“Easy, Goldilocks.” Ashley stood at my back, close enough to breathe against my ear. “Ipswich didn’t keep him alive for two months for you to strike him down in one swing.” His voice dipped, deliciously dark. “Savor it.”

Madwulf hung from chains, nude, mutilated, and glaring out of pained, bloodshot eyes. His mouth gaped and drooled as he screamed garbled nonsense. No tongue. His ears were gone. As were his fingers, toes, and one entire arm.

The missing extremities had been treated to thwart infection. Ipswich was a master at that. Many men on my crew hobbled around just fine with wooden limbs after Ipswich’s care.

The rest of Madwulf appeared intact. Covered in bruises, old and fresh, his filthy skin crusted with blood. Someone had shaved his head and face, depriving him of that which he cherished.

“All this time…” I heaved through a smothering fog of black memories. “I thought he was dead.”

“We let you think that.” Priest leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms. “We didn’t want his survival to tax or distract you while you worked so hard to heal.”

“You brought me severed feet and other body parts that he clearly still retains.” I rubbed my head, trying to remember. “Did I imagine that?”

“No. Those belonged to the men involved in your torture. Ashley and I collected their souls with the very plank of wood they used upon your body.”

I shivered. Shuddered. Then I smiled. “This is my gift?”

“Aye.” Priest tipped his head at Madwulf. “Show him how utterly fierce you are, my love.”

Ashley circled me, lifting the cutlass from my shaking hand and passing it to Priest.

“Madwulf knows nothing.” He leaned in and cupped my face. “He’s been rotting down here for two months with no answers as to how you outsmarted him. Tell him.” A shadow passed over his expression, threatening, deadly. “Make him feel the pain he inflicted upon you when he destroyed your father’s letter.”

My mind ran amok with bloodthirsty plans, my veins sizzling with the depravity of my thoughts.

From my waist, Ashley removed a dagger and pressed it against my hand. Then he lifted my hat from my head, kissed my lips, and joined Priest, Jobah, and Reynolds along the far wall, settling in to watch.

Oh, where to start?

“Syphilis.” I prowled toward the Highlander, casually paring a fingernail with the knife. When I reached him, I put my face in his, slanting him my most disturbing look from beneath my lashes. “Priest and I have no infections or disease.”