Check it out!  I got stuff done over the weekend.  Family gathering, birthday celebration with friends, AND A BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERT AHHH! My weekend was jam packed but I somehow got homework and writing done too.  :D

Wee. 

Enjoy yourselves.

XOXO

sophie9630

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EIGHT

Haughtington was growing increasingly bored with the trivial matters of planning the dinner party Winston insisted on hosting. They had only just arrived home to England not more than two weeks after the horrendous affair in France, and already Winston was ready to proceed with his plan.

They had taken a carriage by land to spread word by mouth and to find any information about Abigail's whereabouts. It had taken nearly nine days, and then another half day to travel by ferry across the English Channel. In that time, Winston had devised a scheme to begin promoting his daughter's disappearance.

The man who had lost his wife five years ago to pneumonia had tragically lost his daughter to a band of ruffian pirates on her wedding day. Poor Winston had spent so much money to provide his daughter her dream wedding, and now, it had gone to waste. His business was crumbling and he no longer had daughter to uphold his family name.

It was the worst tragedy to befall a man, and heartstrings were pulled across the continent.

Word of the Englesworth girl's kidnapping had spread like wildfire, thanks to the extensively wealthy list of wedding guests Haughtington had so cleverly crafted. The rumors had snaked their way through France, and Haughtington was positive they had traveled farther, through Spain to Portugal, from Germany to Austria.

Almost immediately upon arrival in England, Winston and Haughtington were bombarded with sympathetic visitors, all of whom were willing to aid in whatever way necessary to save the sad man's daughter.

They'd offered ships, expensive ship captains, the finest searching crews that money could buy. They offered time and skills. Donations flooded in and books printed on his presses were suddenly flying out the doors by the hundreds.

Winston found himself rolling in more money in three days than he had saved for five years. But Winston, ever the businessman, had opted for an even more lavish approach.

He would hold a charity auction—the first of many—bidding off items of Abigail's that were sure to be a hit with the sympathetic crowd. Winston believed that it would it rally support, but it would also gather a large sum of money for Winston to use...Well, however he planned to use it.

Haughtington found the whole thing laughable.

Of course, he loved the attention. Haughtington could spend days surrounded by his concerned onlookers, recounting the tragedy that had come to pass him two weeks ago.

It was putting on the sad face and pretending he had any concern about his fiancée's current whereabouts that began to grate his nerves. Instead of focusing on the grieving Haughtington, too many people were interested on his ideas of where she could be. It was infuriating.

After Abigail had gone on the run, the Lord had been forced to put on a show at the church in France.

Sinking to his knees in quiet desperation as Winston barged down the aisle wailing about his daughter, Haughtington had buried his head deep into his hands, careful to not let any tears fall.

He couldn't let his mourning come off as too fake, but could redden his face just enough to make himself appear out of sorts. Everyone had bought it, reaching to comfort him as he stood on shaky legs and stared blankly at the faces around him.

But now, as the crowds began to weary of Haughtingon, he grew jealous of the blasted girl. She wasn't even there and still she was receiving more attention than he!

She had had it easy, so easy, compared to Haughtington. All she had to do was run to the harbor or the market and get kidnapped.

She didn't have to deal with the embarrassment of being left at the altar. She didn't have to worry about how to compose herself in front of the public. And most of all, she had gotten out of spending every waking moment with her incessantly annoying father.

The man was really and truly a basket case. This convoluted plan of his almost made no sense to Haughtington, but every time he tried to offer another logical route, Winston ignored it.

Her father was stuck in a strange limbo of grief and excitement, though sometimes Haughtington thought Winston leaned more towards elation.

With every fat donation and every book sold, the little, greedy monster that was Winston Englesworth grew. Sweat would bead profusely on his brow and he would lick his lips repeatedly. He'd stare with wide, piercing eyes at the money in his hands and mutter incoherently to himself.

Before Haughtington could say two words, the strange man would slink off, hiding the money in a safe whose key was entrusted to Winston alone.

And to think; it had only been two weeks since his daughter's kidnapping.

Haughtington shuddered to think what Winston would be like after months of rejoicing in his plan, wondering into what sort of crazy family he had gotten himself tangled.

―

Finn's abdomen stung like a fresh slap to the face. He gingerly touched the bandages Abbie had carefully applied for him. His skin was still tender, and he could feel a bruise forming under the cloth.

It was certainly not the worst wound he had ever sustained, but it was definitely the most inconvenient.

Breathing was painful when his abdomen expanded and even when it relaxed. Moving was nearly impossible except for very minuscule motions that got him next to nowhere. He couldn't lift anything heavier than a burlap sack and found that even trying to sweep sent a ripping pain through his body.

However, he hated to admit it, even such a trivial scrape would have been much worse if Abbie had not intervened with the rum and bandages. No one aboard the crew had ever thought to clean a wound with alcohol before bandaging, and the recovery was much speedier than it had ever been in the ten years Finn had lived on The Iron Lady.

Several bleary days had passed since the battle. Ireland was almost in sight, and Finn could almost not stand it. He wanted to be home, needed to be home.

The excitement that coursed through him, though powerfully overwhelming, was numbed by his mounting fear that he would return home to find his mother only by visiting the local cemetery.

Because of it, he had done yet again what he hated by being harsh with Abbie.

Why did he always get so aggressive around her when she was doing nothing more than being genuine with him? What about her frightened him to push her away?

All he could think about as he wandered aimlessly around The Iron Lady doing menial tasks was the insult she'd spouted off before he'd had enough sense to leave before he retorted something rude. Again, his unwieldy mouth had gotten him into trouble, and this time Abbie had retaliated.

With nothing to keep himself preoccupied before they reached Ireland, Abbie's bitter words replayed themselves over and over in his mind. Obstinate jerk.

She was absolutely right; he was both obstinate and a jerk. He was also arrogant and impolite and selfish and a whole other list of words not used to describe good men. Finn was wallowing in self-pity, hating that Abbie could make him feel like less than a man with just two simple words.

On that particular day, Port announced that they were less than fifty kilometers off the coast of Ireland. There was nothing for Finn to do in the way of chores since the wound on his abdomen cursed his every movement.

He was not the only one incapable of working; only a handful of men were left to handle the task of nursing The Iron Lady along gently until they could dock.

It became the main concern of everyone aboard, and the thought of losing Ireland to a few holes in the deck made Finn unnervingly sad. Every windy, rain-filled night sent a wave of panic through the crew as they waited for the poor wooden creature to finally capsize. Every time the ocean taunted them with a four-kilometer wave the men held their breath, frozen in terror.

Yet somehow, The Iron Lady floated onward, and Finn was more than ready to be on dry land again.

He sat with his elbows resting on the perimeter of the crow's nest, head lazily held in one hand as he observed the tiny sliver of land taking shape in the distance. It was not yet the size of Finn's thumbnail, but with every passing moment his homeland grew larger and larger, and the realization that he would be home filled him with impatient fervor.

Images of his mother's happy smile clouded his vision; the ring of his niece and nephew's laughter filled his ears.

Finn hadn't realized how tense he had been since Port had approved his request. It was as if Finn couldn't believe that home was just a short journey away, and now that it was finally happening he could finally breathe easier. A huge weight was being lifted from his chest, freeing him from his worry and fear.

Finn heard a scuttle from his left, and he braced himself to sock whoever was coming up to steal his spot. He was not about to share this cramped crow's nest with one of his crewmates, and he especially was not sharing the view of his homeland growing on the horizon. He was possessive of the rolling green hills and white cliffs in a way that didn't make sense to him.

None of his crewmates would understand his attachment. They wouldn't understand his fierce love of the legends of leprechauns and tales of redheaded beauties that were often rumored about Ireland.

They wouldn't understand his longing to return home, and they certainly wouldn't understand his desire to leave the life of piracy for a more humble existence on the Irish plain.

Caring so much about something made Finn soft in their eyes, and he couldn't have anyone on board think of him as anything less than a brave-hearted, stoic, fierce man. It was something about his flaming ego, though Finn would never admit.

But as a head full of blonde waves bobbed into vision, Finn braced himself for another kind of fight. Abbie's blue eyes widened in surprise as Finn turned to face her, and she began to ramble off an apology in her very Abbie way.

"Oh, Finn. Hello. I didn't realize that you were going to be up here." Her cheeks reddened. "I just wanted to come up here for some fresh air, but I can see that you are busy so I guess I will just leave now," she started to descend the mast.

Obviously his harsh words earlier had made Abbie less-than-thrilled to be in his presence. He didn't blame her.

He had hurt her. Again.

It looked like he was going to have to apologize. Again.

Damn. Spending time with Abbie really was making him soft. Finn's pride was painfully twisted as he leaned himself over the edge of the crow's nest and called down to Abbie,

"I never said you couldn't stay!" Abbie glanced up quizzically, but slowly returned to the top. When her head poked over the side again, he saw that one eyebrow was raised in surprise and her eyes were examining him in careful detail.

"I don't understand," she mused simply, hauling herself carefully over the side.

"I don't understand what there is to not understand," he replied, feeling clever. His goofy grin faded when he realized that Abbie was clearly not amused. She crossed her arms indignantly and smirked.

"What is your angle?" She questioned, gaze piercing Finn as sharply as the sword that had cut him.

"Excuse me?"

"Your angle. Your motive. Your reason for hating me some days and then cheerfully pretending to be my friend others. I don't understand."

Finn's abdomen was no longer the only thing that stung. It felt as though Abbie had just slapped him with her words, and he was beginning to see the dangerous weapon they could be if put in the wrong mouth.

"I do not hate you," he said, squinting, unsure if he had heard her correctly.

"Oh, well, I wouldn't have ever guessed that seeing as how I've done nothing to you except to like you, and you've done nothing but prove to me that it isn't even worth the effort to try."

Again, another painful blow to Finn's already bruised ego. Why was she speaking to him so boldly? Where had the fire come from? It was as if Abbie had turned a one eighty and was now no longer her mild, temperate-mannered former self.

Finn was seeing the effects of the battle taking their toll on her, and the thought sobered him quickly. Even an innocent girl of seventeen could be hardened after life on the sea. She hadn't even been with them a month and already she was being shaped by life around the crew.

For reasons unknown to Finn, at that moment he decided that he was going to give up his post in the crow's nest. He decided he was going to forgo his argument with Abbie. He decided that maybe, just maybe, he had to do what was right by her, if just this one time.

And so, with only two more words to Abbie, Finn slowly dismounted the mast.

"I'm sorry."

―

Finn was by far the most extravagantly puzzling man Abbie had ever encountered. She could count on one hand the number of conversations they'd had and most of them ended with one of them stomping away angrily.

For a man of twenty-one—or twenty-two, Abbie recalled—Finn was extremely immature. It was obviously hard for him to ever admit defeat, a characteristic that mirrored the self-important attitude of her fiancé. He never thought before he spoke, he interrupted her, he ignored her.

He was pushy, ignorant, and thought he could say and do whatever he desired. The more Abbie thought, the more she wondered if every man had the same terrible qualities.

The gentle breeze tousled Abbie's hair, playing affectionately with it as she sat in the crow's nest to think. Being in solitude, though she always longed to have a moment to herself, was hard for Abbie aboard The Iron Lady because it gave her too much freedom to let her mind wander.

She had come up to the crow's nest to avoid the uneasy feeling that plagued her as she watched the hollowed men find small jobs to preoccupy themselves.

Everyone's chore list was shifted, moving from cleaning maintenance to repairing whatever portions of the ship they could find enough supplies to fix. In a few short days, the dusty wreckage of the splintered wood and shattered glass had been swept into the ocean. Just one simple task lifted the spirit of the ship immediately, giving it a healthier glow like it once had.

The enemy ship had stolen nearly every item of value from The Iron Lady; from jewels and gems to money and bonds. They'd even taken the rum and several crates of food from the brig.

It was apparent that whatever items would not retrieve a solid price when sold were not taken, and thankfully Port had found the spare sail he kept rolled up below deck. Without it, the tear in the previous sail would have prevented them from making such headway in their journey.

They also managed to find some planks of wood sturdy enough to repair some holes, as well as a hammer and bucket of nails. To everyone's surprise The Iron Lady surged forward, never letting her broken demeanor slow her.

With Ireland, and to an extent England, so incredibly close, Abbie was smothered with the intense desire to return to dry land. It had been nearly a month since her feet had touched solid ground, and Abbie didn't know if she could handle being aboard the ship for too much longer.

Not only did she miss everything about dirt beneath her feet—the solid assurance it provided, the protection, the constant staunchness to be there for her when she fell—she ached to be around other people.

The atmosphere of The Iron Lady had changed drastically since the battle. The men were less willing to smile, more prone to become irate at the smallest of events, and were far more rowdy than she had ever seen them.

Lack of polite company made Abbie feel on edge. It gave her the uneasy feeling of being a teakettle ready to overheat and release its steaming contents. She was more inclined to snap back at a man who bumped her or to let out a slur of curse words that would make her mother roll over in her grave after a trivially insignificant occurrence.

Not even ten minutes ago was she willing to take Finn's head off for sitting in the crow's nest first. She knew it was unfair of her to be angry that the nest wasn't empty, but was thankful Finn had retreated so quickly after her spat of harsh words.

Abbie wondered, as she stared out at the sliver of land, what had come over her when she yelled at Finn. It was not like her to provoke a fight. It was certainly not like her to harbor her anger until she burst, because usually there was no one around to cause her frustration.

But when she found Finn leaning idly on the edge of the crow's nest, there had been nothing more that she would have liked than to have it out with him right then and there. To let out her pent up frustration that had been slowly mounting over the last eighteen days in a shouting match for the ages.

At least if Finn had argued with her, he would have been talking to her.

Ever since their last unfortunate quarrel, it was as if Finn was deliberately ignoring Abbie's presence on the ship. He would not gaze in her direction and would hastily move out of the way if he saw her coming. He did not speak to her unless it was necessary, and even then the exchange was left to one-to-two-word phrases that hardly required effort.

It wasn't as though Abbie was ready to be around Finn either, and had spent her fair share of days avoiding the ungrateful bloke.

She still couldn't believe that he had pinned the blame for the pirate attack on her! The idea was about as nonsensical as Abbie becoming Lady Haughtington.

Not only had Finn not apologized, but he had also not given gratitude in any way. A small smile would have sufficed, but the incompetent fool had not even spared her that.

Yet as the days went on she found herself surprisingly disappointed when Finn wasn't around to bait her into a silly fight. She almost preferred having his teasing than his terse silence.

Finn always had an aggressive spirit in him, ready to counter Abbie at every turn. Abbie had grown accustomed to their sarcastic battles, and almost took joy in contesting him.

In fact, watching Finn retreat so quickly left Abbie shocked, and knowing that she had elicited two apologies in the last two weeks was astounding.

Everything about her relationship with Finn confused Abbie. If she could even call it a relationship. It was more like a test to see who could survive longer in the other's presence without becoming nauseated.

Although, she supposed, it was a better start than her relationship with Haughtington, who seemed to neither realize nor care that Abbie could not stand him. Why was every man in her life so mute to the understanding of her feelings?

At least she could count on her father, who Abbie knew loved her without a doubt, even when she could not reciprocate the feeling. He had always tended to her well and rarely got angry with her, and Abbie was thankful for the love and support he provided.

Grey clouds rolled into the sky, hiding the light blue sky. Abbie decided to climb down the mast. It was going to storm, and up in the fragile crow's nest was not where she wanted to be when it hit.

Abbie had become more keenly aware of what the weather would be by the change in air pressure and the type of wind that pushed the sails along.

The air felt thick around her, humidity clinging to her skin. The breeze was no longer friendly as it whipped around her. The gentle rolling waves below her shed their friendly exterior and now looked choppy and murky.

As Abbie's foot found the deck, a flash of bright lightning darted swiftly across the sky. An earsplitting thunderclap erupted, followed quickly by another sharp bolt of light. The deafening roar of the thunder beast masked the pounding of Abbie's heart.

Rain soon plastered her hair to her forehead, embracing her with its harsh, chilly drops. Abbie was amazed by how quickly the storm descended upon the ship, in a moment whisking the calm day away.

The world was a blur before her, and she struggled to keep her balance as the ship began to rock violently under each crashing wave. She spun in a circle, unsure of which direction led her to the stern and which to the bow.

The Iron Lady reared furiously like an angry stallion, tilting the world beneath Abbie's feet and reminding her of her longing for sturdy land. Rubbing furiously at her rain-splattered eyes, she saw the soaked auburn beard of the captain looming over her.

"Abbie!" He shouted at the top of his voice, still barely audible over the rumbles of thunder.

"Finn told me ye were up in the crow's nest. Glad ya got some sense to come down! This storm's a doozy; not sure ya wanna be out right now. Can't say how long it's gonna last, but why don'tcha head back to yer quarters 'til we give the all clear?"

Port had a way of asking questions that were not really questions. He gave them almost like suggestions, but then made a person comply with whatever had just been asked.

He put a firm hand on her back and prodded her forward, trying to block the wind from her with his large body. Abbie was not the least bit upset at Port's insistence, and let him lead her to the tiny door hidden in the wall of the stern. It was flapping aggressively in the wind, banging loudly against the wall.

As Abbie stumbled to find her cot, Port tried to grab the door. It flew out of his hand the moment he let go.

"Bloody door. Well, sorry, Miss Abbie," he turned to where she huddled shivering in the corner. "I thought bringin' ya in here would keep ya a bit safer, but with the damn door flappin' wildly yer gonna get just as wet. 'Spose it's better now that ya gotta roof o'er yer head now, though. Angh!"

Abbie laughed as the wily door came forward with a forceful gust of wind and smacked Port on the backside. It felt good to smile, to laugh about something. Abbie didn't realize how little she had been doing of either since the battle.

There was something wrong with that, she thought. A person should never have to go so long without a smile.

Port muttered something that Abbie couldn't hear, and then spoke up as he turned to leave.

"Flirty girl, my Iron Lady. Never know what to expect. Be careful Abbie; she could come fer you too!" He chortled in an awkward manner, and Abbie realized it was the first time she'd ever heard the captain genuinely laugh since meeting him.

"Thank you!" She shouted out the doorway, hoping that the captain could hear her over the unruly thunder and rain. His broad figure was immediately absorbed into the dismal grey surroundings.

Abbie stood for several chilly moments wondering how a storm could possibly be any worse. She hoped that for the remainder of the time on The Iron Lady—with any luck it wouldn't be much longer—she would not have to experience any worse a storm than the one that ravaged the poor, broken ship right then.

Abbie settled into the farthest corner from the open door, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Rather than soak the cot through, she sat at its foot, a small puddle forming around her drenched form.

She reached for the thin blanket but it did little to cease the shivers that racked her body. Teeth chattering, Abbie was determined to stay awake until the storm passed.

The idea of waking to find herself sinking into the ocean was terribly frightening. Nor did she want to wake to find another man dead at the hands of this natural disaster. She supposed that Mother Nature could be far more dangerous than any man, and wondered how many good men had lost their lives to the sea.

Abbie was so weary of worrying about death. It hurt her heart and inundated her mind. Is this what every crewmember felt every day? A helpless sense of dread? To continually fear death at the hands of an angry man or an angry storm?

Abbie wondered if that was why there was so much irritation among the men. It was a defense mechanism, used to hide the truth of their fear and push away feeling until it no longer controlled them.

She supposed that life on the sea was much harder than she had experienced thus far, and understood why so many of the men were hard-edged and quick to move on from sorrowing events.

Abbie was able to fight the darkness of sleep as it beckoned to her for quite some time; the winds had died down and the bucking of the ship had eased some. But still rain sprayed through her doorway, leaving a large puddle that expanded by the minute. Eventually though, her eyelids grew too heavy to support, and Abbie fell into an uneasy slumber on the cold wooden floor.

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