“Are you certain he’s destined for Santa Marta?” Baines asked nervously.
“He’s coming,” Tremayne replied, tolerant of his first mate when the same question from anyone else would gain a far less pleasant response. “See? There!” He pointed to the horizon, extending his other hand for his spyglass. Sarina handed it over quickly, and he put it to his eye.
“Aye, there she is,” he murmured as the white sails of the Enchanted Lady glowed slightly above the dark sea. He turned to his friend with a grin, his blue-green eye twinkling in the early dawn light. “All right, Max. What say we have a bit o’ fun?”
The first mate grinned in response and hurried off to relay the order for the Black Arrow to get underway. In an instant, the deck was abuzz with activity as the crew weighed anchor and the master rigger, Hutchins—a mountain of a man with a shiny bald head and gold rings piercing both ears—led the hoisting of the sails. As the sun rose, any need for stealth vanished, and instead they’d rely on their appearance as a friendly vessel.
“Raise the French colors,” Tremayne ordered. In a moment, the French flag waved overhead, barely visible in the dim moonlight. Captain Mattias Renard would think the Arrow carried his own countrymen, at least at first. It was a common tactic among pirates. Not until they were ready to attack would the flag be replaced by Tremayne’s standard—a white skull on a black field, the captain’s trademark red scarf wrapped around the grisly head.
The captain raised his spyglass again. “That’s right. Go about yer business now,” he said, his accent thickening somehow as he spoke under his breath. “Nothing to worry about here, ye scurvy dogs.” Tremayne smiled as they cut through the sea and the pink light of dawn gave way to daylight.
“Steady, boys,” he called out. “Ready the cannons, but hold your fire until we’re right on top of them!”
Sarina tensed as the two ships drew nearer to each other. How long would he wait? She glanced at the captain, her skin prickling with nervous energy, but he seemed calm, a small, satisfied smirk on his lips.
“Tell Rafferty to ready the cannons,” he told her. She jumped in surprise, not expecting the order that would usually go through Max. The first mate was on the far end of the ship, however, standing readied near the bow. Sarina ran down to the gun deck, seeking out the master gunner.
“The captain said to ready the cannons,” she told him breathlessly, trying to ignore the appraising way his gaze dragged over her form. It had been a shock the first time one of the men had looked at her in such a way—not that she’d never been ogled before, but it hadn’t crossed her mind that it might happen while she was dressed as a boy. Since coming on board, she’d become used to the lustful glances of some of the crewmen, and Rafferty’s were the worst of all. Sarina was usually very careful to avoid the man, certain that he was not used to holding back when it came to his baser desires.
Sarina shuddered at the thought.
“They’re always ready,” Rafferty replied suggestively, his leering grin made even more distasteful by his rotting teeth. Sarina forced back a grimace, instead looking behind him at the row of cannons. Despite his disgusting nature, Rafferty’s boast was true. Each cannon was loaded and manned, only needing to be rolled forward into firing position moments before the assault.
“I’ll tell him,” she said with a nod, only to be stopped when she turned to go by his sweaty hand on her arm. He tugged her close, his foul breath wafting over her cheek.
“You’re a skinny little thing,” he murmured in her ear, “but not altogether unpleasing to the eye. And ye’r almost as soft as a wench.” His hand trailed down her back and squeezed her backside aggressively. “After the battle, what say you and me have a little private celebration?”
Sarina fought back a rush of bile in her throat and reached slowly for the flintlock in her belt. Rafferty’s eyes widened at the sound of the hammer cocking, and he looked down to see the muzzle pressed up against his belly. He released her, stepping back with his hands raised placatingly.
“It was just a kindly offer,” he protested, his cocky smile belied by the sweat on his upper lip.
“Consider this my polite refusal,” she retorted, backing away as she uncocked the pistol and tucked it back into her belt. “I’ll let the captain know you’re ready.” She hurried up the stairs, pausing just before emerging on deck. She leaned heavily against the wall, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to catch her breath.
Her encounter with Rafferty had shaken her badly. She knew that if he chose to force his attentions on her, she would not be able to fight him off. Fortunately, the captain was well known for opposing rape in all its forms. It felt strange that she would feel comforted by that—that reliance for her own well-being relied on the very man she aimed to kill.
It was a strange world, indeed.
She shook off her musings and drew a deep breath to steady herself as she hurried back to the captain. “Cannons are readied, sir,” she said in a firm voice.
A nod was her only response before Tremayne turned to the quartermaster. “Starboard ten degrees, bring us up on her port side.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Crawley responded, turning the wheel slightly.
“Easy,” Tremayne murmured. “Easy . . . steady, now. Not too close, we don’t want to raise an alarm.”
They finally drew near enough to see the crew on board clearly. Sarina picked out the captain easily, and he raised a hand in greeting, still apparently unaware that he was moments from his doom.
Tremayne chuckled, then raised a hand in response as he bellowed. “Raise the colors!”
Sarina watched in awe as everything seemed to happen at once—the French flag was replaced by Tremayne’s, its eerie grin flapping in the wind. A loud crack sounded as the cannons locked into position pointing through the gun ports as the captain yelled, “Take aim!”
It happened within seconds, as Captain Renard looked on in confusion, his hand still frozen in the air.
“Fire!” Tremayne bellowed, the order echoed by Baines—then Rafferty—before a cannon blast exploded in the stillness. The warning shot arced over the bow of the Lady, the crew scrambling in a panicked frenzy.
The warning went unheeded, though, and Captain Tremayne hadn’t really expected Renard to give up without a fight. As his men rushed to load their own cannons, Tremayne bellowed out another order, and the rest of the cannons let loose, this time exploding onto the deck of the ship. Sarina’s hands flew to her ears out of reflex, and through the smoke she could just make out the figure of Captain Renard, waving his arms and ordering his men to return fire.
“Bring us alongside her, Crawley!” Tremayne shouted as the Lady floundered in the water.
Renard shouted to his crew, then noticed his pilot had been targeted in the latest volley and the wheel was unmanned. He shoved through his frantic men, desperate to get his ship under control.
It was too late.
“Grappling hooks!” The captain’s order echoed in the air as the men swung the huge hooks up and away to the deck of the Lady. As they caught hold, the men pulled the ropes in unison, muscles straining and voices united in loud grunts and shouts of nearing victory. With the two ships tethered together, the crew of the Arrow bounded onto the other ship, swords flashing in the sunlight and pistol fire peppering the air.
The clash of metal and shouts of battle filtered through the smoke as Sarina watched the fight from her position at Tremayne’s side. He stood, one foot braced on the gunwale of the Arrow, the other on the Lady, a flintlock in each hand as he bellowed orders at the men below. He took aim as one of Renard’s crewmen raced for the cannons, shooting the man in the leg. He fell to the deck with a cry of pain and Tremayne shot again, this time hitting the rigging on the mizzenmast and releasing the heavy sail onto the heads of three men fighting against his crew.
Tremayne holstered his pistols and drew his cutlass—her father’s cutlass, Sarina corrected herself—and jumped into the midst of the fray with on
ly a quick, “Stay here, Smith!” grunted over his shoulder. He slashed through the twisting bodies, meeting Baines and turning to fight back to back with his first mate. Sarina couldn’t resist getting a little closer, hiding behind a large barrel.
“You call this a bit of fun?” Baines asked wryly, throwing up his own sword to block a heavy blow.
“Oh, come on, Max,” Tremayne replied with a slight laugh, spinning to the left to swing at a barrel-chested man brandishing a dagger in each meaty fist. “You can’t say you’re not enjoying this!”
They fought in a coordinated dance that could only be achieved after dozens of such battles and years of developing trust. Lunging and turning, each defended the other’s weak spots, their swords slashing through the air.
Then, as quickly as it started, the fight was over and Renard and his remaining men knelt in defeat on the deck of the Lady, their hands bound behind them and heads bowed low. Tremayne’s men rounded up a handful of passengers who’d retreated to their quarters when the fighting began, and they stood in a small circle, fear evident on all their faces. The crew of the Arrow was scattered about the deck, holding weapons on the prisoners and unable to hide their satisfied grins.
“Baines,” the captain said in a firm voice as he paced before the crew. “Divide the men to search the ship. I want the treasure on board before our presence here attracts any interest.
“Smith!” he shouted, and Sarina scrambled out from behind the barrel. “Collect any trinkets the passengers might be hiding away.” He turned to glare at the group. “Ye’ll not be wanting to keep anything back, if ye value yer lives,” he warned, and immediately, they began twisting off rings and pulling out pocket watches. Sarina took a small bag Baines held out to her and made her way to the little group. Holding it out, she fought a sick feeling in her stomach as each valuable was dropped into the bag.
“Please,” an older woman begged, as she fingered her gold necklace with tears in her eyes. “It was my mother’s.” Sarina’s heart sank. She never knew her own mother, who’d died when she was born, and the woman’s plea put a lump in her throat. She glanced about, looking for the captain, only to find him studying her intently.
Sarina swallowed thickly. He was watching her, seeing if she could handle the responsibility he’d given her. If she failed this test, she’d lose the opportunity to do what she came here to do.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, not meeting the woman’s eyes. Sarina jerked the bag toward her insistently and tried to ignore the woman’s quiet sobs as she unclasped the necklace and turned it over. Without another word, Sarina returned to the Arrow, putting the bag onto the pile of spoils the quartermaster was already tallying. She went to work with the rest of the crew, quickly transferring the cargo of the Lady onto the Arrow, all the while keeping an eye out for Crown ships or other buccaneers who might be tempted to steal the treasure for themselves.
Breathing heavily and wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand, Sarina leaned against a large crate for a moment of rest. The men continued to work around her, and she tried not to attract attention as she scanned the crew in search of the captain. He’d disappeared belowdecks of the Lady and had yet to emerge.
“Smith!” Crawley barked, making her jump. She turned to him, but he didn’t look up from the ledger where he was marking down the day’s take. “Get back to work,” he ordered. “No rest until we’re underway.”
Sarina bit back a retort. She was tired of taking orders. Tired of being surrounded by smelly, disgusting men. Tired of being a criminal. She was filled with guilt and anger . . . frustration that this plan of hers seemed to be falling apart around her. Men were trying to touch her. She was stealing necklaces from nice ladies and making them cry. She was carrying a pistol, for heaven’s sake!
Then she saw him. Captain Tremayne stepped out onto the deck, smiling at his men, her father’s sword swinging at his hip.
Yes. There was her purpose.
And Sarina knew she would endure any torment to make him pay for what he’d done. With a deep breath, she crossed to the Lady and hefted another box over to Tremayne’s ship, hate and fury burning in her gut as she watched the captain celebrate with his men.
A shout drew his attention, and Sarina saw Baines rush over to Tremayne, a small box in his hands. The first mate held it out and the captain’s smile grew as he took it and clutched it against his chest. With another quiet word to Baines, the captain hastily climbed over to the Arrow and hurried to his cabin without sparing even a glance at anyone else.
“Make haste!” the first mate shouted. “The rest of this to our hold quickly. We make way in fifteen minutes!”
“What of the crew?” Hutchins bellowed back, casting a smirking grin to the men on their knees.
“Leave them bound,” Baines replied. “By the time they cut themselves loose, we’ll be well on our way.”
As the men doubled their efforts, hurrying from one ship to the other, Sarina’s eyes strayed to the doorway where the captain had disappeared. He was alone, and everyone was so busy, they’d most likely not notice her absence. She glanced at Crawley, who was hefting a large chest with another man toward the opposite end of the ship.
Could this be her chance? Her fingers drifted to the flintlock at her waist, rubbing the handle slowly. Stepping quickly and staying out of the way as much as possible, she made her way to the captain’s quarters. Checking over her shoulder once more to assure she hadn’t been noticed, she moved down into the dark passageway, willing her eyes to adjust quickly. She ducked into a doorway, listening closely for voices or footsteps. Hearing none, Sarina picked her way quietly to the captain’s door, pressing her ear to it before silently turning the knob.
Through the crack in the door, she could make out the back of Jonathan Tremayne. He was not sitting at his desk, but bent over the front of it, examining something closely . . . so closely, in fact, that he didn’t look up when Sarina entered the room, closing the door behind her.
“That you, Smith?” he muttered, still focused on his desk.
Sarina jumped, not realizing he’d noticed her entrance. “Aye, sir,” she said out of habit. “How did you know it was me?”
He laughed humorlessly. “Nothing happens on this ship without my knowledge,” he replied. “Now, what is it?”
All this time, he had yet to look up at her and Sarina realized that if there were a time for her to accomplish her mission, this was it. Silently, she slipped the flintlock pistol from her belt, holding it up with both hands. She cocked the gun, and at the sound, Tremayne’s shoulders stiffened, and he slowly straightened and turned around, his eyes dark and furious.
“What is this?” he hissed.
Sarina fought the tremor in her voice. “I would think that would be obvious.”
Tremayne’s jaw tightened and Sarina could practically see the waves of anger radiating off his skin. “Are you planning to use that?” he asked, his eyes dipping briefly to the pistol gripped in her white-knuckled hands.
She said nothing.
“Have you ever shot a man while he looked you in the eye, Smith?” he continued in a low voice, taking a slow step toward her. “Locked gazes while you took his life?”
Her hand trembled slightly, but she lifted the gun in determination. “I can kill you.”
Tremayne froze.
“And why would you do such a thing?”
Another step. Another jerk of the gun. Another standoff.
“You killed my father.”
The only reaction was a slight narrowing of his good eye. “Aye. I’d imagine I’ve killed a few fathers. You’ll need to be more specific.”
To Sarina’s dismay, a rush of tears pricked at her eyes and she swallowed back the emotion, squaring her shoulders.
“You killed Daniel Talbot.”
For the first time, there was a break in Tremayne’s cold demeanor, and Sarina thought she saw a glimmer of surprise light his eyes.
Oh yes, she thought.
I know the truth, you bastard.
“Talbot?” he repeated. “Not . . . Captain Danny Talbot.”
Sarina stiffened. “He resigned his commission before I was born.”
Tremayne snorted. “Commission?”
“I’ve been searching for you for almost two years,” she said, ignoring his comment. “Ever since that day you left him bleeding and dying on the floor in his study.”
The captain took another small step toward her, and she realized the muzzle of the pistol was now inches from his chest. Her hand tightened on the grip, her finger poised over the trigger.
“I didn’t kill your father, boy,” he said quietly.
“Liar,” she spat.
“It wasn’t me.”
The determination on his face shook her slightly.
No. She couldn’t be wrong . . . could she?
But it didn’t matter. The brief doubt—the moment of hesitation—was all Captain Tremayne needed. In one fluid motion his hand flew up, knocking the pistol away from her chest as he spun her about and locked his arm around her neck. The pistol clattered across the floor as she struggled against him, but she was no match for his superior strength. He forced her against the desk, the sharp corner of the wooden top bruising her stomach.
“Now,” he gritted in her ear, “tell me who you really are, and why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”
Sarina fought for breath, tears pricking her eyes. She clawed at his forearm, but he ignored her struggles.
“Answer me!” he demanded.
“I . . . I can’t . . .” she rasped. With an exasperated huff, he loosened his hold slightly and Sarina drew in a gasping breath.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
“I told you—“
“You lie!” he interrupted with a shout. “I happen to know that Danny Talbot had no sons. His wife died giving birth to his only daugh . . .” Tremayne’s voice trailed off, and Sarina felt him stiffen slightly.
“No . . .” he murmured, suddenly spinning her about and shoving her back against the desk. His fingers dug into her upper arms and Sarina raised her chin, fighting back the tears. He wrapped one hand around her chin, his eye glittering as it examined her face more closely.
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