Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, I really didn't mean to write a bit of a cliffhanger and then update so slowly. I had all the threads but they refused to weave themselves into anything coherent for ages and I struggled with the introspective aspect. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Pus oozed sluggishly as Sarah gingerly unwound the bandages from Billy's torso. She inspected the wound in the pale morning light that crept through the open doorway. Her careful stitches were pulled tightly by the inflammation, the skin taut and raw. Taking her knife she cut the threads on the lower stitches to allow the yellow fluid to drain, loosening them to ease the pull on his swollen skin, wondering if it was the right thing to do. The sickly sweet smell of infection made her gag and she swallowed convulsively against the rolling of her stomach. Billy fidgeted whilst she worked, his cheeks flushed with fever as he dozed uneasily, but he woke when she cleaned the wound with hot water and rum. He turned unfocused eyes on her, blinking in confusion. For a moment his expression was one of weary disillusionment, however he didn't complain and his dispirited acceptance made her heart ache. She bound him up again and then went to get him a cup of water.

When she returned to the hut she found him thrashing against invisible restraints.

'Billy? Would you like some water?' she said moving towards the bed.

His eyes were wild as he stared at her.

'No, please no! No water!'

She stopped, unsure. He was holding his ribs as if in pain but his large hands spanned the entirety of his chest, not just the site of his injury, and his breath came out in panicked gasps.

'Alright,' she said, backing away. 'No water.'

He seemed to relax a fraction although she could still see tension in every muscle. What on earth had happened to him to make him fear a cup of water? Because it was fear that she saw in his eyes, terror of some remembered pain.

She left him, hoping that sleep would restore him to rationality and he would accept some water. He needed to drink and she was hardly capable of forcing him, even if it was for his own good.

The botany book lay open on a chest near the fire, the weight of the tinder box preventing the pages from flapping in the breeze. She picked it up and studied the entry on Gale of the Wind, fighting the urge to curse the author's limited instructions regarding its preparation. The book certainly suggested that the plant would aid in reducing a fever but it didn't specify which part was of medicinal value, or indeed if it was to be ingested, inhaled or applied as a poultice. There was no mention of a toxic effect and generally the author was emphatic about any dangers represented by the herbs described in the thin volume but still, she didn't want to accidently poison Billy in her attempts to help him.

After much deliberation she used a smooth, rounded rock to grind up a sprig of the herb, flowers, berries and all and steeped it in hot water. The resulting brew was bitter and unpleasant tasting but after a couple of hours there seemed to be no ill effects so she deemed it safe for her patient's consumption.

She took it to him when next he woke, along with a cup of water. He seemed more lucid this time and gulped down the water with no hesitation.

'I'd forgotten how much this fucking hurts,' he said with a groan.

'Do you want some rum for the pain? There isn't anything else I'm afraid.'

'I'd love some rum, but I'll not. Best keep it for cleaning this fucking cut.'

She nodded and offered him the tea.

'I don't think this will help the pain but you should drink it.'

He regarded it with some suspicion.

'What is this?'

'The plant book says it will help lower your fever,' she said.

'Are you sure you aren't trying to poison me?'

'Hardly, if I were trying to poison you I would have disguised it in the rum,' she said, then paused reflectively, 'although my dastardly plan would have been foiled by your refusal.' She held out the cup insistently until he took it from her. 'I drank some myself an hour or so ago and as you can see I'm still in perfect health.'

He sniffed it and took a sip, its pungency making him grimace in disgust. When he tried to pass the cup back to her she shook her head.

'All of it,' she said sternly.

He took another quick sip and then another when he saw her frown. By the time she coaxed him - although he might call it coerced - to choke down the whole cup, while she rolled her eyes at his dramatics, his eyelids were starting to droop.

'I have such bad dreams,' he whispered.

'I know,' she said, tucking the blanket around him. 'Perhaps the tea will help.'

It did, in truth, seem to ease his symptoms, if only for a short while before delirium set in again, and so she persisted despite his grumbling. She noted with interest that for all his injured looks at its revolting taste, he never refused her, and unless in the grasp of his nightmares he was for the most part obedient and docile. In a way this worried her more than anything else.

Over the next few days she could only watch in despair as his fever mounted. His hallucinations were often distressing, he was restless and incoherent most of the time and when he spoke intelligibly it was to beg for forgiveness from many unnamed spirits who flocked around him or scream for mercy from a man named John Silver. Once she entered the room and he had pleaded with her in the voice of a child not to lash him again, promising he would do it better next time. Her heart broke daily as his illness appeared to be cruelly tormenting him with all his most harrowing memories.

Another time she approached his bed and he glared at her with utter hatred and whispered in a venomous tone: 'You!'

She was certain that he would have killed her in that moment, had he the strength, murdered the person that he saw in her place and so she learned to announce her arrival. The sound of her voice seemed to bring him back to some semblance of lucidity and at least prevented any violent outbursts. Although she knew he would never knowingly harm her, on occasion his wild eyes and unfocused gaze reminded her of the mad man she had met on the beach some months ago and she was cautious lest he, in his confusion, mistake her for someone else.

With their limited resources she did everything she could to ease his suffering. The frequent doses of herb tea were only effective for a short while and wet cloths laid on his skin dried almost as quickly as she could change them from the intense heat that poured off him. Sometimes she simply sat at his head bathing his brow with a cool damp rag, a bucket of water ready at her feet. He seemed quieter at those times and the occasional soft sigh that drifted from his lips encouraged her to think that she was bringing him some small measure of relief.

And yet despite her efforts he became weak and fractious and his rational moments rarer. His skin took on a greyish pallor and an unhealthy flush painted his cheek bones, like a grotesque parody of powder and rouge. His eyes seemed to sink into his skull, the skin around them almost bruised, and his lips cracked and bled. The gash on his side continued to seep a reeking mixture of blood and pus, however many times she cleansed it, and the flesh around the wound turned a sickly purple colour. His ankle swelled, mottled bruising colouring the skin of his foot, and he frequently cried out in pain when his writhing caused him to jar one or other of his injuries.

In her desperation she considered bleeding him but quickly discarded the idea. It never seemed to do her any good in the past, despite all that the physicians claimed when they had insisted on it both as a cure for her barrenness and in the aftermath of her one failed pregnancy. She thought it a waste of time as it invariably left her feeling faint and exhausted. It had certainly never had the intended effect, but she lacked the strength of will to deny these men with their condescending looks and their sharp knives. Each time she had lain passively as the blood had seeped down into the dirty basin, watching the thin trickle of red stain the pale skin of her arm and wondering if this time, maybe, she would be cured. With each disappointment her loathing of both physicians and the practice of bleeding intensified. No, Billy was already quite weak enough and given his current rather fragile hold on reality she lacked the courage to open his vein, quite reasonably fearing her actions may be misconstrued.

Her nightly prayers had lapsed in the last few weeks into mechanical recitations of familiar words, but as Billy's fever worsened and she could no longer recall his wandering senses, they became more vehement. Where once her devotions had been worded as gentle requests and heartfelt pleas, now she demanded, threatened and occasionally bargained as if by the sheer force of her determination she could bend the Almighty to her will. The years of unanswered prayers, despite her piety and obedience, fuelled the anger that was growing inside of her. Most of the time her fury was directed at God, at Woodes or at the cruelty of Fate, but sometimes it was directed at herself, for her helplessness, and other times it was directed at Billy himself, for not fighting harder, for daring to leave her alone, for daring to leave her at all. She wanted to shake him, to compel him back to health, but invariably guilt would replace anger when confronted with his haggard appearance and the defeated look in his eyes.

Coming into the hut one afternoon, alerted by his muffled cries she found him calling for someone named Gates. When she approached he clung to her skirts, eyes red rimmed and filled with anguish.

'I should have saved him but I wasn't there!'

'If you weren't there how could you have saved him?' she said reasonably.

'I didn't realise…I didn't think that…'

She settled herself on the bed as he lapsed into disjointed stammering and buried his head in her lap. After a moment she realised he was sobbing, his failure to prevent the death of a man who he clearly held in great affection torturing his fevered mind. Unable to think of anything she could say to comfort him she simply made soothing noises, stroking his hair, as he wept and crumpled the fabric of her skirts in his fists. Eventually he quieted, the shudders that wracked his body easing as he slipped back into an uneasy slumber, but as she shifted him enough to rise he grabbed her wrist.

'Please don't tell him about her,' he rasped. 'He'll kill her if he finds out, he'll stop at nothing to see the offence repaid. He can't know about her.' She smoothed his brow with a gentle hand.

'I won't tell him, I promise,' she said softly. He relaxed under her touch and drifted off again.

Who either of them were Sarah had no idea, she didn't think he was still talking about Gates, but she felt a pang of jealousy stir in her breast regarding this 'her'. Whoever she was, Billy clearly cared a great deal for her.

She refreshed the damp cloth and placed it carefully on his forehead then sat down on the trunk, picking up her embroidery. The skull she had stitched on the collar of his shirt some days before now seemed to mock her with its hollow eyes and she hastily turned her attention to the humming bird that was taking shape on the other side. For the moment he was quiet, the thrashing had abated as last dose of herbs finally took effect but she knew it wouldn't last. Soon the nightmares would return and his torment would continue. It would be sensible to get some rest herself while he had no need of her but, although her eyes were gritty and sore and her limbs leaden, she could not relax enough to sleep.

She avoided thinking of her jealousy for a while, concentrating on her sewing and watching Billy out of the corner of her eye in case he stirred. Instead she focused on the scraps of information that she picked up from his nightmares and delirium. She felt ashamed, inwardly cringing when she thought of the things she had confessed to him, how pathetic she must seem to him with her whining complaints of her sheltered upbringing, her husband's indifference and his infidelity. Billy, she was quite certain, had been tortured on several occasions, including when he was just a child, condemned to die by men he had considered brothers and had endured heartbreak that made this strong, capable man weep. It made most of her problems pale by comparison and gave her a better perspective on her own anguish, anguish that had dulled significantly in the face of her much larger concern for Billy's failing health.

Eventually she forced herself to confront her jealously. She sighed. Why would she envy this unknown woman? Was it simply that she would like someone to feel such passion for her, as Woodes never had? Her hand stilled over her embroidery. Was it that she would like Billy to feel such passion for her? That was an alarming question and the one that followed it even more so. Did she think him handsome? She cocked her head to one side, quietly assessing the sleeping man before her.

Objectively she could admit that he was a fine-looking man, tall and powerful with striking blue eyes. His fever had robbed him of his vitality but not his strong jawline and pronounced cheek bones. He didn't look like a pirate, he looked like someone she could have known in Bristol, not a gentleman of course, although perhaps that was the clothes. She pictured him in a well cut coat, snowy white cravat and highly polished boots, hat tucked neatly under his arm. Maybe at a ball standing tall over the other men, his coat moulded to his muscular form. In that guise she had to admit he would cut an attractive figure, putting them all to shame with their weak chins, ridiculous wigs and indolent corpulence hidden by tight lacing. She had no doubt that the ladies would sigh over his handsome face and slightly rakish air, even with his unfashionably short hair. It was only really the clothes and the pedigree that were lacking. In her imagination, despite the admiring eyes of the other women it would be her that he singled out. Taking her hand he would press a soft kiss to her knuckles, give her a roguish wink and lead her away to dance ignoring a number of ladies with far better claims on his attention. The image was beguiling, but she pragmatic enough to know that in reality he wouldn't spare her a second glance, not with so many accredited beauties languishing after him.

The sound of his weak coughing brought her sharply back to reality and she bent her head to her stitching with renewed enthusiasm until he quieted again.

It was not just his undeniable good looks that drew her to him. His education and intelligence had surprised her at first, and now delighted her. His wit and fiercely held opinions enlivened their discussions, he listened attentively to her views, and although they often disagreed their squabbles were always good-natured. There was a gentleness to him that belied all expectation; a quiet consideration in his nature. His sly sense of the ridiculous matched her own and it was refreshing to have to neither explain herself nor censor her thoughts. Staring at him it dawned on her that he had become integral to her comfort, his solid, capable presence necessary for her contentment. The thought of being alone as she had been in the beginning was terrifying but there was something more to it that mere loneliness, it was the thought of being without him that scared her most of all.

There were many dark spectres in Billy's past, actions for which she could find no excuse, nevertheless at some point this rough pirate had become dear to her, had become her friend. When it had happened she was not sure. However many times she repeated the litany of 'pirate, pirate, pirate' in her head she could no longer see him as one of those illusory brutes. He was a man, a man who treated her with respect and kindness, a man who had done terrible things in his past but also endured terrible things. Like anyone he was capable of both good and bad but perhaps that which he had suffered would make a criminal of all but the most saintly of mortals.

She closed her eyes for a moment against the prickling behind her eyelids.

The reality of the situation was that were he to survive his current illness and they were restored to civilisation she would not see him again. He would probably be imprisoned at best and at worst, well, she didn't really want to think about at worst. He might escape capture or perhaps be pardoned but if he escaped they would not be able to meet, she could not be seen to be on familiar terms with a pirate, reformed or otherwise. She knew exactly what society would think, how it would gossip, scandalised and judgemental without ever knowing, or even caring, about the truth. However much she wished it otherwise she was ruined. No one would believe that propriety had been preserved, and even if they did, the world did not work like that. The mere suggestion of scandal was enough, a woman's virtue being a fragile and tender thing. She would have to work hard to maintain the illusion of gentility, despite the pointlessness of it all, and that would definitely not include friendship with a criminal.

The sound of Billy rousing with a groan pushed her melancholy thoughts aside as she hastened to him with water and a cooling cloth. She was almost shocked to find that for the first time in days his gaze was clear and sharp.

'Sarah,' he said with a weak smile that remained only for a moment before his expression turned pensive. 'I need to talk to you.' He spoke in a murmur that seemed to require most of his strength but when she tried to silence him he shook his head impatiently. 'I don't have much time, you know that.'

'Hush, I'll have none of that maudlin talk. When you are well...'

'I don't think I'm going to get well,' he interrupted. 'You need to be careful when I'm gone. If anyone comes you make sure they're not pirates. If they're flying the black you run and hide in the forest. Don't let them find you. Promise me.'

'I don't think…'

'Promise me!'

'Fine, I promise.'

To her relief his agitation seemed to ease but then he said, 'If they're sailors, merchants, then you could ask for their aid. It might not help but it's the best chance you have. Find the captain, most like to think of themselves as gentlemen.' He pounded a fist against the blankets. 'I should have taught you to fight…but I didn't think…I didn't think.' He sighed and then mumbled, 'Against that many you wouldn't stand a chance anyway. Fuck!'

'Billy, you're going to get better,' she said firmly, uncertain which of them she was reassuring.

He lifted a hand and toyed with one of her curls distractedly.

'You look tired. I wish…I wish I could have…' he trailed off and his gaze fell away.

'You wish you could have…?' Sarah prompted him but when he turned back his eyes were glazed. He gripped her elbow.

'Jacob, you mad, brave bastard, you should have left me to my fate.'

Whatever he had been going to say to her was lost now as the delirium and exhaustion overwhelmed him again. Taking his hand from the crook of her arm she set it down on his chest but he was already asleep and so she quietly left the hut.

On the morning of the fifth day she paused in the arch of the doorway. The room was eerily quiet and Billy lay with a stillness that halted her in her tracks. He lay on his back, no longer twitching, an unnatural pallor to his skin. Her throat tightened and it felt as if she were choking. Grabbing the doorframe in a crushing grip she fought to take a breath so she could shriek her rage.

No, no, no, NO!

She shut her eyes, shaking her head fiercely as if her denial could alter reality. Anger, pain and a terrible sense of loss clawed at her. Her hold on the rough wood was so tight she almost expected the doorframe to buckle beneath her hands.

How could You?! she screamed in the silence of her mind. She had commanded God to aid her, insisted that He prove Himself by healing Billy and again she had been ignored. Something fractured inside her and she could no longer contain the ire that boiled in her veins. On the verge of venting a furious cry she barely heard the faint question that floated through the air.

'Why do you look so angry?'

Now she clasped the door frame to hold herself up as relief stole the strength from her legs. Her overwhelming emotions, finding no avenue for release as she fought for control, set her hands trembling and she took several deep breaths trying to regain some of her self-possession. She couldn't speak. Instead she moved to his bedside, took his hand and smiled at him fondly, if a little tremulously, noting the sheen of sweat on his forehead, his clear eyed gaze and the healthier pink tinge in his cheeks. What she had mistaken for unnatural pallor was actually a diminishing of the feverish flush that had infused his skin for the last few days.

Eventually she managed to say, 'I'm not angry, I'm happy that you're looking better.'

'I don't feel better,' he complained. 'I feel weak as a kitten and sweaty as hell.'

She couldn't help herself, she laughed and when she saw his scowl she laughed even harder, a suggestion of hysterical relief tinging her mirth.