It had been a long few days out on the water—he wasn't even sure how many on this particular excursion, though he usually kept scrupulous track because the men expected him to concern himself with details they couldn't be bothered with. Like the time, and whether or not anyone was properly completing their assigned duties.

So now, in the tavern, with a tankard in front of him the size of his head (not that he'd planned on drinking it all, Carter had cajoled him into coming), Billy reflected that this wasn't a terrible way to pass the first evening back ashore.

There was real food, for one thing. Carter was a newer, younger recruit to their ship and seemed in need of a mentor, so Billy thought it wouldn't hurt to let the others see them having a drink together—maybe they would then step up and do the same.

He remembered, couldn't really forget, how similarly dazed he'd been during his first few months of bonded labor, after the press gangs had come. Carter was a voluntary arrival, but there was still a lot to adjust to. Not the least of which were the hazing rituals.

Billy took a drink now and leaned back in the chair, which was not quite big enough to accommodate his long frame. He could feel his senses starting to slow, indication not only that the liquor was taking effect but that it was close to time he turned in for a few hours of restorative sleep. And yet he felt no particular need to move just yet; the tavern was warm but not overheated, the air relatively pleasant compared with the tightness of below-decks, and at the moment, none of the other patrons were fighting or obnoxiously raucous. But then, it was early in the evening.

Carter was relaying some story or other, earnestly told, and Billy smiled affably, hoping he was at least giving the appearance of paying attention, though his mind had already drifted towards thoughts of the coming day. Someone passed by their table, stopped to nod to Billy and slap Carter a shade too hard across the shoulders, enough that Billy spotted the wince. It was Mullins. Mullins wasn't mean, just rough, like most of them, and subscribed to the philosophy that whatever didn't destroy a man outright was likely to make him more hardy in the long run.

"Oi, Billy, they're looking for you over at the brothel, eh?" Mullins took hold of Carter's drink and helped himself to it, smacking loudly. Carter's shoulders drew together but he didn't object.

"Who is?" Billy squinted up at him, wary of a joke.

But Mullins' face was ingenuous. "Ah, Hobbs and...I dunno. Or what's it about."

Since Hobbs wasn't given to tomfoolery either, Billy considered going to investigate. Though if it was anything of true note, they could have stopped here first; enough people had seen him and Carter eating their dinner that it would have happened by now. He took another swallow of his rum and gazed at Mullins with unhurried steadiness. "Can't be important then."

The older man shrugged. "Mebbe, mebbe not." He threw a genial punch in young Carter's direction that the lad only barely avoided, and sauntered away, calling to one of the barmaids.

Carter's look of wounded anxiety was becoming tiresome, and Billy stood up, leaving some coins to pay for both their meals and drink. He gave the boy a commiserating pat, advised him not to stay too long on his own and left the tavern, stepping into the street. The night air was almost sickly with flower fragrance, even here in the center of town.

Briefly he considered bypassing the brothel altogether and heading to the beach to sleep, but a sense of duty propelled him towards the doors. Though the men often chivvied him to visit the place with them, he never did. He had, in the past, it just wasn't something that held particular appeal for a long time, the girls were all so worn and dutiful and it seemed nothing more than tawdry, something that wouldn't wash off afterwards. At least, that's how he might have explained it, had he ever chosen to.

Moreover, it was a distraction from one's duty, which he couldn't help seeing as a negative, even though the others considered such distractions absolutely necessary to life.

He spotted Hobbs in the corner close to the winding staircase, alone at a single table, puffing on a cigar. Billy made his way over, firmly displacing one girl who clutched at his arm with a 'come to me, handsome,' and sidestepping another who still managed to wave a handful of something feathery across his face before he strode past. A third whore ran her hand along his neck as he straddled a chair to face Hobbs and, he turned with mild irritation to wave her off when she smiled at him showing a missing front tooth. He was momentarily torn between disgust and pity.

"Sorry," Hobbs said mildly, reading his expression as Billy looked back across the table at him, and the woman drifted away.

"Why am I here, Hobbs?" he said, almost rhetorically.

Hobbs gestured with his head towards the top of the stairs and the hallway of doors.

"Who's up there?"

"A girl."

"You called me over here to tell me about a girl."

"This is the place for that." Hobbs' face had something of smugness about it. Billy narrowed his eyes. "You know I'm not inter—"

"You will be in this one."

"What's so special about this one?"

"Just wait."

"I'm going to bed, man."

"Just wait, dammit." His crew-mate had a new intensity in his voice now. Then he took another long drag of the cigar and said, "Just sit for a minute, will you?"

Billy ground down on his bottom teeth and looked about the brothel, on the chance there might be some clues, some other familiars whose presence, or combination of preferences, might give him an idea what they were waiting for. He wasn't there often enough to know if the place was quieter or busier than usual, so that was no help. The atmosphere didn't seem unusual. Nobody appeared obviously on edge, except the few men stationed about as not-so-casual assistance in case of trouble. He took in a breath for patience and waited, as requested. Some five minutes passed uneventfully, with no passage of conversation between the two of them. Mrs. Mapleton appeared at the top of the stairs, but presumably she wasn't the girl in which he was supposed to be interested, so Billy merely fiddled with the candle on the table, digging marks into it with his thumbnail until Hobbs murmured, "There."

Moving along the length of the hallway was indeed a figure that caught his notice, though she was partially in shadow with another girl at her side, apparently leading her to a different room.

Just wait...He'd seen her before. With abrupt clarity, he knew. He'd thought she was on her way back to Carolina where she belonged. What the hell was she still doing in Nassau?

"There," said Hobbs again, this time with satisfaction.

He was unable to take his eyes off the upper hallway. "You know who she is?"

"No," the other replied, "but you do, don't you?"

Jesus. "Has anyone—been up there?"

"Not since I got here, but I've not been here that long."

"Why didn't you come get me earlier?"

"If I had I wouldn't've been able to say if anyone'd gone up, would I?"

Billy spared him a brief irritated glance, though it was a fair point, and stood up, uncertain what his actual intent was. He just knew that Abigail Ashe didn't belong in the brothel under pretty much any circumstances, and he didn't think that anyone who wanted her out of there would have good intentions toward her either.

"What are you gonna do?" Hobbs inquired.

"Hell if I know, talk to Mapleton maybe." Billy felt for the reassuring knife at his belt, took a secondary scan of their surroundings to see now, with this new information, if anyone seemed especially likely to be more than usually interested in the brothel's newer denizens—but no one else appeared to be taking notice of the upper hallway. Which didn't mean they weren't.

Trying to look casual (always a bit of a challenge considering his physical presence) he meandered over to the stairs, then took them up, one at a time, unhurried.

Mrs. Mapleton—a perpetually calm, unflappable personage—watched him approach with no concern. He gave her a smile he hoped didn't seem too interested and felt it come out rather tight.

"Looking for a partner, are you?"

"Uh..." For a moment he was wordless. She smiled at his confusion. "We don't see you in here, do we, girls?" She was addressing the two who had stopped, in the shadows, behind her. "Bones, isn't it?"

He accorded that with a nod of his head. "I'd like to talk to her."

The madam's eyebrow elevated. "Talk."

"I'm not here for—I can pay."

"As you would, of course, even for talking." She smiled more deeply, amused, and then looked over her shoulder at the girls, at the dark-haired one. Miss Ashe. Billy could sense her fear even from where he stood; it radiated from her like a cornered animal, though her face was relatively composed.

He wasn't sure what the hell he was doing. Was aware, too, of eyes on him from below.

"Though I must say, I am not at all sure you can afford this one," the madam said, her amusement blending with something more serious, something more sinister.

"How much?" he said, not liking to say the words so bluntly. Not with her right there.

Mrs. Mapleton promptly named a sum that was, for a moment, a shock. Until he realized that was the idea. It was supposed to make him re-think all of this. To make him slink back down the stairs perhaps to face the mockery of those who figured it out.

He wondered if there wasn't something in her expression, though, that was worth gambling on. She knew who he was, but she didn't really know him.

"Done," he said, "but for that, I get the night."

"Well!" she said, giving herself a dramatic wave with the fan she carried. And smiled again and added, "In advance."

Thank fuck he had some, not all of it—who would carry that much around at one time? He gave her what he had and told her to see Hobbs for the rest, knowing that Hobbs would cover him one way or the other, might be a bit of scrambling before he and the others figured out how to get it together but Mapleton would have her balance before the night was gone. And she knew it too, because she nodded to the other wench who let him and Miss Ashe into one of the rooms, closing the door with a purposely audible giggle upon departing.

He stood against the door anyway for a while even after hearing her shoes go, in case she doubled back or Mapleton herself was coming by for a listen, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the opposite wall though he could hear the girl's rapid sob-like breathing from the center of the room.

When he was certain there was no one obviously spying on them from outside, he looked over and her and said, "Sorry about the...money," knowing that could not adequately encompass his level of discomfort with having offered to buy her services for the night.

Only a few feet away, she swallowed, and he saw the tears building in her eyes, and took in the state of her clothing, what looked like little more than one layer of nightgown—fully covered, to be sure, but hardly decent to be seen in—and he felt a stab of unexpected concern.

It seemed really important to confirm whether she had or had not been visited by anyone since however long she'd been in the dubious clutches of Mrs. Mapleton, but he didn't know how to ask that without further incurring those tears, so for a bit longer he just stood and stared, and that didn't seem terribly helpful.

He realized, then, that he was not anybody she knew, much less could trust.

"My name's Billy Bones," he said, plainly. "You probably never saw me, but I know who you are. Miss Ashe."

Her head lifted a little, her mouth parted. "Did my father send you?" she breathed.

"No," he said, confused, and then wished for an instant it were true, because that moment of hope, brief as a flame-flicker, died in her face again. "I'm not from—your home. Sorry. I knew you were captured by Low's crew. Then we heard you were on your way back. What happened?"

She was silent, and then he took a step forward, because it seemed like she wavered on her feet and he thought she might faint, but as soon as he moved, she flinched backward like a sprung trap. Chagrined, he stopped.

"I'm afraid you must think me feeble-minded," she said, her voice trembling, "but I don't quite remember. My eyes were covered much of the time...and I'm not certain, what I did see, if they are memories, or dreams."

"All right," he said, trying to sound soothing. "It's all right. You've probably—been through a lot."

She nodded like a child, taking in shaky breaths.

"Here," he said, reaching out a hand, for she still looked as if an errant breeze would bring her to the ground. "You should sit down."

He didn't want to bring her to the bed, that seemed awkward, but a quick glance revealed an embroidered chair nearby to which she allowed him to help her. Then he brought her the quilt, offering it with some diffidence. She probably wasn't cold, but the thin garment was inadequate for a lady.

"Thank you," she whispered, wrapping it around herself, but not relaxing into the chair. She was staring up at him, still acutely, palpably afraid, and it emphasized the difference in their positions even more starkly, so he sat down on the end of the bed because there was no where else to sit.

There was untouched bread and some other edibles on a platter at a side table, so at least they were feeding her. They'd be fools not to, considering whatever price they'd paid to acquire her—or whatever consequences awaited from those if she'd been stolen away.

"If you are not a friend of my father's," she said, glancing down, "then why did you—why did you pay, so much?" She lifted her eyes to his and even from where he sat he could read the suspicion in them.

"I'm not interested in your body, Miss Ashe," he said. More sharply than he meant to. She blinked rapidly. "It's just you don't belong here. I had to do something. Whatever trouble I've brought upon myself by stepping in tonight, I figure I can deal with. Could you have dealt with what would've happened to you if I hadn't?"

That was too much, he knew as soon as he said it—especially since he didn't know, yet, the extent to which she'd been preyed upon. Color deepened in her cheeks and two tears chased each other down them.

You're being kind of an ass, Bones, he told himself. He took a breath and decided to start again. The men looked up to him, depended on him to be practical, to find solutions in the face of problems. That was what he needed to do now. Trouble was, this emotional component was distracting as hell. He didn't think she was trying to make him feel sorry for her, but if she was, it was working.

"Look, I can help. I can get a message to someone, anywhere on the island. There's got to be somebody who can—"

"I neither know nor trust anyone here," she said, with resolve.

He pointed a finger towards his own chest and raised his eyebrows.

"You have given me no choice. You could do anything with me. You say you want to help, that you would not defile my...my person..."

The barrage of 'you's made him slightly dizzy. He was not used to being challenged in such a manner, not by such a fragile but surprisingly vocal opponent.

"...But I am in your hands now. To harm or help as you will, as you claim to offer. Then you must make good on your offer."

"I—" He drew out the single syllable as long as he could, trying to decide what words were going to come next. "I...only, Miss Ashe, I only intended to cover this night, beyond that I don't know what help you think I can provide."

"Then you are a coward, Mr. Bones."

"Billy. Please." He winced almost more at the Mr. than at the coward. He appreciated the small defiance of her chin as she'd said it, though.

"Listen. I'm sorry you find yourself here. This is no place for you. Maybe one of the landowner families inland could—I could set up the connection, probably." He rubbed a hand along his bristly jaw, tired, trying to think. "But even just getting you out there..."

"I need you to get me home," she said, softly. So softly he could have pretended he didn't hear it. Could've stood up and walked out the door, right then. Let her think him a coward, it didn't matter.

"Home," he repeated. "Carolina?"

"My father will pay. He will pay any expenses you incur, and more," she said quickly.

"After—" he gestured at the door "—after that you think I'm worried about the money?"

She dropped her head, the tilt to her chin lost now. "You are...one of...them."

"Them."

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You can say what you think I am."

"One of the many pirates of Nassau," she ventured.

"When did they bring you to this place?"

"I don't know...A few days ago..?"

It'd be a miracle if she'd remained untouched or perhaps Mrs. Mapleton had been saving her for someone in particular, someone who could pay what she wanted. Billy leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees, waiting until she looked at him again. Then he said tersely, "I don't want your father's money. I'm helping you because I don't see anyone else stepping up. But if you—" he shook his head and laughed without humor, "if you think that getting you home is something I can make happen, I don't know what to tell you. It's not possible."

"You look like a person who can make things possible."

"I thought you thought I was a coward."

She brought hands to her cheeks. "I didn't mean that. I need your help. Please. My father is powerful, he can...He might be able to..."

"Seems like he can't do a lot from where he is and where you are."

Abigail Ashe bit her lip. And again he told himself to stop tormenting her, at the moment she could be nothing other than well aware of how powerless she was. Where could he bring her, if he could get her out? He had men enough to help, he was even relatively sure they could disarm the guards without too much trouble, but it was the step after that he couldn't figure. She wasn't safe here, she wouldn't be safe anywhere. Short of a cave whose entrance he himself guarded.

Maybe that wasn't a bad idea.

It was a terrible idea. Ladies did not belong in caves. They belonged in pristine drawing rooms with a dog at their feet and a warm fire in the background. At least that was how he was picturing where she ought to be. Under the father's aegis, keeping her safe from—well, from men like him, most probably.

He took a moment to reflect on the irony of that.

"I'll be honest, Miss Ashe," he said eventually. "I don't know what to do with you."

She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and said nothing for a short time. They listened to the uncomfortable sounds of sexual commerce in the adjoining rooms until he was about to say something, anything, even if only an inane observation on the state of the weather when she spoke up again. "I need to go home. If you insist you cannot take me, then I must attempt some kind of escape on my own."

"That's not a good idea," he said. "Even if you climb out that back window—" he crossed to the shuttered window, out of curiosity, and looked down at the growing darkness (it seemed doable, assuming someone wasn't waiting directly below) "—You won't get far before someone who knows you or doesn't know you gets in the way. And I'm not sure which is less ideal."

Abigail turned in her chair to look at the window too. "If I try," she said, her voice unsteady, "you would stop me?"

"Aye, I'd stop you," he agreed, hoping she had no intention of testing him.

"Then I am still a prisoner. And you yet another captor."

"Only for your own safety."

"Which you will not guarantee come the morning."

He was silenced by this as she wasn't wrong. Finally he said, "I'm still trying to work that part out."

She rose to her feet, letting the blanket fall, and he eyed her as she moved slowly to stand alongside him at the window, an arms' reach away. She crossed her arms over her chest. This close, and by the light of the lit candles, he could see the perfect quality of her milk-pale skin underneath its thin layer of grime, and what appeared to be a bruise on her forehead.

He put out a hand, very slow, to indicate it.

"I did that myself," she said, soft, meeting his eyes gamely. "I couldn't see most of the time."

He thought about some of the things he'd endured since being pressed into service—even since joining a pirate crew and leaving all of that behind. Having his sight obscured by a blindfold or a hood was surely one of the less pleasant things, worse than being temporary deafness by cannon-blast, worse than ropes wearing through the skin of one's wrists or one of many other torments. The power of imagination was torment enough.

He dispelled those thoughts and focused on her. "I'm sorry all of that happened to you." Sorry for what men like me did. My people. Us. Them.

"If you are, truly, then help me get out of here," she whispered, glancing to the window.

Madness, they were safest here for the moment, but now that he'd considered the possibility, was looking into her pleading eyes, it didn't seem like such an insane concession. Out the window and down would be easy enough. He closed his own eyes briefly. He was tired. He wanted little more than a couple of hours' sleep on that bed and then take some time to formulate an actual plan.

But this girl needed him. And not only that, but he'd completely put himself in her path to make that the case. So who was the mad one here?

"Look," he said, feeling himself giving in. "If I do that, you have to trust me."

"Yes," she said, too eagerly, her eyes sparking hope again.

"I mean it. You have to do whatever I tell you. Whenever. I tell you."

For a moment she hesitated, and he lifted his shoulders and turned his palms up.

Finally she nodded.

"Promise," he said. "Say the words."

"I..I will do as you say."

He exhaled. He crossed to the door, had a listen next to it for a few moments, then opened it a crack. Noise continued outside, and from below, but no one was in the hallway. Pity these doors couldn't be bolted from the inside, but that was how it was. He couldn't hope their absence would go unnoticed the whole night—even an hour or two would be a gift. He extinguished the candles, and they watched by the window for a space in darkness. Abigail tried once to lean forward, but he swept her behind him, really just to see if she'd resist, but the implied reprimand went unchallenged. He felt the softness of some part of her body against the back of his elbow, and brought his arm forward again, giving her more space.

The alley seemed deserted, but they wouldn't know for sure until they got down there. Billy retrieved the blanket Abigail had cast off, bundled it up and tossed it through the window to the ground below, and they waited some more.

"You eaten anything lately?" he asked her.

"I have had no stomach for it," she murmured.

It could be hours before he could ensure that she got food again, but there was no point in forcing the issue. He did go to the table, pour her an entire glass of water and told her to drink the whole thing, with which she complied.

And then it was time to move, much as his brain was telling him to get some sleep and think all of this through a little more.

He climbed out the window first, while she lingered anxiously watching him. It was a steep drop to the ground below, but he lowered himself by his fingertips, which given his height cut most of the drop considerably, and then let go, landing as noiselessly as manageable. The cobblestones were uneven and he was lucky not to come on them wrong and twist an ankle. Which was what she might do if he wasn't there to catch her. He gestured upwards. Her face was paler than ever, and for a few moments when she didn't move from the window he thought she'd lost her resolve. But then she put her legs through the opening, sitting on the sill, and slid forward.

It was an awkward way to have to catch her, and though she was slight, breaking her fall took both of them to the ground. He grunted, but not loud, and grateful she hadn't screamed, only made a terrified exhalation of breath as their bodies connected.

He pulled her up from the ground, scooped up the nearby blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Not that the outdoor air was cold, but her white gown was like a flame in the darkness. She gathered it to her neck with one hand, and he told hold of her other, enveloping her small fingers in his. For just a few counts they looked at each other, mutually absorbing the inevitability of whatever lay ahead.

Then they moved.

It wasn't running exactly, there was too much stopping in the shadows of buildings and slinking by anywhere more brightly lit, cutting and turning, taking the least direct way to Billy's destination—the caves, by way of the beach—but they did have to move fast, and he pulled her along behind him setting a pace that was probably quite uncomfortable for her to match. Once away from the town lanterns, he found a safe place among the beach trees for them to pause and take stock, ensure they weren't being followed by any but the most skilled pursuer, which was likely still an option.

But before Abigail's breathing had hardly slowed, he set out again, urging her along wordlessly with a tug of his hand. She made no objection, and she hardly could—this had been her idea, he told himself whenever he felt a pinch of concern for the pace he was establishing. But then she made a tiny stifled cry as they were crossing over a section of black rock, the waves in the cove a distant roar, and he turned and looked for the first time down at her feet. She was wearing little more than slippers, soaked and disintegrating.

He reached back and gave her his other arm, pulling her over the last section of weed-slick rocks that he'd already covered, to a secure footing right beside him. "Got a ways to go still," he said, steadying her. "Going to make it?"

She nodded, but she was shaking. He hoped she was stronger than she felt, all soft flesh and no substance. Could carry her if I have to. He scanned the beach and the blurry lantern light in the distance again, but no sign of pursuit. Yet.

They continued on.

The cave to which he chose to bring her was not the largest, or the most intuitive choice. It boasted a narrow passageway and an unfriendly slope downwards. The darkness swallowed them moments after their bodies blocked the dim light at the entrance, and he heard Abigail's breath catch in fear. He didn't much like going in without a torch himself, but at least he knew the way enough to manage. Her cold fingers in his hand were clutching so tightly her nails were digging into his palm— had he fewer callouses, it would have been painful. "I can't see," she said, giving voice to the obvious.

"I know where we're going," he told her, stopping himself in time from adding a reminder to trust him.

There was the ledge, off to the left, about the size of a small ship's deck, and it was here, once he felt his way to it, that he stopped and reached behind him for Abigail. "Just gonna lift you up," he said, shaking off her hand and finding her hips. Her own arms shot out against his chest, whether to brace herself or to push him away it was hard to know, and he muttered, "It's all right," into the darkness between them, into her panic-stricken space. He swung her up to the ledge, and then quickly, calmly described out loud the amount of space behind her, as she found her balance, her hand snaking out to find his again.

"Are you leaving me here?" Abigail's voice was hollow, frightened.

"I have to. People to talk to. I might not be back right away."

She clung to his hand.

"Listen," he said. She wasn't going to like this part. "The water comes in. Don't get down from the ledge. Do you hear me?"

"I cannot swim!"

"Right, so, stay where you are. It'll get close, but it won't come up all the way."

There was silence, just their breathing, and the damp cool air of the rock around them.

He didn't know why, but he moved his hands up then, to her face, feeling the clammy skin of her cheeks. Her hand still twisted in his. "Stay until I come back," he ordered.

He had to pry her fingers from his, but he felt her head moving in assent.

Billy found the wall and followed it back out to the entrance, allowing himself now to race through a quick mental list of all the things he needed to accomplish in this briefest possible allotment of time. Find Hobbs, first of all. Determine from there whether the alert had been raised. Determine what, if anything, the street knew. Find clothes for the girl, boots, some supplies.

Find out if getting her off this island was even a possibility with the urgency that his kidnapping of her necessitated. And then, after all of that, he could worry about whether or not he had a job to return to, or if there was a price on his own head for removing a valuable source of income from the brothel.

One step at a time, the way he always solved problems.