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  “It only grows near coastal marshes.” It was imperative she convince him to take the ship back to shore. It was the only chance for her and the people in the hold—if she could get the door open.

  Sarah pushed the thought away. First things first.

  She examined the room while the captain pondered her words. A pair of dueling pistols hung over the desk, the guns so ornate Sarah could hardly believe they were real. She was imagining ways to get her hands on one when a deafening crack shook the room.

  She jumped to her feet. “What was that?”

  The Dutch captain gave her a grim look. “That, Miss Fisher, was the sound of cannon fire.”

  Chapter Two

  “Cannon fire?” Sarah repeated, the words hanging in the air between them like so much smoke.

  Graaf uttered several uncivil-sounding words in Dutch and made for the door. “I will return directly.” He slammed the door, and a key scraped in the lock; so, he was not distracted enough to forget to lock the cabin door behind him.

  Sarah waited until his footsteps receded before lunging for one of the pistols. She tripped over her sodden skirts and banged into the captain’s heavy teak chair in the process.

  “Blast,” she muttered, standing on tiptoe to pluck the ornate pistol from the wall. She broke open the breech and almost sobbed—the gun was real.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered frantically beneath her breath.

  She jammed a gun in each of her tattered skirt pockets and commenced to riffle drawers and cabinets, her hands shaking so badly, she dropped clothing, books, and other items all over the cabin floor. Just when she thought the search was fruitless, she spied a polished wooden box. It contained powder, lead balls, and pistol-shaped indentations lined with red silk.

  “Oh, thank you!” she said with a sob, dropping to the floor and beginning the process of loading the guns. Her father had owned an ancient pistol and had taught her to load and clean the weapon one year when three lions had menaced their village. This gun, although far fancier, was, in all important aspects, the same.

  When she’d finished loading the second gun, she secured it in the waistband of her skirt and placed the remaining powder and balls into the pocket of her tattered petticoat. She’d just taken up a position behind the door and pulled back the hammer when a key clicked in the lock.

  The squawk of surprise that tore from Graaf’s mouth when the barrel of his own pistol touched his temple was more than a little satisfying.

  “This pistol is loaded, and I will not hesitate to use it.” Sarah was proud of her steady hand and voice. “Now, sit down.”

  The captain sat, his shoulders sagging with defeat. “Whatever it is you want, you probably will not get it. That cannon was fired by the privateer who has been following us.”

  “Privateer?” Her fingers tightened on the pistol, and the Dutchman grimaced, his eyes wide as he stared at her hand.

  “Yes, a privateer, a man who has been empowered by the British government to capture ships on behalf of their king. Not only are we outgunned by the privateer vessel, but I am certain the first mate began to incite mutiny among my crew when I told him we would parley.” The Dutchman closed his eyes and shook his head. “The men are angry. None of them wanted to crew on a slaver ship—it was de Heeckeren, the first mate, who got us into this. But now that we are . . .” Graaf opened his eyes and must have seen the lack of sympathy on her face. He held up his hands in a gesture that was both placating and beseeching. “Please, Miss Fisher, you must believe me when I tell you dealing in slaves was not my idea.”

  “I. Don’t. Care.” She had to force the words through clenched jaws, and it was all she could do not to shoot him for wallowing in self-pity while people died beneath his feet. “I don’t care whose idea it was,” she repeated. “Do you have any idea what happened to our lives? People are suffering and dying because of you,” she said, her voice rising. “This is a chance for you to help stop this nightmare. It will not redeem you—not even close—but it will be a start. Now, here is what you will do: you will take the ship back to shore and release everyone from the hold, or I will shoot you.”

  He snorted. “You would be doing me a favor. I think you have a mistaken notion about what is going on, Miss Fisher. While I and many of my crew did not want to run this cargo—”

  “Cargo? These are people, Captain Graaf—I want to hear you say it.”

  His jaw tightened, and he swayed a little, sweat pouring down his temples. “While I and many of my crew did not want to buy and sell people, I think you do not understand the situation. I am merely a token, a representative of the Graaf family—I’m not even a captain, although I am using the title. The real person in charge is de Heeckeren.” Graaf grimaced. “He is an experienced sailor and greatly feared—and not just by me.”

  Sarah frowned, confused. “He is the captain?”

  “In everything except name. He is also the reason we left Ouidah with a hold full of . . . people. The men didn’t realize they were signing on to crew a slave ship, but they know there will be no pay if they turn back. Some of them will not let that happen and will follow my first mate.” He shook his head. “I cannot say how many.” He suffered another coughing spell.

  Sarah stared at him, trying to gain his measure. What was the Dutchman trying to get at? Was he saying he might be agreeable to returning to shore—for the mythical thorn of Christ, if for nothing else? Just how much did he regret his decision to allow his first mate to fill his hold with human cargo? Enough to risk his life to let them go?

  Graaf regained his breath and continued in a hoarse voice. “The men know the privateer will bring the captain and crew before the Vice-Admiralty Court once we reach Freetown—and some of them do not view this threat lightly. Without the proper leadership, they will follow de Heeckeren and fight the privateer vessel rather than parley. And then we will all most likely die.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand your position in all this, Captain. What are you trying to say?”

  “I propose we join forces.”

  His words surprised a laugh out of her. “And what do you have that I might want? A mutinous crew? The imminent arrival of a shipload of marauding privateers? Please, I am curious to know what you bring to the bargain.”

  He sighed, the grooves that bracketed his mouth deepening. “If all my crew was on the side of my first mate, then I would be bobbing in the ocean, and you and I would not be having this conversation, Miss Fisher. I’m telling you that if we act before it is too late, we may be able to gain the support we need.” He stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping sweat from his brow and staring at her through red-rimmed, watery eyes.

  Sarah examined his face for any trace of deceit, but all she saw was exhaustion and illness.

  “We do not have much time,” he prodded.

  Sarah drew in a deep breath before speaking. “What about the privateers?”

  “Once we have control of the ship, we parley. The privateer will attack us if we do not. Either way, I will be boarded, and the ship will be confiscated for violation of a recent Anglo-Dutch treaty. I would prefer to surrender without any damage to my ship or loss of life.”

  Sarah chewed her lip so hard the metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth. Could she trust him? She snorted at the thought. What other choice did she have? She stared, not seeing him but the faces in the hold. The only way people got out of the hold was when the crew threw their bodies over the side of the ship. This might be everyone’s only chance.

  “If I agree to help you, how will we go about it, Captain?”

  His shoulders sagged with relief, as if she’d already agreed.

  Well, he could think whatever he wanted. Sarah had no qualms about using him, at least until she had the backing of the only people on the ship she trusted: those imprisoned in the hold.

  “I will summon my first mate with an offer to capitulate. If we can capture him, I believe the mutiny will die
quickly. You wait behind the door as you did with me. I will take the other pistol and confront him when he enters.”

  “What if he is more suspicious than you and sends someone else? What if he brings a pistol of his own?”

  He flushed at her not-so-subtle mockery of his own easy capture. “De Heeckeren is overconfident and not expecting any resistance from me. He will come. Also, I possess the only pistols on this ship, and he would not bring a musket to such a close space.”

  “And once we have the first mate, you will unlock the hold and free everyone?”

  He nodded. “I daresay they will prove loyal to our cause, which is more than I can say for many of my crew.”

  “And then we will parley?”

  Again he nodded.

  Sarah hesitated.

  “This is no trick. The privateers are now our best hope. But we must hurry.”

  What else could she do? She could not single-handedly capture the ship. She could—

  “Miss Fisher, we must—”

  She raised the gun. “Let me think.”

  His mouth snapped shut, and he slumped in his chair.

  What did she have? A pair of guns and herself. She grimaced. She needed help to get past the sailors and to reach the hold and Femi. She bit back a groan as the thoughts chased one another around and around inside her exhausted brain.

  She had to trust somebody. There was no other way. She studied the captain from beneath her lashes. His skin was sheened with sweat, and his hands shook. He might not even stay conscious long enough to take back his ship.

  Something slammed hard on the deck above them, and Sarah jumped.

  “What are they doing?” she demanded.

  “Probably preparing the cannons to fight the privateers.”

  Cannons! The people in the hold would be the first to die if the ships exchanged cannon fire.

  Sarah said a silent prayer and pulled the second pistol from her waistband. “It is loaded.”

  He took the gun and checked it.

  “Extra ammunition?” he asked, ignoring the weapon she still had leveled at his chest.

  Sarah struggled with her wet, heavy clothing to pull out the little bag of powder and balls. After an interminable time digging about, she located both and handed them over. He looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again.

  “What?”

  “It is only . . . Well, if you will forgive me, I was going to say we may need to move quickly. Will you be able to do so in your wet garments?” The captain flushed under her suspicious stare and shrugged. “Should you desire it, there is dry clothing in the wardrobe behind you. It is men’s clothing, but we are of a similar height, and you will be able to move faster.”

  He was right—her clothing was a hindrance. Besides, she stank and was cold. Sarah could discern no sly intent or cunning in his face. All the same, she backed toward the wardrobe without lowering her gun. She jerked open the door and glanced inside.

  “For the love of God.” He plunked down the pistol on the desk. “There, keep it. Although how you plan to change your clothing and shoot me at the same time I cannot guess.” He moved his chair so his back was toward her and collapsed into it.

  Sarah tore off several buttons in her haste to get out of her garments. She yanked one of his fine linen shirts over her worn chemise before stepping out of her tattered skirt and into a pair of breeches, all the while keeping her eyes on Graaf’s back. After she’d donned a waistcoat and a blue woolen frock coat, she picked up the second gun and handed it over his shoulder.

  The captain looked at her outfit and snorted, his barely suppressed amusement triggering a coughing fit.

  “That serves you right for laughing.” Sarah cocked her pistol and took her place behind the door. “Now, are you ready to take back your ship?”

  Chapter Three

  When Martín opened the door to the wardroom he found two similarly dressed people sitting across from Beauville and Daniels. Both people were fair-skinned and slim, their pale faces wan beneath their hats. One of them was female.

  “Bonjour, Captain. Bonjour, madam? Mademoiselle?” He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the woman. The gasps that escaped Beauville and Daniels told Martín his men had been fooled by her male clothing.

  He turned to his first mate and made a tsk-tsk sound. “For shame, Beauville. How is it you could fail to notice a beautiful woman even when she is dressed as a man?”

  The woman inhaled sharply at Martín’s inaccurate description. Her thin, pale face was, in fact, not particularly handsome. And, judging by the way she had fooled his crew, she must have a figure to match.

  She glared at him. “My name is Sarah Fisher. Miss Sarah Fisher. And this”—she gestured to the man beside her—“is Mies Graaf, captain of the Blue Bird.” The blond man gave Martín a tired smile and lifted his shoulders, as if to say he was merely along on a whim.

  Martín eyed the weak-looking slaver with scorn. It would be far more entertaining, not to mention humiliating, to deal with the captain’s excitable woman rather than the man himself.

  Martín turned to her and bowed with a flourish. “Welcome to my ship, Miss Fisher. I am Captain Martín Bouchard. I take it by your presence here that you are going to turn yourselves and your ship over without any fuss, eh?”

  She crossed her arms. “By what right do you claim Captain Graaf’s ship and cargo?”

  Martín leaned across the table, both to get a closer look under her hat and to let her know he was not a man to be held at arm’s length by frigid looks. “By the power of the letter of marque granted to me by the British government, Miss Fisher.”

  She glanced at the Dutchman, clearly hoping for assistance.

  She received none.

  Her eyes slid back to Martín’s face, but she let slip no indication of what she was thinking.

  He smiled; such cool behavior was intriguing. Women usually flung themselves at him, or, at the very least, giggled and behaved foolishly in his company. Who was this plain woman with such self-possession and calm? And what was she to the mute, pitiful lump of man beside her? His sister? His wife? His whore? She flushed under his stare, as if he’d spoken the words out loud.

  “The Blue Bird was in the process of returning to Ouidah when you stopped us, Captain. The people on the ship are going home. There is no need for you to interfere; nobody on that ship will be sold into slavery.”

  Martín laughed and threw his hands in the air. “Enfin, mademoiselle, I see now that I have made a terrible mistake. You are free to go.”

  The woman’s lips parted, and she looked sideways at the Dutchman. Neither spoke as they rose hesitantly to their feet.

  Martín waited until they were standing before leaning across the table, no longer smiling. “You may go, but I will retain your ship, crew, and human cargo.”

  The captain slumped back into his seat, but the woman flushed a deep red and planted both hands on the table. She glared down at him. “I am not interested in playing your games, Captain Bouchard,” she said, her words soft and menacing.

  By God, she was a treat!

  Martín leaned toward her until the brims of their hats touched.

  “Oh? Whose games would you like to play, mademoiselle?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “We have one hundred armed men and twenty loaded cannon. You would be well-advised to let us be on our way or face the consequences.”

  This time, Beauville joined Martín when he burst out laughing.

  When they were able to stop, it was Captain Graaf who spoke. “They know we have fewer than forty men and only two guns,” he told the woman before turning to Martín. “I am in no position to fight, nor do I wish to. I daresay you can see I am not an experienced seaman or even a captain. This is my first voyage—I’m sure you have guessed I was put on this ship as a figurehead for my family. We were to have picked up an entirely different cargo in Ouidah, but something happened, and we would have left port empt
y. That was when my first mate took matters into his own hands.” Graaf frowned. “But I am not without blame—I’m afraid I was ill and not aware until we were well under way, or I should have stopped him from buying slaves. I—”

  Martín snorted.

  The Dutchman flushed, but doggedly continued. “I accept responsibility for all of it. I’d ask that you hold me on the slaving charge and my first mate for his role in the mutiny, but guarantee the rest of my crew will go free once we reach Freetown.”

  Martín sneered at the apparently selfless demand. “Why should your crew not be punished? Did they not know they were engaged in slaving?”

  “Yes, they knew, but they had no say in the matter.”

  “They had no say? How is that, Captain? Do you employ slaves for a crew? Were they not free to decline to work when they saw what it was—who it was—you put into your hold?”

  “Of course I do not employ slaves, but—”

  “Then they had a choice!” Martín slammed his fist on the table, and everyone jumped. He looked from the captain to the woman, their shocked expressions enraging him even further. “I tell you what, Captain, I will give your crew the same choice they gave the people in your hold. You know what choice I mean, eh? They can get into the ship’s hold, or they can die.”

  Both the Dutchman and the woman stared back at him in wide-eyed, open-jawed amazement.

  Martín fought to get a grip on his frayed temper as he looked from the pale blond man to his feisty companion, both so eager to tell him about choices while hundreds of people suffered on their ship. “That is your choice, as well, Captain Graaf. If you do not like it?” Martín shrugged. “I will throw the whole damn lot of you to the sharks, you and your whore included.”

  Martín was not surprised when the woman shot to her feet at the word “whore.”

  He sat back and savored her reaction. He did not believe her to be a whore—she had neither the look nor the demeanor of a woman who earned her living pleasuring men. In fact, she had the look of an innocent, which made him very curious as to what the hell she was doing on a slaver’s ship.