Page 1

I t was an easy decision to say no to the woman and her goat. Sharkhead Chow barked the order at de la Cruz and turned away without even taking a full look at her.

She was a woman, which meant she had no place on the Ghost. Even Captain Boukman, the best pirate to be found on the seven seas, was a threat to her.

Chow had seen for himself how Captain Boukman made use of a woman whenever one was at hand. Sure, the women walked away a little richer and without making complaint—but that was because he only remained with any one of them for a few days at a time.

Chow did not want to imagine what Boukman would do if this woman remained on the ship with him for months on end.

“But Sharkhead,” old Julio de la Cruz countered, instead of directing the woman and goat back into their dinghy. “Fresh milk. Maybe even cheese. Can’t you taste it right now? Even the doldrums would be sweet if we had a goat.”

“Then buy the goat. No women on the ship.”

“Don’t remember ever voting on that. Seems to me only the goat is in your purview of supplies we do or do not need.”

Chow turned to face the navigator. Julio de la Cruz was at least ten years his senior and had been with Boukman since before the captain had seized the Ghost and turned it into the best pirate ship in the Atlantic.

That didn’t count for much in a pirate crew, though.

If they all voted to prevent the woman from joining, then that was the decision.

But Chow didn’t much care to go through the hassle of a crew vote, especially not in the languid afternoon heat of the lagoon off Fortune Island.

“You can’t purchase the goat without me,” the woman said, interrupting Chow’s staring contest with the grizzled old navigator.

Her voice was smooth, like a fish too slippery to hold.

Her English was native, her accent wide from the American north.

“You won’t be purchasing the goat at all, in fact.

Either you invite me to join the crew and the goat comes with me, or we’ll both be returning to shore. ”

Chow took a proper look at her at last. Tall like a pine tree. Black hair tied under her bonnet in a braid as thick as a rope. Dark eyes that, despite her proud statement, remained cast down to signal submission. A complexion that was neither pale nor brown.

She could be a runaway slave. She could be a white woman down on her luck. She could even be some Mediterranean princess hidden under the shabbiness of a servile identity.

She was pretty, if not beautiful, and that was all Captain Boukman would need to see to take her for his pleasures.

Chow knew he should chase her off the ship. Yet she intrigued him, or maybe he, too, was partial to a pretty face. “Why do you want to join a pirate crew? Don’t you know what pirates do?”

“I know what Pirate Boukman does,” she replied, her chin lifting even as her eyes remained fixed respectfully on the floor. “Chases after slave ships. Maroons their crews and makes their captains walk the plank. Plunders the warehouses on the African coast and sets fire to the longboats.”

Chow couldn’t—wouldn’t—deny those stories.

At least Boukman’s reputation was still intact in this tropical spit of land, a proper legend for his heroics, not for these last few cursed months.

“Aye. And to settle our balances, we battle other pirates for gold or attack innocent merchant ships to frighten them into giving us their cotton and sugar and tobacco.”

“Merchant ships are not innocent. Not when they are trading cotton or sugar or tobacco.”

At last, her eyes lifted to meet his. Whether it was that look—daring and fierce—or her words, Chow felt as if he had been shaken awake for the first time in days.

Could she possibly know he was from Northfield Hall? Could she be from Northfield Hall herself?

He didn’t like to waste time thinking about it. He growled, “In between which, we drink rum all day and take our pleasures from whatever woman is closest to us. Which, if you joined, would be you, all day, every day.”

This time, he was the one to look down, almost as soon as he started the threat. He couldn’t say it directly to a woman’s face, not even in the interest of protecting her. He stared at the deck, which shone in the sunlight from having just been swabbed that morning.

“I can see to myself, thank you.” Beside her, the goat bleated, and she added, “With the assistance of Mrs. Adams.”

“That’s settled, then.” De la Cruz clapped his hands together. “Where shall she hang her hammock, Sharkhead?”

He could, at least, face de la Cruz. Chow glared at him, hating the smug gleam in the navigator’s eyes. “Why couldn’t you buy a goat without its keeper attached?”

“Didn’t you hear the lady? We’re not buying the goat. It is gratis .”

Chow opened his mouth with further objections, which lined themselves up in a row: The cost of a new crew member was far higher than any price de la Cruz could have paid for a goat. This woman, whoever she was, clearly did not qualify as a lady—a distinction Chow resented himself for even thinking.

But most of all, despite her confidence, the Ghost was no place for any pretty woman to survive.

“We’re not as fearsome as Sharkhead makes it sound,” de la Cruz assured her. “No one will touch you unless you want them to. Sharkhead is only jealous that ladies always do want Captain Boukman to touch them.”

She smiled, a little twitch of her lips that was as practiced as it was coy. Her voice got even more slippery as she cast a teasing glance across Chow’s body. “Perhaps, if you play your cards right, I shall want you to touch me, Sharkhead.”

He wanted to deny that the idea stirred his body. Bodies, unfortunately, would not be denied. Chow reached forward and took the goat’s lead rope. “When you regret this day, don’t come crying to me.”

That he pulled the goat too roughly down to the lower decks was only one more sin among many for which Chow was quite sure he could never atone.

B uoyed by relief, Rebecca followed the man called Sharkhead below to a hot, stuffy deck lit only by open portholes. The crew turned to watch as they passed, and she felt the curious, hungry eyes of dozens of men raking down her body.

It didn’t worry her. She was pretty, yes, and a woman, and these were pirates who craved physical pleasure they didn’t get for months on end.

But pirates had their own sense of honor—especially on the infamous Captain Boukman’s ship—and Rebecca was now part of their crew.

She would serve them goat’s milk and scrub the deck on her knees beside them and within a matter of days, they would know her as one of them, same as all the households Rebecca had ever worked in.

In the meantime, she sensed that this man called Sharkhead would protect her, even if he resented it.

Rebecca had observed him as he argued with de la Cruz about her presence. He wasn’t what she expected of a pirate, firstly because he spoke perfect King’s English while looking like a Chinaman. Then, when he addressed her, he was frank without being cruel.

He seemed honest, and even on the Ghost , Rebecca hadn’t expected to find that among pirates.

He led her to the back of the ship, where a wire cage held three hens and a low wooden wall penned in a pig. “Your goat will remain here.” He tied Mrs. Adams’s lead to a hook.

“I’ll need to take her above a few times a day if you want her to keep producing milk.”

In truth, Rebecca didn’t know too much about the husbandry of a goat.

She had spent most of her life in city households, where milk was purchased each morning from a dairy.

But she had been with Mrs. Adams for three weeks now, ever since the Primrose wrecked off the northern shore of Fortune Island.

Mrs. Adams had been at her side when she crept away from the other ragged survivors after receiving too many leers.

Mrs. Adams had wandered the outskirts of Albert Town with Rebecca as she looked for a reputable place to stay.

And when in the span of one day Rebecca had been mistaken for a slave and then for a prostitute, Mrs. Adams had lunged forward both times to attack the people threatening to steal Rebecca away.

Now that they had found safety on the Ghost , Rebecca intended to do right by her friend. It only seemed natural that an animal would want daylight and fresh air.

Sharkhead gave her a look, but it was too dark for Rebecca to see much of it. “We’ve got hay to feed her here. I’ll have to lay in some more before we sail. I wasn’t counting on a goat.”

“When do we sail?”

She didn’t think the question would rankle. Yet Sharkhead stiffened, and he replied curtly, “When the captain says so.”

Rebecca bristled, as was her nature when anyone got so short with her. She wasn’t poking around to be troublesome. She had a right to ask questions, same as anyone else.

She schooled herself against reacting. Now was the time to acclimate herself, not to ruffle feathers.

“Do you know much about sailing?” Sharkhead asked her. She felt his eyes on her again, but still, the shadows cloaked his face.

Rebecca thought about exaggerating. At age fourteen, she had said a false yes when the head cook at Placid Manor asked if she knew how to make a roux, and that had worked out just fine.

But Cook had been a friendly old woman with a soft spot for a motherless child. Sharkhead already didn’t want Rebecca on the ship. She admitted simply, “No.”

“Every man has a part,” Sharkhead said. Then, he amended, “Every body has a part. You’ll start by learning the knots.”

He spoke roughly, as if each word cost him a penny, yet a layer of kindness softened everything he said.

Rebecca couldn’t quite figure out where the kindness came from—it wasn’t in his expression, which she couldn’t see, nor was it in his body language, since he stood stiff as a board.

Still, it was as if he merely acted the part of a mean old pirate.

“I learn quickly,” Rebecca replied.

“Let’s hope so.” He preceded her back to the ladder that led above deck. When he stepped into a shaft of sunlight, Rebecca was shocked to discover the hint of a smile on his lips. “Otherwise, you’ll walk the plank.”

She followed him up without finding a reply. She was accustomed to men who wanted to fuck her, men who wanted to wield their authority over her, and men who only wanted her to serve them—as well as men who wanted a combination of all three.

She didn’t mind letting a man fuck her when the situation called for it.

It was like eating salted sardines or cheese with spots of mold on it; she could put on a brave face and come through the other side with a little more sustenance.

And she certainly knew how to act the part of a good servant who made no complaints.

But she didn’t know to which category Sharkhead belonged, and that left her feeling both unsettled and intrigued.

He led her to the quarterdeck, where a trio of men sat in the shade of a great white sail.

One was another Eastern man whose bald head was covered in intricate tattoos; the others were no more than thirteen years old, with complexions as mixed as Rebecca’s.

“Lee,” Sharkhead said, “We’ve got a new crew member.

” He looked at Rebecca, a frown creasing his otherwise smooth skin. “What’s your name, then?”

She hesitated, considering a false name. But she wasn’t on the run, and she didn’t want to make her life any more complicated than it needed to be. “Rebecca Smith.” She smiled at the three sailors, her spirits lifting from their interest. “Although I suppose I need a pirate’s name now.”

Lee grinned. In accented English, he said, “A pirate doesn’t choose his name. His name chooses him.”

“Rebecca will do for now.”

She turned to Sharkhead as he said this and was surprised to discover him looking directly at her. In the sunlight, Rebecca saw all the dazzling browns that colluded to make his irises look black as ebony.

As his eyes lingered, Rebecca felt his interest in her as surely as if he had grabbed her waist and hoisted her onto his lap. It lasted only a moment, yet it was all Rebecca needed to know, at last, which category to sort him into:

A man who wanted to fuck her—despite his better judgment.

The most dangerous kind of man of all.