I tried not to look afraid. All the way from Moscow to London, I’d heard of bands of sea-roving pirates who’d cut your throat as soon as look at you. Teach’s name was one I’d heard of most. Night after night, I’d imagined what would happen when I finally arrived in London. Never had I figured I’d manage to fall into favor with Teach and his nest of pirates.

“I much appreciate your paying my entrance fee,” I began, but Teach cut me off.

“I do not have a habit of loaning money to strangers without exacting something in return.” His eyes glistened. “Tell me, what is your business here? If I am amused, consider your debt paid. If I am otherwise—” He shook his head and drew his finger across his neck.

I gulped as the other men laughed. My mother, despite her many flaws, had raised an honest son. “I am here to seek out my father.”

Teach looked bored. “For what purpose?”

“After my mother died, it was my job to go through her things. I discovered a bundle of letters. And this.” I withdrew the wanted poster from my pocket and held it out to Teach, who accepted it with renewed interest.

“I read the letters, all of which were to my father. They began as love letters, then turned to angry letters. Threatening, even. Stating if he ever came back to see us, she’d kill him. After reading more, I discovered that my father left her maimed after a night of beatings, during which his goal was to kill me. Now that I’m bigger and my mother is dead—”

I accepted the poster back from a speechless Teach. “I figured I’d give him the chance to try again.”

“You say that your father is depicted here, on this poster?”

“I do.”

“So your father is Stenka Razin, the most infamous Russian pirate in the world?”

“He is.”

“Young man, I have sailed with your father many times, taken many ships. He is as cunning and ruthless—and deadly—as they come.” A chorus of aye’s rang out in harmonious tandem from Teach’s men. “You won’t kill him.”

I blinked.

“He’ll kill you.”

I breathed in the scent of the chocolate house. It smelled as rich as its patrons. “Perhaps. Not much left for me to live for, aside from to kill him.”

“Are you armed?” Teach asked. “With steel, I mean?”

“I plan to kill him with his own blade.” I studied the ground, realizing how green my romantic plan, concocted under the stars amid vodka and smoke, sounded. I hoped I wasn’t flushed schoolgirl red, as I had a tendency to do when embarrassed. “He deserves the humiliation,” I mumbled.

“No doubt he does.” Teach drew a thin blade from the sash about his middle. “Here, take this. I want to see entertainment, not a bloodbath. Now, at least you have a fighting chance.”

I nodded and accepted the blade.

“I tell you what. I’ll find your father for you. Who shall I tell him is calling?”

“His son, of course.”

Teach’s thin lips drew back over his teeth in a snarl. “I’m not an ignorant fool. Tell me your name.”

“Mikhail Nemirovsky,” I stammered to the tune of cackling pirates, “sir,” I added in a whisper.

“That name will never do, especially in an outfit as memorable as yours.” Teach crossed his arms and studied me through slitted eyes. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Molly. Molly Nemirovsky Rackham.”

“I see.” Teach snapped his fingers loudly. At once, a waiter appeared with a platter of spicy-smelling chocolate drinks. Teach paid them no mind, the snap was for me. “From now until the day you die, which may well be today, you are to be known as Russian Jack Rackham.”

Chapter Three

1717, Swansea, Wales

A silver, curved cutlass hung easily at his side as though it was simply another appendage he bore, and the tell-tale fur cap, complete with ear flaps, sat atop his head. His face was smooth, save the shadow of a beard, and his piercing green eyes threatened to burn clean through me.

A collective sigh rose from the women who filled the pews, and a few began to fan themselves.

The man’s commanding presence ensured that the room’s silence. Then, like a bursting storm cloud, the chatter arose from the women in the pews and filled the room.

“It’s Russian Jack Rackham, dread pirate of the Atlantic!”

“It can’t be. He’s dead. Hanged in chains in London.”

“No, not chains. Russian Jack was hanged in the gibbet in Derbyshire.”

“The late Queen was known to favor certain pirates. Perhaps some in authority still do.”

The black-clad pirate’s full lips twitched as the murmurs swirled about the room like flies over a rotting corpse.

Lord above, that’s no ghost.

I tore my gaze from his and glanced at Charles, who swallowed audibly. He returned my glance and drew his sword from its scabbard with shaky hands, probably for the first time. I closed my eyes at his ineptitude as Russian Jack’s stare sizzled almost tangibly on my skin.

Charles fumbled with the handle of his sword before turning his attention to the unwelcome guest. “Wh-what do you want—sir?”

Russian Jack dragged his burning stare from me to Charles. Achingly slow, Jack drew his glittering cutlass from his scabbard and held it by the jewel encrusted handle for all to see.

The legendary life-taking cutlass that supposedly never left the hand of Russian Jack was as rich in jewels as rumors promised. It was widely whispered that the gems that adorned the handle of the sword, which had taken over a thousand lives, came from not only England, but also the Orient, and even the new world.

“I’ve no quarrel with you, sir.” Jack’s thick Russian accent rolled out over the aristocratic crowd like a hypnotic curse. A cutlass could be pillaged or stolen. An accent couldn’t. There was no doubt that it was truly Russian Jack who stood before us.

A few women swooned.

Charles forced another swallow. A look of relief swept across his pale face.

The tall pirate tilted his chin and let his fabled cutlass fall with a clatter at his feet. “I have no quarrel with you, nor any here. I simply beg a word with Back from the Dead Red.”

More gasps threatened to suck all the air from the room as Russian Jack touched his hat in true gentleman fashion. Slowly, he retreated onto the balcony, just out of sight.

Heat burned in my cheeks as all eyes in the room shifted to the girl who moments before was destined to become the copper king’s blushing bride. Me. I glanced at Charles. He held his sword as though it was a crying infant.

So much for a fresh start.

I let out a huff and threw down the sad bouquet. Gathering my dress into my fists, I stomped back down the aisle.