“Watch your two o’clock!” bellowed Lachie Mor.

A brigand swung in from the rigging, and Kennan spun just in time to deflect the cutlass aimed at his neck. Rain stung his eyes. No time to stop, he thrust with his dirk, deflecting deathly jabs with his sword.

Vane’s pirates kept coming, leaping over the rail and swinging from ropes, dropping onto the deck, cutting men down with ruthless terror—as if Vane and his devils had descended from the black clouds overhead.

Kennan gripped his dirk tight in his fist while his sword hissed and struck their cutlasses—fighting four at once, then eight. Mor crashed backward through the rail, leaving Kennan to fend off the onslaught on his own. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.

His blood or another’s?

It mattered not. Nor were the rigors of his daily training of any consequence, not while fighting for his very breath. His arms burned and strained with the weight of the sword in his hand.

Backed against the bulkhead, Kennan fought like a madman—a stab to the left, a thrust with his dirk. He hopped to the side, blocking an attack aimed at his heart. On and on he continued, ignoring the searing burn as his muscles screamed for respite.

“Arrgh!” he cried, a cutlass slicing across his midriff. As hot blood oozed into the waistband of his kilt, he fought harder, honing his senses, deflecting every strike as it hurled toward him. He slashed his dirk across an attacker’s throat while skewering another on his blade. Kicking, he shoved the pirate away and drew back his sword. With the next clanging clash of iron, his weapon flew from his fist and clattered to the deck.

God on the cross, a behemoth of a man bore down upon him—two missing teeth and ugly as sin. Pressing his back against the timbers, Kennan sliced his dirk through the air. “Stay back, ye bloody Goliath!”

Six blades leveled at Kennan’s neck while his pulse beat a fierce rhythm at the base of his throat. Gasping for breath, he looked beyond the enemy as the giant stripped the dirk from his fingers. Not one of his crewmen still standing wielded a weapon. In less than an hour the fortune he’d fought so hard to win was forfeit to the vilest British pirate who sailed the seas.

“Your ship is lost, Cameron, and so is your precious cargo.”

Kennan had met Jackson Vane only once in his life, but there was no mistaking the sound of the man’s grating voice. He wore a black neckcloth, which some claimed hid a scar so deep that it had changed his voice forever.

Coming into view, the bastard tugged at the cloth now. His scowl was as grisly as his black-whiskered face. “Bind his wrists.”

There was no use struggling. Not with so many blades ready to cut Kennan to the quick. But as the hemp rope wrapped around and slashed into his wrists, he scanned the deck for survivors. The pirates had already gathered the stragglers. Neither Lachie Mor nor Mr. MacNeil were among them.