The moment it lifted, an outstretched arm greeted me. Long fingers, black skin, white scars… What the devil was Jobah doing down here?

He grabbed my arm and lifted me out too quickly for this to be a social call.

My rising panic exploded when I glimpsed the turmoil on his face. “What happened?”

He kicked the hatch closed and started dragging stores of food and water over the top of it. “Sails on our aft, stealing our wind and closing in fast.”

I stood motionless, momentarily stunned, as he hauled and shuffled casks. There was only one reason he would conceal the entrance to the bilge.

He was preparing for boarders.

That meant the ship on our aft was fast enough, heavy enough, armed enough to overtake us and search our holds.

“Royal Navy?” My voice quivered.

“I’m afraid so, Captain.”

Priest and I were two of the most wanted pirates on this side of the world.

It was possible our British pursuers didn’t have an accurate description of my identity. I always went ashore incognito, making it difficult for my enemies to recognize me. But Priest never tried to hide who he was or what he looked like. His face was sketched in newspapers all over the West Indies.

If the king’s men found him, they would hang him.

I jumped in to help Jobah, my hands shaking as I shoved the heavy containers. “How many guns?”

“More than we carry. You should hide in the hold with your husband.”

I flung him a glare that would’ve shriveled the testicles on a lesser man.

“Yes, I know. You’d rather hang.” He sighed. “It’s your neck.”

It would be every neck on my crew if I lost command of this ship.

“What are we dealing with?” I heaved another barrel.

“We believe she’s a one-hundred-gun ship of the line.”

“A warship? What the—?”

“That’s confirmed!” Reynolds scrambled down the companionway behind me. “Captain! Topside, now!”

“I’ll finish here.” Jobah gave me a push. “Go.”

My heart rate blew up as I chased Reynolds to the top, scaling ladders, sprinting through passageways, and shouting, “All hands on deck and man the guns!”

15

“Thirty-two-pounders. I count twenty-eight of them.” Reynolds stood beside me on the upper deck, his knuckles blanching as he passed me the spyglass.

I raised it to my eye and swallowed a gasp. The salt-smeared telescope brought the full-rigged warship into focus. The finest ever built at Woolwich Dockyard, if I were a day old. And she prowled just forty yards to starboard, maneuvering to fire from her broadside.

“Fifty-six demi-cannons and culverins split between the middle and upper gundecks.” My stomach buckled as I continued to scan the armament. “Twelve six-pounders on the quarterdeck.”

“Four more on the forecastle.” A heavy sigh. “We’re outgunned, Captain.”