I’d read every account of his description. Some said he was tall and mean. Others claimed he was scarred, bearded, and wore a peruke. Every word and sketched reproduction was created from the imaginations of artists who had never encountered him.
He was more handsome in person, more menacing. But I wasn’t afraid.
I was awestruck.
Sand crunched beneath his boots as he paused within arm’s reach. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
A muscle bounced in his stony jaw. Then it spread to his lips, twitching at the corners. I waited for a break in his expression, and when a smile finally lit his eyes, I pounced on the seaman’s massive chest.
“Father!” I embraced his wide shoulders, squeezing with all my might.
“Aw, Bennett. I missed you.” He swung me up into the safety of his arms and buried his scratchy cheeks in my neck. “You must be more vigilant. Anyone could have sneaked up on you. Have I taught you nothing?”
“Forgive me. I was overcome with excitement. That’s no excuse, but Father, it’s been eight months. Please, don’t be upset with me.”
“Never, deary. Never that.”
I leaned back to reacquaint myself with his hardened features. My hands went to his jutting jaw, my fingers curling around the squared edges. All blunt angles and sun-darkened skin, his face still held its youth. And it’s smile.
That infectious smile widened, tickling wiry whiskers against my palms as I traced new crinkles around his wise eyes and touched the familiar gold ring in his ear.
His arms hugged me tighter, thick and muscular, and his boots spread wide beneath me as if bracing against the roll of the sea even now.
He was every inch the seafaring knave. An unrivaled buccaneer. Ruthless. And rich, if the lore could be believed.
I knew the truth about his conquests and could recall every prize he’d won and lost. His treasure was greater than anyone could imagine.
“Have you brought me more tales from the high seas?” I tugged at the collar of his shirt, searching in fear of finding fresh scars.
“Indeed. I have much to tell you, my beautiful girl.”
I lowered my feet toward the ground, wriggling in his arms. Before my toes touched the sand, I spotted a dark presence over his shoulder, approaching from the beach.
The man appeared out of nowhere, sneaking toward us on silent feet. With a bandoleer of guns slung across his chest, he stared at me with eyes too jaded for a face that was nigh twenty years.
My hackles went up, and my stomach bottomed out.
But Edric Sharp hadn’t taught me to tremble in the face of danger. No, he’d taught me how to fight with my fists and wit, a flintlock and blunderbuss, and my personal favorite, his cutlass. I could feel it now—the grip of the hilt in my palm, the clang of metal against metal in heated clicks, and its reliability in battle. A blade never misfired.
Without a quiver of hesitation, I grabbed the cutlass from my father’s sash, swept behind him, and thrust the sharp point at the enemy. Then I charged.
The man halted, his wicked eyes growing wide at the sight of me. I must have been a fright in tattered chintz and disheveled hair whipping around my ferocious expression.
His alarm was his folly, and I used it to cleave through the sash of his bandoleer and relieve him of his weapons.
“Stand down!” I swung again, slashing a hole in the sleeve of his shirt.
“Damnation, girl!” He held up his hands and hissed at the rip on his arm. “What are you doing?”
“Deciding which part of you I shall cut next.” I jabbed the cutlass toward his nether regions.
His huge hand landed on top of my head, holding me away as he parried the stroke of my blade.
“Unhand me, sir.” I thrashed, trying to dislodge his immovable grasp. “Do it now, or I’ll lop off the dull, inanimate fellow between your legs.”
“Captain,” he said in a bored tone. “Call off your hell-born blowsabella before she hurts herself.”
“Bennett, lower the blade.” My father chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s my new quartermaster.”
“What?” I withdrew the cutlass and jerked away from the man’s grip. “How? Where’s Kirby?”
“He lost his legs to chain-shot. And most of his internal organs, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
My insides clenched as I pictured an explosion of smoke and cinder, thousands of pounds of red-hot iron, and blood-soaked decks littered in dismembered limbs. I’d never experienced such brutality, but I’d lived every gruesome detail through my father’s stories.
Most days, I believed Edric Sharp was invincible. But sometimes, when I stared at the sea from my bedchamber, I feared the next fallen buccaneer would be him.
“Where are those dogs?” He strode away and whistled for the hounds.
“So you are the reason the captain shortened sail and hove to?” The new quartermaster collected his guns, eying me sidelong. “Can’t convince him to drop anchor in Nassau for a night of drink, but he’ll put two-hundred leagues beneath her keel to see his brazen little she-devil.”
I sucked in a breath and stood taller. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re all he talks about.”
“Then I’m at a disadvantage because I don’t even know your name.”
“Now you fancy an introduction?” He clicked his tongue. “Have you no contrition for attacking me?”
“No.” I met him stare for stare, despite the height he held over me.
“You don’t mince words, do you?”
I rested the cutlass on my shoulder. “I save the mincing for tangible things.”
“Quite so. Point established.” A rakish smile stole across his lips. “The name’s Charles Vane.”
My father jogged toward the beach to chase his hounds, leaving me in an incommodious stare down with his new quartermaster.
I fought the urge to cross my arms over the revealing bosom of my gown. Charles didn’t rest his gaze there, but he was looking at me, scrutinizing and assessing my unsightly appearance.
“Did you come from a party?” He canted his head, and a lock of black hair fell from the defined V of his widow’s peak.
“No.” I stabbed the cutlass into the sand and leaned on the hilt.
“Did you roll in every mud puddle you could find on the way here?”
“I’m certain I missed one.”
He glanced between his ripped sleeve and the soiled rags of my dress. “Are you in the habit of ruining fine garments?”
“Are you in the habit of filling perfectly good silence with tedious questions?”
“Not usually.” He scratched his whiskered face. “You’re nothing like the well-bred ladies I’ve…” He cleared his throat. “Spent time with.”
“I should hope not.” My cheeks heated at his meaning. “I’m not a strumpet.”
His gaze dipped to his boots, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “God save the man who sets his sights on you.”
“Speak plainly, Mr. Vane.” I anchored my fists on my hips. “What are you saying?”
“You’re Captain Sharp’s daughter.”
“Yes, she is.”