"The Pirate, The Princess, & The Promise"

Catalina's eyes widened a fraction and she stepped back as Paulson fell to his knees with a pained expression, then his eyes rolled back and he hit the deck, dead and with a blooming red flower on his back. Marc held a knife, looking as collected as ever.

Catalina was surprised she wasn't more horrified. A man had just died in front of her. Not lost at sea, not sent away to be beheaded-dead in a matter of seconds right before her very eyes. Then again, he had manhandled the daughter of a king, tried to attack her like she was no more than a common whore-he'd have suffered much worse in her country. Much, much worse. Her father would never allow such an insult to his pride.

But the ease in which Marc had ended the would be rapist...-was she really so hypocritical? What had she been about to do? She had been so angry, so outraged by his attempts to lie, by his suggestion she had attacked him in anything less than self defense-what had been her plan? Run him through?

She was mildly dismayed to realize that yes, that had been her plan exactly. That was not at all fitting of a lady or a princess.

Her eyes flicked to Marc as he bowed to her, then the men gathered around them both. He had the power to throw her to the wolves if he wished it. He had promised she would return home...he had not said in what condition. She was completely at his mercy.

She lowered the sword to her side and straightened to a more ladylike pose, suddenly aware of the slit now torn in her dress, her exposed slender shoulder and toned leg. A delicate hand grasped the material on both sides of the tear, attempting to bunch it together-but it was little use. Still, Catalina de Rosa was not about to be shamed further.

The men filed out, leaving the two of them very much alone, Catalina watching them leave, and then her stormy grey eyes returned to him, a furrow to her brow. What more punishment could a dead man face? And then he held out his hand for the sword. Catalina looked down to the blade and studied the sheen of the metal, the way her graceful fingers were wrapped around its handle. She had never held a sword before. Even that little knife she had slipped into her garter had been a first. If Ana ever found out her pretty charge had not only carried a blade but sank it into a man's thigh, she'd have a heart attack.

"...your man has little use for it now." She pointed out politely, her eyes returning to his. 'Rose' looked a little different. That outrage and anger had left her, but there was still something about her, something enhancing her features, her eyes. She was less demure, less meek, and certainly less anxious. She had bearing, there was no denying that. A woman, not a girl.

"And I'm afraid he ruined the blade I brought aboard-as well as my favorite dress." She didn't take her eyes off him, but made a small motion with the hand holding the skirt partially together.

Marc studied Catarina's face and body language for a moment, finding a strength and confidence in her that he'd imagined was always there but, with the attack, was only now exploding forth. She didn't want to give up the blade, but Marc was uncertain whether that was because she felt vulnerable without it or simply felt she had earned it.

"Such a blade is not for you, Rose," Marc said moving to Catarina and casually taking the blade from her hand. He leaned it against the bulkhead near her, still very much within her reach, then unbuckled the belt that held about his waist the scabbard holding the dagger with which he had dispatched the wanna-be-rapist. "Forgive my familiarity, m'lady."

Leaning in, Marc reached the end of the belt around the Princess's waist and buckled it in front. His gaze was on Catarina's own eyes, studying her reaction to the invasion of her personal space; as he fastened the buckle, the backs of his fingers pressed against her belly just inches above where Paulson had intended to find comfort for his cock.

"I will teach you to use it if you wish," Marc said as he stepped back. He let his gaze fall to her bared shoulder, then lower to her exposed thigh. There was far more flesh naked to his viewing than the Lady of Court preferred, obviously, yet Marc told Catarina, "If you would like to change into something more concealing, I will wait here outside your quarters."

Despite the ship's largest berth being Marc's, he referred to it as Catarina's, for as long as she was aboard (which might be a while, as fate had determined), the aft stateroom was for her and her alone.

"However," he continued, giving that long, luscious leg one last quick glance before looking back up to Catarina's eyes, "The men know what happened. Many saw what happened, and those who did not are being told the story even as we speak. Some will hear it as it was, as a truth. Some will hear it as others interpret it, not a lie but then, not the truth as you and I know it."

Marc was leaving no doubt in Catarina's mind that he fully believed she was attacked without provocation by Paulson.

"But, all will believe that you were defeated, bested," he continued, "nothing more than a weak woman whose virtue was only saved because I, their Captain, stepped in in time. Yes, you put a blade into Paulson's thigh, but unless you proceed proudly out onto that deck as you are now, showing the pride and power that is within you, Rose..."

Marc turned a bit to indicate he was readying to turn for the stairs and the main deck as he offered a hand out toward Catarina. "Come with me, Rose. Show them that no mere man can best with such a cowardly act."

He waggled his hand again, as he had for the sword earlier. With an encouraging smile, he said with a softer tone, "Come, Rose. Show them. Show them who and what you are."

"Such a blade is not for you, Rose,"

His response was not unexpected, but Catalina wasn't finished with her intended negotiation-she'd ask for the small knife back. A captive with a sword might be unreasonable, but a 'harmless' woman with a knife? It had been a silly thing that had made her feel a small measure of safety, having that cool metal against her skin. A 'silly' thing turned useful in frightening, dire circumstances. Surely he wouldn't deny her that, given what had just happened?

She was considering how to phrase the smaller request when he stepped forward. She let him, her eyes lowering to the sword as his stronger hand casually took it out of her loosened, graceful fingers. There was a measure of respect to him, she decided. He didn't scold her for having held it, and his tone wasn't condescending. But she supposed he was right-she hardly knew how to handle it.

His hands moved to the leather belt around his waist and her brow furrowed a moment as he removed it-before he slipped it around her slimmer one and fastened it in the front. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his fingers through the fabric-and it again struck her that he was being allowed so close to and even often touching her royal person. Ana would have a heart attack about that too, had she seen it. For Catalina however, he had already helped her fasten her dresses multiple times-his touch didn't strike her as wholly inappropriate anymore.

When she glanced back up to find him watching her, she briefly wondered if she should. It brought a bit of color to her cheeks, but she held his gaze even as he stepped back, her fingers touching at the sides of the belt, considering his words. He would not only give a woman, a lady a weapon? , but teach her to use it?A means to defend herself should male protection-his protection- fail? Was she not his captive?

...should she really feel so oddly impressed and grateful to a pirate?

Catalina kept her head up as he looked her over, an air of dignity despite her disarray. "I did not do this." She said to his offer, glancing down at last to see the scope of the damage, briefly releasing the skirts to see the carefully chosen lilac garter ribbon, the stocking that outlined her shapely calf and thigh. A hand lifted to her collarbone, fingertips tracing the bare skin over to her shoulder with a small frown as he went on, considering his words.

She was a woman. Strong women, women who evinced the qualities so admired in men-got into trouble. Their people turned against them, their armies joined male pretenders-it was folly to be or appear anything more than pious, gentle, forgiving, merciful. One had to be -clever- in a world so stacked against them. Find what little freedom they could, perhaps wield power through their husband-but always, ever, be mindful of appearances, of decorum, of vipers in their court.

What Marc suggested ran against how a lady should act. And yet she wanted, she -needed- to do exactly that. All her life someone else had power and control. Her father's property. Soon to be her husband's. But here, in this in between on the high seas...even if she was a captive, there were no men here who owned her, no tools of her father or betrothed watching, no nobles or lords to judge her every action. She belonged only to herself.

"You could have been a statesman, Captain." She says slowly, a step in his direction. Then again, was he not a leader of men already?

She took his hand in her both of her slender ones and stood still a moment, thinking-and then finally speaking up once more. "I would have run him through." She tells him, a solemn confession. "I would have, and cared not a whit what consequences it may have brought me." It was against everything a lady, a -princess-, maybe even a God fearing woman should be-but it was true.

"Still-I am grateful you arrived when you did, and spared me such consequences. Thank you, Marc. You have treated me better than I had any right to expect." She favored him with a beautiful smile, released his hand-and with a determined expression, strode towards the exit herself.

Once on deck, she made no move to hold her dress together, her shapely leg on full display through the ragged slit cut into her skirt. She kept her chin up and her jaw set, refusing to be embarassed or humiliated-the shame was Paulson's, attempting to steal what would have never been given to him.

She paid no mind to the furtive glances to her flesh, nor the surprised ones that lit on Marc's dagger-but she felt a sense of...something here. A change.

She was no longer a pretty bauble, but...a near equal? She was not sure, but she felt a measure of respect that had nothing to do with her blood, for which she had done nothing.

She strode right up to Paulson's corpse and paused there, her back to them all-and then she turned sharply on her heel and disregarded him entirely. Had it been becoming, she might have spit.

No, she did not pity him in the slightest.

Marc stayed close to Catarina as she emerged from below decks. He didn't know how the men would react to the woman who was responsible for the death of one of their comrades; the woman who was now packing a weapon more than capable of slitting a man's throat from ear to ear or disengaging him from his jewels; a woman who now was brandishing not just more steel but more flesh as well.

He studied the reactions, which varied from humor to lust to confusion to disapproval. When Catarina stepped up close to Paulson's lifeless body and studied it, as the other men were studying her, Marc was impressed. Most women and even many men would have shied away from a bloody corpse, particularly one that had become so before their very eyes.

Marc waited until Catarina chose a position from which to witness what came next, then began a slow, circular walk around the helmsmen wheel, meeting one set of eyes after another.

"Lady Rose was our guest," Marc began in the firm, booming, authoritarian voice they heard before entering battles or, as now, dealing with situations of discipline. "And we have rules concerning guests, do we not?"

From all directions, there was an almost simultaneous, "Aye, captain."

"Paulson violated one of those rules," he continued, pointing an extended finger toward the dead man still being held upright by Guido and Carlos. "Violated in the most unacceptable way."

There was a bit of a growl amongst the men in response to Marc's declaration, revealing their disgust for Paulson's actions against Catarina. It wasn't beyond any one of these men's limits to commit rape, whether of a captured ship's passengers or of women on shore: sometimes, containing the lustful passions of a pirate was as likely as holding back the tide. But committing such an act against a guest, whether held for ransom or not, was a capital offense aboard the Black Dawn, as it was aboard many pirate ships.

Marc was relieved to hear the response from his men. Paulson had been a well liked man amongst the crew, so to be honest, Marc had feared that there may have been more hard feeling and harsh looks that he was seeing now.

"What do we do with such men, such disloyal cowards who betray their captain, their crew, and their ship in this way?" Marc asked, his voice rising in fury as he continued. "What is the punishment befitting such a crime? Paulson was a good man! A good sailor! He has deprived us, his crew, his friends, his fellow sailors, warriors, of a sharp blade and a fierce roar when next we need it."

A slow, low chant quickly became a faster, louder one: "Deep. Deep. Deep! Deep! Deep! Deep! Deep!"

Marc turned slowly in place, looking at the men, making eye contact with each and everyone of them. Without exception, all were chanting, some pumping fists in the air, others slamming fists, daggers, swords, or other available items upon what ever surface would make the most noise. Looking to his First Mate and Quartermaster, Marc nodded. Lifting Paulson over the railing they gave it a push, and a moment later (barely noticeable through the continuing chants) the dead man's body splashed into the Mediterranean Sea.

Marc looked to Catarina for her reaction, then looked back to the men whose chanting slowly faded away. With an even louder, even more forceful voice, Marc declared, "We run no more! We are the pirates of the Black Dawn! We don't run! Tonight, we head for home! And any Genoese or Spanish or Turkish ship that gets in our way will find itself aflame and sinking to the bottom of the sea!"

There was a loud cheer, and as it faded, Marc called out commands that would put the ship on a course for Cala de la mort on Ibiza's north coast. As the men rushed into service, Marc moved closer to Catarina, a content smile on his face.

"M'lady, would you like your first lesson in how to use your new blade?" he asked. "Or, perhaps, you'd like to learn how to sail the Black Dawn? I believe you would make a good sailor, perhaps even a good pirate if you put your mind to it."