On a squeal of laughter, I turned to Priest, threw myself into his arms, and crashed our mouths together.

My father hadn’t just left me enough treasure to make every man aboard Jade wealthy beyond retirement. He’d gone through the painstaking task of converting his spoils into a currency that was ideal for easy transport, dividing amongst the crew, and using as trade in exchange for property and goods. He’d thought of everything.

My boisterous pack of sea tars clamored over the coins, howling with glee and singing about the land they would buy in the colonies and all the rum they would pour down their gullets.

Priest kissed me enthusiastically, saturating my lips with the salty taste of sweat and sea. “Your father was a genius.”

“He was so selfless and brave, and you would’ve adored him.”

“Bennett, come here.” Ashley stood amid the treasure, holding a shallow box the length of his arm. “This was beneath the sacks.”

My pulse hammered as I slipped out of Priest’s arms and made my way there.

“We’ve gone through everything.” Ashley handed me the wooden object, his smile teeming with anticipation. “There’s only one of these.”

I set down the box, my hands trembling as I opened the lid. It appeared reasonably airtight, safe from the elements. From within, I removed a wide, flat package wrapped in leather. The edges felt like an engraved frame.

It took forever to unwrap it, my fingers tearing through layers of protective cloth and tough hides. At last, I cleared the coverings and found myself staring down at two familiar faces.

“God confound me body and soul.” I fell to my knees, my hand shaking too violently to touch the canvas. “I don’t believe it.”

The oil portrait blurred behind a sheen of searing tears. Priest and Ashley held the painting as I wiped my face and chased the moisture from my eyes. Then I soaked in the image with my heart in my throat.

A young Lady Abigail Leighton perched upon a bench that was entirely too elaborate for its woodland surroundings. Edric Sharp leaned against a tree at her side, wearing a flowing shirt of silk, knee-high jackboots, and a cutlass that glinted in the sun. At his feet lay a sleeping hound dog.

“I’m wearing those boots.” Priest crouched beside me, his hand stroking my hair.

I choked, nodded, tears overspilling.

My mother’s gown possessed the lavender hues and delicate ruffles she favored. Where she was painted pale and lithe, my father bore the freckled complexion and muscled frame of a seafaring Irishman. He looked so young. So in love.

His face tilted downward, smiling upon my mother as if utterly distracted by her, the painter’s presence forgotten. My mother’s pose on the bench was relaxed yet stately, her eyes pointed at her lap.