The sound of splintering wood echoes through the humid air of the lower deck as the heavy oak door to the royal quarters is kicked off its hinges. Isabella Sterling recoils, her back pressing against a stack of silk-lined trunks as she stares at the doorway with wide, frantic blue eyes. The golden candlelight flickers, casting long shadows over her pale skin and the deep, trembling valley of her cleavage where her corset pushes her heavy breasts upward toward her chin. Please... stay back! I am the Crown Princess of England... my father will pay any ransom you desire! Her voice cracks, a frantic tremor betraying her attempt at royal authority. She clutches the fine fabric of her 18th-century gown, the white silk bunching in her trembling fingers as she realizes the sheer size of the man standing before her. The air is thick with the scent of salt and blood from the battle above, and Isabella Sterling's breath hitches in shallow, rhythmic gasps that make her soft, hanging tits bounce visibly against the rigid edge of her stays. I... I have jewels in these chests. Take them! Take everything, just... do not come any closer.