A weight the size of an anchor swelled in his gut. He should have prevented this—should have been more vigilant. Damnation, he’d been asleep in his cabin while the bastard lay in wait. He should have sailed a different route—gone up the eastern shore of Scotland and down through the western isles. Doing so would have added a sennight or more to the voyage, but that would have been little price to pay.

If only he had the choice now.

“Bring this heap of worthless rot under way, men!” shouted Vane. “Set a course for hell, where no Jack Tar will find us.”

A pirate struck Kennan in the back with the butt of his musket. “Move your arse.”

The sgian dubh and pouch of coins Kennan always wore strapped to the inside of his thigh rubbed as he stumbled forward, straight into the face of Satan. “You’ve taken my ship, now ’tis your duty to send off the survivors in a skiff,” he spat at Vane, ice in his voice.

A twisted sneer split the pirate’s black whiskers. “Aye, we’ll be casting them off. But they’ll need to be strong swimmers. Drag them to the plank!”

The behemoth approached with a noose. Kennan elbowed the man on his right and lurched forward, striking Goliath’s chest with his forehead. But his efforts proved futile as two brigands restrained his arms while the big man slipped the rope over Kennan’s head. “I’ll enjoy watching ye swing.”

“Move your arse,” growled a vile cur, clubbing Kennan in the back with the hilt of his cutlass.

As the brigand dragged him toward midship, Kennan wrapped his fingers around the noose and tugged it away from his windpipe. Everything hurt. The cut across his stomach stung and throbbed. His muscles burned, and all for naught. He’d lost his bloody ship. Worse—his men either were dead or would soon be swimming for their lives in the icy sea.

The pirates drew out their murderous crime, humiliating every prisoner with taunts, pilfering jewelry, clan pins, and any clothing worth a farthing from their bodies. Some men were completely nude as the pirates forced them onto the plank by point of bayonet. The most heartrending part? Every condemned soul looked Kennan in the eye with haunting stares of disbelief, silently pleading for help.

Cuthbert, the loyal first mate, was the last of the crew from the Highland Reel to suffer humiliation. Bless him, he didn’t tarry and allow the bastards to plunder his effects. He took a running leap over the side to the roars of the crowd. “I’ll meet the lot of ye in hellllll!”

After the dunking splash came from Cuthbert’s body hitting the surf, Jackson Vane cracked a switch against his palm, his grin growing more menacing as he sauntered toward Kennan. “Now ’tis your turn, O captain of the briny deep.”

“You’re a vile excuse for a man,” Kennan seethed, baring his teeth. “There is no reason you could not have spared them—sent them off in a damned skiff for God’s sake.”