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At the time Jocelyn had no clue that
the enemy had engaged. In her hidey hole, thunder boomed and
cracked and the ship rocked and groaned so violently she feared
they’d tip over or be dragged under by the waves that beat at the
hull of the ship. Above her head she heard the pounding of many
feet as sailors ran first this way and that. The words they
screamed to one another were unintelligible under the torrent of
rain and the growling of the sky but the panic was unmistakable.
She would have recognized the sound of fear anywhere because she
felt it now, slithering through her veins like a snake to wrap
around her throat and choke her.

It was when the explosion rocked
through the world that Jocelyn finally screamed and burst from her
hiding place to see what was happening. Intellectually she knew she
would have no chance of changing what would happen, but if they
were to be pulled beneath the sea she’d rather see the wave coming
than find herself clueless and trembling in the dark as it
happened.

Trying to bite back sobs, she stumbled
up the steps, the rocking of the ship throwing her against the
walls of the narrow space so viciously her arms ached and her knees
felt weak from fear and the exhaustion of holding herself
upright.

There was a dark fear in the pit of her
stomach, a knowledge that what was happening would only get worse.
She was finally reduced to crawling when she got to the third or
fourth step from the top. Above her head she could see the mast and
sails whipping about as if they would break beneath the force of
the wind. The downpour stung her face and chest like a host of
needles and sent a river of rain and sea water flowing down the
steps to soak her skirts and feet. She was shivering uncontrollably
and praying to see Damon’s face by the time she reached the deck.
It no longer mattered if he were angry with her for what she’d
done. She needed him, needed to touch him and anchor
herself.

She searched for him, eyes frantic as
she tried to adjust to the flashes of lightning that blinded her
and the bone deep rumbling that settled deep into her bones like
the roar of some massive beast.

Only … the noise in her head that had
set her ears to ringing wasn’t from the thunder alone. It couldn’t
be. And the smell of gunpowder and blood nearly overwhelmed the
scent of rain and ozone.

This wasn’t simply a ship anymore, it
was a battlefield.

One that was spiraling closer and
closer and swallowing what little oasis the crew of the Gentle
Marie still possessed.

What she had at first assumed to be
waves, or even dark clouds, looming over their vessel turned out to
be an English Naval ship. Relatively small when compared with its
brethren but still impressive. It didn’t just tower over the much
smaller boat, it consumed it in its shadow, its sails whipping
fiercely so far overhead that they blocked out the sky. Jocelyn
watched with a detached kind of awe as a flash of crimson coated
fire exploded from a square shaped hole in the side of the Naval
ship and tore into Marie like a battering ram. She stumbled under
the impact and heard the agonized screams coming from some of the
Marie’s crew.

Then, because she couldn’t help it,
because she imagined that the rain striking her face was blood from
the men dying around her, she screamed with them. A short,
breathless burst of animal panic that had her mouth opening and
closing around silent air. She couldn’t voice the scream, couldn’t
let it rip past her throat for the fear, but she felt it. It rocked
through her body though she’d lacked the strength to manifest
it.

It accomplished nothing … but … but
suddenly she turned and through the milling men, through the fire
that was eating at the ship despite the rain, through the blood,
and gunpowder, and fear, she saw Damon’s head jerk up as if he were
a hound catching a scent.

He had been tending to someone who’d
fallen under the lat barrage but suddenly something grabbed his
attention. His shoulder tightened, those beautiful eyes narrowed to
slits and he turned his head. Searching … searching until his gaze
trapped her and brought a gasp from her throat. Searching until his
own eyes widened with a mixture of helplessness, disbelief, and
fear.

In that moment Jocelyn knew that he
hadn’t known she was on the ship, hadn’t ever expected to see her
again, but somehow he’d heard her cry out when even she hadn’t and
the knowledge suffused her ice cold veins with molten
gold.

He was leaving the sailor now, stepping
over him as he forced his way towards her side. It didn’t matter
for even from this distance Jocelyn could tell that the man was
dead. No one could live with a foot long piece of splintered wood
sticking out of their throats like that.

Jocelyn found herself reaching for him,
stumbling in the false gloom of night towards him. His eyes were
like a weight in her head, anchoring her as she’d known they would.
But it was just as her fingers brushed against his that the storm
tossed one furious blow and the Naval ship slammed into Marie side
first.

Jocelyn was thrown off her feet and on
the rain slicked deck. Once she landed with a pained gasp, she slid
even further. She couldn’t see Damon anymore. The English were
swarming over the sides of their own ship and onto the Marie,
shouting with a wild glee and the lust that seems to ride a man
only when he’s in battle. The clash of swords accompanied the
previous cacophony of sound and Jocelyn could only be grateful that
the cannons had stopped firing. Struggling to her feet, dizzy and
aching all over, she glanced around for any sight of Damon. When
she couldn’t find him, the fear began to niggle against the back of
her throat again. She knew, just as she’d known he’d heard her,
that he’d gotten swallowed under the writhing mass of bodies. She
wanted to stay there, wanted to wait for him to come for her but
then her eyes caught sight of the tallest mast on the Marie tangled
in an almost loving embrace with that of the Naval ship. Under the
pressure of wind and rain the masts were tangling about themselves
as well. Ropes, cloth, and wood all combining to make a deadly
braid that tied them to the English.

The storm was beginning to pick up
momentum, growing as angry and vengeful as the mortals beneath her.
Soon she would drag both ships down, and even if she only wanted
one, that one would still bring the other. How both sides could
ignore their shared danger so easily and continue fighting struck
Jocelyn dumb.

From behind her she heard a throaty
laugh and she whipped around just as a bolt of lightning lit up the
sky.

It was a man, more soldier than sailor,
more English than gentleman, and more beast than man. The look in
his eyes made Jocelyn’s throat go dry and an empty feeling of icy
fear clawed at her insides. She couldn’t stay here and wait for
Damon. She had to run. She could escape into the center of the
battle but she wasn’t so foolish. Only there was no way else. The
fighting was spreading as more and more Englishmen stormed the
Marie. She could tell that the men she had been traveling with for
so long were being outnumbered and soon they would have to
surrender or die.

All this conspired to make a boiling
mess that Jocelyn had no desire to touch.

But the man stepped closer to her, his
sword raised in one beefy hand as he advanced with a dark light in
his gaze.

There was nowhere else to
run.

He grinned at her and said something,
cruel lips twisting on words that made her face flush and her
stomach sick.

He would hurt her. Kill her.

There was nowhere to run.

So Jocelyn stopped trying
to.

She waited for him. Body tensing in an
old and familiar way.

Her back straightened and curved, her
shoulders went back, her chin up.

When he clamped a hand around her wrist
and tried to tug her toward him her feet went en pointe as easily
and as quickly as her next breath slipped into her lungs. She
leaned away as he pulled on her, gathering herself.

John Holbrooke had been no
fool.

With no wife he’d tried hard to raise
his daughters as ladies. But he was practical enough to know that
in the dangerous times they lived in, a lady was lucky to survive.
He’d seen enough of them dying when he was fighting in the war to
know.

“Now see here my angels, I want you to
always remember who you are and where you come from. You’re
Holbrookes and must conduct yourselves with the grace and dignity
that stands for. But if it ever comes right down to it I want you
to remember one thing. Survival before respectability. You can
worry about being ladylike after you’ve made it out in one
piece.”

John had taught them dirty jokes, he’d
taught them to ride, and appreciate their freedom and strengths.
And he’d taught them never to hesitate when it came to fighting for
their lives.

If you asked anyone who lived in
Richmond about the Holbrooke girls they would tell you,

“The older girl’s a dancer, a
ballerina. You’ve never seen a more beautiful sight until you’ve
watched her spinning around the ballroom on the tips of her toes.
And the little one, Ava? She’s a painter. Takes after her poor
deceased Mother may God rest her soul....”

Her little Ava could wield either a
paintbrush or a quill with a deadly accuracy.

“Go for their soft spots Ava my girl.
The ends of those brushes are deadly things when applied to a man’s
eyes, throat, and if you’re desperate, groin.”

Ava was a painter … while Jocelyn …
Jocelyn danced.

Had he not still be been holding on to
her, she would have fallen as she put her entire weight into
leaning away from him.

Had she not been so afraid she wouldn’t
have even tried it.

But her anger and fear combined with
everything she’d been going through for the past couple of months
gave her the strength. And any other day she would have simply
struck him between the legs, but she was suddenly too livid to let
him off so easily.

He was English after all.

Pretentious bastard.

Using the leverage his strength gave
her as he continued to try and pull her into his embrace; she spun
into him in a flurry of motion. She leapt and placed her left foot
into the muscled planes of his thigh. This lifted her slightly
above his head but she didn’t stay still long enough to enjoy the
shock on his face. Lifting her other leg off the ground, she
swiveled her hips, angled her body, and drove her right knee into
the side of his face. She put everything into the blow. Her disgust
at his touch, at his words, her fear and rage at all things English
and her grief for her the loss of her father and her separation
with Ava. She punished him because he’d asked for it and he let
loose a howl that rivaled the storm as her knee crushed the bone in
his nose and his head jerked to one side.

He collapsed in a heap and Jocelyn with
him, his body landing with such a resounding crash it rattled
Jocelyn’s teeth. He was out cold, blood flowing from his broken
nose and a bruise already forming. Jocelyn was glad she hadn’t
tried to punch or kick him in the face. Her arm wasn’t strong
enough to cause nearly as much damage and she feared her sensible
slippers wouldn’t have protected her feet at all.

The dull roaring in her ears faded
enough for the sounds of the fighting to come back to
her.

She didn’t have time to lay there,
didn’t have time to shake and tremble from the
aftermath.

Her need for Damon was like a physical
thing now, boiling her blood and she scrambled to her feet and
stumbled forward into the fighting men with a new
determination.

Her legs were like water, ice was
flowing up and down her spine and she feared she might be sick but
she dodged the men as best she could. Tried not to cry out when two
thrashing bodies crashed into her and sent her
stumbling.

A loud cry came from behind her and she
turned in time to see another soldier running towards her. His
sword was raised, his eyes bloodshot and wild and with a sobbing
scream Jocelyn ran from him. She had no more energy to fight and
this one looked as if he wouldn’t give her the chance
to.

Then she found him.

Damon. He was striding towards her,
stepping over bodies and pushing aside the men in his way rather
than trying to doge him. He had a sword of his own now and Jocelyn
could guess how he’d gotten it by the blood that coated his face
and chest and dripped from the ends of his hair. His jaw was tight,
his teeth bared in a bloody parody of a smile. He looked wild,
bestial, the only familiar thing about him his eyes. And even those
swirled and whipped like a tempest. More dangerous than the sky
above, more deadly than the steel in his hands.

Jocelyn didn’t hesitate. She kept
going. Kept running and panting and crying while the man behind her
practically breathed down her neck as he swung his sword on her.
She just kept moving and trusting until suddenly she leapt,
instinctively knowing that he would catch her. She jumped, higher
than she ever had before, and she felt a burst of triumph when she
felt his palm digging into her stomach as he lifted her above his
head.