One hundred guns made to sink galleons in the war against Spain. Hell, the demi-cannons alone boasted enough firepower to blow every vessel west of England out of the water. Including mine.

As I glared through the glass, the warship hummed with organized activity. Lines of uniformed officers gestured and shouted. Seamen ran along the gangways and swarmed the shrouds. Soldiers stood at the stern near a swaying jolly boat, ready to cross at the captain’s command.

They can try.

My gunners were prepared to fire the moment that jolly hit the water with rowers. As long as I breathed, the king’s navy would not board my ship.

But the flutter of fear I’d carried from the bilge was careening into a tumult. Whatever happened in the next few minutes could end my life and the lives of my men. If we fled, the warship would open fire. If we fired first, we would be blown to hell.

Our fate rested in the hands of one man.

High above the belly of His Majesty’s Ship, the navy captain stood at the rail with his lieutenants, watching me through his spyglass as I watched him.

He was easy to identify in his dark blue frock coat and pristine white breeches and hose. Gold embroidery banded the wide cuffs and standing collar and edged the jeweled buttons that glinted down the front closure—all meant to signify wealth and status.

“Who is he and what is he doing in the West Indies?” Heart racing, I lowered the glass and glanced at Reynolds. “That ship was designed for naval tactic. Why isn’t he in the Mediterranean fighting Spain over territories?”

“The war must have ended. If that’s true, he’s here on another mission.”

“Pirate hunter.” I gnashed my teeth and returned to the spyglass.

Fringed with white feathers, the captain’s three-cornered hat matched the blue of his coat. I wished the wind would rip it off his head, so I could analyze his facial features. Was he young? Inexperienced? Just another spoiled, listless aristocrat looking for adventure?

I would love to show him a good time. With a firepot of broken wine bottles, saltpeter, resin, and rotten fish hurled at his rigging. The stink alone would cause the contents of his stomach to empty all over his gold-trimmed finery.

But in my seven years of pirating, I’d never fired upon a British warship. Because I didn’t have a wish for death.

The captain shifted away, ambling to the quarterdeck rail and peering down into the waist of the warship. Hundreds of sailors stopped what they were doing on gangways and shrouds, and every head turned toward him as if awaiting his command.

Gripping the rail with all the power his rank awarded him, he spoke words I couldn’t hear. Long minutes passed. Then all at once, the seamen resumed their tasks.