“Holy Mother Mary!” Runner gripped the paper in his fist and scanned the darkened buildings. Where the blazes was the captain?

Making a quick decision, he tugged on the dog’s collar. “Ye found me, now let’s make haste to find Captain Cameron!”

* * *

“Be gone with ye and never darken these doors again!” shouted the haggard madam while Kennan and Lachie Mor backed out of the last brothel in Port Royal, pistols in hand.

“I reckon this is the most unfriendly town I’ve ever had the displeasure of searching,” growled the quartermaster. “Och, they’re even more cantankerous than Campbells.”

Kennan honed his gaze on the closed door, ready to fire if anyone dared come after them. They stood silent for a moment, the only footsteps coming from the beach, approaching at a sprint.

Both Kennan and Lachie Mor shifted their aim toward the sound.

“Captain!” yelled Runner, his youthful voice pegging him.

“Why isn’t he with the skiffs?” grumbled Lachie under his breath. “I’ll not tolerate a wee mutineer.”

“Wheesht, perhaps he’s bearing news.” Kennan lowered his flintlock and hastened toward the lad…and that miserable hound. “What is it?”

“Bannock had this tied around his collar,” he said, waving a slip of parchment.

Taking it, Kennan arched his brow at the dog before he inclined the paper toward the moonlight. “God blind me, she’s aboard the Silver Mermaid.”

Lachie Mor snatched the parchment and shook it. “But that’s not Vane’s ship.”

“Ye reckon? Who in this town has told us the truth?” Kennan started back toward the shore at a run. “Find MacNeil. Tell him all hands onboard at once. Lachie Mor—I want you on the first skiff. We sail within the hour.”

“What can I do to help?” asked Runner, taking the lead.

“What was the Silver Mermaid’s heading?” Kennan asked as they arrived at the beach, the sand slowing their progress.

“She headed due north, then tacked northeast once she cleared the rocks.”

The sound of the boatswain’s whistle pierced through the night air. Dear God, they couldn’t cast off fast enough.

* * *

Locked in a small chamber below the gun deck of the Silver Mermaid, Divana sat on the plank floor in darkness. Inside, there was nary a stalk of straw let alone a chair or anything to provide a modicum of comfort. The seas were rough, making the ship rock, her timbers creaking and groaning with her sway. The wind rushed beyond the single porthole, from which a blue ray of moonlight shone onto the floor in front of her feet. The pall of salt pork and pickling wafted from below, as did gruff voices and hideous laughter.

Though the air was heavy and hot, she clutched her fists beneath her chin to calm the chill thrumming through her blood. She was to be sold? To a slaver—the vilest criminals in all of Christendom. No! This couldn’t be happening.

This was far worse than being stranded on Hyskeir with nothing but her wits and her slingshot. And the measly slip of leather would be of no use at all—not when there wasn’t a stone to be found anywhere in the middle of the ocean.