And that, sir, proves mine,” Maribel said. “Although I hope you’ll forgive me. See, I have been praying you would be a nice man.”

“Keep praying, then,” Jean snapped. “Because that is not the case as of yet.” He looked over at the doctor, who appeared to be having difficulty keeping a neutral expression. “Mr. Connor,” he managed through clenched jaw. “Put the girl in the brig and set the young fellow free.”

“The brig? You’re certain of this?” the older man asked, concern now etching his features.

Ignoring the quiet stares of the men around him, Jean focused on the man who had known him practically since birth. “I am. If Red wants to be a privateer, then we will show her what happens when a crewman accosts his captain.”

Connor shook his head. “But, lad, surely you do not mean to—”

“Surely I do.” He then turned to address his crew. “William Spencer here is to be afforded the rights and share of a new crew member once he proves his worth, and as such he is not to be harmed. Anyone who does not comply with this will feel the full fury of my wrath and join the girl known as Red in the brig until a suitable punishment is carried out. Is that understood?”

A low murmur of agreement permeated the crowd. Jean nodded and then continued. “The girl is to be considered under my protection, even though she is to remain a guest in my brig. Should I hear of any maltreatment against her, I will take it as a personal affront to me and deal with the perpetrator accordingly as well. Is that clear?”

This time the murmur of agreement was much softer and appeared to be reluctantly given. Jean locked eyes with the girl called Red, who now stood as if ready to run despite being held in place by two of his largest men. The lad had wisely moved away into the crowd and now stood silently watching.

“It appears there is no solid agreement to this command,” he said. “Perhaps someone wishes to challenge me?”

He allowed his attention to sweep the crowd, enjoying them shrinking back, before returning it to the girl. Jean had allowed his temper to best his good judgment and he knew it. Still, he refused to back down.

“No,” Jean said. “I thought not. Take her to the brig, and the rest of you mind my warning. And, Connor, see to whatever is hidden beneath that wretched scarf she is wearing. I warrant she will need one of your vile potions.”

With that, he turned and walked away, secure in the knowledge that his orders would be followed. No one aboard this ship would dare do otherwise.

Once in his cabin, Jean closed his eyes and settled onto his cot. He took a breath and let it out slowly as he tried in vain to get comfortable even as he also worked to tame his temper.

The wound he’d received two months ago in a skirmish with a slaving ship off the coast of Jamaica ached thanks to the girl’s assault on him, but that was the least of his concerns. The thought of the lives saved during that battle—the men who were freed to go back to home and family—was not enough to erase the ones lost today.

Unbidden, Antonio Cordoba’s face appeared before him as he had looked before he slipped beneath the waves for the last time. Jean shook his head to rid himself of the vision.

Cordoba was dead, an enemy vanquished, and justice had been served. Calling him back, even in his thoughts, served no purpose.

He should have felt relief. Cordoba was nothing but a coldblooded murderer.

Jean pounded his fist against the wall. The deaths of Jean’s mother and baby brother had been avenged, yet all he felt was a vast emptiness.

“There should be more,” he whispered in the French language of his childhood. “Vengeance should feel much sweeter than this.”

He sighed. Perhaps Israel was right. Jean managed the beginnings of a smile, though he felt no humor. Indeed, Israel almost always was.

The thought of Israel sent him in search of his friend. He found the man asleep in the doctor’s cabin, his legs far too long for the bunk where he lay. Still, he appeared to be sleeping comfortably, so Jean left him there and returned to his cabin to attempt some rest of his own.

Sometime later, Connor opened the door without any pretense of knocking. “I’ve come to bind your wounds,” the doctor said as he crossed the brightly colored Persian rug—bounty taken so long ago Jean couldn’t name the vessel from which it came—and dropped his bag of ointments and bandages beside the cot then knelt with a heavy sigh.

Jean removed his boot and let it drop. Bright red streaked the bandages.

“You’ve gone and opened it again. I could blame the girl for this, but we both know you had it coming when you taunted her.”

Refusing to admit what he knew to be true, Jean remained silent. Outside, the watch bell rang indicating that sufficient time had passed that he must have managed to sleep. Why then did he still feel so very tired?

Connor opened his bag and began searching through its contents before looking up at Jean. “Now that you’ve got your revenge, will you be taking my advice and laying low awhile? I wager you’re needed back in New Orleans.”

“A wager you would likely win,” he said, as they both knew his life there put demands on him that never seemed to cease. “Yet there are details left to handle before I can return.”

Connor looked up at him. “Such as?”

He met the old man’s even gaze. “Such as what to do with Cordoba’s child.”

“Ah, yes. That.” The doctor went back to work swabbing the wound with a clean piece of muslin then applied a foul-smelling poultice.

Though he wanted to cry out in pain, Jean remained stoic. Finally he’d had enough.

“Can you not treat this with something that smells less like the garbage heap? Truly I’ve smelled dead animals that were more pleasantly fragrant.”

Connor leaned back on his heels and regarded Jean with a look that told nothing of his thoughts. He rose. “Do you know what would please your father greatly, lad?”

Jean forced himself to smile. “There are many things that would please him, chief among them things I have no interest in doing.”

“Therein lies the problem,” Connor said as he settled onto a chair nearby.

“I know that look.” Jean grimaced as he shifted positions. “You’re about to tell me what to do, and then I’ll ignore it.”

“That is generally how it goes with us, isn’t it? You avoid the difficult questions I ask.”

“As do you,” Jean reminded him. “Else I’d know why you don’t leave this leaky tub of a ship and make your living doctoring a better lot of people than are found aboard.”

Connor chuckled as he leaned down to hand Jean his boot. “Why would I leave? With all the trouble we manage to find, I keep up with my doctoring skills. Now get that boot on, and then I’ll look at that scratch of yours.”

“That scratch” was the slash across the muscles of his chest made by the murderer Cordoba just before Jean sent him tumbling into the sea. Jean eased his boot on. The long gash had ceased bleeding, but Connor insisted on treating it with more of his vile potion.

“A few inches deeper and you’d not be with us, lad. You won’t need stitching up, but do try to stay out of trouble until you can heal proper.” He shook his head as he returned his doctoring supplies to their case. “What am I saying? Trouble finds you.” Ignoring the comment, Jean climbed to his feet to retrieve a clean shirt. “I paid a visit to Israel. He appeared to be sleeping in comfort. Will he recover?”

“Completely and swiftly, I do believe. Had he not been standing between you and the flintlock, you would not be alive, my friend. However, his constitution and the fact he carries much more muscle than any of us has saved him yet again. It’s been all I could do to keep him immobile and allow some measure of healing.”

“So you gave him a sleeping draught.”

Connor chuckled. “Not that he is aware of, no. But, yes, it was all I could think of to keep him from returning to the deck and seeing to your safety.”

Jean smiled. Indeed Israel had appointed himself to that task. A pity it was proving so difficult. Another thought occurred. “How does our prisoner fare?”

“She’s holding her own down in the brig. Other than a cut on her forehead, she bears no marks from her ordeal.” He paused. “Don’t you think it’s a bit harsh to lock up someone so young and innocent, especially so soon after the loss of her father?”

“Innocent? Did you see what she did to my leg?” he said as he donned his shirt. “I wager she can hold her own anywhere.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Seems she can certainly stand up to you, lad. ’Tis a brave thing to kick a ship’s captain when you’re bound and gagged.” Connor paused. “She puts me in mind of a younger version of you, Jean Beaumont.”

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but my accommodations in the brig can only be temporary. Women are not allowed about my vessel, and there’s certainly no friend or relative of mine who would accept her. Not that I’d risk the exchange, mind you.”

“I understand your dilemma,” the doctor said. “And yet despite her parentage, she’s innocent in all of this. We cannot exactly put her off somewhere without friend or family to look after her.”

“Then we contact Cordoba’s family and settle on a price for her return.” He let out a long breath, his body aching. “Surely there’s someone willing to ransom her.”

“The girl says she’s not Cordoba’s daughter,” Connor said. “She won’t tell me who she is, only who she isn’t.”

“Of course she’s his daughter. Why else would she be on a Spanish merchantman with a king’s ransom in silver in its hold, all of it belonging to the new Consul General?”

“A worthy question,” Connor said. “I do not disagree. Perhaps the lad should be questioned. He appears to know her well enough.”

“Agreed. Would you have that handled, Connor? I do not wish to intimidate the lad into answering in a way that isn’t truthful out of fear.”

“You do have that effect,” the doctor said. “I’ll see if perhaps we can get to the truth without terrifying the lad.”

“Thank you.” He paused to think a moment. “Connor, no one with any sense would bring a child on such a risky voyage except for a fool like Cordoba. Have you seen what the Spaniard had hidden away in the belly of that ship? A fool’s errand it was to bring such wealth on the same vessel with his own child. He mistakenly believed he was invincible.”

The doctor nodded. “Apparently his daughter has inherited the same attitude, although she does execute the behavior with a much more charming demeanor.”

“Has she caused more trouble already?”

Jean steadied himself as he carefully put more weight on his injured leg. The wound already felt better, a testament to the doctor’s medical skills. Still it did plague him.

“Doctor?” he said when he realized Connor had not yet responded to his question. “What is our prisoner up to down in the brig?”

The older man shrugged. “I did check on the young lady before coming up here to dress your wounds and found a perplexing situation afoot in the brig.”

“Perplexing?” He shook his head. “Elaborate, please.”

Connor nodded toward the door. “Perhaps you’d best see for yourself,” he said. “If you’re fit for the walk, that is.”

“I am easily fit for the walk.” Jean straightened his spine and marched past the doctor without limping, a feat that took concentration.

Stepping out into the starry night, he nodded to the young man posted to the watch and then headed down the sharply descending stairway that led below the deck. Navigating the dark-as-night passageways with skill learned through years of experience, he turned a corner and heard, of all things, laughter.

Several of his fiercest sailors, men whose penchant toward ill temper was well known, were standing outside the open door of the brig while a circle of men gathered inside on the straw-covered floor. It appeared the men inside the brig were wagering on something. Laughter filled the close space and spilled out into the passageway where Jean stood.

The ship lurched, parting the men and allowing him to see what was causing all the uproar. Situated cross-legged in the center of the men was the Cordoba girl, a blanket spread out beneath her as if she were at a picnic instead of being held prisoner in his brig. Her copper-colored hair and fashionable dress set her apart from the attentive crew, as did the sound of her childish laughter.

Though she still wore the stained scarf, the ends of a length of muslin showed. Apparently Connor had been able to doctor the girl’s wound without sustaining bodily harm.

Seated directly across from her was the burly carpenter, Rao. As he stepped closer, Jean realized Rao and the girl were playing a board game that looked deceptively like draughts.

Jean frowned. Surely not.

And yet that is exactly what he saw. Grown men, brutal men of war, encircling a child’s board game while the toothless carpenter entertained their prisoner. To make matters worse, Swenson, chief rigger, seemed to be leading the cheers in favor of the girl.

The girl moved her game piece over the carpenter’s last two black pieces and then looked up at him and grinned. “I win, Mr. Rao.”

“Best three out of four?” Rao inquired.

A small roar erupted. Jean let out a long breath, his temper at its peak.

“Gentlemen,” he said with as much sarcasm as he could manage. “Am I interrupting something?”

A hush fell over the crowd. Slowly those nearest to Jean pressed past him to slink away, their eyes downcast.

“Not at all.” The Cordoba girl looked up at him with a smile and no appearance of fear. “Would you like to play? We don’t wager, although it’s awfully fun to win anyway.”

“This is a privateer’s ship and not a gaming vessel.”

“I’ve only heard the Ghost Ship called a ship for pirates,” she said, her face a mask of innocence.

At the word pirate, any man still remaining nearby turned to disappear down the passageway. The distinction between piracy and privateering was what allowed Jean to keep his conscience clear and the coffers of his vessel full, all under the protection of the French crown. Any man who used the word in his presence swiftly felt his wrath.

But this was a child, and a female child at that. Still, his blood boiled. “Privateer,” he said.

She shrugged. “Same thing.”

Jean took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your ignorance is understandable,” he said as gently as he could manage. “Given the fact you know nothing of the subject of which you speak. But one is most definitely not the same as the other.”

“I am not ignorant on the subject of pirates,” she protested. “As William Spencer attested, I have read The Notorious Seafaring Pyrates and Their Exploits.”

Jean met her stare with an impassive look that defied his temper. “And this book, of which I am well aware, makes you an authority?”

“I read that book two full times, going on three except that I dropped the book on the deck when the pirates shot at us, and then I retrieved it but lost it again when I—”

“Silence!”