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S pence nodded to his men after a moment, then led the way by uncocking his pistol and tucking it back into his belt. He kept a wary eye on the Cimaroon, who remained as still as a statue above them, his wickedly polished blades flaring in the sunlight.

A second man had emerged from the same shadowy hatchway that had concealed his leader.

He was not as tall nor nearly as brawny in build, though it could not be said by an honest eye that he suffered for the lack.

His hair was light brown, tarnished gold by exposure to the sea and sun.

His face was as lean and well defined as the rest of his tautly honed frame; his smile was sheepishly apologetic as he pointed hesitantly to one of the long wooden cylinders slung over Spit McCutcheon’s shoulder.

“That would not happen to be fresh water, would it, sir? Most of us have not had the pleasure of licking anything but dew for the past two weeks.”

“Aye, it would be that, lad,” Spit said, unslinging his pipe and ordering the others to do likewise.

“We’ve plenty more where this comes from, startin’ with a full cask in the jolly boat.

We’d no idea what we’d find when we come across, ye see.

By the look of it, ye’ve had a rough time.

Two weeks ye’ve been adrift, did ye say? ”

“As close as I can reckon,” said the stranger, running a dry tongue across drier lips as he watched the pipes being distributed among the men. “And rough? It has been hell, sir.”

Beau took the two water pipes she carried and handed one to a grateful sailor.

The second, she held until she sliced away the wax seal with her dagger, then put it into the blond man’s shaking hands.

His eyes, she noted, were the color of jade, narrowed against the painful glare of sunlight.

They bore dark, purplish circles of fatigue beneath and his mouth, like that of his leader, looked dry and cracked from thirst.

He was the only other one, aside from the Cimaroon, not dressed in the long breeches and rough canvas shirts of the common tars.

His shirt, beneath the heavy soiling, was made of fine linen, his hose were woven, not sewn, from unseamed wool.

His hands, though strongly shaped, had not worked a lifetime on ratlines or canvas sheets, and the boots he wore were cut in the Spanish style, molded snug to the calf with a folded leather cuff.

Moreover, he had the distinct walk of a landlubber, not the easy, rolling stride of a man accustomed to holding his balance in stormy seas.

Not like the other one, the dark-haired one.

He was every inch the seafaring villain, from the square, jutting jaw, to the well-developed arms and upper torso that suggested his preferred place in battle would be feeding thirty-pound iron balls into the snouts of the bronze monsters that crouched along either side of the gundeck.

His face was all planes and angles, dominated by a straight nose and a firm, uncompromising mouth.

It was not a face that betrayed emotion too readily or parted with trust too often.

Pale, humorless, cold, his eyes had not stopped moving, assessing each man in Spence’s group, starting with the burly captain himself and ending with the prune-like visage of Spit McCutcheon.

None appeared to have raised any hackles, yet he had not set aside his muskets.

He lowered one, to avail himself of a long, deep swallow of water, but he kept the second tucked under his arm, his forefinger resting a twitch away from the trigger.

He murmured something to the tawny-haired fellow, who nodded and grinned at Spence with the ease and charm of a courtier.

“Your ship, Captain Spence. She looks to be sound and steady. A welcome sight, you may believe.”

Spence swelled his chest. “Aye, she’s a sound beauty, all right. Eight months we’ve been at sea an’ only hauled over once for a scrapin’.”

“You met with no trouble from the Spaniards?”

“We looked for none. As I said, we’re honest merchants goin’ about honest business. Honest enough to share our names as well as our water,” he added, glancing pointedly at the shadowy figure against the bulkhead.

“You are absolutely right, Captain Spence,” said the blonde, hastily stepping forward into the sunlight again.

“We have been unconscionably rude.” He thrust out his hand.

“My name is Pitt. Geoffrey Pitt. Honored to make your acquaintance. And you truly do have to forgive Captain Dante his manners, not that he ever had any great excess to boast in the first place.”

“Dante?” Spence’s fiery eyebrows speared together over the bridge of his nose. “Not … Simon Dante?”

Geoffrey Pitt attempted to look surprised. “You have heard the name before?”

“Heard the name?” Spit McCutcheon echoed the question with a slackened jaw.

“Christ Jesus on a stick … is there a warm-blooded man on either side o’ the Ocean Sea who has not heard the name o’ Simon Dante?

As a fact, where we just come from down in the Caribbee, we were told half the bloody Spanish fleet was out scourin’ the Indies for him—that’s why we were able to slip in an’ out again without drawin’ too much notice. ”

“Well, as you can see,” Pitt acknowledged with a little too much strain behind his smile, “they found us.”

Spence turned on the stump of his wooden heel, his eyes widened out of their creases as he surveyed the wreckage strewn about them. “Then this—this is the Virago?”

He did not attempt to keep the awe out of his voice.

Nor should he if this was, indeed, the infamous privateering vessel that had—if the reports they heard were to be believed—sailed right into the harbor at Veracruz, only the most heavily fortified stronghold in the Spanish Main, and looted hundreds of thousands of ducats’ worth of King Philip’s gold right out of the royal treasure house.

A second spin had Spence staring up the topmast at the ragged flags that still hung limp against a windless sky.

“It wasn’t a stag or a goat, ye block-brain,” he hissed at McCutcheon. “‘Twas a wolfhound. A crimson wolfhound an’ a blue fleur-de-lis on a black field: the arms o’ Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville.”

Even Beau was markedly impressed as she stared, along with the other members of their boarding party, at the saturnine features of Dante de Tourville.

The Spanish called him pirata lobo —the pirate wolf—because of his cunning and prowess at stalking and cutting the richest ships out of the plate fleet.

The English called him a rake and a hero, often whispering his name louder than those who sailed in the company of the vaunted sea hawks Sir Francis Drake, John Hawkyns, and Martin Frobisher.

It was also rumored that while the Queen called him “that bloody Frenchman” in public, in the privacy of her chambers she called him something very different indeed.

A genuine titled nobleman, he was French by birth, half English by blood, and reputed to be all larceny by nature.

Which was possibly why Beau felt some vague uneasiness at the way he continued to hang back in the shadows.

Certainly, if he had been hunted and attacked by the Spanish, he had every right to be cautious, even wary of strangers boarding his ship.

But once those strangers had identified themselves as allies, should he not have regarded them with more friendship than animosity?

After all, his ship was sinking. The horizon, now that the morning fog had completely burned away, was clear in all directions, meaning the Egret was their only means of salvation unless they all intended to go down with their ship.

As if on cue, the Virago gave a deep-bellied groan and took a noticeable swoop to starboard. Something in her holds must have given way, for there was the sound of cracking timbers and water rushing through a breach in the hull, and she took a moment to steady herself as her weight settled again.

“We took the men off the pumps,” Pitt explained, looking worriedly toward the bulkhead. “We were not entirely sure what we would be facing when you rowed over. Perhaps we should put them back?”

A nod from Dante sent a dozen men scrambling below and brought Spence’s fiery red eyebrows crushing together again.

“Ye can’t be thinkin’ ye can keep her afloat much longer? The first ripe gust o’ wind will push her over.”

“Hopefully, we can buy a little time,” Pitt said, then abruptly changed the subject. “Your guns, Captain Spence. They appear to be eighteen pounders. ”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “Culverins. The rest are fivers— sakers an’ minions.”

“An odd question to ask when your ship is sinking,” Beau murmured out of the side of her mouth. McCutcheon, to whom the comment was directed, only frowned and whished her to silence.

“And your holds—full or empty?” Pitt forestalled the objection to such a prying question by raising his hand. “I ask only in order to determine if your ship can bear any more weight. Several tons’ worth, to be exact.”

“Several tons?” Spence’s startled gaze went from Pitt to Dante. “So it wasn’t just a tall tale. Ye really did it? Ye really raided the treasure depot at Veracruz?”

“Aye, we did it,” said the Comte de Tourville, emerging into the harsher light for the first time.

His hair gleamed blue-black under the sun and there were fat slicks of moisture streaking his temples and throat, sure signs he was suffering from more than just a parched throat and an empty belly.

The cause of his discomfort became clearer each time he put his weight on his left leg.

His hose, from the knee down, was split, the calf beneath was wrapped in filthy strips of bandaging.

And the reason he had not set the second musket aside was because he used it for a crutch. “Have you a winch and cables on board?”