“Oy, Ricky, bring me one of them ales,” bellowed Petey just beyond the door.

Licking her parched lips, Divana nearly hollered for Ricky to bring her a pint as well. How long had it been since she last ate or drank? This morning when she’d broken her fast? Would they feed her on this journey, or would she die of thirst locked in this miserable chamber?

“Ye’re a good hand,” said Petey. “Ah, ’tis nectar of the gods for a parched throat.”

“Just as long as ye’ll do the same for me when my turn comes round.”

“Ye know I will.”

The man who must be Ricky snorted. “I’ll remember ye offered.”

“Do ye reckon the captain will give us our share of the plunder once we arrive in Jackson’s Hell?” asked the guard.

Divana turned her ear to the conversation. Is that where they were taking her? Jackson’s Hell? Vane’s hidden island.

“If he doesn’t, ’e’ll have a mutiny on his ’ands.”

“I reckon ye’re not wrong.” Petey’s sinister chuckle rumbled through the timbers. “What do ye aim to do with your share?”

“Find me a woman—one with a big, round backside.”

The guard belched. “Too right, and udders large enough to bury my face in.”

“What about the bit o’ muslin right ’ere?” asked Ricky. “She mightn’t be as buxom as I like, but a fellow could lose ’imself in all that red hair. Why not let me slip inside for a poke?”

“Not unless ye want to face Vane’s cutlass. ’E said the wench was ’is, the bastard.”

Hissing through clenched teeth, Divana pushed her back flush against the wall. She swore on the graves of her parents that if any vile brigand touched her, she’d bite a chunk of flesh out of his face. But no matter how much she vowed to fight, the hollowness stretching in her chest refused to stop. She rocked in place, trying not to cry.

“Do ye reckon Cameron will come after ’er?” asked Ricky.

“’E’s set to inherit, is ’e not?”

“That’s what Dubois said—but that French bastard speaks out of both sides of his mouth.”

“Then what would Cameron want with a lass who dresses like a cabin boy and talks like she comes from the gutter?”

“Dunno, mayhap she’s a tigress between the linens.”

“Mayhap she’s the daughter of a duke. Why else would she be dressed like a lad?”

“Do ye reckon she’s feignin’ an accent?”

Divana bit her lip to keep herself from shouting the truth. What if they thought she was highborn? Would she still be sold? Aye, most likely. They surely wouldn’t return her to the Lady Heather and apologize.

“One thing’s for certain,” said Petey. “Cameron will chase after the wench if she is ’ighborn.”

“I’ll wager Vane is bankin' on it. Then we’ll flank him and blast his brig out of the sea when he crosses through the narrows.”

No!

Divana pushed to her feet and paced. Saint Columba, Kennan mustn’t come for her now. He’d be sailing straight into a trap. Destroyed by Jackson Vane once again. The entire crew would be lost—Kennan, Runner, Lachie Mor…Bending forward, she nearly heaved.