Oh no. Not only is Jack going to lose his life, but you’re going to lose yours, too, Red.

I ducked my head into Jack’s large jacket and fought my way into the bottom of the boat. I jammed myself beneath the little seat and curled up as tight as I could. The waves threatened to pitch me out into the churning, angry sea, but in a stroke of luck, I held on and my tiny boat didn’t capsize.

I would like to think I didn’t cry, but I’m fairly certain I did. It was no matter though, since any screams of mine could not be heard over the shrieking winds.

The sickening crack from the side of my little rowboat woke me from a nightmarish sleep.

What the—

Thwack!

I dared a peek at my surroundings. Jagged rocks rose up all around me.

Smack!

I’m being beaten against the rocky coast.

Crunch!

Oh Lord, it’s really happening.

Wham!

I skimmed the shore, but there were no lights, only rocks for as far as I could see. Which wasn’t far.

This doesn’t look right. Where am I?

Crack!

An angry wave pulled me back and smacked me hard into a sharp rock.

That’s the one that is going to seal my fate, right there.

I was correct. My tiny boat split in two and with a frothy surge, icy storm water rushed in. I grabbed for the craggy rocks, my fingertips digging for any kind of hold. I pressed all my weight against the rock and started to climb as the water yanked at my heavy legs.

Just a little more—

Before I could swing my numb leg onto the rock, my fingers slipped and I slid into the ocean. I ignored the slicing pain as the water-sharpened rocks slit my palms. I planted my feet and tried again, feeling with my feet for anything to use as leverage. The tip of my boot caught the remnants of The Black Otter’s rowboat, as the boat succumbed to the violent waves.

I clung to the unforgiving rocks like the little gray cat-creature, the ring-tailed lemur, had clung to the Queen of Madagascar’s shoulder.

The image of Jack hanging in the gibbet flashed into my mind with white-hot precision. I pushed it away and tried to focus only on climbing the rock, even as the sharp edges bit into my palms and knees. Exhaustion gripped my arms and legs, threatening to send me sprawling back into the sea.

To my death. And Jack’s.

Lightning flashed around and illuminated the hopeless scene. Angry, white-capped swells lunged at the rocks and tried to wash me away. Thunder boomed and drowned out everything except for the infernal roar of the sea. I closed my eyes and forced my muscles to pull my weary frame up the rocks—or be dashed against them.

When I awoke, the world was quiet.

Am I dead? Is this heaven?

The storm was over, the bed was soft, and a kind-faced woman leaned over me.

“Where am I?” My voice was a whisper over my dry, cracked lips.

“Why, you’re in hospital. In Wales.” She smiled and held a spoon of broth to my lips. “Welcome back from the dead, madam.”

Chapter Seventeen

Swansea, Wales

Charles Hoolihan fidgeted with his blade. A few of the wedding guests had trickled out when the snippets of conversation that wafted in through the open windows from the balcony turned bloody. Others sat more attentive, backs straight in their pews, not daring to whisper for fear they might miss the next exchange between the woman who was almost Mrs. Charles Hoolihan and her notorious pirate husband who was rumored to be dead, but so clearly was not.

Everything about what should have been the happiest day of his life was already destined to be Swansea gossip for years to come. He dug in first one hairy ear with his finger, then the other.

The harpist rose from her stool with a huff. “Mr. Hoolihan, if I may,” she began. The room silenced. “I suggest you either go get your bride or leave with what dignity you have left.”

Voices muttered their agreement from the pews.

“They needed time to catch up is all.” Charles wiped his finger on his vest. “Drucilla will come back in when she’s ready. It isn’t as though she’ll clamber down the balcony with that notorious pirate, now is it?” Charles chuckled to himself, but nobody joined him. He stood there at the wedding altar, smiling, but he was chuckling alone.

The harpist shifted her weight and squeaked. “Her name is Back from the Dead Red, Charles, didn’t you hear her? By her own admission. She is a murdering pirate, just like Russian Jack. Didn’t you see the scar on her face?”

Charles hung his head like a whipped pup.

He didn’t lift his feet as he shuffled toward the balcony. With a halfhearted glance over his shoulder that bespoke defeat more than desire, Charles flung open the door. He peeked outside, then boldly stuck his head over the threshold. “Oh my.”

“Well, Charles?” The harpist’s voice clanged out like a cracked church bell. “What is it?”

Charles didn’t answer. He only quickened his lumbering steps and disappeared onto the balcony. It was empty.

The veil he’d insisted on buying for his young bride fluttered like a wounded bird on the stone floor. The muggy breeze brought it to life only for a moment. When the breeze passed, the veil, like a brief afterthought of the marriage that almost was, lay dead again.

Charles flexed his swollen fingers, put his plump hand to his brow, and scanned the distance. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary. The waves curled over the rocky shore. Seabirds swooped and called. There was a black dot far, far out on the sea. It sort of looked like a ship, sailing in fair winds, toward the horizon—or perhaps into a distant fog.

•

I pulled myself up the rope ladder. Muscles, tight and forgotten, sprang to life with the familiar movements I’d missed so much. Moments after leaving the rowboat that took us from the mainland to the side of The Black Otter, that bobbed, waiting, around a rocky outcropping, I caught up to my husband. I tapped the bottom of his boot to hurry him along.

“Somebody has missed climbing ratlines and ladders, I see.” I didn’t need to see Jack’s handsome face to know that he was smiling.

Jack pulled himself onto the deck and turned to offer me his hand. Ever playful and grateful to be home, I stared into his eyes and finished the climb myself. A wave of emotion rolled over me as I pushed up onto the black boards of the ship I so dearly loved and missed more with each memory that came rushing back.

The smell of the boards, like an old seaside library on a rainy day. Their achy creaks as they swayed with the ever-present ebb and flow of the tide. My heart quickened to a gallop, just as it had when I pulled myself up this ladder behind Russian Jack for the first time, so long ago.

Sully’s face flashed to mind without warning. His smug smile as he sat behind the wheel of The Scarlet Rose, as he carried with him to the islands a lost, hopeless bride and a boat loaded full of dirty secrets. Russian Jack and The Black Otter Fleet saved me from the hell that might have been.

Sully’s memories elicited no emotion from me other than gratitude to Jack, but seeing the side of The Black Otter certainly did. My nail marks in the wood, where I struggled to stay aboard after having cannon balls attached to my legs, were still there. Painted over black, but still there. I ran my finger over them and shuddered.