The summer night was warm and close, made darker by the vast clouds overhead. The moon shone out from time to time, then disappeared in silver-frosted gloom. The coach-lamps were too dim to light the way ahead of them, but the driver pushed his team relentlessly.

There were six young women squeezed into the vehicle’s interior. They quivered with the jouncing of the coach. A lantern swung above their heads, revealing five scared faces and a condescending smirk upon the sixth.

"I hope you don’t get seasick, girls," said Anna carelessly. "But this will be good practice if you do …"

She had fair hair and hard blue eyes, and wore a man’s black hat and suit of clothes. Her legs were sheathed in thigh-length leather jack-boots. A navy gun was hooked onto her belt.

The other passengers were only wearing petticoats. The wild ride had dishevelled them. Their bouncing bosoms threatened to bob free. Their hands were tied behind them and their mouths were stopped with gags. Three of them faced the girl in black, with two squashed in on either side of her.

Anna was unmoved by the appeal in their wide eyes. The petticoats were silk and lace. These girls had led a life of privilege. "Hold on, we’re almost there," she drawled in her Italian accent. "I fancy you’ll make perfect concubines."

The girls shrank back in horror. Someone mewled against her gag. They knew where they were going now, all right. Anna felt them squirm, and settled back contentedly. Her eyes flicked to the girl in the far corner.

She was the only other blonde. Pale-eyed, with a complexion like a rose. She was quiet and looking cowed, but Anna sensed that she had spirit. The sultans would enjoy a girl like her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gob of spittle landing on her cheek.

Anna paled and looked around. The girl beside her had dislodged her gag. The spoilt cow looked frightened but defiant. "My family will hunt you down!" she hissed.

The swaying of the coach pushed them together, and Anna raised an eyebrow languidly. "They’ll like a feisty bitch like you … a filly who’s just begging to be tamed."

The rich girl’s bosom heaved against her frilly petticoat. "How dare you! I demand you free us now!"

The blonde Sicilian sighed. "Perhaps you’d cause us too much trouble. We have to keep some order, after all. If you’re not willing to embrace a heathen, I’d better teach you the Sicilian kiss ..."

She leaned against the startled girl and kissed her hungrily – then stabbed her with a long stiletto blade. The point sank deep into the heart. The captive’s squeal was muffled by her mouth. Anna kept on slurping as the posh bitch bucked and squirmed. The other girls were whimpering with fear. The blade slid out again and soaked the petticoat with blood. The captive slumped and lolled in her embrace.

Anna’s eyes were bright as she looked round at the white faces. She licked a streak of scarlet off her lips. "So now you’ll all sit very quiet, and give my friends no trouble." She laid the dead girl’s head against her cheek.

Sitting in the corner, Nell glanced downward timidly. She wasn’t used to looking meek and mild. But the muscles in her arms had gone unnoticed. And nobody had thought to find the bayonet beneath her petticoat.

* * *

The coach came creaking to a halt. They heard the slosh of waves. The candle flickered in a salty breeze. Boots crunched on the roadway, and the coach-door was pulled open. The murdered girl flopped out and hung head down.

The night outside was dark, but Nell could just make out the beach. Beyond it lay the black gulf of the bay. A pair of girls in sombre coats were standing at the roadside. One held a flaming torch over the corpse.

Blood was streaming from the dead girl’s cleavage, to drip like Cabernet onto the road. Anna raised one booted foot and shoved the body out. "These French speak of encouraging the others." She looked round at the passengers. "I hope you take my point." The trembling girls began to clamber down.

Nell’s descent was awkward with her hands behind her back. A Sicilian grasped her arms to steady her. "Where did you get this one?" she called. "The little slut’s got muscles like a horse ..."

They didn’t even know that she was English – still less that she had killed some of their friends. As far as they were concerned, she was a timid country lady whom they’d snatched while she was walking back from church. It had seemed that they would never take advantage: she had walked alone down narrow lanes, and dawdled in the quiet water-meadows. Wearing a dress and petticoat she’d stolen from a washhouse. It had been a while since she’d last worn women’s clothes.

She looked round at the coach in which they’d travelled. The driver’s black-scarfed face stared back at her. There were two guards on the rearward box with blunderbusses raised. Hired ruffians, she guessed; but they watched the bandit girls with wary eyes.

A smaller carriage waited by the roadside. Its coachwork blended with the gloom. She recognised it from the cemetery. A woman in a widow’s gown dismounted gracefully and sauntered over to the captive girls.

"Any trouble, Anna?" she asked calmly.

The blonde Sicilian shook her head. "There’s no sign of the bitches. Once we’ve got this shipment loaded, we can track them down."

The woman walked along the line of captives. She smiled into their tearful eyes, and squeezed their breasts like someone buying fruit. Her black veil framed a face of haughty beauty. She ran her lace-gloved fingers down Nell’s cheek.

"You girls are going on a great adventure. You’ll never want for lovers, rest assured." She gestured at the body lying crumpled on the road. "Give that one to the men while she’s still warm."

Nell almost flinched despite herself. One of the bandits nudged her in the back. She looked across the beach and saw a ship’s boat in the surf. Beyond it, on the midnight bay, a single lantern floated in the dark.

* * *

Martine reached the headland and reined in. She could smell the sea, but the night was as dense as pitch. Then the moon came out and spilled its light across the bay, revealing the black outline of the ship.

She rode down off the skyline and dismounted. Nell’s horse was tethered to her own, and she hobbled both of them. The English girl’s red coat was slung behind the saddle-bow. She glanced at it, and told herself that Nell would soon be wearing it again.

But now it was her turn to undress. She took her hat off, shaking out her hair. Frock-coat, shirt and breeches were soon bundled in the grass. The pair of ponies watched her placidly.

Martine’s skin was richly tanned. The darkness clung to it. She felt the warm caress of the night air. Her breasts rose as she tied her mane of hair back. Then she picked her knife-belt up and buckled it around her slender waist.

Nude apart from that, she picked her way down to the beach, and waded out into the tepid sea. Sliding forward, pushing at the salty weight of it, until the creamy surf was well behind. The scudding moon went in again and blackness swallowed her. But she kept on swimming like a seal towards the glimmer of the distant lamp.

The sinister black galleon rode at anchor. From this close she could make it out beneath the rime-edged clouds. Martine breast-stroked up to it, her muscles aching now. She took hold of the slimy anchor chain.

Chinks of lamplight showed through the closed hatches. The ship creaked as it rode the gentle swell. Martine swiped a tangle of wet hair out of her eyes. She heard a snatch of laughter from within.

Then she saw the ship’s boat, still tied up beside the hull. Perhaps someone was going back ashore. She swam towards it cautiously and waited, treading water. There was no sound from the deck above. She drew her knife and gripped it with her teeth.

A stout net draped the galleon’s side. Martine reached up for it. She hauled herself out of the water, dripping like a fish. Her muscles gleamed and rippled as she clambered up the hull. It swayed, as if about to shrug her off.

She paused beneath the gunwale, then peered carefully over it. A sultry silence hung over the ship. At first she thought the main deck was deserted. Then she saw a lounging figure over by the steps.

It was one of the pirate galleon’s crew, a sluttish-looking girl. She seemed to have got tired of keeping watch. The heat her prompted her to take her shirt off. She was sitting on a barrel with one hand pushed down the front of her tight breeches.

The French girl hooked one leg over the gunwale. Still biting on the dagger’s blade, she eased herself onto the darkened deck. The wanton little minx continued pleasuring herself. Her free hand fondled one bare breast. A silk bandanna covered her dark hair.

Martine crept towards her through the shadows, like a cat. She took the keen-edged dagger from her mouth. The pirate sighed and bit her lip. Martine eased round behind her. She heard the girl’s breaths quickening – then pounced and sliced the blade across her throat.

The pirate croaked and gargled as her windpipe filled with blood. She wriggled vainly in Martine’s embrace. Crimson splashed her sweaty breasts, and she slumped against her killer, her orgasm still throbbing as she died.

Martine eased her to the deck and drew the dead girl’s cutlass. She swiped the air to gauge its balance. Filtered moonlight glinted off the blade. Now with a weapon in each hand, she stalked towards the steps – and tensed as she heard footsteps coming up.

It was another pirate wench, as careless as the first. She barely glimpsed the figure in the dark. Martine’s eyes were more accustomed to the midnight gloom. She struck while the corsair was still blinking. The cutlass jabbed her belly, but before the girl could groan, the knife plunged over-arm into her chest. The French girl scrunched the pair of blades in opposite directions. The pirate mewled in anguish and spat blood all over Martine’s heaving breasts.

Lowering the body, Martine jerked the blades back out. The staircase creaked beneath her damp bare feet. A single lantern burned in the companionway below. She heard men’s voices somewhere, and went prowling in the opposite direction.

Nell, meanwhile, was acting like a girl who had some virtue left to save.

She and the three others had been put into the hold, among the ship’s provisions and the rats. A young female corsair had come below to gloat at them. Perhaps it was Nell’s long blonde hair that made the girl decide to pick on her.

She was a sturdy little wench, her olive skin tanned dark by wind and sun. Nell guessed she was the same colour all over, beneath the tight knee-britches and the half-unbuttoned waistcoat that she wore. She prodded Nell with one bare foot, then licked her painted lips. "It’s about time that we shipped some high class fruit."

The pirates had untied their hands to let them climb aboard. Nell clutched at the girl’s leg imploringly. "Oh, please," she whimpered, "let us go!" The corsair seized her hair. "Sit quietly, you pampered bitch!" She pushed Nell back against a sack of grain.

The English girl grimaced and let the pirate squeeze her breasts. The wench craned forward, leering down at her. "Oh! Unhand me!" bleated Nell, already reaching downward, towards the slit in her own petticoat.

"They pay us more, if you’re untouched," the young corsair told her. "But if a woman does it, who’s to know?"

Then the smirk froze on her lips. Her features clenched with pain. Nell’s blade was sinking into her bare midriff. A foot-and-a-half of English steel slid through her like a skewer. The blonde girl grasped the wench’s vest, and put her strength behind the bayonet.

The stricken pirate groaned and slumped against her. The point had found an artery, to judge by the way she paled beneath her tan. Nell rolled her off and gave the blade a twist, then dragged it free. There was a scarlet spurt. The girl went limp.

Nell sighed and turned towards her fellow captives. They stared at her with disbelieving eyes. "Come on," she hissed. "Don’t sit there on your arses." Despite themselves, the well-bred ladies blushed.

As they crept out of the hold, Martine was listening outside a door.

She had to strain her ears to hear the murmur from within. The panting of her captive was much louder. The girl was clutched in Martine’s arms, with the knife across her windpipe. The cutlass dripped in Martine’s other hand.

The French girl raised her foot and kicked the door in, then shoved the pirate through ahead of her. She saw at once this was the captain’s cabin. A table was spread with food and gold. Five women sat around it, drinking wine.

Four of them reacted in an instant: their hands snatched at their pistols or the handles of their swords. A goblet clattered, spilling wine, as one girl kicked her chair back. Martine embraced her captive like a shield.

The fifth woman was sitting at the far end of the table. Her face was calm, her goblet still half-raised. She had a splendid figure underneath her widow’s weeds. Her brown eyes glittered in the candlelight.

Martine glared over her captive’s shoulder. She kept herself behind the girl, as if to hide her doubtful modesty. Three of the other women were corsairs in skimpy clothing. The fourth was a blonde Sicilian with blue eyes.

Then the widow raised her glass. "I take it you’re Martine," said Monica. Beside her, Anna cocked her gun and aimed across the cabin. The others looked like cats about to spring.

Martine felt fiercely alive, like a desert island savage – stark naked, dripping wet and streaked with blood. "I guess you don’t remember me … Padrona. Nowadays you seem to want a better class of girl."

The captive wench was breathing fast, but Monica smiled calmly. "It’s true that my late partners always wanted to play safe. They only gave me peasant girls, whom nobody would miss. But pampered demoiselles fetch better prices."

Her eyes gleamed as she sipped her wine. Martine’s hand tightened round the cutlass-hilt. She flicked her gaze across the watching faces. The girl in the tight jerkin seemed to be the pirate chief. She had a mass of smoky curls and eyes like bits of charcoal. The jacket strained around her breasts. Her lip curled in a sneer.

"Put your guns down," Martine said. "Or I’ll cut your shipmate’s throat."

"Don’t bother," Anna said, and squeezed her trigger.

The pistol-ball struck Martine’s captive squarely in the chest. The girl jerked as her body stopped the shot. The crushing impact threw Martine off balance. She staggered backwards, and the pirates sprang.

The blast of smoke from Anna’s gun obscured them for a moment, and Martine seized the only chance she had. The bulkhead slammed against her back and she kicked away from it, the stricken girl still drooping in her arms. The pirate captain lunged and Martine swung the wench towards her to take the thrust of the corsair’s sword.

The blade sank deep, encumbered as Martine released the body. The French girl swung away and threw her knife. A Moorish-looking pirate was still levelling her pistol when the weapon thudded home between her breasts. "Ngh!" she grunted, rearing back and clutching at her tits. Martine kept turning, slashing with her sword.

The third corsair had hauled out her own cutlass. She parried Martine’s stroke and stumbled back. The naked French girl snarled at her, then swung towards the captain. She caught a glimpse of Anna rising, drawing her bright blade.

The sultry pirate captain had already freed her sword. Her breasts bulged as she swung it at Martine. The French girl parried, danced away, then sprang onto the table. She kicked a plate of food in Anna’s face.

The rocking motion of the ship seemed more pronounced up here. She felt the table tilt beneath her feet. The pair of pirates lunged from two directions, and Martine sprang towards the captain, hacking at her guard. She landed like a cat as the corsair went lurching backwards – then pounced like one, and slashed the proud girl’s throat.

The captain clutched her neck, as if she meant to choke herself. Her brown eyes widened, huge and horrified. Liquid scarlet spilled into her leather-moulded cleavage, but Martine didn’t wait to see her fall.

Anna’s gleaming rapier flashed towards her. Martine just managed to deflect the thrust. She rolled herself across the table, scattering more plates and spilling gold doubloons onto the deck. The last corsair lunged frantically, but lacked the French girl’s skill. She groaned as Martine stabbed her in the gut.

Anna clambered up onto the table. Martine glared at her, and did likewise. Braced against the lurching of the ship, they faced each other, while Monica reclined in her carved chair.

The blonde Sicilian smirked and lunged, her leather jack-boots creaking. Martine recoiled and beat the thrust aside. The slender rapier rasped against her clumsy cutlass blade. The point came very close to her plump breast.

Anna swished her weapon back and forth, then struck again. Martine retreated further down the board. She flexed her grip around the cutlass, easing to a crouch – and Anna kicked a goblet up at her. Martine reared back and lost her balance, falling on her rump. The blonde girl rushed at her along the table.

Squirming, Martine glimpsed a body in the chair beside her. It was the girl she’d thrown her dagger at. The pirate had slumped down again, head bowed over her chest. Her pistol was still resting in her lap.

Martine snatched the weapon up and fired as Anna pounced. A crimson blot besmirched the girl’s fair forehead. Anna’s head snapped back as she was lifted off the table, her body arching like an acrobat’s. She crashed into the big stern windows, shattering the glass, and tumbled out into the balmy night. Martine could just imagine her brief plummet through the dark, before the sea engulfed her with a splash.

She dropped the empty gun and pulled her knife from the girl’s chest, then hurled it through the cloud of powder smoke. The target fixed in her mind’s eye was Monica’s black heart – but when the fog dispersed, it showed the blade embedded in an empty chair.

Martine swore and slithered off the table – then stiffened as she felt a pistol pressed against her back. "That’s far enough, you little witch," purred Monica behind her. "Or else I’ll blow your backbone through your belly."

The French girl clenched her empty fists. Her sword lay on the table – within her grasp, and much too far away. The woman’s lace-gloved other hand had settled on her shoulder. She sensed the widow studying her back.

The snub-nosed pocket pistol was still touching Martine’s skin, but her captor had eased back a little way. Martine knew she was eyeing the tattoo above her arse. A richly-detailed Arabic design.

"I see you’ve been the Sultan’s guest," said Monica, intrigued.

"His favourite concubine," the French girl said.

"I guessed you weren’t just out to rob the brothel." The widow’s tone was calm but pitiless. "You’re from a former shipment, then? I trust I got a decent price for you."

"As much as what a farm girl’s worth," said Martine bitterly. "But I’m the one collecting payment now."

"You and your mysterious friend have cost me twelve good girls. I wouldn’t pay to bury you. The sea will be your grave ..."

Her voice tailed off in puzzlement. The air was turning grey, as pistol smoke gave way to something else. There was a whiff of burning wood beneath the powder fumes. They heard a crackle through the open door.

Monica glanced round, and Martine twisted in her grasp, her elbow jabbing backwards as she moved. She felt the gun slip sideways as the widow pulled the trigger. The powder sizzled in the pan, and then set off the charge. The heartbeat’s interval was all she needed: the muzzle gases scorched her side, but the shot flew past to gouge the tabletop.

Monica lurched back, and Martine snatched the cutlass up. She whirled and slashed at her opponent’s face. The weapon left a crimson line on Monica’s smooth cheek. The widow hissed and bolted from the room.

Martine darted after her. The dim companionway was full of smoke. The crackle of flames was louder now. There were voices raised in panic. She climbed the staircase to the quarter deck.

Smoke was churning from the hold. It stank of burning pitch. Cinders glowed in it like stars. The furled shrouds overhead were catching fire. A knot of men and girls were trying to fight the spreading flames. Martine’s appearance made them all look round.

Despite the danger to the ship, they saw a more immediate enemy. A muscular, bare-chested man brought up the axe he held. A girl put down her bucket, drew a dagger from her belt. Another weighed her hatchet in her hand.

Martine dropped into a crouch, her legs apart for balance. The pirates prowled towards her in a group. The shirts of the girls were soaked with sweat and clinging to their breasts. A hot wind breathed against Martine’s bare skin.

Then the pirates rushed her, and there was a crash of muskets. It came from the high poop deck behind Martine. The barrage slammed into the group, who crumpled under it. The axe-man clutched his shattered chest. The girls wailed as their shirts were blotched with blood.

Martine spun round, to find Nell standing on the upper deck, her petticoat translucent with her sweat. She held a naval volley-gun still braced against her ribs, the seven clustered barrels drooling smoke.

"Sorry, love," the blonde girl drawled. "We don’t have time for fighting. We’re sitting on a floating powder keg."

Martine smiled crookedly and loped across the deck. The fire which Nell had set was running wild. The English girl came down the steps to join her at the rail. "I’m glad you made it out," she said. "I thought I’d have to go below and get you!"

Martine was squinting through the smoke. "Have you seen the widow?" she asked urgently. Nell shook her head, then gripped her arm. They hadn’t time to waste. The planks were smoking under their bare feet.

Together they climbed over the side and dropped into the sea. The murky water came as a cold shock. Surfacing, they struck away, towards the distant surf. The ship’s boat drifted nearby, as the three young ladies taught themselves to row.

Then the store of powder in the galleon’s hold caught light. A brilliant flash exploded through the hull. It lit the bay from shore to shore and echoed round the coastline. A ball of flame surged up into the night. Martine and Nell trod water, staring back towards the wreck. The wood blazed like a bonfire till the boiling sea rose up and swallowed it.

The girls swam on and reached the shore. They slumped exhausted in the lapping surf. Martine raised herself at last and looked across at Nell. The redcoat’s sodden petticoat was moulded to her curves.

Nell pushed back her dripping hair and met the French girl’s gaze. Without a word, the pair of them embraced. Kissing and caressing as the slow waves sloshed around them, and tasting salt sea on each other’s tongues.

At length they left the water. Nell peeled off the petticoat. Her bayonet was sheathed against her thigh. "I guess you’ve paid your debts," she said, as Martine nuzzled her. "So what’s tomorrow morning going to bring?"

"The chance to make our fortune," said the French girl impishly, "while people turn this country upside down."

Nell smiled back and squeezed her breasts, then weighed them one by one. "You mean the royalists on one side … the revolutionists on the other side … and us right in the middle?"

"Naturellement," Martine said. "Now let’s go find some wine."

* * *

Out in the darkness of the bay, another naked figure broke the surface. This one didn’t float face down. She scanned the distant beach with baleful eyes. Her hair was plastered round her face, just like the veil she’d lost. There was a scar across one cheek which burned each time the water lapped at it.

Somewhere the three ladies were still squabbling in their boat. Apart from that, the summer night was quiet. Monica could just make out the figures on the beach. She glared at them, then turned away and began to swim towards the farther shore.