I needed to melt the ice around his heart. So I behaved myself as he guided me through the upper and middle gundecks—I would return to inspect those guns on my own time—the galley, and the infirmary. Somewhere near the stern beneath his quarters, he opened the door to an elegant cabin occupied primarily by a large table.

The wardroom.

Access to this space was restricted to only warrant officers. Its purpose was to provide a private place for high-ranked men to socialize, dine, and conduct business during wartime.

From what I understood, the topic of women—not to mention the presence of one—was strictly prohibited within its walls. So when Ashley invited me across the threshold, I thrilled at the idea of him breaking a sacred rule.

Perhaps there was a little rebellion in him after all.

Several lieutenants sat around the table, which was long enough to serve a dozen officers. Ashley stepped in ahead of me, and all conversations ended. Everyone rose to their feet, clapped up their hands to their hats, and bowed.

“At ease, Lieutenants.” He pulled his elbow forward, bringing me with him through the narrow space.

The scent of tobacco and rum sweltered in the humid air. Sunlit windows veneered one wall. Shelves of alcohol, silver serving platters, books, and navigational equipment lined the other.

As he led me past the officers, none of them glanced at me. But their body language, stiff and unwelcoming, threw the entire cabin into a state of brooding dissatisfaction.

Ashley gave their attitudes no acknowledgment.

Arriving at the bulkhead at the far end, he stopped at a small table and poured a cup of tea for himself. He didn’t serve me, but I wasn’t interested. My complete attention fixated on the sheets of printed paper covering the aft wall.

Each page highlighted a different pirate. Some had sketches of faces and designs of their personal flags. All of them were titled by name.

The first print depicted me. My name. My relationships with Edric Sharp and Charles Vane. No mention of Priest. No sketches or descriptions of my image. And no flag, for I never cared to hoist my own. But the page contained some intelligence about where I’d been and the ships I’d attacked over the past few years.

There were fallacies in the report, but most of it was horribly precise.

Even more harrowing was the sheet that hung beside mine. This one with a picture.

The “Feral” Priest Farrell.

The representation of his features had been drawn by someone who knew exactly what he looked like. The artist had captured every gorgeous detail, down to the shading of his whiskers, the braids and beads woven through his hair, and the look he wore on his face. The accuracy of those sketched eyes staring back at me, the fearlessness and savage intensity in them, made my heart squeeze.