Petey rubbed his loins. “Coin is made round to go around. The merchants earn it, we take it—spend it on women, gambling, and drink. Once it’s gone, ’tis time to find another victim.”

Ye wretched, lawless scoundrel.

“Is that what happened with the plunder from Captain Cameron’s ship?” she asked.

The blackguard smacked the cage door, making it rattle. He drew a dagger and clanged it between the bars. “Shut your bloody gob, or I’ll cut out your flappin’ tongue.”

Divana turned her back, the walls closing in around her. This was the end. If she didn’t do something, she’d never see Kennan again. Such a notion was unthinkable. Captain Finnes would be sailing on the morrow or the day after. She had no more time. Making her decision, she tapped the rock with her toe. Come dark, she’d make her escape—and then she’d improvise. Now all she must do was bide her time.

But when the blast of cannons shook the ground, she gripped the bars and looked toward the sound. Her pulse raced. Her breath swelled in her chest as one thought consumed her mind. Kennan!

“What the—” said Petey. He hopped to his feet and gaped in the direction of the blast.

Moving like a cat, Divana tugged the slingshot from beneath her skirts and scooped up the rock. It took one forward lunge to slip her arm out the latticework and hurl the stone straight at the base of Petey’s skull. The brigand dropped to his knees and froze for a moment, near enough for Divana to reach the keys on his hip—right before he fell on his face.

Muskets cracked above the shouts of men while the cannons continued to boom. Whoever had come to do battle was an enemy of Jackson Vane and thus a friend of hers.

*  *  *

A fly landed on Kennan’s nose while he hid in the brush, waiting for his chance to attack. Blowing upward, he didn’t dare swat the annoying insect away. The mosquitoes and midges were sucking his blood like vampires as well, yet one errant twitch might draw the attention of the blackguards only paces away. Gulls screeched overhead while the hammer from a smithy shop clanged.

Laughter came from the center of the village, if a man could denote such a civilized name to this mishmash of run-down huts. Though he’d oft been called a pirate, Kennan had never considered himself low enough to be one. Not like these disgusting louts. They were lazy, rank barbarians without a scruple among them.

Kennan’s sweaty fingers slipped on the oiled steel of his musket. He scanned the positions of his men. All were ready. Even MacNeil’s party had moved into place, each one of them dying to scratch the welts forming on any exposed skin.

Where the hell are you, Lachie Mor?