She had her hands tied behind her back, being lead by her hair onto the platform, stumbling over the ill-fitting slip of a dress that did nothing to hide her endowments from the view of the auctioneers. She glowered like a caged tiger at the men catcalling her. The auction master slung her to her knees, and she barely caught herself from falling face first on the splintered wood. Her bare feet were already bleeding, and her wrists would be soon, the way the ropes ground against them. He watched, intrigued, as she snarled insults at the leering men up front. Feral. It was the only way he could describe her, and it held a certain appeal to a man who had never been tested in the art of seduction. The woman behind this was far more to his tastes, with a more voluptuous figure, but…
He walked up to the block, pulling out his moneybag, and whispered to the auctioneer, pulling a single piece of gold out for the man's examination. She spat, hitting him straight in the eye. He turned to face the hellcat he was buying.
"I will not be your whore," she snarled.
"Nay," speaking so softly, his voice shouldn't have reached her ears as loudly as it did. Their eyes met briefly. "You won't."
She didn't have time to respond as the slave driver slammed her into one of the thick posts, causing her to stagger and fall, unmoving, on the platform. He jumped up and hooked the man hard across the face, glaring the much taller man down.
"Don't touch my property," he hissed, picking her up and carrying her away.
***
The vision was all but real in his head, a wonderful dream. In his moment of semi- consciousness he shifted, tightening his arm around her, nuzzling into her neck. There was a distant pain, like a fire in his shoulder, but it was very distant, and very surreal.
But this was real, and he buried his face deeper into her shoulders, breathing deeply. She smelled of salt, and a fresh breeze, and something subtly, undeniably, feminine. She sighed, rolling over to snuggle into his chest, and he winced as her hand brushed against his shoulder. He opened his eyes, the throbbing pain hitting him like a sledgehammer. He turned his head to look at the offending muscle. It was reasonably well bandaged, but he removed them without much difficulty, and nodded his approval at the work that had been done. The stitches were neat, and very even. Very clean, if a little deeper than necessary. He moved his arm carefully, testing the limitations of the black thread, and brushed a stray hair out of her face, raising an eyebrow at the slight fever he felt there. Her breath was a little raspy, as well, and now that he paid attention, she still had on the same clothes she had worn to rescue him. He sat up, pushing the covers off himself, and she shivered slightly in the light breeze. He made his way out of the bunk carefully, finding a fresh pair of trousers and slipping them on, wrapping himself some fresh bandages while he was up. His shoulder hurt like hell, which meant he couldn't use his right arm, to an extent, but other than that, he was fine. He walked back over to the bed, sitting and playing with her hair absently. The bandage around her left wrist was coming loose, and he finished unraveling it, curious as to what kind of scrape she'd gotten into and planning on changing it for her. The sight that met his eyes worried him. It was the single worst job of stitching he'd ever seen, and one of the simplest applications. They were jagged, loose and shallow- there were points where he could see the thread through the skin. The skin was inflamed, pulling against the strands, and redder than the severed flesh inside of it, oozing pus and obviously quite sore. He grabbed a flask and dabbed some of the rum onto the wound, forcing some between the stitches there. She sobbed in pain, her face in his side, and he wrapped a fresh bandage around it, forcing her face to meet his own.
"On the positive side," he grinned at her, "that went right through your slave branding. Congratulations. You are now a free woman."
"Ha ha," she winced as the bed moved, causing spots to fly in front of her eyes and a wave of nausea to sweep over her.

"Sleep, love," he kissed her gently. "I'll be back."

With that, he walked out of the quarters, gliding with practiced ease onto the deck, where the crew stared at his half- naked form, or more correctly, the two holes in his chest.

"Mangy dogs! Get back to work before I throw you all over the side!" he barked, and they automatically went back to their duties. Josh walked up to him, a concerned look on his face.

"And don't you dare be telling me I shouldn't be up, son," he sighed, running his hands over the wood of the helm. "Where are we takin' this sou'easterly?"

"I was thinking Singapore, captain."

"Sounds fine by me. See to it that my first mate is roaring drunk by nightfall. I'll not have her screaming while I put those stitches back in."

"Were they that bad, sir?"

"Lad," he smiled slightly, swaying with the rhythm of the ship, "she'll not make it halfway to Singapore if we don't. And I still don't know where that hoard is."

"That's all you desire from her, isn't it?"

"Careful lad," he didn't dare look him in the eyes. "Never step between a pirate and his treasure- whatever form that treasure may take."