Running to and fro, seasoned salts manned their stations and armed themselves with assorted weapons.

Fallon barked out orders. "Cannons at the ready, and you there!" He shouted to a trio of musketeers. "Climb the rigging and set your sights." Racing toward him amid panicked shouts and heavy footsteps, Fallon yanked him from the rail and pressed a pistol into his hand. "Lock the door to my cabin, and shoot anyone who attempts to enter."

"Don't send me away; let me stay and fight."

"I agreed to this ill-fated scheme on the condition you not place your life in danger. You know little about firearms, and gave your word you'd heed my instructions."

"I'm no longer a child, Fallon, know how to wield a sword."

"I know you're an adult now, but fencing lessons in your childhood pale next to hand-to-hand combat." Fallon placed a hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me, Drew. If it is Bloody Hitch Cotty—and I have every reason to beliieve it is—he'll remember you, would like nothing better thaan to finish the job he started last year."

A ribbon of moonlight fell across his godfather's benevolent face. "You do remember I'm here to avenger her, don't you Fallon?"

He glanced toward the advancing vessel. "Of course. I want Claudia to rest in peace also, but you promised to leave the fighting to the mercenaries and seasoned pirates in the event we encountered her murderers."

With his in his throat, he stumbled down the steps and rushed along the corridor leading to Fallon's cabin. A shuddering crash pitched him against the wall and he fell to his knees as The Squall took a heavy hit from the advancing ship. Men screamed, the smell of powder spiraled up his nose and the screech of volley whizzed through the black night. Drew scrambled to his feet and flung open the cabin door, only to be pitched violently to the floor again when the ship rammed into something solid and unyielding. The vessels had collided. The pistol flew from his hand and skidded along the corridor like a crab fleeing from a giant squid. Crawling on his hands and knees to Fallon's desk, Drew clung to the sturdy legs as the ship bucked and rolled to its side beneath him.

A putrid aroma of fire and smoke filtered under the cabin door. Drew clasped his hands over his ears and realized he'd lost the bandana around his head. Moreover, he'd lose his life if The Squall lost the raging battle overhead. For a brief moment, he cursed his reckless folly of avenging Claudia's death. It was one thing to surrender his life, but he had no right to put Fallon in imminent danger.

The idea of meting out justice to viscous killers seemed appallingly stupid right now while the cutthroats stormed his ship. Hideous visions of what they'd do to his crew made his stomach pitch.

Amid the chaos and disorder, the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor reached him. Instinct—and tentacles of fear inched down his spine ”warned him someone stood on the other side of cabin door. The handle rotated right to left, the silent movement penetrating his fear-numbed brain.

The enemy kicked the door open and stood under the archway. Rising to his feet and staggering, he faced him with one hand behind his back. Perhaps if the ruthless brigand thought he held a weapon at the ready, he'd think twice about attacking him. The notion was quickly squashed when a cold leer spread the pirate's lips.

God, the man struck a magnificent pose. A white shirt, cut into a deep V, revealed a mass of wiry dark hair on his expansive chest. His narrow waist, swathed with a crude belt of links and chains, topped the soft leather trousers clinging to his muscular legs. Thick, brown hair hung in coiled ropes beneath the charcoal bandana about his forehead, and an eye patch covered one eye, but the other—the color of rich chocolate ”sparked victory. His heart somersaulted and his intestines twisted into reef knots. Rich chocolate? Impossible. He must be delusional, yet only one man held the capacity to stop his heart with one look.

"No!" he said taking a shaky step back. "What in the hell are you doing here?"

"Saving your sorry ass, apparently." Rogan paused and delivered bold look that sent shivers racing down his spine. Nodding toward the hand he concealed behind his back he asked, "What do you have there, Drew?"

The staccato rhythm of his heart pounded in his ears. When it came right down to it, could he shoot Brockport? "A pistol, and I have no qualms about putting a hole in your black heart."

"I wouldn't advise it. If you kill me you'll soon be at the mercy of Cotty's heartless crew. When they find a pretty boy like you hidden away, they'll abuse you in the worst way."

When another blast from the cannon rattled the ship, Drew jumped and the pistol clattered to the floor. Rogan closed the distance between them quicker than flies mate and yanked him against his chest.

Anger flashed through his dark eyes. "Never threaten to shoot a man if you don't intend to follow through with it."

Gathering his courage, he clenched his teeth. "Take your hands off me you bottom-feeder, you low-life―"

With that full, wide mouth inches from his, he said, "We have little chance of leaving this boat alive, none if you fight me every step."

"Are you mad?" He brought his elbows up and prayed he'd hit a vulnerable spot. "I have no intention of leaving this ship with you."

Steel fingers dug into his arms. "Cotty's men will pass you around until you're ripped to shreds and when they're finished, they'll toss you over the side for fish fodder."

"I'd rather die than leave with you!"

Rogan paused and examined his face, inch by excruciating inch, drawing him in until the sounds of battle raging overhead faded into a distant roar. "That may be," he finally said. "But I gave my word to Spottswood."

Spottswood? What does the governor have to do with this? He looked down to gather his thoughts, but couldn't dispel the questions racing through his mind. "What are you about now? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I regret there is little time to explain." With one hand, he grabbed a handful of his hair and with the other, turned him away and placed a knife to his throat. "Don't worry, handsome lad, I'm not going to cut your throat; it's for show." He propelled him forward with a knee to his ass. "Now move!"

By the time they reached the upper deck, the air snapped with heavy musket fire. Locked in hand-to-hand combat with bandits and thugs, the Squall's crew fought valiantly. The metallic sounds of cutlass meeting cutlass mingled with the acrid stench of powder, and the smoldering, crimson sails made his stomach heave. Smoke seared his lungs as Rogan pushed him toward the poop deck near the aft of the vessel. Through the gray haze, Drew couldn't tell one man from the other, couldn't begin to judge who'd wave the flag of victory when the bloodletting ceased.

A sick knot formed in his stomach when a tall, powerfully-built man stepped from the shadows and blocked their path. A ball of fire lit the night and Drew released a sigh. "Fallon."