“You see,” he murmured, a sigh in his voice, “I’m tired. I’ve spent my entire adult life chasing Drake’s treasure. And all I have to show for it is a scrap of paper.” His other hand touched the leather pouch dangling from a cord around his neck. “Years. All for a piece of paper I don’t even understand.”

She ground her teeth. She’d have read it for him if he’d asked, just like the books about Drake written in Latium. No wonder he’d put off talking to her about this until ‘after Blackwood was off the ship’—really it was to delay ever having to show her.

Treacherous prick.

“So, yes, your fame and popularity and those ridiculous stories about you stung, but I haven’t done this only for my wounded pride.” The pad of his thumb stroked her throat, again the pressure closer to choking than a caress. A threat.

Her chest heaved, but she stood fast. She was due to hang in a week, what the hells did she have to lose? She’d throw herself at the Wild Hunt before she’d let him frighten her.

“I’m done chasing a treasure that might not even exist,” he said, smiling. Disappointment laced the expression. “This has given me a great fortune, which I’m going to take and retire in luxury. Who knows?” He cocked his head. “Maybe I’ll even name my estate in your honour—Vice Hall has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Sounds like the kind of place I’d want to—”

In one movement, she grabbed the front of his coat, the brass buttons biting into her fingers, and kneed him between the legs.

With a choked gasp, he keeled over, clutching his crotch and staggering away.

“You bastard.” Body shaking, she stalked towards him. Blood on fire, muscles tense, there was no elegance to her movements. “You bloody bastard—Wild Hunt take you and chase you for the rest of your days.”

He backed into the bars with a clang. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “Guards,” he called, voice strained, breathless. “Guards!”

She was only a foot away. Her wrists were bound, but she could still throttle the life out of him like he’d threatened her with.

Stupid, angry tears misted the edge of her vision, and her pulse roared. “You treacherous bastard,” she spat, fingers closing on his shirt front.

But the cell door flew open and guards surrounded her, pulling her away with bruising grips.

“No,” she bellowed. She’d left that courtroom calmly, she’d be damned if they’d take her from here quietly, too. “No.” She kicked, clawed, screamed, bit, thrashed, body burning.

Even through the stone of the courthouse, she could feel the sky overhead churning, as frantic as her pulse.