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She lowered the glass. “I went to Barataria Bay hoping to prove my worth to Lafitte. It has been my hope, since coming upon you in the fog, that if I proved myself, then perhaps you, as his most trusted and successful captain, would persuade him to set aside his disdain for women and accept me for my skill, not my breasts.”

“If there is no attack,” she said, gazing up at him, “I will still return command of your ship to you, but I will want your word, your bond , that you will agree to stand me in good favor with Lafitte. Back me in my request to join his company of brethren as captain of my own ship.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. There was no doubt a trap was being set, but he was not sure if it was for the revenuers … or him. Either way, she was giving him back his ship, and they were still a long sail away from Barataria Bay.

“You have my word,” he said. “But I will do you one better, Captain St. Clare. If Lafitte won’t take you into his company, I will take you on as a member of mine.”

The crew of the Black Wind was fast and efficient when whistled into action.

The decks were cleared of any obstructions.

Shot was brought up from the armory and stacked on brass monkeys.

Buckets were placed alongside each gun holding cartridges of gunpowder measured for the weight of shot for each cannon.

Another canister held Billy’s newly crafted feather straws filled with powder for the touchholes.

Casks of sand and ash stood at hand to scatter and soak up any spilled blood that might make the planks slippery.

Linstocks fitted with as yet unlit slow fuses were passed out to the gun crews, some whom were already stripped to the waist with bandanas tied around their heads to soak up the sweat.

The ports remained closed, but the wooden wedges were knocked out from behind the wheels of the gun carriages and the heavy tackle lines were unclipped.

Coils of rope were placed beneath each of the three masts in the event a cable needed replacing; spare yards and sails were at the ready along with hatchets and saws for cutting away any damage that could hamper the ship’s maneuverability in battle.

Apart from the men who were up in the rigging to work the sails, the rest of the crew crouched at their positions.

A good many of Fonteyne’s crew were still stinging from the way Rose’s men had taken their ship and so were bristling for a real fight …

one they could handily turn on their captors if Fonteyne gave them the signal.

To a man, they watched him closely, for mutiny was easily accomplished in the heat of battle, but so far he stood calmly on the quarterdeck, occasionally looking up at the sails and ordering a slight adjustment.

Rose was equally wary. Trust, in her experience, was something hard won and easily broken.

Fonteyne was a pirate and a brigand with treachery tainting the blood that flowed through his veins.

Wager or no wager, there was no guarantee he would keep his word and as a precaution she armed only her own crewmen with cutlasses and muskets.

This did not half please him and he paced the deck like a panther, his black hair tangling and whipping in the wind.

Watching him, Rose knew that soon he was going to be even angrier with her.

He was going to feel tricked and duped but there was little she could do now to avoid it.

On board the Cygnet and Pride , similar preparations were being made for battle.

Having exchanged a flurry of signals with Stubb, both ships had hauled in sail as soon as they had cleared the reefs and had taken up positions out of sight on either side of the channel, their ports open, the gun crews crouched and ready.

An hour later and still two miles away, a smartly uniformed lieutenant in the Royal Navy, lowered his long-glass and nodded. “There can be no doubt, sir. It is the Black Wind .”

“What the devil is that pirate doing here? The last reports had Fonteyne a thousand miles away, hunting off the coast of Cartagena.”

Lieutenant Ormond Bentley was in his eighteenth year, barely showing any chin hairs.

Due to his family’s wealth and influence with the admiralty, he had managed to avoid the bloody conflict in Europe and had been assigned to one of His Majesty’s revenue ships, the Renard , patrolling the West Indies.

The name Sebastien Fonteyne was shockingly familiar, as was the notorious privateer’s deadly reputation.

Tiny beads of sweat dampened the meticulously curled blond hairs at his temples as the high collar around his neck seemed to grow a little tighter.

“What shall we do, Sir?”

“Do? What shall we do?” Beside him, Captain Douglas Ashworth Templeton-Bing, picked a shred of breakfast ham out of his teeth.

He was not five years older than his lieutenant, tall and stiff-necked with an air of pretention that had the crew wondering if he had been born with an iron rod up his backside.

Having been interrupted during his morning meal, his mood was one of acute petulance.

“What we shall do is catch the bastard and put him in irons. Fonteyne is a pirate and a petty thief. He is not half so fearsome as the penny sheets make him out to be. And his ship is as vulnerable to a few well-placed broadsides as any other.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. It’s just …”

“Just what, Lieutenant? We have the weather gauge. The wind is at our backs and we have speed under our keel. Look how his tops and gallants are hanging. His mainmast shows a fresh repair and unless I am mistaken, that is raw timber on the rails. He has been in a fight recently and come away wanting.”

It was not the answer he would have liked to hear, but the young lieutenant felt he ought to agree. “Aye, sir.”

“Signal the Daffodil to close up and follow our lead. When we are within range, we shall fire a shot across her bow and by God, if that is, indeed, the Black Wind , we will dine well tonight Mr. Bently. On his own gold plate with jewelled forks!”

“But Sir … he is headed into the channel and we have no way of knowing what lies on the other side. The lookout?—”

“Yes, yes, the lookout thought he saw another ship ahead of the privateer, but ten other keen pairs of eyes saw nothing of the like. A ghost image caused by the heat rising off the water.”

Once again, the lieutenant knew better than to argue, but his face was easy to read and the captain clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come now. Buck up, Lieutenant! We have forty guns between our two vessels and crews eager to use them. Mark my words, we will have the villain’s flags before midday or my worth is not equal to the brass buttons on my coat!”