Since I couldn’t enter busy ports dressed as a woman pirate, I had to exchange my trousers and weaponry for an appearance that was more readily overlooked.

I’d spent my teenage years clad in boy’s clothing with my hair chopped to my ears. Then my hips rounded, and my chest expanded, leaving me little choice but to don the stifling torture devices women favored.

It had been a long while since I’d pinned up my wild mane and wore the alias of a respectable lady. I’d forgotten how much I hated it.

“I look like a sunbaked pear stuffed in shrunk satin.” I tugged at the bosom of the gray gown, feeling trapped and miserable. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He didn’t spare me a glance. “I’d rather not say.”

“Why not? You’re never one to hold your tongue.”

“You’re in a simmering mood.” His brown eyes darted over the perimeter. “Causing a scene isn’t my aim presently.”

“You fret like a lady’s maid.”

“Rot in hell.”

“Someday I shall. But—”

“Today isn’t your day,” he said, finishing my favorite motto.

Voices drifted from a nearby alley, followed by the tread of footsteps.

Reynolds faded into the shadows as a smartly dressed couple ambled by, making a wide berth around the decaying corpse.

When they vanished beyond the corner, Reynolds returned to my side. “Pay your respects to Captain Vane so we can gather the crew. The faster we weigh anchor, the better.”

He retreated again, blending into the darkness.

With his ever-vigilante gaze on my back, I blew out a breath and stepped toward the wooden platform.

Another wave of pedestrians passed, and I bowed my head, hiding my face until they strolled away, seemingly unmoved by the dead pirate hanging above them.

My heart ached.

Slipping a hand into the discreet slit in the gown, I accessed the hidden dimity pocket and stroked the polished surface of my father’s compass. A map, he’d called it. One I’d yet to unlock.

Charles and I had spent a couple of years trying to open the instrument. He eventually gave up on it, and we parted ways. But we always managed to find each other. Whether it was at sea or in a tavern, we would trade stories and reconnect over pewter tankards. He never missed an opportunity to tease me about my father’s unattainable treasure.

“I’m still searching for the key,” I whispered too low for Reynold’s ears. “I bet you’re laughing at me from your throne in hell, you droll, mean-spirited scrub.”

I waited for Charles’ witty retort, but it would never come.

Lifting my eyes, I flexed my hands against the onset of crippling emotion.