He was every inch the seafaring knave. An unrivaled buccaneer. Ruthless. And rich, if the lore could be believed.

I knew the truth about his conquests and could recall every prize he’d won and lost. His treasure was greater than anyone could imagine.

“Have you brought me more tales from the high seas?” I tugged at the collar of his shirt, searching in fear of finding fresh scars.

“Indeed. I have much to tell you, my beautiful girl.”

I lowered my feet toward the ground, wriggling in his arms. Before my toes touched the sand, I spotted a dark presence over his shoulder, approaching from the beach.

The man appeared out of nowhere, sneaking toward us on silent feet. With a bandoleer of guns slung across his chest, he stared at me with eyes too jaded for a face that was nigh twenty years.

My hackles went up, and my stomach bottomed out.

But Edric Sharp hadn’t taught me to tremble in the face of danger. No, he’d taught me how to fight with my fists and wit, a flintlock and blunderbuss, and my personal favorite, his cutlass. I could feel it now—the grip of the hilt in my palm, the clang of metal against metal in heated clicks, and its reliability in battle. A blade never misfired.

Without a quiver of hesitation, I grabbed the cutlass from my father’s sash, swept behind him, and thrust the sharp point at the enemy. Then I charged.

The man halted, his wicked eyes growing wide at the sight of me. I must have been a fright in tattered chintz and disheveled hair whipping around my ferocious expression.

His alarm was his folly, and I used it to cleave through the sash of his bandoleer and relieve him of his weapons.

“Stand down!” I swung again, slashing a hole in the sleeve of his shirt.

“Damnation, girl!” He held up his hands and hissed at the rip on his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Deciding which part of you I shall cut next.” I jabbed the cutlass toward his nether regions.

His huge hand landed on top of my head, holding me away as he parried the stroke of my blade.

“Unhand me, sir.” I thrashed, trying to dislodge his immovable grasp. “Do it now, or I’ll lop off the dull, inanimate fellow between your legs.”

“Captain,” he said in a bored tone. “Call off your hell-born blowsabella before she hurts herself.”

“Bennett, lower the blade.” My father chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s my new quartermaster.”

“What?” I withdrew the cutlass and jerked away from the man’s grip. “How? Where’s Kirby?”

“He lost his legs to chain-shot. And most of his internal organs, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.”