“I don’t mean ready for a five-minute bang against a tree, Eve. That’s not good enough. I want you back. For now and forever. I mean that.”

“Kris, I’ve told you—”

“You don’t want that kind of relationship. Yes, you’ve said it. Over and over. We couldn’t make it work the first time, so we shouldn’t try again. A nice, pat excuse—”

“It’s not—”

“Since when have you ever failed at something once and given up? It’s an excuse, Eve—a simple excuse for avoiding the very complex problem that’s you and me, and everything we did and didn’t do once upon a time. You aren’t ready yet. I know that. And I’ll wait until you are.” He gave a small smile. “It’s not like I’m going to run out of time.”

“I—”

“Speaking of time, though, you have a job to do, so I’d suggest we stop screwing around—or talking about why we aren’t screwing around—and get back to work.”

Our goal was, of course, to get passage to Roatan, preferably that night. So we started down to the wharf. The first three pirates we passed did double-takes at my outfit, but only murmured greetings and kept walking. When we drew within twenty yards of the harbor, we had to pass a grizzled old salt with an eye patch. He heaved to his feet and blocked our path, hand on his sword. Unlike the others we’d seen—who’d had the look and dental work of men who’d never seen the Jolly Roger outside a movie theater—this guy could have been the real deal, with blackened teeth, swarthy battle-scarred skin, and serious hygiene issues…which probably explained why he’d been consigned to harbor duty.

“Avast!” he growled, voice thick with a near-impenetrable accent. “Who ye be?”

“Visitors,” I said. “We just arrived, and we wanted to see the ships—”

“Not dressed like that, ye ain’t, missy.”

“Our outfits may be somewhat anachronistic,” Kristof said. “Yet certainly no worse than others we’ve seen so far.” He glanced over the pirate’s stained and ragged ensemble. “Excepting your own fine attention to period detail, of course.”

The pirate’s lip curled. “Don’t give a damn about yer britches, lad. It’s hers that’s t’problem. No wimmin pirates allowed here. Only wenches.”

“Wenches?” I said.

“That may be your usual policy,” Kristof said. “It may also explain the notable lack of female companionship available in your fine town. Might I suggest you reconsider—”

“I’m not reconsidering anything, lad. Either she changes herself into a proper wench, or ye best be reconsidering staying in La Ceiba.”