and squeezed his calves until the horse picked up what he hoped was a gentle trot. They didn't have time to go any slower.

If they were going to leave tonight, they would need money. A lot of money.