Bartholomew lost himself in her hesitant eyes and caressed her soft, olive cheeks with his sea-weathered hand. He'd set out with a map, but found himself a treasure not marked by any X: a sweet young island girl, unlike any he knew back in England. He stole a kiss before gazing at the vast, open sea astern. “My love,” he began, “the world is my oyster, and you are its pearl.” He opened his arms to the deep blue waves, “all of this is yours now. Where shall we venture first?” She remained silent and distant. “You can have anything you want now. What'll it be?”
Indeed, he was right. Here was a ship. A crew which had taken quite a liking to her. And he had the map. What else could a girl ask for? She pulled her flintlock out of her belt, and stuck it under his nose.