Drake lit a lantern and turned up the flame. Valeryn did the same to two other lanterns hanging from the ceiling beam. Drake's solitude disappeared in the brightness.

He retrieved a flagon and three cups from a secured spot on a shelf.

"Captain Mott." He addressed the captain as he poured ale into the cups.

Small beer. He hadn't the mind to share his good drink. 'Twasn't because he didn't care for the man, though he didn't. 'Twas more to do with his own bitter greedy demon. The ale he offered to guests was very good. Very good, but weak. That was why sea dogs referred to it as small beer. Much could be soaked in and a man would still keep his wits, the likes of which held no appeal for Drake.

He handed a cup to Mott. "What is in your hold?"

Without waiting for the captain's answer, he plopped down into a chair, swung a boot onto the table and motioned for Mott to sit. "And don't amuse yourself by telling me stories of spice and grain."

Recovering and selling foodstuffs hardly excited Drake. He found long ago risking his life and the lives of his men was more rewarding when the salvage didn't involve something that decayed. Unless the prize was to be drank.

Mott eased into his seat. He cast an eye over his shoulder to where Valeryn leaned against the closed door. "I've but one recourse in giving over all I know. You've made that clear, lest my crew and I become unfortunate casualties in the Rissa's pursuit."

Drake chuckled. His ship's reputation preceded herself, making his job, whatever his ambition may be at the time, much simpler. "What have you to fear from my humbled crew?"

"You've waylaid me in my need for aid. That is a form of piracy, is it not?"

"You offend me, Mott. And here in my own cabin." On the contrary. The man hardly raised a hair on Drake's neck. Besides, he spoke the truth. Couldn't blame him for that.

"I will not apologize for disagreeing with your salvaging philosophy," Mott said.

Drake shrugged. "'Tis what I expect."

Drake drank from his cup. The beer washed down his throat with almost no flavor. Nothing to burn in his gullet. It irritated him. He swiped at his mouth with his shirt sleeve and continued. "Look at it this way, skipper. Pirates take what they desire, be it farthing or life, no? I always take what I want. At the risk of me turning bloodthirsty you will tell me exactly what's on your ship. Should you cooperate, no harm will come to you."

"And my crew?"

"That depends on them."

Mott shifted in his seat. "Furnishings. French furnishings. Armoire, armchairs, gilded mirrors."

"I saw crystals."

"Crystals? Ah, yes, the chandelier."

"A chandelier, you say." Drake's coffer just increased substantially. An ormolu chandelier with grand golden arms would bring him a profit. A chandelier with drops of crystals, as novel as one was, would fetch a mighty sum. He could almost feel the coins weighing down his pockets.

"You were headed for Havana. Who were these furnishings intended for?"

Mott again glanced back at Valeryn, who had taken to cleaning his fingernails with his gully knife. Valeryn encouraged Mott to respond by the nod of his head. Mott rested his hand at the base of his cup, hesitating before he answered. "A man by the name Diaz."

"Mancho Diaz?" Drake's boot hit the floor with a thud and he leaned forward.

Valeryn pushed off the door and came around the table to stand beside Drake.

"Aye." Mott finally took a drink from his cup.

Drake locked eyes with Valeryn.

"Machete," Valeryn said.

Hatred for the man Havana locals called Machete roiled in Drake's gut. He was the cruel and mercenary jackal of the tyrant governor Don Francisco de Barca, may his soul burn in h.e.l.l. He was also the man Drake would one day kill.

"You know this man?" Mott asked.

"I suggest you send word to Diaz of his ill-fortune in your stead. He is not a forgiving sort." He tipped his cup toward the captain. "And he will want someone's head for losing his valuables."

"Perhaps that Abel fellow." Valeryn sheathed his knife.

Mott's gaze darted from Valeryn back to Drake. "I would be inclined to tell him of you."

"Please do," Drake said. "I welcome any minion he sends my way. Keeps me in practice."

He smiled, satisfied. Taking Machete's expensive furnishings would be a pleasure. "Come morning, we will begin with the salvage."

Mott stared down into his cup before speaking. "For fair treatment and our lives, you will have our cooperation." He then finished off his beer in one quick gulp.

"Let us see how hard your men work," Drake said.

He pushed off the table and stood. "You will excuse me. I have an unfinished interrogation to complete." One he looked forward to. More than he should.

"V, Captain Mott can join his men in the hold now. On your way out, see the fugitive next door in." He looked forward to hearing the la.s.s's story. She must be in some big trouble to bargain her life on sea, alone.

The room empty, Drake traded his cup for a bottle of rum. He yanked out the plug with his teeth, spit it to the floor and brought the bottle to his nose. Sharp liquor drew up into his nostrils and flooded his mind. Putting the bottle to his lips and tilting it back, he let the rum burn down his throat. So good, so satisfying. The warmth, he drank it, hardly swallowing at all until he drained the bottle. Another dead man. Distorted refractions of light on the gla.s.s played tricks on Drake's mind, revealing the face of an old enemy...Machete. He tossed the flagon into a near-full box and it clanked against the other empty bottles.

One wasn't enough. It never was, not when the gory blisters of a man's past refused to heal.

Wet clothes chafed against his damp skin. He shed his jacket; the weight lifted from his body lessened the c.u.mbersome hold around his shoulders. He peeled out of his tunic and the warm air cooled against his sticky torso.

He grinned upon a stifled gasp. So the la.s.s was modest. Stowing his smile he turned to greet his newest guest.

Sweet Neptune! What a sight! The la.s.s's hair, blond maybe, wild, tangled and crimped, stuck out in every which direction. Her stained dress once had been a pale yellow and now hung limp to her form in tatters. Bruises marked her pale skin along her slender arms still clutching that d.a.m.ned bag. What a b.l.o.o.d.y mess, this one.

"Found her asleep on the floor, mate," Valeryn said. He didn't contain his broad smile as he backed out of the door to leave Drake alone with the woman.

On the floor? Curious. The poor girl must be near death with fatigue.

"Well now, chit," he said, shaking off the shock of her appearance. "Why don't we start with introductions, shall we?" He draped his wet shirt over his chair. "I'm Captain Thayer Drake, master of the fine ship Rissa."

Silence stretched on to awkward. Mouth agape, she stared at him with tired pale eyes wilting with the dark bags below them.

"La.s.s?"

She tore her gaze from his bare chest. "Oh, um, yes?"

Blimey. Had the woman never seen a man without his shirt before? Perhaps he should put a tunic back on lest the woman lose her ability to speak. "Your name. What is your name?"

Her reply not forthcoming, Drake sighed and pulled back the heavy hempen drapes that concealed his sleeping quarter. Her stance became rigid, bunching fistfuls of her dress, at the sight of his bed. It wasn't fear so much as it was suspicion. Drake didn't need to see the tightening of her mouth to know she readied herself for a fight.

What a game it would be to toy with her. But he wouldn't. He had questions for her and unless she wanted to show him some grat.i.tude for saving her a.r.s.e, and she wouldn't, then he wanted to raise a bottle to another ship run aground-alone.

He retrieved a clean tunic from the locker at the foot of his bed and closed the curtain.

Her posture relaxed, and once Drake donned his shirt, she reclaimed her voice.

"Gilly. I answer to Gilly."

"Gilly." He liked the sound of her name. It reminded him of the whimsical carnival music he once loved. "That's an unusual name."

"It's what the girls back in Charleston called me. My given name is Gillian McCoy."

"So be it, Miss. Gilly McCoy. Sit." He pointed to the chair recently occupied by Mott. She mildly surprised him by obeying. From her earlier display on deck, he expected more of her defiance.

He grabbed a clean cup from the shelf and poured her the small beer. He'd have offered her fresh water had he had some. But clean water was a fleeting luxury on board. The ale would satisfy her thirst. And she was thirsty. She guzzled her cup with greedy gulps.

"Do you have something stronger?"

He chuckled. With what the chit had been through, he supposed he could share a spot of his rum.

"All right, la.s.s." He grabbed another flagon, opened it and filled her cup. "But for my liberal generosity, you will be accommodating."

"I'll elect just how accommodating," she said.

"Agreed, only by flesh. But not by tongue. You will tell me what I want to know." He returned to his seat.

"Very well." It seemed she gave nary a thought to his demand and she took a healthy drink. She suffered for her rashness, coughing fitfully on the rum.

"Careful, there. 'Tis potent."

She wheezed. "That is..." Gilly struggled on her words, "...some strong spirit."

"It's a man's drink, la.s.s."

"Duly noted." She swiped at her tears.

Gilly took another, more careful sip, and then another. The chit must be determined to put herself as an equal. She would need more practice.

"Why did you sneak on that ship?"

"I had to. It was the only ship leaving port that night."

"So you are running from someone."

"Yes."

She was matter-of-fact about it, but said no more.

Drake prodded her. "And?"

"And what?"

"Who are you running from?"

"Is that really important?"

"Aye. It is. I make it a rule to know if I am harboring a fugitive."

"I'm not a fugitive. You really mustn't make so many false accusations on my character."

Gilly sorely tested his patience. She hoped to buy herself time and avoid the question with her quick answers. Did she not realize she was like a giant whale caught on a cane fishing rod? He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Then I'll ask again." He spoke through clenched teeth with controlled aggravation. "Who are you running from?"

"His name is irrelevant." She pointed to the picture of a lounging nude woman on the wall behind his desk. "Beautiful painting. Wonderful colors and paint strokes. She looks so real."

She tried unsuccessfully to change the subject. But before he could finish an infuriated growl she enlightened him a touch further. Smart move as he was beginning to consider throttling her.

"I'm running from an ill-conceived wedding."

A sham wedding. Ah. He could appreciate that. He'd come close to making an honest woman out of an elite wealthy landowner's daughter in Santo Domingo several years ago. Fortunately, one of the woman's many other lovers wouldn't stand for it and Drake was too drunk to fight for her. That was the last time Drake mixed bitter wine with Hangman's Blood.

"Ill-conceived, eh? How so?"

"He is mistaken that I wish to marry him. Did you get the painting in a pirate raid?"

Drake redirected back to the discussion at hand. "The Rowena sailed from St. Augustine. You say you're from Charleston. You fled Charleston and your bridegroom followed you to St. Augustine? Most men would be happy to be rid of a millstone. Unless the bride has something they want. And I'm not referring to love."

"Perhaps it is as simple as pride."

"Chasing a woman down for the sake of pride? Seems easier to cast ruination upon her with slanderous rumors. No. I think there is much more. Someone willing to track his woman along the Atlantic coast is someone willing to pay a reward for her safe return."

She frowned. "I'm sure he has forgotten all about me by now."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

"'Tis no significance." She lifted her cup to her lips. "You don't know his name."

"I'm sure someone will come forth when we return to St. Augustine. I'll just put out the word that by the grace of G.o.d, Gilly McCoy had narrowly escaped a horrible drowning."

She choked on her drink. Her mangled, stiff hair flapped as she shook her head. "No! You can't do that."

"I can." Should he sail to the Florida port. Which he had no intention of doing. Not with the salvage he was taking. "Never underestimate a man where there is a profit to be made."

For the first time since he pulled her to safety, sheer alarm took flight across her dirty face.

"Please, Captain Drake. I can't go back."