Captian Death (Methos)

The schooner Specter put out to sea under full sail, with a crew of forty-eight men, instead of the fifty she was supposed to carry. Her captain, coming on board late, was in an exceptionally unpleasant mood, a thunderous frown drawing his dark brows together as the first mate, Kronos, bellowed orders and the men scurried to obey them without the usual joking and ribald banter.

Waiting only until she had cleared the harbor and was ploughing her way through the first breakers of the Atlantic Ocean, Captain Death turned and made his way to his cabin, throwing a curt word of command over his shoulder as he went that caused Kronos and Sias to exchange conspiratorial looks as they followed him.

“Well?” The captain seated himself in a chair behind a desk that held an untidy assortment of maps, charts and other papers, all of which were held in place by a collection of pistols of varying sizes and shapes. “Perhaps you'll explain why we're short two hands-and why discipline always seems to go to hell when I'm not aboard this ship! You were to be prepared and in readiness to sail at precisely five this afternoon. Those were my orders four days ago.” He stared at Sias, and his grey eyes turned wintery.

As his eyes went from Sias's angry face to Kronos's amused smile, he found himself wondering casually what these two might be up to this time. It was not so very long ago that they rode as brothers. It was not so long ago that Kronos was the leader and controlled things. Life had changed --he was in control now. He was the man with influence and the wealth to back it all. And still, there was and probably always would be this struggle for power.

“Methos!” Kronos said with a wiry grin. “You did not give me time to explain the situation. You see, Parkhurst went on shore without leave a week ago, and, got himself so disgustingly drunk that when he attempted to return, he fell into the water off a pier, and was discovered drowned. And as for young Aapole--” he rushed on, sensing Methos was about to interrupt, “-he ran off, he did! With a middle-aged woman that could have been his mother! She use to sell fish and fresh fruit in the marketplace. And then one day she wasn't there. I sent Silas on shore to look for Aapole, and he learned they had wed . . . ”

Captain Death had far too much English ale to drink the previous night, which had something to do with his bad mood. He had literally lost his shirt at cards and had ended, in spite all his stern resolutions, in the Countess Ravenswood's own bed. It was just as well he had planned to leave England today! She had been a savage, an insatiable lover, and he was grateful for once that he healed quickly or else his back would have still bore the marks of her long, sharp nails.

There was a dull pounding in his temples, and he craved sleep. So when Kronos went on to explain that he had personally hired a new cabin boy, a French orphan who had been stranded in England and had relatives in France who would be glad to take him in, Methos merely waved an impatient hand.

Hell! Methos frowned at Kronos. To say he was surprised would only be the truth. Since when did Kronos share anything with another that didn't mean profit or pleasure? Ah, perhaps that was it? Pleasure. Kronos and the young French orphan. Methos shrugged mentally.

There was still Sias to deal with, and Methos said harshly, “Since we're short a man, and I don't have to impress people on shore with the fact that I, too, have my own valet, you can go back to your usual duties, brother. I'm sure you'll be relieved.”

Sias was reluctant to speak and hoped there would be no more questions, but on the heels of that hope came the curt command to fetch a decanter of wine-since there was no English Ale on the ship and since his cabin boy was not in a fit state to perform such small duties.

With a look of grim satisfaction, Sias closed the door behind him, ignoring the angrily muttered, explosive curses that was hurled at his heels. Let Kronos say what he would-he knew best how to handle his brother in one of his black moods.

It appeared they were carrying secret dispatches to the newly arrived American Minister in Paris, and so instead of looking for likely prizes, they were to avoid running into any other ships if they could help it-a highly usual situation for this notorious pirate ship. All the same, there were the usual duties to be performed, just in case; the decks had to be kept clean and clear and the guns polished and cleaned for action. The Specter's slim, rakish lines were too well known to all to permit any relaxing of their vigilance. It was well known that in spite of the so-called Peace of Amiens, there were British war frigates skulking off the coast. The Specter kept to a slow zigzag course heading well out to sea before she turned back again to head for the French Harbor of Nantes.

A series of storms plagued them-both sea and sky seemed to be against them. At first, Serena was far too sick and miserable to care if they broke into pieces and sank to the bottom of the ocean. In fact, in her lucid moments, between spasms of sickness, she almost welcomed the thought of an end-and end-to her misery.

Serena had lost all idea of time, and when the day came when she was actually able to sit up in her bunk, craving food in spite of the constant pitching motion of the ship, she had no notion how long she had lain there.

“Ah. You have found your sea legs at last,” Sias said cheerfully when he brought her a watery broth which she gulped down rapaciously. “I cannot stay long,” he added. “He's in a worse mood than ever because of all the delays and having to run from a damned Britisher of only sixteen guns yesterday. Lost her in the fog, but it's a shame we could not have stayed to fight her.”

“Ah, well! I'm sure you don't care about the missed booty or action. We'll dock at Nantes in a few days now, and I'll get you off the ship with none the wiser. You just stay below.” Spotting the fear in her eyes, he said gruffly, “Methos is an excellent sailor, for all his hard ways-and it's a hard life he's had to make him that way. Of course, you don't care, now do you? He will never guess you are a woman-you look just like a drowned mouse right now!”

When Sias left, Serena managed to wiggle out of her bunk and found her knees too weak to hold her. Just then the ship dipped into a deep wave-trough and rose up again, almost on its end, and she slammed against the bulkhead with a force that stunned her.

`I'm going to die,' she thought as she crawled across the floor. And the thought alarmed her only faintly, for she felt more than half-dead already. Tears of sheer weakness and exhaustion slipped unheeded down her pale, hollowed cheeks without her being aware of them. It didn't matter; nothing mattered too much at this point. She had lost her parents, lost all her possession-including her virginity-she could not even remember what she was doing here, being tossed from side to side like a tiny cork while she waited for the final wave that would surely smash in the side of the ship and sweep her with it to oblivion.

Huge, foamy waves continued to smash against the side of the ship. The porthole had been closed with a heavy wooden shutter, and Serena had no idea whether it was day or night. As the storm gathered in intensity the timbers began to creak alarmingly, and she had to clutch desperately to the side of the bunk to prevent herself from being thrown out.

Suddenly she began convinced that the ship was going down. Perhaps everyone had been swept overboard already, leaving her alone, trapped in this cramped space like the drowned mouse Sias had called her. Had she missed the cry, “Abandoned ship! Abandon ship!” above the thunderous roaring of the wind-torn waves?

Without quite knowing how, Serena found herself clawing desperately at the door. She wrenched it open at last and was soaking wet in a second, buffeted by the fury of the storm that was raging all around. The door slammed shut behind her, and she slid along the suddenly sloping deck. A wall of pale-green water came to meet her, pushing her backwards, drenching her eyes and hair and face. Her mouth was filled with salty water when she opened it to scream. So this was what it felt like to drown . . . Her mind registered the thought in a detached fashion, even while her arms flailed desperately seeking some kind of handhold. And then, just as her feet slipped from under her, she was brought up short-an arm encircled her waist, holding her firmly as the water receded, and she heard the man she had cannoned into swear in exasperation.

“I thought I gave orders--” a voice she recognized only too well began, and then, still holding her pinned against the wall, he lowered his head, peering furiously into her averted face. “Who the hell are you? A stowaway?”

Her wits coming at long last to her rescue, Serena tried to wiggle away. “The cabin boy, sir. I-I was afraid--” After the quantities of seawater she had swallowed, her voice came out as a choked and thankfully husky whisper.

“Goddam it! Don't you have sense enough to follow orders? You were to stay below because you were too sick to perform your duties!” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Well, now that you're recovered enough to be up and about, you can get below to the galley and fetch up some hot grog. And look lively, boy, or I'll throw you overboard myself!”

“Get going” he said grimly, and Serena ducked under his arm, not knowing in what direction she should flee. The deck tilted alarmingly again at that moment, and once more he grabbed at her to keep her from sliding against the rail. This time, though, his arm caught her under the breasts, their slight curve unmistakable through her sopping wet shirt.

She lay there for a long time, wet and trembling, partly with cold and partly from a feeling of sheer terror that seemed to numb all her senses. Finally the sound of her own teeth chattering aroused her and she lifted her head to discover she was lying in a puddle of water, which had soaked through the rug. A furiously swaying lantern overhead cast a dim orange light that flickered like the fires of hell, casting long, leaping shadows in the corners of the room.

What would he do to her? Serena glanced fearfully at the door, expecting him to burst through it at any moment. A pirate, a deserter from the English navy who had used a stolen ship to turn robber, a man without scruples, chivalry or a conscience-a complete amoral rogue!

The abuse she heaped on him mentally gave Serena the strength to sit up. She moaned. She must be bruised all over, after being flung this way and that. And he would probably kill her for ruining his fine Persian carpet, if she didn't save him the trouble by perishing with a chill. Some kind of practicality came back to her and with it she found the strength needed to pull herself slowly and painfully to her feet. Turning her head, she saw a pale, frightened face staring at her. She let out a small shriek, which fortunately was drowned out by the sounds of the storm that still raged outside.

It was hard to keep her balance, as weak and unnerved as she was, but she realized it was her own face that had scared her so! Reflected in a small mirror hung on the wall she could hardly recognize herself. Short, straggly hair, darkened by seawater hung about a small, gaunt face that was pinched and blue with cold. She looked like a half-drowned rat-hardly the kind of appealing prey that a pirate captain might wish to gobble up! And in any case, she had never possessed any vanity about her appearance-her nose was too short, her eyes too large for her small, high-cheek boned face. She had always been slender, like a reed, but after a week or more of virtual starvation, she was downright skinny.

`Perhaps he won't want to -to do that with me again!' Serena reflected hopefully. `After all, it was only because he was drunk and angry and wanted to punish me for challenging him.' But in spite of all her brave efforts to comfort herself she could not escape the unpleasant thought that she was at the mercy of a man who had thought it a joke to carry off a woman for his use for the night and had taken her without a thought to her feelings or for anything but the sating of his own lusts. He had wanted to be rid of her soon after-what would his reaction be now?

All she had it would seem was her fear, for she lacked the courage to take control of her world. She had been raped, her virginity torn from her and had not had the courage to kill herself afterwards. Instead, she had taken a bath! And now, almost petrified by fear, she found herself thinking that perhaps being raped again was preferable to death by drowning!

Clutching a trailing blanket around her shivering, icy body, Serena stayed crouched where she was, one arm wrapped around a bedpost. She tried to pray, but she didn't know what she prayed for, the end of the storm that would bring Methos, or a release from the horrible fear his imagine conjured in her mind. God didn't listen to her anyway. He had not stopped the soldiers from executing her parents. He had not stopped the crown from confiscating the Verrick land holdings and titles. And He had certainly turned his back on her the evening she had walked into the Crowing Rooster Inn and was seized by Captain Death for a night's entertainment!

Strangely enough, it was the sudden silence, and soft swaying of the ship that woke her. That, and the pleasant feeling of warmth penetrating her chilled flesh. She must have lost consciousness during the worst of the storm, Serena thought. At least she was still alive.

Her eyelashes lifted just a little, and she realized that she was lying in a bed, the covers drawn over her. In front of a glowing brazier which had been set in the center of the floor, a man stood stripping off his sopping wet clothing, flinging everything aside in an untidy, dripping heap. The ruddy light played over his tall, very lean body and the movement of muscles beneath the skin of his shoulders and narrow flanks. Serena's blue eyes widened and then squeezed shut quickly as he reached for a bottle that stood on the desk and raised it to his lips.

“Whose wench are you? Kronos? Caspian's? Or have you spread your favors to all my brothers?” She felt his body drop over hers, taking her breath away, and then he had rolled to the other side of the bed.

Numb with fear, she obeyed him, reacting like a puppet. She fell asleep and when she next awoke, the events of the previous night seemed jumbled. She had half-expected to wake up in the same narrow bunk she had occupied for the last week or so, and when her senses swam back to dull awareness of the present, she felt a heavy weight over her the lower half of her body and found her face pressed against a shoulder smelling faintly of sweat and tasting like salt. She tried to move away but an arm scooped her closer.

“You!” Suddenly he held her pinned down by the shoulders, his face staring down into hers. “How did you contrive it? Are you some kind of witch? Have you cast a spell on Sias and my ship as well? No wonder we've had such a bad voyage - a woman aboard ship always brings bad luck! What are you doing here?”

`”You-you threw me in here last night! And if I'm such bad luck, why don't you just throw me overboard and have done with it? You're such a rotten bully, no wonder all your men are afraid of you! Well, I'm not-not afraid anymore! You can't do anything worse to me than you have already--”

“Don't be too sure about that,” he muttered threateningly, between his teeth. “This is my ship. What are you doing aboard her? Did you offer yourself to Sias in order to persuade him to bring you here? Cabin boy-hah! I suppose you have been spreading yourself thin- distributing your doubtful favors to all my brothers, if not every man on this ship. No wonder you were supposedly too sick to show your face on deck! What's your game?”

To overwrought by now to care about the pain he was inflicting with his biting fingers, Serena screamed, “Nothing, nothing! I have not done anything and I'm not what you accuse me of being-you ought to know that! I only wanted to get to France, and if I hadn't been so-so sick I would have worked my passage there! I'm not a witch, and I'm not a whore, although you tried to make me one! And I wish you'd have let me be swept overboard last night. That would have been best, I'm sure for all concerned!”

She had no wish to intrigue him and she could only be grateful for the rapping at the door that made him stiffen and swear under his breath. Suddenly embarrassed, Serena dove under the covers like a guilty child. Sias entered, bearing dry clothes over his arm.

“Methos, I thought you'd be needing these. And Kronos has a jury mast, all right and tight. If the wind and weather hold, we ought to reach port with no more trouble.” In the face of Methos's ominous silence, he cleared his throat and went on, “I came to explain-since you didn't give me a chance last night, and--”

“If we hadn't been shorthanded, you'd be clapped in irons and making your explanations to the rats in the hold. No, I'll have my explanation from the right party, and hear your side later, if my temper holds out! Here. You can take our mild-mannered cabin boy's clothes and have them dried. And tell the cook to fetch me some breakfast, while I decide what to do with her.”

She blushed all over under the cold scrutiny of his eyes as she forced herself to pull on the garment he had thrown at her, but for once he seemed not so much interested in the sight of her body as in studying her face.

Serena tried not to shrink under his look, gathering her confused, scattered thoughts together. She told him the same story she had told him the night he raped her-would his being sober this time make a difference?

“My father was English and my mother French. Because of the unrest in France, the crown sent soldiers to our home. My father refused to cooperate with their outrageous demands and he and my mother were shot. I was taken to London to stand trial for treason, only I don't know why my having French blood in my veins should make me a traitor! All my family's holding and titles were taken back and bestowed upon the Earl of Devonshire.”

“The guards took us out for fifteen minutes of exercise a day. I escaped then. I stole clothing from a clothes line, stole food from the market, and stole a horse from a livery stable. I know stealing is wrong, but I was in great need and I was already condemned to death! I rode to Dover to seek passage to France . . . And you know the rest of it!”

“Do I? Why are you hellbent on reaching France?” He asked harshly, eying her suspiciously. “Do you have a secret communication for Bonaparte perhaps? Why should I believe you are not a traitor if all of England believes you are?”

“In Paris. She married, and I don't remember her last name, but she used to enjoy going to the theater, and I know that if I saw her again I would recognize her. And I'd heard that Paris is gay, and all the ladies wear pretty clothes, and I was in such danger in England--”

“I see.” His voice had become dry. “So you thought you'd sell your virginity to the highest bidder-or maybe this aunt of yours would! A pity I had to arrive on the scene and spoil everything! But then, you should not have led me to believe you have been with a man before!” His tone turned harsh. “All women are whores at heart, and for all your look of childish innocence, I'm sure you'll find something you want badly enough, and then you will be no different! It's a pity you went so far as to cut off your hair. It was quite lovely as I recall.”

“Spare me your theatrics, wench!” he sneered. “Once you're filled out a little and let your hair grow back, you might be passable-and in a better position to bargain. For now, like it or not, you've thrown yourself on my hands, and as little as I like it, I suppose I'm stuck with you until we reach France. You could cause trouble, if the crew knew there was a female on board. I'd hate to have to hand you over to them to keep them mollified! So,” he rose, stretching, “if you know what's good for you you'll keep your mouth shut and do as you're told, Who knows? You might learn a few things to prepare you for your future profession in case you don't happen to run into this pleasure-loving aunt of yours!”

When he left the cabin, he locked the door behind him. Serena was his prisoner. She did not know what passed between Sias and his Captain, but she heard Kronos's furious shouts, and a moment later heard the sound of steel. She knew from conversations she had with Kronos that he thought he was the ultimate power aboard this ship. He had told her that Captain Death was nothing but his puppet. He knew the strings to pull, and the puppet preformed on command. When Captain Death showed up in his cabin a short time later, Serena wondered just how truthful Kronos had been for it sure looked and felt like Captain Death was the only one in command.

The rest of the voyage lasted five days, with the weather perfect, but during that time Serena was never permitted to leave the cabin. She was more than just a prisoner-she was the helpless, unwilling captive of a pirate captain who treated her like a prize of war.

When she refused to undress for him he took her clothes away and kept her naked. When she attempted to claw at him he tied her wrists to the bedposts. Once, she tried to brain him with a heavy, double branched candelabra that stood on his desk. He snatched it easily out of her grasp and turned her, squirming and whimpering, over his knee smacking her bare rump until all her pride and defiance left her and she screamed for mercy.

After that, she was tame, in a fashion. When he felt inclined to take her, she submitted limply, without showing any reaction, keeping her eyes tightly closed and her teeth clenched against his kisses. And in this way, by her very passivity, she defeated him and gained her own small victory when, swearing, he would roll away from her.

She resisted him by not resisting, and Methos found himself staying away from his own cabin, scowling and watching the cloudless blue skies while his crew kept their distance, eying him and shaking their heads. Silas laughed as if he knew the reason for his black moods, while Sias just watched with angry eyes. Kronos muttered threats under his breath, but kept his distance.

Damn her! Methos mused. She was nothing but a cold, unresponsive child-woman-he must have been out of his mind or blind drunk to have ever felt himself attracted by her in the first place! If he'd had any sense, he would have allowed her to continue her masquerade as a cabin boy, made her work until she dropped from weariness, and let her bunk with Kronos! She had no notion of what rape was -let Kronos take a try between her legs! That would have taught her a lesson!

She had not been the first woman he'd raped-but it was the defiance she threw in his face that caused him to feel uneasy. She had been acquiescent enough that first time, curse her! And then she'd turned up again, after he'd put her out of his mind as an unpleasant memory.

What a bedraggled little scarecrow she'd looked that first night when he'd discovered her stumbling across the deck, all wet and sticky with sea water. But since then, he'd made her wash her hair, and although it was still far too short, it had begun to curl in ringlets all over her head in a style that ladies of fashion were beginning to copy all over Europe.

She was such a mixture of defiance and surrender, naivete and cynicism. And her family had given her an impressive education that would no doubt prove useful to her later, when they got to France. She was hardly inexperienced any longer-he had seen to that, and with the right clothes she should have no difficulty finding herself a rich lover-or more than one. The best whores were women who didn't allow themselves to feel . . .

Methos scowled and turned abruptly to stare out into the great expanse of the ocean. He must be out of his mind to wonder what her future might be once he was rid of her. He had never given any woman, save one, a second thought, nor exerted himself to conquer one, since Cassandra. Ah, lovely Cassandra. Serena was like her and that was perhaps the reason he was feeling things that he had thought long over and done.

When the cabin door banged open, Serena was sitting up in his chair, reading a battered volume of poetry he'd picked up somewhere in England. Fascinated, she hardly looked up, and her voice held more animation in it than he'd heard for a long time.

“You look like a strumpet waiting for her first customer,” he snarled cruelly. “For God's sake put something on or get into bed. Sias will be bringing dinner in soon-or did you hope to seduce him as well?”

Her words acted like a glass of cold water thrown in his face. It was only when she spoke in such a cynical manner that he realized how naive and innocent she had really been at first. Until he changed her. Controlling himself, with an effort, he walked behind his desk, turning up the lamp.

“Such a painful sacrifice on you part isn't necessary, mademoiselle. Please wrap a sheet around yourself at least-improvise a Roman toga, if you can. I can assure you that a little modesty and even coyness at times can be much more appealing to a man than such a blatant display of nudity.”

“Oh!” He had managed to make her angry at last. “And what makes you think that I am interested in making myself appealing to a man? If I am to judge all men by you, it wouldn't matter! All you think of is your own selfish pleasure even if it has to be forced on an unwilling victim!”

Sullenly, Serena turned her back on him, snatching a sheet off the unmade bed to wrap around herself. How she detested him! And what subtle new form of torment did he plan to use on her this time? What she flung at him was true. She only longed to be free, and especially of him!

Sias brought dinner, his eyes more on Serena, as he laid the table and set down steaming covered dishes, than on the chore he was about. He removed the covers from the dishes with a loud clatter that caused Methos to raise an eyebrow and ask if he was feeling quite right.

Methos, reading what was in his brother's mind, gave him a sarcastic smile. “Why would I need to seduce her? She reminds me daily that I have ruined her! And I happen to have a taste for champagne tonight-and not with you, brother, as company!”

The door thudded shut and a spicy aromatic scent filled the cabin, making Serena's mouth water in spite of all her resolutions. Methos had taken the last of the covers off the dishes that Sias had brought in, and the delicious smell was almost too much for her to bear. Serena bit her lip, her back stiffening, and the next moment she jumped as a cork popped loudly.

Lately he had taken to speaking to her in French, and as usual, his sarcastic tone of voice made her grit her teeth with anger. If she didn't eat he was just as likely to have the meal cleared away as soon as his own appetite was satisfied.

Wrapping a sheet loosely around her, she finally sat down opposite him. Methos's shirt was open to his waist, and she could not help noticing, the strangely wrought medal he wore on a silver chain around his neck. She had asked him about it before, and he'd only shrugged, telling her it was a good-luck charm given to him by an old friend.

Well, she wouldn't ask him any more questions. She knew all she wanted to know about him, although his behavior tonight puzzled her. He had asked Sias to lay the table as if for a formal dinner, and now he instructed her on the correct implements to use, all the while keeping her glass full to the brim with champagne.

His eyes crinkled at the corners-why did she have to notice that? And when she would have answered him loftily, Serena choked on her champagne instead. She spluttered, breathing up bubbles of champagne that seemed to penetrate her very brain, making it float away from her body.

Had she dreamed the huskiness of his voice? Serena gasped with shock as something cold and wet trickled over her breasts and down her belly. Her body jerked, arching, involuntarily, and her eyes, as she tried to focus them, held a puzzled, confused look.

Serena began to giggle helplessly the next moment when Methos, bending his dark head to hers, said severely, “If you would hold still the champagne would not go to waste! Now lay there quietly for a change!”

Neither of them had eaten very much, being far too occupied in arguing, and she thought for a moment that he was as drunk as she. She became aware, all of a sudden, of a strange sensation. His lips and tongue were tracing the path of the champagne, and even moving beyond to chart out her skin.

Serena tried to wiggle away, but he held her pinioned, concentrating first on one quivering breast and then the other until she felt her whole body burning with embarrassment. And-and-oh, it was the strangest feeling, but although she struggled and moaned, she did not really want him to stop, not even when her nipples were painfully sensitive under his hands, and his seeking mouth moved much lower-across her taut, shrinking belly-lower still, until-

Until frightened both by herself and him, she began to fight against him in earnest, her breath sobbing in her throat, limbs writhing as she fought to close her thighs against this different kind of encouragement.

Forgetting her pride in her fear, Serena began to plead with him, although somewhere in the back of her mind a small demon sat grinning and damned her for being a hypocrite. She had come closer than she ever had before to understanding desire-so close that when with a muttered expletive he slid himself up her body and kissed her mouth instead, she was almost sorry. She felt as if she had been on the brink of a new discovery, and now she had lost it.

She realized then that she had actually clawed at his shoulders. When he leaned over her, penetrating her quickly and deeply, she tasted his blood against her lips and wondered in the back of her mind what had made him so patient with her tonight. Any other man she might have called kind, but she had learned that Captain Death wasn't kind-ever! He was a man who took what he wanted, and women were a convenience, no more, something to be gotten rid of when they were no longer convenient! He had told her that one night, snarling it into her startled face.

She would never understand him, why even try. It was the champagne that made this time different from all the others and made her head whirl and her breasts ache against his smooth chest where the funny foreign medal he wore pressed into her flesh, warm from his body, like a brand.

He held her against him all night, his flesh still part of hers. And he took her again in the morning when she was still half-asleep, quickly and impatiently this time, without a kiss or a caress. But at least he pulled the covers back over her when he left, and turning over with a sigh, Serena slept again.

The next day was all bustle and confusion, and Serena felt like a sleepwalker moving in a kind of daze. When she awoke, it was well past noon. Silas stood waiting impatiently, his back turned while she dressed in the only garments she possessed. The pirate captain had tired of his mistress, and she was dressed like a cabin boy again. In fact he had not even troubled himself enough to wish her a good-bye, and she could catch no glimpse of him when she followed Silas on deck, blinking in the sudden rush of sunlight.

Silas kept hurrying her, warning her to keep the woolen cap he had handed her pulled well down over her head. Too weary and confused to ask him any questions, she went with him unquestioningly, hardly caring where he was taking her. What did it matter? She was in France at last, safe and well, if a trifle shopworn. A slight, bitter smile that she was not aware of touched her soft mouth for an instant, causing Silas to give her a sharp look and then an approving smile.

Serena was unaware of his approval or his thoughts. Gradually she begun to feel as if she were wakening from a dream to realize where she was and what had brought her here. France- her mother's country. No longer living in terror and torn apart by revolution, but gay and vital and bursting with all the energy of change and progress. She had been a little girl the last time her family have visited Grandmere here in France. They had been forced to flee! Her mind was clouded by memories of horror and gnawing, terrifying fear. Blood ran in the streets, and heads were cleaved from the old and the very young.

She shook the old fears away. That was long ago! A different France! In this new France surely there would be some of her mother's friends alive and still living in Paris who would remember her! Perhaps by some lucky chance she would not find it so hard to find her Aunt Gabrielle. In France, where all the fashionable ladies took lovers, the damning matter of her lost virginity would become a little matter, not something that branded her as being in disgrace and unfit for marriage.

What a long way she had come in just a few weeks time! What a awful lot she had been forced to learn! Such as being raped by a man did not necessarily mean being ripped to pieces inside, and that to submit passively made it easier, if no less unpleasant. If that was all that marriage entailed, then she would much rather be a wife than a mistress, who could be discarded too easily.

Silas took her to an Inn where she could rest for a time and change her clothes. Clothes, female clothes at last! Who had procured them for her? Did Methos-? But she didn't asked. Didn't really want to know! As soon as Silas retreated from the room, locking the door behind him, Serena stripped off her scratchy, disgusting boy's garments and slipped on the wonderfully soft satiny undergarments, followed by a gown of rich yellow gold. It was a simple gown, obviously made by a provincial dressmaker and meant for travel. A comb was provided as well, and she ran it threw her tangled black hair that still curled charmingly about her face.

Silas unlocked the door to bring her lunch. While she wolfed down the slice of cold mutton she listened as he explained his Captain's orders. She was to wait here until Methos came. He had already paid in her name for the fare by coach to Paris. Serena listened numbly, and her appetite disappeared abruptly. Silas took the dishes from her and left. This time she didn't hear the turn of the key in the door.

With a curiously defiant gesture of pride, Serena lifted her head as she came to a decision. She wanted nothing more from Captain Death! She had learned to survive and now she would have independent as well! The door opened without too much squeaking, and she tiptoed out onto the narrow landing that lead down into the main room below.

Serena suddenly felt panicky and didn't quite understand why. She heard Methos voice and cautiously, she started down the steps, clinging to the thin railing. One careful step at a time, testing each one to make sure it would not creak. She could still only hear the murmur of conversation, but halfway down the stair case she at last saw the back of Methos's head.

“Dammit! She's worth a lot more than that, and you know it! If I didn't need the money right now I'd keep her for a while longer. She's trim and easy to handle once you've mastered her, but I'm in a hurry to get back home and must be rid of her.”

Still clutching at the stair rail, Serena felt sick with horror and humiliation. She swayed, her heartbeats sounding like pounding drums in her ears, and hardly heard the other man's reply. “You drive a hard bargain, bit I'll consider meeting your price after I've seen her and decide if she's worth what you're asking for her.”

Without waiting to hear more, she rushed down the steps and out the door. No! No and no! He would not sell her off as callously as if she were a piece of merchandise to be bargained for! How could even he be so heartless and depraved? Had he planned to send the man to her room while she slept to take her by force as he had? No wonder she had started to feel panicky! Her instincts had been trying to warn her!

Julian Morgan trying out his pair of matched bays behind a smart racing rig, had to swerve sharply to avoid the young woman who came running around the corner into the street. He swore angrily as he barely managed to avert being overturned or losing a wheel. Damn the woman! What was the matter with her? She had been fleeing as if pursued by all the demons of hell, and now she lay in a sobbing crumpled heap on the cobblestones. Surely she wasn't hurt? Although if she was, it was her own fault. Damned French! He supposed, however, that he'd better go and make sure she was all right. The Peace of Amiens was an uneasy one, and he was a visitor to Paris. He didn't want any trouble. . .

Gay Paris? Parties and the theater? These were things Serena Verrick had not encountered since she arrived two days ago by hired coach. What she had experienced was fear as she roamed unfamiliar streets, was followed by unwashed, homeless people that wanted the coin in her purse, and if she did not have that, then the clothing off her back. She was hungry, and bruised from fighting the bolder individuals who had tried to take what little she had from her.

She had managed to come across streets that looked familiar. They were not narrow with tall buildings crowding them on either side, but wider, with flowering trees. A much richer side of Paris. The side of Paris she remembered. But then a stranger had come out of nowhere and tried to grab her into the shadows of one of the houses. She had kneed him in the groin to gain her release before running headlong across the wide street and just barely being missed by two wild looking horses and the crazy man driving them.

Serena was not sobbing with fear-she was past that-but with sheer exhaustion. She had not slept, nor had she found anything to eat. And with this new turn of events, she had not yet realized how narrowly she had escaped death.

She lay there unable to move, and suddenly there was a pair of highly polished, tasseled boots standing before her eyes, and she heard a voice inquiring in stilted, accented French if she were hurt or needed any assistance.

She looked up slowly, first seeing fashionable breeches of pale yellow, then a gold watch fob dangling from a striped silk waistcoat, and finally a high white cravat, intricately tied. Serena blinked, hardly daring to believe that such a handsome man could exist. His blonde hair, cut a` la Brutus, fell over his forehead which was creased at the moment with a worried frown.

Julian Morgan saw a flushed tear-stained face framed by dark curls that clung damply to her temples. He could feel her trembling, whether from shock or fear he could not tell, and his voice sharpened with concern. “I say-are you sure you're all right? Can you stand?” She looked like a child, her thin figure encased in a poorly cut gown of the most unbecoming shade of dark yellow, and he took her for some poor shopkeeper's daughter until she spoke to him in perfect English, her voice husky with emotion.

He stared at her in dismay, obviously hesitant, and then when fresh tears sprang into her blue eyes and began to trickle forlornly down her face he decided that a scene was to be avoided at all costs. Besides, there was something deucedly intriguing about her and the way she spoke such flawless English. What on earth could a young woman of obvious education be doing here, shabbily dressed, all alone and terrified out of her wits?

Mr, Morgan, already regretting his impulsive decision could not help glancing doubtfully at the woman, who sat beside him, leaning slightly forward. She had a delightful little profile, with a slightly retrousse nose and tiny chin, but, my God, what if some of his friends were to see him now! He would become a laughingstock. Then a rather unpleasant thought came into his mind, causing him to frown slightly. Suppose she was not what she seemed, but a little adventuress who had deliberately run out into the street before his bays so that her family could blackmail him? He had been warned to be careful in Paris, and especially now, when all Englishmen were held in suspicion. Dash it! What should he do now?

“Oh, stop!” He gave her a look of surprise, and the next moment she blushed at her own boldness, saying in a softer, apologetic voice, “That is-if you would please stop for just a moment, sir? The building there, you see, I recognize it.”

Julian, obediently reining up his spirited horses, looked puzzled. What the devil did she mean? He had heard that this building had been used as a prison during the revolution, but surely she was too young to remember that?

“It-it was once a Carmelite convent,” she said softly in a strained voice, and began to twist her hands together in her lap. “Then, you see not everyone believed in the danger. And those who did not flee, including the priests and the archbishop himself, were all hacked to death. I remember that my parents prayed for their souls after we reach our home in England.”

She gave a convulsive shiver, the thought recalling her to the present and her reason for being here, perched up beside a strange man with bright blue eyes who had rescued her just like a knight-errant in the early days of chivalry!

She must be a royalist then, Julian was thinking. He heard that some of the former aristocrats had lost everything, and those who had survived were still forced to live in hiding, and were under constant suspicion ever since the royalist plot against Bonaparte.

“Serenity Antonia Verrick.” She said in one breath, adding simply, “But everyone calls Serena. It was my maman's name for me, for she was French. France did not want her, and England turned their back on my father because of her!”

“They came and shot them! They died before my eyes, and they wouldn't allow me to stay to see my parents buried. But I escaped and rode to Dover! I thought that if I could get to France, to Paris, then perhaps I could find my Aunt Gabrielle again. She was married to an Englishman, Lord-Lord-oh, I cannot remember his name!” she cried out with exasperation. “Perhaps you would know him and I should be safe again.”

She was too overwrought to let him interrupt. “There is also my godmother. They sent her husband, the viscount of Beauharnais to the guillotine, but I overheard Maman tell my father that it was only a few days afterwards that the Citoyen Robespierre was executed, and they stopped sending everyone to the guillotine, so . . . She was very pretty and so kind! And I am quite sure that if I could . . .”

Julian Morgan's head reeled. The woman's story sounded too improbable to be true. And yet, could it be possible that she was talking about Josephine de Beauharnais who had married the upstart Corsican and was now the first lady of France?

“Marie-Josephe-Rose de la Pagerie-before she married the viscount, of course! And she was a Creole, from Martinique, like my maman and my Aunt Gabrielle. Oh, Sir! Do you think you may know her? Does she still live in Paris?”

Within the next four hours she had been reunited not only with her godmother, but her aunt as well. And her happiness was all due to the good intentions of the handsome Englishman, Julian Morgan, who, on hearing her story, had not wasted a moment in driving her all the way to Malmaison, where the wife of the first consul of France was in residence at the moment.

Her godmother, her mother's childhood friend, was married to none other than Napoleon Bonaparte, the man who had conquered more than half of Europe. And her aunt, the Countress of Avonshire, had taken advantage of the uneasy peace to visit France. She was, in fact, staying at Malmaison with her friend when the Englishman, whom she remembered meeting in London, had all but forced his way past the enormous, gilded gates.

From then on, Serena's whole life changed. So drastically she could hardly believe it was all true and happening to her. Suddenly she was no longer a poor orphan but a young lady of fashion, her gowns designed and tailored by the great couturier Leroy and her hair arranged and styled by her own maid. Josephine's daughter Hortense, whom she had known as a child was her friend, and Napoleon himself had noticed her, ruffling her curls as he passed.

What a transformation! Her mirror told her so, when the others did not. Why, she was no longer ugly! When her hair was dressed, a jeweled headband showing of the burnish brown splendor, and she wore a diaphanous muslin gown embroidered with gold or silver, she was the equal of any other woman and the target for flirtatious glances and comments. Only her aunt and godmother knew the whole story behind her sudden appearance in Paris, and not even to them had she divulged the name of the man who had shamed her.

“I can imagine how it must have been for you, my pet, locked away in a cabin at sea! How fortunate you were able to get away from this-this pirate! But there-we will not speak of that yet, not unless you wish to and are ready. I myself feel that England is like a prison! A woman is expected to keep her place and do nothing but simper and make inane conversation. How I've yearned for Paris!”

Serena had already begun to learn that there was very few married women among those elegantly gowned ladies who frequented the highest circles, who did not have lovers-or had not in the past. Even Josephine herself had been the mistress of Paul Barras when Napoleon had met her.

These were the people she was surrounded by. How naive she must seem in comparison. Not at all experienced, in spite of the unpleasant instructions she had received from that pirate on how to please--a man! But then, she was beginning to understand that there were men and then there were men!

Serena had not been formally present in Paris yet, but she was happy in the relative seclusion of Malmaison, and there was Julian Morgan, who in spite of the fact that he was an Englishman, was permitted to visit her and came almost every day.

The first consul had no love for the English. He believed the English were behind the countless plots against his Republic. He also believed the English nobility flocked across the channel not only to sample the pleasures of the Continent, but to spy upon him.

So it was surprising that Julian Morgan was allowed beyond the golden gates of the chateau, with its tricolor sentry boxes outside and handsomely uniformed hussars who stood watchful guard. Serena suspected that this concession was due in part because her father had been English, and because her godmother, Josephine, pleaded with Napoleon to allow it.

Her first impression of Julian Morgan had not changed since she had begun to see him so often. He was still the handsomest man she had ever set eyes on, and his manners matched his appearance. They strolled in the gardens together, down the ornamental flower-lined walks, and sometimes paused to sit and rest by the cool, tinkling fountain.

He talked to her of London and related witty anecdotes that made her laugh. They were never entirely alone together, for there was always a group of young people, including Hortense, Josephine's daughter, who accompanied them on their walks.

Julian found himself intrigued by her. Not only because of the faint mystery that clung to her, but also because of her transformation from timid, trembling street waif to budding beauty. With her burnish brown curls arranged in the Greek fashion and her clinging, fashionable muslin gowns she looked like a wood-nymph, still slightly shy and ready to run if frightened.

At first it had been curiosity and an almost protective sense of responsibility that had taken Julian back to see her. But now, he admitted to himself ruefully, he was on the way to becoming completely enchanted. And it wouldn't due at all for her to learn that he had been granted the land holdings that had been in her father's family for years, that he was, in fact, the Earl of Devonshire.

Of course, he had nothing to do with what had happened to her mother and father. And when he had been granted the title to the lands belonging to her family he had not even known that there was a daughter! And to think she was related to the wife of the most powerful man in Europe! Just how did she turn up in France, without her relatives' knowledge? And who or what had she been running from that day he nearly ran her over? He did not dare press her for details, and her small face always clouded when he ventured a casual question in that direction.

Not wanting to frighten her off or destroy her growing trust in him, Julian let it be, hoping that one day she might confide in him, which would make it much easier to confide in her-about her family home! In the meantime, there were other matters that needed his attention, among these, the reasons he had traveled to France in such uneasy times. She was always transparently happy to see him, and admitted, without guile, that she did miss him when he had to stay away for a few days.

"Ah, no dear! I did not mean to say that there is anything wrong with this young man, far from it. But you see," she looked into her niece's rebellious blue eyes and sighed, choosing her words carefully this time --"it is you that I worry about, Serena. Looking at you now, so chic, so pretty, it has been difficult to remember what a sheltered life your maman provided for you in England. This Julian is the first young man you have flirted with, is he not? Yes, he is very handsome-devastatingly so! His manners are very charming, and you look upon him as the gallant chevalier who rescued you, from despair and that less than chivalrous man you claim was a pirate! But you must not begin to mistake gratitude for-for something else! Soon you will be meeting other young men. Some will be handsome, too, and just as dashing and-more suitable."

"You do not like this word? Ah, I remember when I was told of this French Count, what we would call an English Earl in England! They told me what a poor and unsuitable a match he would make for me! I, too, shook my head. However, if I had stayed in France and married the penniless Count I though I loved, I would have gone to the guillotine. Julian Morgan is a pleasant young man, and there is even a title there-an earldom! But he and his father have a sickness in their blood--gambling! They are both members of the Carleton House set."

"Mr. Morgan is in Paris at the moment to pay court to a certain heiress! Any heiress would not do, do you understand? There is a wildness in the Morgan family! A compulsiveness, one might say and because of it, he and his father need new monies to replenish the old! Do you comprehend now, dear? He must make a good marriage, a rich marriage, or he will be too ashamed to return home to face his father!"

Serena's eyes, beginning to shine with tears, looked stormy. "No! How could you expect me to accept anything so horrid?! If Julian was in love with another woman, he would have told me so-he is honest and kind! And-and he spends almost all his time here, because he wishes to see me! I cannot believe he would be so cold-blooded-like that pirate is--"

"Ah, Mr. Morgan is bedazzled by you! That much is easy to see. But for how long? Soon he will begin to think with shame of his duty-and you may be sure if his father who is the head of the family hears what's been going on he will waste no time calling for his return to England, and then what? Do you think he will be brave enough to take you with him? Are you brave enough to return to a country who wants your head?"

Later, when she had retired to her room to fight back the treacherous tears that threatened to engulf her, Serena could not help feeling as if a heavy stone had been placed over her heart. It was humiliating to be chastened for not being sophisticated enough to hide her feelings for Julian. It was daunting to be told to flirt, because she had not really learned how to do it correctly. It was difficult for her to flirt because it often felt deceitful, and a waste of time. How was flirting going to get Julian to return to visit her? Would it make him love her?

Serena's hands clenched into small fists at her side as she began to pace angrily about the room. Surely her forthright behavior with Julian had won the day. He returned to see her almost everyday-and she dared to hope that he did love her! He was wonderful and brave, and it wasn't at all fair that this father of his should be allowed to plan and order his whole life! And as for this heiress . . . Bah! Whoever she might be, didn't she have enough spirit to refuse a suitor who did not love her and was forced to pay his address to her for the dowry she would bring him?

`I would not do it,' Serena thought, `Never again will I do something that someone else forces me to do!' The memories came back, starting with her reckless flight from the tower of London and finally her meeting with Captain Death. Its consequences made her face burn hotly with shame and anger. That dark pirate's image suddenly, unbidden, rose up to haunt her, and she remembered without wanting to the feeling of his hands on her body and his body driving into hers. Hateful! He had always been so hateful! Julian would never treat her like that! He would be gentle and tender and respectful!

But if Julian knew-knew what Methos had forced her to do-would he still respect her? He was English, not French, and everyone knew the English were rigidly conventional when it came to women. She could not bear the thought of telling him and watching his face change. If he truly loved her-it would not matter. And if only the crown had not striped away the family's land, then she would be an heiress, too!

Fortunately she had little time to continue to dwell on these things. Napoleon himself was expected to arrive that evening, and there would be a crowd of notables for dinner. She had to bathe and dress extra carefully, and she did not dare be late for it was well known the Emperor could not bear unpunctuality

Trying to distract herself while her maid fussed around her, clucking impatiently, Serena went over the guest list in her mind. Two of Napoleon's consuls--Sieye and Ducos were always present at these affairs, as was the foreign minister Talleyrand, prince of Benevento and Joseph Fouche, Napoleon's minister of police. There would be Captains, Generals, Admirals-and a sprinkling of foreign diplomats as well. Gabrielle's latest lover, a sea captain was to be in attendance as well. It had even been whispered that the new tsar of Russia, Alexander I, would be present.

It was to be a glittering, grand assembly and Serena was nothing if she was not nervous. Thank goodness for the current simplicity in fashion. Her sheer white muslin gown was embroidered with tiny gold flowers and ended in a train. A crisscrossed fold velvet sash was belted under her breasts and matched her velvet slippers, and her hair was caught up in a mass of curls, artful tendrils falling over her forehead and temple.

"Ravissante!" Her maid sighed, quickly twisting a gold chain several times around Serena's neck then standing back to admire the effect before handing Serena a silk fan, spangled with gold, that matched her shawl.

Gabrielle, resplendently dressed in silver-spangled gauze, gave a gurgle of laughter. "Wait until you see Josephine! She is naked under her muslin gown. No shadowing petticoat at all! She doesn't look at all like a mourning widow, and he, Napoleon, will be furious with her, but then Josephine doesn't care for anything but her own pleasures."

Usually, Serena never touched champagne, for its taste reminded her unpleasantly of the first time she had tried it. But tonight she consumed several glasses of it, and that and the knowledge that she looked as beautiful and sophisticated as any of the women present gave her the courage that she needed to go through the evening. The champagne made her blue eyes gleam with mischief and when she emerged from the drawing room with the other ladies, the first person she set eyes on was Julian.

In formal evening dress, he looked more handsome than ever. His high-collared, blue velvet coat, worn with a white silk cravat matched his eyes, and the frilled ruffles of his shirt showed at the wrists, and he wore black satin knee breeches and a sword with a ribbon rosette at its hilt. His hair showed golden in the brightness of a thousand candles, and the smile he gave her, lit up his whole face and made her heart begin to pound.

He came forward to meet her, and she offered him both her hands without thinking to control her emotions. Nothing could spoil her happiness at this moment, not even the fact that out of the corner of her eyes she had noticed Fouche, the minister of Police, in his dark coat, leaning up against a wall and watching them with a guarded, sardonic expression.

"I am glad that you are here, too! Will you not ask me to dance, and quickly, before that fierce Russian, Alexander, I believe his name is, approaches? I've been warned by my Godmother that he wishes my company."

The dance happened to be a waltz, newly imported from Vienna, and by the time they had made a few turns about the floor Serena had decided that she would like nothing more than for Julian to kiss her. He was staring down into her flushed face, smiling as if he could not tear his eyes away from what he saw.

"Then do you think-since this is France, and you are a gentleman, that I would be quite safe in the garden with you." She smiled, her eyes twinkling with teasing lights, "After all, only yesterday afternoon we walked the garden!"

She needed to say no more it would seem because Julian managed to waltz them over to a pair of glass doors leading out into the garden, and in the next instant, she was being held tenderly in his arms amongst the shadows of the surrounding flowering shrubbery. His lips were firm as they moved sensually against hers, not forcefully, not hurtfully. There was nothing fierce or savage in Julian that would turn on her to use and hurt her. He did not hold her trapped, wanting to wound her for his pleasure.

Serena longed to shake free of Methos memory, but the longer Julian kissed her the more she compared his gentleness to Methos savagery! Would she never forget that brutal, selfish bully? How and why had he left his mark upon her? Why could she not lose herself in the wonder and tenderness of his man's kiss?

Julian was falling in love with her. She knew it. She could feel it. And she wanted to hug the thought to her tightly as a talisman against the past! But the past was never far a way it seemed, and this night, it returned to her, not in the memory of his kiss, but in stark, cold reality.

He was the sea captain, Adam Pierson, whom her Aunt Gabrielle had confessed to have taken as a lover. Serena's face burned and her fingers shook with fury as she looked up into his moon shadowed face, seeing that smug, sarcastic half smile curving his lips as he stood beside her aunt Gabrielle while she shooed Julian away, then proceeded, to Serena's further humiliation, to berate her right there in front of him!

"Ah, my dear! How could you? After our discussion this afternoon!" Gabrielle scolded, while Serena watched Methos, a.k.a. Adam Pierson cross his arms over his chest and watched her as if she now only amused him. "Ah, Adam," Gabrielle had turned to him as if requesting his support. "She is still only a child, for all that she is twenty-one! But you must see how it is, innocent but so curious as well!"

Her blue eyes, widening involuntarily, met and clashed with a pair of suddenly furious, knowing grey eyes. That look, the very gleam in them, brought back a rush of unwanted memories and as if he knew it, too, he smiled, like the savage, lethal animal that he had proven to be. He made a response to Gabrielle, but Serena hardly heard what he said. She felt as if she had been turned to stone.

Serena followed them back inside, feeling like a chastened child. The aggressive and very demanding Russian Tsar, claimed her for the next dance. Serena didn't protest! Even Alexander was preferable to standing under Methos nonchalant shadow.

Why was he here in Paris? Had he followed her here? She had wished-hoped-him halfway across the seas by now! And was it possible that he actually was her aunt's lover? What a strange situation she found herself thrown into! She daren't say anything-but then, neither did he. She continued to tremble inside with a kind of impotent rage because she could not denounce him-not if he was her aunt's lover.

She was ashamed to realize that he still frightened her. If not for him standing beside her aunt, she would have protested her aunt's demands that Julian leave the garden. She would have told her aunt that she would do exactly as she pleased. But Methos-he had frightened her and had somehow made her feel ashamed. But she had done nothing to be ashamed of! I should have shown him his sudden appearance meant less than nothing to me! That he is the one who should be afraid in case I tell them all what really happened! In case I tell them all who and what he really was! They still hung pirates, didn't they?

She looked about the crowded room, but her aunt was now standing very much alone. Methos seemed to have vanished. Where had he gone? Would he be back? Serena's thoughts were still worrisome when she parted ways with the Russian tsar and was swished away by an Italian Comte. She continued to feel slightly stunned and quite unable to enjoy anything about the rest of the evening.

What a transformation she had undergone! From a beguiling evening traveler at the Inn in Dover to drenched cabin boy, and now, in the space of a few weeks that had elapsed since she had run away without a word of explanation, Bonaparte's mistress, and a light romp for any other man that struck her fancy. Was she really the lovely Gabrielle's niece?

The American Ambassador to France, cast a quizzical glance at the scowling face of Captain Death, who lowered himself into the seat across from him without a word. Adam Pierson was something of a mystery, and in spite of his preoccupation with other affairs, the American minister could not help but wonder, as he had done before, how many stories about this particular man, and some of the members of his crew, were true. If his true occupation was known, would he been hung as a pirate? To France and America he was thought of as a privateer-when it suited his inclinations, and when he needed the money. The American minister had heard tales of how Captain Death had sailed into the port of Le Havre with a captured English ship-renamed and flying the French flag. He always seemed to be stirring up old scandals as well as creating new ones!

Captain Death-and even Adam Pierson was not his real name, of course. Nobody knew exactly what nationality he was-but with his nose and classic features there was certainly a Italian heritage somewhere there. But whoever or whatever he was, Captain Death had the advantage of friends and unofficial backers in high places. Hard faced and closed-mouthed, he had the look and manner of a born adventurer-not the type of man that the American minister would normally have wished to meet. Captain Death had delivered certain secret dispatches from President Jefferson himself, along with others from an unknown source in England. Obviously, Adam Pierson was to be trusted, and as an added bonus, Adam Pierson new something of New Spain, which made him knowledgeable enough to help in the negotiations that were going on for the acquisition of the Louisiana Purchase--thousands and thousands of miles of uncharted land west of the Mississippi River in America. It was for this reason that Captain Death stayed on in France.

He'd managed to find himself certain sweet forms of consolation, however. The American Ambassador let his hooded eyes wander from Adam Pierson's closed expression to where the vivacious Gabrielle Landrey stood with her niece. Which of the ladies was the reason for the angry scowl that still darkened his companion's features?

The wonder and beauty of the music playing in the ball room went completely unremarked by far too many people, but Fouche, the minister of Police, was paid to observe others and he saw that the beautiful young neice of the first lady's best friend had not enjoyed being interrupted in her dalliance with the young Englishman, Julian Morgan. The aunt looked a tad put out at the moment as well! He didn't think it had anything to do with the niece, more with the daring French privateer, Adam Pierson.

What Fouche found most interesting, however was that this Privateer who was rumored to be Gabrielle Landrey's lover, had left the American Ambassador's side only moments ago, made a fast track to his lover's niece, and had quite deftly and inconspicuously managed to escort her out on the dance floor and then a short time later behind the closed, and no doubt, locked door at the far end of the ballroom.

For Serena it had been the final, crowning injustice to top off an evening that had been nothing but a tense, humiliating experience for her. She had found Julian Morgan and was about to go outside again with him.

`Why not,' Serena had thought angrily, `If her aunt could flaunt her lover for everyone to see, where was the harm in spending more time alone with Julian.' She planned to be good! She wouldn't even encourage him to kiss her again!

None of that mattered however because Gabrielle had shown up, and Julian had given her a reluctant shrug as he retreated. The perfect gentlemen-no waves made, no scenes created! The scolding had begun then, and he, Methos, had appeared out of nowhere to stand by her aunt's side, and Gabrielle had, in his odious presence, continued to chasten her-just as if she was a thoughtless child!

She bit her lips sulkily, longing to burst out with angry explanations and to face her aunt with the truth about this latest lover of hers who stood there with one eyebrow raised and a smile curling one corner of his mouth.

Everything that happened was always her fault, after all! Her eyes had begun to sparkle defiantly as planning exactly what words she would use, she looked back at her aunt. And then perhaps Methos would lose that smile! Yes, she would positively enjoy watching and listening as he tried to explain! And that would end his affair with Aunt Gabrielle as well!

Unaware of the direction of her niece's thoughts, Gabrielle finished up her little lecture with the injunction that Serena must herself tell Julian Morgan, if he was so bold as to ask her to dance, or heaven forbid, go into the garden again, that he should consider her reputation.

Frustration reigned, supreme, and the arrival of the obnoxious Russian tsar forced Serena into temporary silence while they all made brief, polite small talk. She was being treated like a child, she though again, and then to her utter dismay, she heard the tsar ask her aunt to dance, which, of course, left her alone with Methos!

Upon realizing this, Serena took a step backward, thinking only of flight. With deceptive, negligence his arm shot out, and she felt the all-too-well-remembered strength of his steely fingers about her wrist, halting her. Forcibly he drew her to face him.

Tears of pain and frustration filled her eyes. Short of screaming for help or creating a public scene that would bring even more censure down on her head, there was nothing she could do but allow herself to be led forward to join the other dancers.

"I must say you've done very well for yourself since you ran away so precipitately- although if I were you I'd not look for other lovers while your under General Bonaparte's protection. Especially not Julian Morgan!" There was a sudden harsh note in his voice that made her shiver in spite of her fury at his high-handedness.

Before, Serena could say a word, he continued in the same lazily contemptuous manner. "I wonder why you didn't tell me who you truly were. You let me think that you were just a poor orphan streetwalker! And you might have spared yourself a great deal of unpleasantness if you had been honest. Or did you want to spare yourself? Were you perhaps looking for some excitement-and experience to prepare you for your present circumstances?"

Driven beyond endurance she whispered raggedly, "What did you expect, once you had--had raped me? You're the kind of man who would think it amusing, no doubt, and by then I was too ashamed. I did not want you to know anything about me, I only wanted to escape--"

"Sell you off? What the devil do you mean by that? And my dear, if you think to blackmail me, let me tell you that it won't work! I don't give a damn what people may say about me, but in your case . . . If the truth were known, I doubt that you'd find life as pleasant as it seems to be now. Shall I tell them you were once my little plaything and that I kept you for my use while it suited me? I wonder what worth General Bonaparte would put on you then!"

His words were calculatedly cruel, each one like a slap in the face. Serena went white under the savagery of his attack, and her blue eyes gleamed luminously with unshed tears. Something almost pathetically defenseless in her expression made Methos regret his harshness.