God on the cross, he prayed the report was wrong. “Runner saw Vane’s pennant, did you say?”

“Aye.” Wheezing, the old quartermaster, Lachie Mor, tried to keep pace, tottering on bowed legs. “’Twas a dread black flag complete with Satan’s dancing death.”

A dank mist engulfed them as they clambered up the steps to the helm. “How the devil can anyone see a damned thing in this?” Kennan wiped the sleep from his eyes. Accursed pirates. It was typical of a varlet like Jackson Vane to mount a dawn attack; navigating in this soup was impossible for the best of sailors.

The boatswain, Mr. MacNeil, met them at the ship’s wheel. “The lad spent the entire night in the crow’s nest. Said he saw the flag above the fog as it rolled in just afore sunrise.”

By the eerie haze in the east, the sun was making a paltry attempt of showing itself. “Where is the cabin boy now?”

“Here, sir.” Runner’s voice came from across the deck, though the outline of his form was barely discernable.

Kennan beckoned the lad forward as lightning flashed, followed by a thunderous clap. And with it a downpour released its fury. “Are you certain it was Vane’s flag?” he asked, ignoring the rain. “Did you have a clear view, or were you waking from a wee nap?”

The lad stood square and looked him in the eye. “I was fully awake. I ken what I saw.”

“How far out?” asked Lachie Mor.

“Hard to say. The Jolly Roger was like a phantom waving above the mist without a ship.” At the age of sixteen, Runner had proven himself an able seaman and wasn’t one to tell tall tales.

Kennan turned to MacNeil. “Man the cannons at once.”

“I’ve already given the order, sir.”

“Damn them to Hades,” growled Lachie Mor. “Vane has a gargantuan pair of cods if he aims to attack this close to Britain.”

Mr. MacNeil gripped the wheel, his knife-scarred face white as bed linens. “Mayhap, but if he does, the queen’s navy will not be alerted until our bones are at the bottom of the sea.”

“Wheesht. You’re talking as if we’re already doomed.” As the words slipped through Kennan’s lips, the hairs on his nape pricked. And when he peered ahead, the tendrils of breath billowing from his nose turned to ice along with the air in his lungs. With the rain, the fog had lifted a bit, and he almost wished it hadn’t. Dead ahead, not one but three schooners raced toward them at full tilt—each one flying a black flag with skull and bones.

“Tack hard to port!” Kennan bellowed, opening his spyglass. He twisted the copper casing to sharpen the image, but the mist and rain were still too thick to discern much detail. Hell, he needed nothing more—by the speed and bent of the approaching armada, Vane intended to attack. Damnation! How could he know what lay beneath the false bottom of the hold? And why the devil did Vane wait if he intended to plunder? Why now when the Highland Reel was but a day’s sailing from home?