A ringing began in her ears, and she shook her head. “Sex slave?” Her laugh came out shaky as she backed away. “In your bloody dreams, FitzRoy.”

What was he doing? What was this?

Marines hurried to him, cut away the rope around his wrists, helped him to his feet, all as if he were a victim.

Her crewmates exchanged looks, their uncertainty clear in their slow movement, the way they hedged between action and surrender. Most of the weapons were stowed—after all, what need had they for guns and blades as they readied the ship for docking in a friendly port?

She laughed, the sound bitter on her tongue.

Still, they had belaying pins close by, and she had her sword.

What Fitz was playing at, she couldn’t fathom, but the rest of this had to be some strange misunderstanding. Maybe he’d lost his mind—too much time alone in that cabin, obsessing over Drake’s treasure.

Sabre levelled between her and the marines edging their way across the deck, she lifted her chin. “Infamous, I may be,” she called, gaze flicking between the uniformed men, “and harlot, perhaps, but I’m no pirate. The Queen herself …”

The Queen. That was it. Their pardons and letter of marque had been signed by Elizabeth IV. Now her daughter sat on the throne. There must have been a mix-up, some document that had been misplaced or misunderstood in the handover between one monarch and the next.

She cleared her throat. “We have pardons and a letter of marque from Queen Elizabeth IV.” She gestured to FitzRoy’s cabin. “You’ll find it with the Captain’s log.”

At the Admiral’s nod, a marine with fancy epaulettes waved two men into the cabin.

“Take this gentleman somewhere warm to recover from his ordeal,” the Admiral said, at last, his voice cool and resonant.

“Gentleman? He’s …”

But the men obeyed him and whisked FitzRoy away.

Placing her feet carefully, she backed away further, putting the rail at her back to prevent the marines from slipping behind her.

Wild Hunt, something was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Her pulse jumped in her temples and throat, so hard that her arm shook with it. Ice crept over her shoulders and up her neck. It balled in her stomach, solid and heavy. It set her teeth on edge and only clenching her jaw stopped them chattering.

The men emerged from FitzRoy’s cabin and brought the letter of marque to the Admiral.

Tilting his head back, he peered at it. “A forgery.”

A forgery.

Breaths burning in her lungs, she shook her head. “No, we—we …” Her chest crushed, a moment’s sharp pain. But Knigh … “No. He gave us—he said—”

“Arrest them all,” the Admiral said with a wave of his hand, before turning and marching onto the dock.