There's a blurb at the bottom.  I figured that after 2 weeks of waiting, you'd wanna get right to reading. :P

XOXO

sophie9630

****

TWENTY-EIGHT

The following days were some of the most difficult ever experienced on The Iron Lady.

The day after Ardan had set sail, Finn, Slim, and Peter went back to the cave to find Port's body. Pete and Jonesy prepared a small grave while the rest of the men waited aboard the ship. They rowed to shore when Barnabas gave the order.

The service was brief, Finn not knowing what to say. Sadness tore out his heart thinking about how easily Port could offer a kind word about his men, and now he was dead and Finn was struggling with words.

"Port was the greatest man any of us ever knew," he started, pushing through the wavering in his voice. "And, he was more than just a captain. He was... He was a father, a brother... A friend. This ship won't ever be the same without him."

The tears were threatening to break through and Finn could no longer hide the strain in his words.

"He told me to captain the ship when he was gone... And, and now he's gone, so I guess that means I'm captain... I know that I can't ever do the job justice, the way it deserves. The way Port did it. But I'll—I'll certainly try."

Then the words stopped coming all together, bitter sorrow replacing them quickly before Finn could continue. He swallowed, gave a single nod to signify he was finished speaking, and the men stood in silent reverence in the late afternoon sun.

They marked Port's grave with a large grey-white stone, the lump of fresh dirt as big as the lump in Finn's throat. He stood beside the grave longer than anyone else, save for Abbie, who waited next to him with sympathetic eyes.

Together the two of them trudged back to shore, rode to The Iron Lady in silence, and parted ways after securing the rowboat. Finn didn't have the strength to be in anyone's presence any longer, though he knew she longed to comfort him.

Finn's whole world felt utterly disconnected, as though how he had been living before his uncle's death had not been his life. He was being drowned by his misery, the emptiness of his heart a surprisingly heavy weight as he struggled to pick up its pieces.

The only person who perhaps hurt more than Finn was Maliyah, who could not figure out what had happened to the captain. She had seen his body wrapped in sackcloth and had panicked herself into a fit of tears that lasted well after Port had been placed in the ground.

Even as the days rolled by, the sadness would not disappear. It hung over Finn like a constantly looming cloud, drenching him in cold sorrow and regret and pain.

After a while, Finn stopped counting how long they'd been in Cuba; time was useless as it continued forward when all he wanted to do was go back.

One day as the sun began rising high in the sky again, Abbie padded up to Finn gently. He was standing at the helm of The Iron Lady, feeling like a sham of a man knowing he could never fill the shoes of the ship's true captain.

"How long has it been since you've slept?" Abbie's voice was gentle, but Finn could hear the concern coloring her words. He merely shrugged in response, finding that speaking didn't feel useful either.

Abbie wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. She didn't reply, but Finn could almost feel the words burning on her lips.

"Is there something you'd like to say?" Finn questioned. His intention hadn't been to sound so harsh, but he found himself not caring very much that he had.

"If you're just going to get angry again," Abbie replied tersely, "I'd rather not."

Finn spun around quickly, startling Abbie who dropped her hold on his waist. "What do you mean 'get angry again'?"

Taking in a prolonged breath through her nose, Abbie steeled herself.

"You haven't talked to anyone in the last two weeks, except to shout and cause a fit. I don't want to pick a fight with you, Finn; I just want to make sure you're all right."

Two weeks had passed since Port had died? Clearly Finn had lost track of time more easily than he'd initially thought.

"All right? Of course I'm not all right! How the hell am I supposed to be all right after my father murdered my uncle?"

"You're not supposed to be!" Abbie shot back. "No one expects that of you... But acting standoffish and cruel isn't the right way to handle—"

"So then tell me, what is the right way to 'handle' it? Should I put on a smiley, happy face and go back to how I was before he died? Because I can't, Abbie. I've tried to be all right, but I can't!"

Abbie lifted her hands apologetically. Her blue eyes were filled with pity, and suddenly Finn felt a pang of anger rip through him.

He didn't need her pity.

He didn't need anyone's pity.

"Stop looking at me like I need some kinda special help to get through this. Leave me the hell alone, and take your filthy pity with you."

Abbie's mouth dropped open. Clenching her jaw, she closed her eyes and took another deep breath through her nose.

"I thought you'd like to know that your men are going to starve to death if we don't head to Morocco soon. You might not want to start moving on, but the rest of the crew needs you to. You're their captain now, and it's about damn time you started acting like it."

Turning from him without a single word more, Abbie stomped away in a huff, leaving Finn stewing in bitterness.

"She's right you know," a voice came from beside him.

Sleep deprivation was taking a number on Finn because when he turned, the form of his uncle stood next to him wearing a somber countenance. Finn blinked several times, but Porter never moved.

"You... You're dead."

Port shrugged. "Yeah, so I am. But tha's the thing abou' memories. They never go away."

"So, I'm... Remembering you right now?"

His uncle's shoulders shook in laughter. Oh how Finn missed that sound... The sound of happiness. The sound of life.

"Is tha' watcha call this mopin' around? 'Cause I certainly don't... What're ya doin' with yer life Finnegan?"

Finn squinted, and scratched the stubble growing on his chin absentmindedly as he thought. He didn't realize until that moment how long it had been since he'd last shaved.

"Listen, Finn," Port said with a sigh.

He stretched out a hand and laid it on Finn's shoulder. Finn stared at it for a long time, expecting to feel something, anything, to prove this wasn't an illusion. But as his uncle's hand sat there, the only thing Finn felt was a twist of loneliness.

"I know you miss me. I know you're in pain. But you ain't the only one... Don'tcha see how miserable this crew's been?"

Finn couldn't answer.

He thought about Abbie earlier, the sadness in her eyes and the emptiness in her usually cheerful voice. He thought about Maliyah and her tears; Tom, Joe, Barnabas and their mournful gazes as they lowered Port into the grave.

"And where've you been?" His uncle's question hit Finn harder than a good punch to the gut.

He had been so focused on his own misery that he hadn't been there when his crew needed him the most. He hadn't helped them pick up the pieces of their hearts, hadn't been there to share in their suffering.

He hadn't been captain his men needed him to be.

When the realization dawned on Finn, Porter offered a single nod.

"But, Captain... What am I supposed to do?"

Port's hand dropped from Finn's shoulder as he stared intently into his nephew's eyes.

"I'm not Captain anymore. You are... And I think ya know exactly whatcha need ta do."

Closing his eyes and shaking his head vigorously, Finn resisted the urge to shout out loud. He wanted to argue with his uncle, wanted to scream and kick and wallow in his burning sadness.

Because despite what Porter had said in the cave, despite what his crazy phantom memory had just told him... Finn didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to feel, how to make the pain go away.

He certainly didn't know how to be the captain of a ship...

"But, Port..." He replied weakly, opening his eyes.

But his uncle was already gone.

—

Giving Finn the benefit of the doubt was becoming harder and harder.

Abbie knew he was suffering—the weight of loss he felt she could only imagine—but it in no way gave him the right to act like an insufferable git while his crew wasted away.

As she began to prepare dinner that night, Abbie also couldn't help but feel a little slighted that Finn didn't seem to think they were close enough for him to share his pain with her.

He hadn't even wanted to talk to her, though she was very clearly offering herself as both a set of ears and a shoulder to cry on. For some reason, Finn seemed to think that he could handle his grief alone, which Abbie knew would only further his misery.

But, she supposed, everyone found their own methods of grieving.

She eventually turned her thoughts back to dinner, realizing that that night's meal was going to test her creativity.

Abbie had been serious in voicing her concerns of going hungry; they had run out of nearly everything except for biscuits, a few sacks of rice, jerky, and the last of the mangoes.

Eventually she decided to bake the biscuits and throw a slice of mango in between as a sort of fruit sandwich. She figured that the rice needed to be saved for their three-month journey and that the men wouldn't mind only having one or two sandwiches each.

The last few days had been rather dreary, save for dinnertime when they would show hints of their former cheerful selves over a nice meal and a bottle of rum. It was obvious that hearts had been broken, but Abbie felt better knowing that she could alleviate some of the pain.

A knock on the door caught her attention just as she began to peel the first mango.

"The door is always open," she called, "Come on in!"

Someone coughed quietly in response, and Abbie turned in surprise to find Finn standing in the doorway. His face was impassive but in his eyes she saw turmoil.

"I gave the order to set sail first thing tomorrow morning," he stated, gazing over the top of her head to somewhere beyond. Abbie wondered just how far away his heart was.

"Tom and Joe have gone back to the jungle to gather a few more sacks of mangoes. They won't last us but a week or so, but I figure it'll be better than nothing."

Turning her attention back to the fruit in her hands, Abbie nodded. She remained silent as she began to slice it in half, not knowing if he wanted a response or not.

Clearing his throat again, Finn stepped closer.

"And, uh, Abbie, I'd really like to apologize for how I spoke to you earlier."

This caught Abbie by surprise, but she didn't let it show as she moved on to the next mango. She certainly didn't mind hearing Finn apologize, and wondered if perhaps he was finally going to make headway with expressing his feelings.

"I was being selfish. I got... I got so sucked into my own misery that I failed to see that you and the rest of the crew were suffering too. And that isn't fair to you. To any of you. So, I'm sorry."

Looking up from her work, Abbie set down her knife and walked up to Finn. Taking his hands in hers, she lifted his knuckles to her lips and pressed gentle kisses into them.

"I forgive you."

Finn's eyes glimmered with sadness as he pulled his hands away. Lowering them to his sides, he curled and uncurled his fingers nervously.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

Abbie was perplexed. Her eyebrows furrowed and she cocked her head to one side as she thought over his words.

Just as she was about to voice her confusion, Finn continued solemnly.

"Because that isn't all that I came in here to say..." He trailed off, eyes darting around the room with an anxiety that told Abbie that something unpleasant was to follow.

"I am going to be captain of this ship... But, in order to do that, I can't... I can't continue to be involved with you."

His words hit Abbie rather slowly. She tried to convince herself that she'd heard him wrong, but was terrified to know that she hadn't.

"I shouldn't have done this to you, Abbie. It was selfish, and it wasn't fair to you to get your hopes up like that...

"You're going home, to England. To your father... To Haughtington, or to any other man who'll have you if you've gained enough courage to leave that prick. You and I being together only complicated things more, and made something like this harder than it had to be."

When he took another pause to let his words register with Abbie, Abbie suddenly wished he would keep speaking to fill the silence. Her ears had heard, hear brain had processed...

But her heart was only just beginning to break.

She didn't need an elaboration to know what Finn had meant by 'something like this'. His intentions were obvious though his words were vague.

He meant goodbye.

A goodbye that called an end to everything they had shared. All the romance, all the friendship.

A goodbye before they'd even parted ways.

Abbie wished desperately that she could find something to say, something that would convince Finn that he was making a terrible mistake. She didn't want to give up on their relationship, didn't want to leave behind all the memories the last months had given her.

But she knew he wouldn't be convinced, because she knew he was right.

How could they ever have expected to make their relationship work?

They hadn't. Not really, anyway.

Truthfully, Abbie should have known better than to let her feelings for Finn develop. It was clear that he never had intentions to reciprocate and she hadn't expected him to.

What they'd had was a fling, a short burst of romance that was never destined to be much more. It was a chance at happiness that Abbie hadn't been given before, and it was clear to her now that it was never meant to be hers.

It couldn't ever be hers.

As Finn turned to leave her, every part of her wanted to scream at him to take everything back. But all she could do was choke down a sob as her heart silently broke in two.

—

APPROXIMATELY TWO AND A HALF MONTHS LATER

"Are you absolutely certain that that is what you saw?" The Lord Eric Haughtington's voice was incredulous.

His best friend nodded solemnly, lips pursed in disgust as he stood before Haughtington.

Charlie had just returned from Cuba on one of the largest slave runs Haughtington's fleet had ever accomplished. While there, he had seen something disturbing and, upon arriving in London, had come immediately over to the Haughtington manor to share the news with his friend.

"Yes, quite. The pirate bastard was practically undressing her with his eyes... And when he touched her, she looked ready to... Well, you know." Charlie lifted his eyebrows suggestively, and fury burned white hot in Haughtington's veins.

"I left before they started taking their clothes off.   That is probably why they had ventured into the jungle in the first place... I mean, it was obvious that something had transpired between them, or if it hadn't, that something was about to. You could feel the desire between the two of them, and quite frankly it was disgusting."

The glass of wine the lord clutched in his hands became the victim of his brute anger. It shattered, shards of glass and rivers of wine flying every which way.

Charlie flinched as they fell to the floor, but remained silent as the servant standing in the corner of the room came to his friend's side. The short, willowy woman began to sweep the pieces of glass into her apron as Haughtington stepped pointedly over the growing puddle.

"Are you absolutely certain that it was Abigail?"

It was ridiculous for the lord to question his best friend so fervently; it wasn't in Charlie's character to create such fanciful lies.

But while Haughtington trusted the man to be telling the truth, he hoped against hope that perhaps it was all just a misunderstanding; that he hadn't seen what he'd thought he'd seen.

But when Charlie nodded in confirmation again, it took every ounce of self-control that the lord possessed not to begin a reign of terror that would leave everyone in London at risk of his rage.

What would ever posses Abigail to be unfaithful to him? Especially with someone as filthy and undeserving of her affection as the scumbag pirate who'd kidnapped her?

"Does her father know?"

"He insisted that it was highly out of Abigail's character to do such a thing. He is convinced that I must have been mistaken, and when asked if he had plans to do something about the scandal, he replied that there was no scandal."

Of course not... The lord mused to himself. If there were a scandal, the real scandal would be revealed and Winston would be ousted as fraud.

Haughtington attempted to calm himself as he inhaled deeply, snapping his fingers for a new glass of wine to be brought to him. "Thank you for telling me, Charles. I know you've always had my best interests at heart."

The lord's best friend looked quizzical, his gaze skeptical as he watched Haughtington take a sip of his red wine.

"Are you not planning on doing something?"

"And what do you expect me to do? I can't very well send a ship after her... I have no idea where they'll be until February."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Eric, I've never thought you the type to back down against competition."

At that, the lord couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Sometimes he wondered if everyone he knew were daft or if he really was just the most brilliant man in England.

"Oh, Charles," he sighed finally, wiping a tear from his eye. "There is no competition. I already won dear Abigail the moment another man thought he could lay a hand on her."

Out of the corner of his eye, Haughtington watched his best friend shift uncomfortably. A twist of guilt covered his face, but in an instant it was gone.

Ignoring it, the lord had a wicked thought.

"And who said it was going to be a fair fight anyway?"

If the pirates thought they were coming into a one sided fight, they were dead wrong... Though Haughtington hoped eventually they would simply be dead.

Hardly anyone would question his decision to kill a few lousy pirates in an effort to save his beloved fiancé. In fact, he would then likely be heralded as a hero for more than one brave act...

Ridding the seas of a dozen scoundrels while rescuing his fair damsel in distress, and removing all threat of her infidelity.

The situation could not have presented itself better.

He let out another laugh, hearing the sound reverberate back to him as it vibrated through the empty halls of his manor home. For a moment he wondered if he were mad, but pushed it away as the thrill of a new challenge beckoned.

Haughtington didn't bother to tell Charlie his inner musings and dismissed him promptly, thanking him once again for the tidbit.

Later that evening, the Lord Eric Haughtington slinked to his study with a celebratory bottle of wine. He spent the night drinking himself silly, until he couldn't tell whether his excitement or the alcohol was coursing thicker though his veins.

****

First: HAPPY FREAKING BIRTHDAY AMERICA!!! WOO HOO OH YEAH 240 WHAT WHAT!!!

(sorry if you aren't from the States.  You're welcome to party with us.)

Second: yes, I took forever to update. Is this really a surprise with how slow things have been going lately?

Third: I'm still really sorry you guys had to wait. I love all my readers, especially when my readers are happy. Happy readers=comments and votes, comments and votes=a happy Sophie, a happy Sophie=a Sophie that has motivation to write. So, through the transitive property (yay math), you guys are my motivation to write.

Don't ever doubt that <3

p.s. votes and comments about this chapter? :)