Curses to Hades. One more bloody day and they would have sailed into Loch Eil, each sailor wealthier than he’d ever dreamed. A shiver snaked up Kennan’s spine. Had one of his crew deceived him? Or was something even more sinister afoot?

When he turned, the schooners had formed their trap. Three to one. He’d never admit it to a soul, but the odds of surviving this day were nil. “Fire at will!” he roared. Thrusting his sword above his head, he ran back to the helm, his pistols and dirk straining on his belt. He sheathed the sword and grabbed his musket from Lachie Mor’s hands. “To arms!”

The entire ship shuddered as the cannons below decks let lose their arsenal. The pirate ships fired shots across bow and stern, but not a missile hit the Highland Reel. And Kennan knew why. The treasure aboard was enough to tempt any pirate on the high seas. They hadn’t dallied when they left Nassau, but someone had beat his ship to British waters—someone fast and shrewd enough to ruin him. Unless that someone had sailed ahead?

Who?

Mistress Evans?

Unlikely.

Not only had the woman supplied his ship, the widow had been more than accommodating in Nassau—very accommodating indeed.

I pledge my oath, if I survive this day, only God will be able to save the Judas who betrayed me.

As Kennan charged his weapon, crewmen with their muskets kneeled behind the hull. He hardly noticed the rain drenching his clothes as he took aim, glad the mist no longer impeded his view. At broadside, the enemy ships heaved to. And Lord save the poor bastard looking straight at his sights.

“Muskets, fire!” His finger closed around the trigger, making the gun explode with a deafening blast. The stench of sulfur burned his nostrils as smoke billowed from the barrel, but not before the pirate catapulted backward with the impact of the lead ball hitting him square between the eyes.

Pandemonium reigned with volleys of musket and cannon fire. One of the schooners listed in the water from a hit to her hull, but the battle had only begun.

With a roar, the brigands on two sides levered planks into place. Kennan drew his flintlock pistol and fired, hitting his mark. Meanwhile, his men shoved the boards to the water, only as soon as one crashed to the sea, another followed.

He glanced at the quartermaster. “Are you ready for the fight of your life?”

“Ready to send them to the icy depths, sir.” As Lachie Mor spoke, pirates swung onto the ship from the rigging above while others leaped from the blasted planks. The first to cross were welcomed with shots of lead to their bellies, but within two blinks of an eye, the top deck of Kennan’s beloved barque swarmed with fighting men. The clashing of swords replaced the boom of gunfire, but the screams of the fallen carried above it all.

Kennan and his most trusted man, Lachie Mor, stood side by side, protecting the helm. Each pirate who dared to ascend the stairs met with a thrust of a Highland great sword.