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Luke Jenkins strides around the deck of the Christabel, feeling her easy roll and sway beneath his boots. He knows all this old girl’s creaks and groans and is in tune with her every list and turn.

He's proud to be her captain. She's a hard mistress, but if he treats her right, she does the same for him. Today, she's happy, her sails unfurled and running smoothly in the light wind.

At thirty-two, he's a man in his prime. His pale Welsh skin glows gold, burnished by the sun, and his thick dark hair hangs in oil-slicked curls around his neck.

He knows he looks good as he struts around his ship in a pair of tight black britches, knee-high leather boots that caress his fine legs, a white shirt open to the chest, and a scarlet waistcoat.

In his left ear is a thick gold ring, and he wears a sharp cutlass slung through his black leather belt.

His men scuttle around, busy with their duties, as he expects. He runs a tight ship but fair. If his men work hard and are loyal, they’re richly rewarded with the spoils from successful raids on Spanish galleons.

If they’re lazy or dishonest, they can expect the weight of his whip on their backs. And if they double-cross him, he’ll send them down the gangplank at the point of his cutlass without a second thought.

The sunbeams glitter on the waves like diamonds cut from a Spaniard's purse, a gentle breeze blows, and the ocean is blue and calm beneath the hot Caribbean sun. Luke smiles, feeling content.

A sudden shout goes up from little Nicky Kneebone, on watch in the crow's nest. Luke looks up to see him pointing at something in the water, starboard side.

Frowning, Luke makes his way to the prow. He isn't expecting to encounter anything this far out at sea. He’s deliberately staying away from the usual shipping lanes, laying low following their successful raid on the Santa Ana the week before.

A fine galleon, the Santa Ana , with good pickings, and Luke ensured she was picked clean. He left her captain tied up and fuming in his cabin while he ransacked her, stealing all her treasure. His men drank rum enough to drown in for days after.

"What is it?" Luke demands, pushing through the little throng of rogues, runaways, and reprobates he’s proud to call his crew.

They’re pointing at a white speck in the sea, which is drifting closer and closer...

"It's a man!" Nicky cries. "Moving too! Still alive!"

"Impossible!" Luke says flatly. They’re hundreds of miles from land and any other ships. Finding a man alive in the water out here can't be. Yet, as they draw near, the white speck seems to wave at them.

Closer still, and it's obvious it's a man. He's wearing a white shirt that billows around him like a cloud as his arms move feebly.

"Reel him in," Luke says grimly. What manner of witchcraft is this? A man can't survive for long in the open water – he'll drown, burn up, or be devoured by sharks.

One of his bosuns, Jake, who can swim like a fish, dives into the water with a rope tied around his waist, knotted to form a lasso. He throws it around the man and shouts back at the ship to pull him in.

"Why are we bothering with him, Captain?" demands Marc, his quartermaster. "He'll be dead for sure. We'll just have to throw him back again."

"Do you have someplace better to be?" Luke grins. "He might have coin in his pockets or gold in his teeth. If he's of good birth, he might reward us – or at the very least, we can ransom him back to his family. It's worth taking a look at him."

Marc gives a grudging grunt of agreement, and together they watch as the stranger is reeled in and hauled up the side of the Christabel.

Their catch lands with a thump on the deck. He lies on his front, stretched out in the sun, and the crew gathers around to see what treasure the sea has gifted them.

The sodden man isn't moving, but the wind gently ruffles his shirt and hair, lifting them and making him seem alive. Nobody speaks. Jake climbs back onboard and scrambles over to stare at the man like the rest of them.

"He must be dead." Marc scowls. "'Tis not possible to survive in the sea for long. And where did he come from? There are no ships nearby."

Luke thinks he's probably right, but he presses the tip of his boot to the man's body to be sure. The stranger’s hand moves, surprising Luke's men, who all take a hasty step back.

Is he a ghost? A merman? A witch?

Luke steps forward, his heartbeat quickening. Taking firm hold of the stranger’s shoulder, he flips him onto his back. This knocks some air into his lungs, for he barks out a cough, brings up a mouthful of seawater, then lies back weakly, opening his eyes.

Luke's crew gasps again, and so does Luke, but for a different reason…

The man lying like a stranded fish on the Christabel's deck has the face of an angel. He’s barely more than a lad, perhaps only twenty, and his skin is as pale as porcelain, his hair dark and wavy, slicked back from his face in wet curls.

And then there’s his lips! So full and fine, they could be chiselled from marble.

As for his eyes… Luke can barely tear his gaze away from them, for they’re as blue as the ocean and just as beautiful. Maybe it's a trick of the sun, but they seem to glow with an inner light, gleaming like moonlight on the surf. A man could drown in such eyes.

The lad's face is so comely that for a moment, Luke wonders if he is indeed an angel, delivered up by the sea for some divine purpose. He dismisses that thought as superstitious folly, more worthy of his men than himself.

The lad is clad only in rough woollen britches and a white shirt – his feet are bare, and he wears no gold rings or other signs of wealth. A black leather bag is wrapped around his body, tied so tightly that it must surely be important.

Marc wrenches the bag off the boy eagerly and turns it upside down. Luke isn't sure what his men expect – maybe a great tumbling of gold coins – but if so, they're disappointed. All that falls onto the deck are several little jars with tightly screwed-on lids.

Marc picks one up and opens it, holding it away from his body for fear of catching some ill humour. Inside, is so foul-smelling an unguent that Marc throws it away in disgust.

None of the other jars hold anything more promising – all smell of herbs; some sweet, some sour, but there’s no gold. It's a huge disappointment.

Luke gathers the jars and throws them back into the leather bag, then turns his attention to the stranger.

He’s still lying there, taking great, gasping gulps of air like a newborn. Luke leans over him curiously, and the lad turns his head and looks straight at him, then raises a wavering hand to touch his face, and Luke feels a shock run through his veins like the kiss of lightning in a storm.

"Thank you," the lad whispers, then passes out.

"His clothes are plain, and he wears no gold. He's clearly no use for ransom. I say we throw him back into the brine," One-eyed Jim declares.

"How d'you think I'd find enough men to crew this ship if I threw away every passing chance of labour?" Luke chides. "He can stay here and work his passage - if he survives the night."

"Where shall we put him, Captain?" Jake asks.

"I'll take him to my cabin; I’m in need of a new cabin boy,” Luke replies, grinning at his men.

They all know he has an eye for a pretty lad, and he’s been short of a cabin boy since young Jamie Bellwether jumped ship to serve liquor at The Spaniard's Beard in Port Royal.

Luke gathers the lad in his arms and lifts him effortlessly into the air. The boy is no light weight, but Luke is a strong man, his muscles made firm by years of hard work.

He carries the lad across the deck and down the wooden steps, worn smooth by constant use, then along the walkway to his cabin. Kicking open the door, he crosses the room and places his salvaged treasure on his bed. Then he throws a blanket over him and wraps him up tight to warm his cold skin.

The lad opens his eyes, whispering something.

"You're safe here and will warm up soon enough," Luke assures him, pouring a tot of rum into a glass. Holding it to the stranger’s lips, he watches him sip. Colour slowly returns to his cheeks, and he lies back on the bed, smiling weakly.

"Here." Luke takes a chunk of cheese and some hard tack from his table. "Eat," he orders.

It stirs some sleeping dragon in his belly that the lad obeys him immediately, without a word. When he’s done, the boy glances around the room.

"Looking for this?" Luke holds up the black leather bag. "I'll keep it safe for now." The bag’s contents might look worthless to him, but perhaps they hold value for the stranger. "Now rest; I'll be back later."

Running a rough hand through the lad's wet hair, he smiles down at him. It‘s impossible not to be charmed by such a beautiful face. Maybe he’s a witch sent to ensnare him, like the sirens of old. Luke knows no woman can make him lose his mind and steer him adrift, but a lad like this...?

The beautiful creature again obeys him. Closing his eyes, he sinks back on the bed, fast asleep.

Luke leaves the cabin, closing the door softly so as not to wake him.

He shakes his head at himself, tiptoeing around his own ship – many a pirate captain would take what they want from such a beautiful jewel, then and there, no matter if the lad is half-dead and regardless of his wishes. Luke is not such a man.

His crew are uneasy when he returns to the deck.

"Where did he come from, Captain?" Nicky Kneebone asks. He’s just a wee lad, barely ten years old, but still older than Luke was when he first ran away to sea. "There are no ships nearby, and we're nowhere near land."

"Maybe some other ship's captain, less smitten by that pretty face, made him walk the plank, and that's how he came to be floating in the water," One-eyed Jim mutters dourly. "In which case, I say we throw him back in!"