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Crusoe tripped on Bagwell's foot and fell hard on his rear. Judy lifted her sword for the kill, the blood thundering in her veins.

Arrogant fool, she thought. He should have killed me when he had the chance. Crusoe wasn't the first to make that mistake; growing up in a Spanish gaol, men had done it all the time. They thought a woman would be soft; thought that they could take chances, toy with her, use her as they pleased. They had all learned their lesson; the lesson Crusoe would learn now.

That she was not to be trifled with.

Judy's sword was poised and Crusoe's face showed... What was that? Not fear, certainly, but... Surprise? Disbelief?

It wasn't that he didn't think she could kill him; he genuinely believed that she wouldn't. And did that mean that he...

She looked into his eyes and realised it was true. He hadn't spared her through arrogance, but through some misplaced sense of chivalry. It made him... different. It made him unique.

And he was cute.

Judy paused, and in that pause she decided that the world would be a poorer – and a more boring – place without Crusoe in it.

She slashed her sword at Bagwell and hissed: “Never help me!” And then the moment was past and she could put up her blade without disgrace. She sheathed the sword when ordered and walked away.

Of course, she might have to kill Bagwell before too long, but that seemed a fair exchange.