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I n the sudden chaos that erupted on board the Black Wind , orders were shouted back and forth between the riggers as they scrambled onto the yards by twos and threes.

The upper deck was cleared of anything that did not belong …

crates, barrels, tasks the crew might have been working on before the cry of “sails ho!” was relayed across the decks.

Any sails not already unfurled were released, lines were caught and pulled tight by men waiting below who attached them to the mooring pins that ran along both sides of the ship.

Sebastien Fonteyne watched with a critical eye, roaring commands when he saw a slack cable.

If not for the roughness of the waves lifting the Black Wind twenty feet higher than normal and an experienced lookout who spotted the distant sails between troughs, he would likely have carried on due south to outrun the storm clouds rapidly approaching from the northwest.

On orders from the helm, the massive canvas sheets were maneuvered to bring the Black Wind into a sweeping turn. Sebastien felt the surge beneath his feet as his ship leaped into the chase and he felt the rush in his blood knowing his instincts had not failed him and his quarry was in sight.

Full credit was given where it was due: she had eluded him for almost five days and he could only suppose that one or more of her ships was responsible for slowing her down.

He doubted it was the Cygnet . From the information Sauvinet had provided, he knew she was a three-masted light frigate with a top speed rumored to be sixteen knots.

She carried a compliment of thirty-two cannon, most of them twenty-four pounder long guns capable of deadly accuracy at long ranges as well as close combat.

According to the customs agent, the first two years after she was launched, the Cygnet had carried half her current armaments and, under the auspices of the deceased Terrance Whitticomb, had been harmlessly conducting trade between the islands.

Three years ago, her purpose had changed, her battery of guns had increased, and the Cygnet had been credited with taking half a dozen ships in prize.

How or when the unfortunate Whitticomb had died was not noted in any records, but in hindsight, it could be left to assume it was when Rose had taken the helm.

The more he learned about the Cygnet and her captain, the more intrigued he became.

While it was true that Rose St. Clare had done what few of Lafitte’s own company of brigands had managed to do by running the blockade lines three times, it only served to increase suspicion as to whose flag she was sailing under.

The pirate king was convinced, that she must be working with the British.

She must have been sent to Barataria by her brother in order to spy!

How else to explain why a mere scrap of a girl could sail around the Caribbean unscathed unless she was in the employ of the Crown!

So she had come to offer her services against a British invasion fleet? It was more likely she had come to infiltrate and report the extent of the defenses around Barataria Bay!

To Fonteyne’s way of thinking, however, three years was a long time to pretend you were something you were not.

If she had been sent to Barataria as a spy, and if captain and crew were, indeed, loyal to the Crown, there was no company on this earth, not even his own, that would have kept such a ruse secret for so long regardless how breathtaking their captain looked in her figure-hugging corset and skin-tight breeches.

Breasts were no match for the promise of gold. Any secret mission would have been sold out long ago by a judas on the crew seeking his thirty pieces of silver. It was rumored to have been just such a betrayal that had cost the Dante ancestors the destruction of Pigeon Cay a hundred years ago.

Perhaps Lafitte should have taken the girl more seriously. Considering Fonteyne’s own personal history with Rose St. Clare, it was doubly unfortunate that Sebastien was the one to have to drag her back to Barataria on her knees.

He had to catch her first, however, and with ominously dark thunderclouds swiftly blowing up behind them—weather she might not be able to see from her vantage point yet—it was imperative to close the gap between hunter and prey as swiftly as possible.

When it was full dark, he had the crew bring up the black canvas sheets which would allow them to sail almost invisibly through the night. Orders were given that no lights, not even the smallest red glow from a pipe would be allowed above or below deck.

In the end, Fonteyne had no reason to worry about lit pipes or errant lights.

The storm came on them strong and savage, tossing the ship from wave to wave like it was a child’s toy.

Rain fell in torrents, pounding the decks, waterfalling down hatchways, swirling along corridors and soaking everything in its path.

Wind-driven needles of salt spray battered the crew as they wrestled to haul in sail and secure the heavy sheets before they were torn from the yards.

Timbers groaned and ropes snapped, whiplashing across the deck to become fouled in tangles of twisted rigging.

Jagged streaks of lightning smashed overhead, striking all three masts multiple times.

Twice, the Black Wind heeled over so sharply a man could have reached an arm over the rail and touched the angry black sea wall. Foam-crested waves crashed over the deck, the weight forcing the keel into troughs so deep the following sea rose as high as the topmost mast.

Standing on the quarterdeck, a sodden black demon in his own right, Sebastien Fonteyne tied himself to the wheel and stood firm through everything the sea threw at him. At times he could be heard above the wrath of the storm, cursing, laughing, and cursing more.