Mauro Montiga retreated to his cabin. As first mate, he had his own compact secluded area, with places to stow his sea chest, and keep his uniforms and his private wardrobe. There were hooks on the wall to keep his slender fencing saber safe from the rocking motion of a ship at sea, and the storage boxes for his matched pair of Colt revolvers sat inside the desk built into the wall.

Here in the intricate teak desk, he had the records for all the convicts, their sentencing papers, and details of the cases against them. Keeping them alive would be his duty, and he intended to keep them all alive. Something he'd heard was near to impossible on the lengthy journey ahead of them. Deep inside the locking roll top, behind the small drawers where ink and quills were organized, there was a hidden compartment where he kept the supple leather drawstring pouch with loose gemstones.

As always, he checked to see the lock on the chest was secure. This was essential, as it contained his entire wealth in gold bars, Spanish silver pieces and a few choice pieces of jewelry his grandmother had gifted him. He knew exactly where the exquisite set of aquamarine pieces would go. The breath-taking vision he'd escorted aboard, a convict no less, would be his wife. He felt the connection deep in his bones, and his heart had stopped. The eyes she turned to his, hoping to glimpse him, looked straight into his soul.

They weren't blue or green but somewhere exactly between, like the finest turquoise. His sister had become fascinated by the stones when she'd discovered a shipment from Mexico. His father's brother sent them, set in ornate silver, to be sold to the ladies of Queen Isabella's court. In one glance, she captured his heart. Already his loins ached to possess her. He remembered the slender fingers that dug into his arm, clinging as if he was her only anchor, and instantly vowed to make her his own.

Looking at the generous bunk, built into the same wall as the desk, he imagined this vision of an angel in his arms, and shook his head to dislodge the thought. He didn't even know who she was. Was the crime such that it couldn't be forgiven? Quickly he went over to the desk and pulled the stack of papers from the deep bottom drawer. Sorting through, he found the ones he wanted. Marked as women on the top page in the sheaf; this is where he'd find his answers.

Who was she? There were ten women. No one accurately described, only their names, ages and crimes documented. He'd have a chore putting faces to the list. Glancing through the sentencing documents, not one of them was more than a debtor or petty thief. He sighed in relief. His goddess wasn't forbidden fruit. Her skin had been pale, like the finest porcelain, with the faintest hint of gold. It seemed she'd been outdoors a bit, without the benefit of a parasol as most of the English ladies he'd known used. Her long pale gold braid, which was what had first caught his eye, reached to the small of her back. His fingers had itched to untie the ragged black ribbon which kept it from tumbling free. He longed to discover if it was straight or if the curly wisps that escaped at her temple and at her nape, showed it would riot down her back in waves of silk.

Enough. He gathered his papers and headed down to the lower holds. Two of them filled with men, packed together to the point of suffocation. If the third and fourth holds weren't filled with supplies, he'd ask for more room. Entering the first one, with two burly sailors at his side, he began identifying the men. He needed to find the murderers and the political prisoners. I would move them to the brig. The papers showed there were only a dozen.

In their tiny cabin, Pansy and the other women took stock. Narrow bunks lined two walls, stacked up one upon the other. Eight of them would sleep there, it would relegate the other two to the floor. There were blankets for each of them and there were two chamber pots. One woman discovered the shutters on the inside opened to barred windows. They wouldn't swelter in unrelieved heat, and if the weather turned foul, they could keep the storm out.

Although she was the youngest, as she'd suspected, Pansy took charge. She gave Anne the bunk closest to the window and at the bottom. She was pregnant and there were others who could climb to the upper berths with far greater ease. They had only the clothes on their backs, nothing more. Not one of them was clean, even though they'd been forced to wash in a hurried bath before they'd come aboard. The woman who'd watched them had kept the soap for herself. They'd only had a hurried dip in water, and only the first two in clear warm water. Pansy had been lucky she'd been in with the first three.

Elanor, a dark-haired gypsy girl, investigated the barrel in the corner, and found it full of fresh water.

"We have enough to drink but let us be wise. I've been aboard a ship or two. The journey to our new home will seem endless. Let's be careful with this." Her words brought nods of agreement.

Two of them climbed to the top bunks and stretched out. They might not have had a pillow, and it was hot, with barely a stir in the air so close to the ceiling, but the lumpy mattress was still like a queen's feather bed compared to the stone floors in the cells where they'd been. They quickly slipped rolled blankets under their heads, and they were asleep in minutes. Rest was welcome.

The others made themselves comfortable deciding who would sleep where. Pansy and Elanor took the floor. With nothing to do but wait, soft whispered conversations filled the air. d. As each of them found they weren't all that different from the others, the questions they had about their fates, were answered. Anne was the worst of them of them. Pregnant because of a prison guard's careless use of her to satisfy his drunken urges she didn't even care if she lived. The child moving vigorously under the swollen skin of her belly reminded her, with every movement, why she was there.