Perhaps ’tis the only decent idea the pirate has ever conceived.

Jackson Vane glared down on them from the raised dais of the helm. “It appears Captain Finnes has been deterred by the storm. Lock her in the pen,” he boomed, shifting his gaze across the deck. “Guard the wench around the clock. If any man dares touch her, he’ll be shot.”

Divana didn’t know what revolted her more—being accosted by one of these rank brutes or watching Vane shoot one in cold blood.

“Hasten your step,” growled Petey. “I have a thirst.”

By all the ale the man had consumed over the past few days, Divana couldn’t see why he’d be thirsty. More likely, he just wanted his guard duty to be over with.

The seas had calmed to a gentle roll. The only sign of the ravages from the storm were the piles of seaweed and debris lining the beach. Gulls squawked overhead as they dove and scavenged for food among the rubbish.

Once seated in the skiff, Divana craned her neck, straining around the oarsmen to see the shore. Beyond the turquoise bay and the white sand, small timber and reed dwellings peppered the landscape, each separated by green brush. The isle appeared to be narrow, cutting through the middle of the sea in a wide arc. It wouldn’t be easy to spot from a distance because it was flat like a skerry with nary a hill of substance in sight.

A group of women flanked by a few musket-bearing men hastened from the settlement, cheering and waving their arms and weapons, not as if a vile pirate ship had anchored offshore, but…

Divana squeezed her hands, making the bindings bite into her flesh. Of course they were excited. She’d read the manifest. The people on the shore were part of Jacksons’s Hell and, from what she’d discovered, every last one of them expected riches. Vane had plenty. He’d left her in his cabin for hours before he returned and sent her back to her prison cell. But she’d not only read the manifest of the Silver Mermaid, she’d memorized all the places where Vane kept his plunder and more. As she’d searched the trunks in his cabin, she happened upon a false bottom, finding the map of Jackson’s Hell and the tiny string of isles curving northeast, each marked with the location of ships and treasure. She’d taken a slip of parchment and copied it, though in the storm, her writing was blotchy at best.

Divana had folded her parchment and hidden it in her bodice—right before Jackson Vane pushed through the door and ordered the guard to take her away.

After they disembarked and waded through the surf to the beach, Petey dragged her to the rear of the village and locked her in a latticework pen covered by a roof of reeds. She grabbed the rungs and shook the rusty cage. “What’s the point of keeping me behind bars when there’s no place to run?”