As my captor shoved me forward along the beach, I watched pirates come and go on longboats between the warship and the shore. They were plundering the inhabitants of their liquor, whale oil, and as much livestock as could be carried away, no doubt crowding the warship’s decks with live chickens, pigs, goats, sheep—the makings of a feast.

Ashley and I were ushered into one of the humble, single-room dwellings. Upon entering, the air went taut, stifling in the humidity.

At least a dozen pirates had already made themselves at home, lounging on the beds, sitting around the dinner table, and sprawled on the modest furnishings.

A crawling sensation rippled across my skin and burrowed into my stomach.

Were any of these men Ashley’s soldiers? Where was Madwulf? On the ship? In one of the neighboring cottages? Perhaps he was out back, violating the women who lived here?

I shared a look with Ashley and knew he had the same dark thoughts.

“She lives?” One of the pirates jumped up.

“And the commodore.” Another spat through the gaps in his teeth.

Laughter and malicious cheer pressed against my bones, stretching my raw nerves.

Before the day ended, I would serve as entertainment for these bawdy rakes. They were all thinking it. And during the impending debauchery, Ashley would be forced to watch, tortured, and gutted, in no particular order.

I needed my voice, but they gave no indication that our gags would be removed.

We were led to a beam in the center of the cottage. Rope replaced the bindings on our wrists, and we were positioned on the floor, shoulder to shoulder with our hands tied to the post.

The impulse to rest my head on Ashley’s arm rode me hard, but I remained stiff and obtuse, giving nothing away. They didn’t need to know I loved the commodore. They certainly didn’t need to know I would die for him.

Thankfully, he followed my lead and didn’t drift closer or cast affection in my direction. For all they knew, he still wanted to deliver me to England to be hanged.

“Where’s the captain?” someone asked.

“Heading this way now.” A skinny, awkward, loose-jointed fellow leaned in the doorway, picking his teeth with a blade. “Captain! Come see what we got!”

Outside, two voices approached the cottage. One was too soft to hear clearly, but the other drawled in a brogue that hailed from Scotland. As the inflection hit my ears, my entire body shook with fear.

“I dinna ken anything about that,” Madwulf snarled. “I was told the admiral hanged her from the yard-arm. She’s dead.”

Who was he talking to? I leaned forward, heart pounding, hoping, pleading…

“She was spotted on the upper deck of the flagship while you were blowing her rigging to bits against my will!” That voice. The rage. His vicious, gravelly Welsh accent.

My breath left my lips on the wings of salvation.