DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Again, I apologize for the super delayed update. It's coming along painfully slowly, but I swear it's still coming. Don't give up on me just yet. As always, a huge thanks to those of you who continue to follow and comment on this story, it's a big help and encouragement to keep it going.

On a side note, this chapter mentions a few period-specific types of furniture that have some weird names. I've an fondness for pre-1800 furniture and got a little carried away, haha. For those of you who might be interested, below I've left some definitions.

Farthingale chair: A plain and simple wide seated wooden chair. Usually has an upholstered seat & backrest, straight rectangular legs and straight back. It's English in origin, and was common in the 16th century.

Wainscot chair: A heavy wooden chair that was popular in the 17th-century. It has turned front legs, square-sectioned back legs, arms, a simple, unupholstered seat, and a slightly raked panel back. It commonly has incising and is sometimes topped with a carved cresting. It's usually made of oak and also called a panel chair or joined chair.

Loo Table: A small table often used for playing cards or other games on. It was popular throughout the 18th and 19th century. It usually has an oval or round top. There is a hinged mechanism fitted to the underside, enabling the tabletop to fold down for easy storage. It is often also called a tilt-top table.

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Sweaty, naked and spent, Anne rolled heavily off of Jack and on to her back beside him. For some time they simply laid there, panting in companionable silence.

When he shifted to face her, she didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning like an idiot. She'd always found that self-satisfied grin of his to be ridiculously impish and silly. Though despite herself, she'd also always found it inexplicably charming. Not that she'd ever told him as much. She knew he'd never doubted her affection for him and that was good enough; she didn't need to stroke his ego or bother with sugarcoating. It was one of the main reasons they worked so well together.

"Good God, woman." He chuckled lightheartedly. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that." Ever since she'd started running with Max he'd suffered an almost compulsive need for the touch of her, as if it were a means of reassuring himself she was still his despite her frequent absence from his bed. That need had only intensified after she'd put an end to the romantic aspect of their relationship, and grown stronger still after she'd kissed him in the wreckage of that overturned carriage. But now there was no reason to suppress that need. She still wanted him, and she'd spent the last hour or so proving it.

She only half stifled her own grin. "I think I've a pretty decent idea." She smirkingly jived as she rolled over and sat up.

Still wearing that silly grin of his, he eyed her backside as she set about retrieving her discarded clothes and redressing. As she bent to wiggle back into her pants, he suddenly remembered what he was actually supposed to be doing. His grin faltered slightly, souring his good mood. Leave it to Eleanor Guthrie, destroyer of the sublime.

He sighed. Perhaps it was better to just say it, tear the band-aid off with one quick yank. "I hate to spoil the moment, but..." He trailed off, elongating the 'U' in his last word. He still wasn't entirely certain she wouldn't just run off on a blind and murderous rampage the moment the words left his mouth. But he had to tell her, regardless. He would attempt to stem the tide of her fury if it arose, but he'd really prefer it just didn't.

She snorted and shook her head, sitting down on the side of his cot as she shrugged into her bastian shirt. "So don't." She offered airily.

He gave the back of her head a somewhat apologetic look as he continued. "I'm afraid that isn't an option. This matter is... Somewhat time sensitive."

She shifted again to pull her hair from her collar. "Alright then, so tell me."

Make up your damn mind, already.

He sat up, his face contorted with worry. He spoke hesitantly, as if she were a wounded animal he didn't wish to spook. "Now I know the situation isn't ideal, but I'm going to need you to consider the bigger picture. I need you to keep a cool head, a restrained hand, a -"

She shot him an impatient look over her shoulder as she cut him off. "All this damn pussyfooting..." She grumbled, shaking her head as she reached down to shove a foot into one of her boots. If he had something to say, she'd prefer he just say it. Nonsensically dancing around topics always made her antsy. "Cut the crap, would ya? Just spit it out." She urged as she set about donning her other boot.

The words tumbled from his lips in an apprehensive rush of syllables, as if he believed saying them quickly might somehow lessen the fallout of the disclosure. "Eleanor Guthrie is here. On the Ranger, with Charles."

He caught the stiffening of her spine a split second before she whipped around to face him, her face twisting with fury and disgust.

"The fuck was that?" Her question was straightforward, but it hissed from her lips like poison.

He waved his hands out in front of him, clearly attempting to ward off whatever murderous thoughts she was entertaining. "Now hold on, just hold on. We need her help, we-" He broke off as she stood abruptly and stormed across the cabin towards the door.

In an attempt to halt her departure, he scrambled off the cot in a tangle of sheets and limbs, nearly tripping himself up in the process.

"The fuck we do." She snarled rancorously as she yanked open the door.

"Anne, wait! Anne, please!" He hollered as she strode through the doorway and out onto the deck with deadly purpose. "Goddammit." He cursed fiercely, tossing the sheet aside and clambering into his breeches to hasten after her.

This was hardly the reunion he'd been hoping for.

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Charles had been right about the trek through camp; no one had questioned her company. For once, she'd done as she'd been told. She'd kept close to him, her gaze cast groundward and her hood donned low to hide her face. She'd received numerous whistles and catcalls from the men along the way, but little else.

She'd put up with lewd propositions and suggestions all her life, a few more were of little concern to her. But whereas usually such remarks were simply an inconvenient and trivial annoyance, today they'd been a blessing. She'd never thought she'd see the day, but being a faceless whore had its advantages.

Strange, how a simple change in context could so drastically alter one's perception.

Now within the Captain's quarters of the Ranger, she sat poised and restless upon a simple leather bound Farthingale chair. Her elbow rested atop the small loo table beside her, her temple propped on her fist, legs crossed and foot fidgeting restively. She'd angled her chair so that she could keep an eye on Charles, who was currently seated across the room in a beautiful and boldy carved wainscot chair. He was hunched over his desk, busily attending to the ship's logs.

He claimed to be making sure they were adequately prepared for what was coming; checking their weapons, ammunition, provision stores and whatnot. Which sounded perfectly reasonable and completely necessary. Yet despite that reasonable necessity, she had the distinct impression he wasn't half as interested in those logs as he was letting on. She was inclined to believe that those logs were merely a means of distraction, a method of of ignoring her questions and demands.

The only thing that kept her from voicing this belief, was the fact that such an accusation would make her look petty. Regardless of his reasons for spending so much time on those logs, checking them really was a precaution worth taking. If she tried to argue otherwise, she'd only end up looking foolish and juvenile. Both of which she was neither.

So there she was, loafing about like some lazy laggard. For all she was accomplishing, she may as well have been sitting on her hands. She was going stir crazy. They'd only been at sea a couple of hours and she was already anxious and apprehensive, unable to hold still. There was too much at risk, too much she was still in the dark about.

Charles was still refusing to give her much insight into anything they were planning. Which was ridiculous, considering it was her damn plan to begin with. She was still oblivious to what waited for them on Maroon Island. She didn't know their numbers, their camp's location, or much of anything about what munitions they were packing. And she still didn't like the idea of having to remain cooped up and out of sight. These were all things that needed dealing with if she was going to be of any use.

But each time she'd tried to question his intentions or discuss their strategies, he'd found an excuse to busy himself with something that wasn't her. It was near enough to drive her mad.

"You're going to have to speak to me sometime, you know." She grumbled exasperatedly.

"I'm sure that's true." He answered impassively without looking up from his papers. "But that time isn't now."

She huffed out an agitated breath and crossed her arms over her chest, her head tilting slightly to the right. "And just when exactly would you estimate that time to be?"

He shrugged. "I'd wager sometime after we reach the island."

Her eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline. "Excuse me?" She sputtered disbelievingly. He could not possibly be serious. Surely they needed to discuss some sort of plan before they reached Flint and the others.

He didn't acknowledge her outburst, simply continued examining the papers strewn across his desk. He didn't want her knowing anything about the village or their true numbers, not until he was absolutely certain there was nothing she could do to fuck things up. He still didn't trust her, not really. For all he knew, she was only waiting for him to show his hand so she could stack her deck accordingly.

He didn't think it was likely, considering he was almost certain her desire to overthrow the English was genuine. But the fact that a foolish part of him still yearned to blindly place his faith with her, irritated him enough to have him resisting. It was only his weakness, that ever-present addiction rearing its ugly head and threatening to consume. It could be ignored.

He would not trade another piece of himself simply to stand near the heat of her fire, he'd already tasted of the flames that licked her skin. For the simple assurance of her hand in his, he'd stood in that blaze and let it blister a char.

And yet still she'd left him scared and empty handed.

He'd sworn never to make that mistake again. He was not a stupid man. It wasn't worth the risk.

She rose from her chair and came to stand in front of his desk. She leaned forward and placed her hands atop the desk's surface, her face troubled and serious. He didn't move or look up at her, but his eyes slid briefly over the hands she'd placed before him. Her voice was ardent and firm, but there was also a lacing of something else; something gentler, more sympathetic. "Charles, listen to me. This is madness. I'll be of no use to you this way... You know this, you must know this." She waited a laden beat, worry churning in her chest. She needed to make him understand. "Let me prove my worth..." She implored.

He finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, his features impassive and guarded. He studied her, considering closely the intensity of her expression and avidity of her attestation. She sounded strong and resolute, unflinching in the face of this uncertainty. But he could still see the desperation spilling through the cracks of her beautifully constructed facade, knew well the hidden insecurities of the arduous woman beneath. She was afraid.

Of what, he couldn't be entirely certain. But if he had to guess, he'd wager that fear rose from her inability to control the situation, from the lack of assurances and cooperation. Unfortunately for her, he had no intention of relinquishing control. It was true he believed she'd arrived here looking to liberate herself, that she'd come to understand the restrictions of civility and found them to be distasteful. But that didn't mean he trusted she wouldn't turn coat the moment it became more convenient or beneficial for her to do so.

There had once been a time when he'd believed such a thing unthinkable. But she had quashed that belief, strangled the life from it with her bare hands. And he'd garnered an invaluable lesson from it.

He told himself it didn't matter how badly a part of him still yearned to ease her pain. It didn't matter that she still held fast to the most vital parts of him. Or that her simple presence still elicited from him such indomitable and fervent vulnerability. All that mattered was that he stood against it, concentrated on the task at hand, took what he needed from her.

Something in that shielded expression of his pulled harshly at her gut, once again leaving her guilty and uncomfortable. She knew why he hadn't told her much of anything. He didn't trust her, and he had every reason not to. But there was a part of her that needed him to believe, to know with definitive certainty that she would not defect again. It was a silly notion, given that this plan didn't actually require his trust, only his cooperation. But she wanted it nonetheless, despite the fact that his trust was something she'd forfeited long ago.

She couldn't explain it because it wasn't logical, but the thought of his continued dubiety left a hollow feeling in her chest. She needed him to understand why she was here, what she'd risked and would continue to risk. She was devoted to this cause, she'd die for it. And whether she was keen to admit it or not, he was a large part of that, a heavily defining factor.

She leaned over the desk a little further, her expression somber and intense. "I've given up everything, risked more than you know... Tell me it hasn't all been for nothing, tell me you believe me." She asserted with earnest severity. "I want this, Charles. I need it. Give me something, anything..."

With her words he'd gone very still. A heaviness hung in the air, and suddenly neither of them was entirely certain she was still only speaking of the English and Nassau.

He wondered briefly if the the irony of her words was lost on her, or if the parallel had been intentional. For in the months past, he'd made a similar plea, similarly questioned her belief in his convictions.

Side with me and we will show England that this place has never been stronger, and we'll keep our freedom for another day, another month, another year, a lifetime. Hey... Do you believe me?

She waited for the throaty sound of his voice to break the silence, but it didn't come. "I am not your enemy..." She finally rasped, longing to assuage his doubts and affirm her allegiance.

The look of pained conviction that rode across his face allowed the cold edge of fear to slip under her skin. He wasn't going to yield. Whatever he said next was going to pain, leave her bleeding. She knew before he spoke that she hadn't gotten through, hadn't eased a damn thing. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps that bridge was truly burned beyond repair.

The thought left her sick to her stomach.

Finally his gravelly inflection sounded, low and thick and laced with something akin to regret. "No..." He said softly. "Today, you're not."

She gave him a concerned and quizzical look as the uneasy feeling in her gut intensified.

"But it's not today that concerns me." He stated gravely, his tone almost apologetic. "Tomorrow concerns me, the days after concern me."

"Charles..." She said softly. With the slightest edge of panic riding her voice, her eyes quietly begging him to see reason. There was dread now, an angry knot twisting in the pit of her stomach and tightening her throat. She didn't even know what exactly had caused such a feeling. He'd done nothing but voice what she'd already suspected would be the case, and that shouldn't have garnered such an effect. But his words had felt sickeningly final, dangerously conclusive.

Despite her best efforts and all that self-persuasion and careful rationalization, she hadn't been prepared for finality. She'd been ready for rage, pain, mistrust, even hate. But not finality.

He began to straighten, his hands sliding back across the desk toward himself as if he were about to stand. Driven by wild emotion and panicked desperation, she didn't think. She simply acted. Her hand shot out across the desk and closed over one of his. Her voice sounded on a breathy whisper, taut and weighty. "Charles, please..." She wasn't even sure what she was pleading for, she just knew she couldn't let him leave.

His eyes shot downward to the hand that covered his. She watched his brow furrow further. His teeth clenched, the muscle in his jaw working with the movement. He looked torn, angry and injured all at once.

He swallowed thickly, inwardly cursing this wretched woman. She was an affliction, an addiction, a ceaseless threat to his resolve. Her simple touch may as well have been the solid blow of a battleaxe. For the grip of her hand, combined with the stricken inflection of her tone and countenance, had left him with a distinctive chink in his carefully constructed walls.

Chinks left you vulnerable, partially exposed. Chinks were a problem.

He needed a moment to collect his wits, to remind himself of the trouble this woman always managed to usher in. Because with the fear and desperation riding her so clearly, he could feel himself falling victim to that horribly familiar urge.

The urge to comfort and sooth, to mitigate her pain, wash away her worries in a sea of blood and fire.

But this wasn't a pain he could vanquish with violence. Even if it were, she wouldn't have deserved to find salvation at his hands. He'd offered her as much before, and had it thrown back in his face. The fact that he even still felt such a ludicrous compulsion at all, was pathetic. He knew as much, but somehow that knowledge just wasn't enough to see the feeling vanquished.

Perhaps if he gave her something, some small and less significant tidbit, she'd leave well enough alone.

So he resigned himself to sharing something paltry. Keeping it from her had been mostly out of spite anyway. "It's not indefinite..." He grumbled.

Her eyes flickered with confusion, her brow furrowing perplexedly. "What?" She questioned.

"Keeping you tucked away. It isn't indefinite." He clarified gruffly.

He'd turned the conversation so quickly and blatantly away from their personal issues, that she was left with a feeling of unbalance. Now in addition to her unease, she suddenly felt too exposed, unarmed and awkward for having displayed such emotional instability. What the hell was wrong with her? This was hardly the time for a meltdown.

She looked away from him, pulled her hand free of his and smoothed them down over her skirts. She composed herself quickly, meeting his eyes again with the straightening of her spine. Her expression demanded he elaborate.

He rose from his desk and began shrugging into his coat. "This ends in less than forty-eight hours. If by then we're still alive, it'll be because Woodes' men aren't. With that kind of win under our belt," He began heading for the cabin door. "the men might be less inclined to slit your throat when we tell them it was all your idea."

"Might be?" She inquired incredulously.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Might be." He confirmed without turning around. God, he just needed a moment away from her. She was making him feel things he had no business feeling, and it was making him irritable. "If you're lucky, maybe then we can sell them on the notion of your worth." He pulled the door ajar.

She frowned. "With what I can offer them, they'd be mad to refuse me. Our success at Maroon would prove as much..." She stated evenly.

"I agree." He sighed before slipping through the door and closing it behind him.

Alone in his cabin, she folded down into the chair by his desk with a shuttering breath. Closing her eyes and propping her elbows on the desk, she dropped her head down into her hands. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she willed her traitorous body to compose itself, her stubborn heart to harden.

She was better than this, so much more than a quivering, helpless woman. She was someone who got things done, someone who could take a beating and come up swinging. She was Eleanor Guthrie, for Christ's sake.

She was not a woman to weep, or moan, or howl. She wasn't going to start now.

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