Dark, blood-soaked hair fell from his widow’s peak to his chest, his face bloated and clinging to what had once been a devilishly handsome bone structure. Tattered clothing hung from rotting skin, which served as a feeding ground for flies and maggots.

Tears gathered in my throat, and I swallowed them down, transforming my grief into the temperament that had kept me alive all these years.

“Damn you, Charles.” My cheeks burned, and my nails gouged my palms. “You look like the pustular aft of a diseased dog. Is this what you wanted? To hang on display like a damned pirate martyr?” I slammed a fist onto the platform, unleashing the rage in my voice. “I should have kept you in my bed. If it was death you wanted, I would’ve sent you there myself, stiff and hard, with a smile upon your face!”

“That’s enough.” Reynolds hooked an arm around my waist and dragged me into a dark alcove. “What, pray tell, was that all about?”

“We never exchange goodbyes.” I pushed him away and composed myself. “We exchange insults.”

He leaned around me, scrutinized the quiet road through Gallows Point, and turned back. “You and Charles Vane were lovers?”

“Not lovers. I gave him my maidenhood. He was a gentleman about it. Waited until I was sixteen before he stripped me from stem to stern and made me bleed.”

His eyes hardened, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Don’t be offended on my account.” I patted his rigid arm. “I enjoyed it far too much, and we remained dear friends after.”

“Friends, you say?” He cleared his throat. “Even when you seized Jade from him?”

“She’s my ship, Reynolds. When my father died, I was only fourteen and needed Charles to command her. But even then, she was my ship. Until the day she sinks. No matter who captains her.”

“We should return to her now.”

With a nod, I exited the alcove and made my way toward the tavern at the edge of Port Royal. My faithful crew of miscreants would be stirring up mischief with their bellies swimming with ale.

Reynolds trailed at a distance as to not draw attention to me. This wasn’t Boston or St. Augustine, where the streets overflowed with English soldiers. But the governor of Jamaica was known for his terror against my kind. His men hunted and hanged pirates with ruthless enthusiasm.

Up ahead, light spilled from an open doorway, illuminating the dirt road between the buildings. Boisterous laughter and the off-tune clanging of a piano announced the merriment of hard-drinking patrons.

I stuck to the deepest shadows and slipped behind a wagon that sat across the road from the tavern. Peering around bags of grain, I had a direct view of the activity within.