“Get ourselves thrown in jail, shootin’ from the wharf,” Matouba muttered dolefully.

“It wouldn’t be the first time for you boys.” Her blood ran with nerves and pure energy. She glanced up at Jin and her insides tangled. A half smile quirked his mouth. His gaze remained on the sailors at the small vessel getting ready to make way in the middle of the night like thieves. Or like arsonists not worried about being discovered.

But the Curaçaons readied for putting to sea more quickly than they expected. Lit by several lanterns, the little vessel’s deck was perfectly visible to them across the docks. By the time she, Jin, and Matouba had made their way through the shadows to her ship, then silently aboard, the Curaçaons were already pushing away from the opposite dock.

“No,” she whispered, running down the stairs to the powder magazine, her shredded skirts flapping around her thighs. “They won’t get away. I won’t allow it.”

Becoua rushed down behind her. “Evening, Cap’n,” he whispered, then another dozen of her crew, scurrying across the decks in the light of the half moon, working swiftly to prepare the cannons. But they stank of rum and swayed as they slid the iron balls into the guns’ muzzles and fixed the fuses. Drunk. On furlough, drunk, yet they had come.

She scaled the companionway to the main deck again. Below her, a gunwale creaked as a sailor slid it open too swiftly. The sound ricocheted across the harbor.

All went perfectly still atop the sloop thirty yards away. A shout in Dutch carried over the black water. Then movement, and more shouting.

“Orders, Captain?” Jin said at her shoulder.

Viola’s pulse raced. She must do this. She must show Aidan what she was capable of. She might not be a fine lady whose hand he would kiss, but she possessed her own talents. She could not fail in this. “Do you speak Dutch?”

“I believe we have already passed the moment for that.”

The crack of cannon fire, the fast hiss of shot, and a yardarm on the April’s mainmast erupted in sparks and smoke.

Her ship came alive. Jin shouted orders, the men ran to stations. Cannon blasts split the thick night with smoke and more heat. Flames leaped and were swiftly doused on both ships, sailors cussed, and the April Storm’s guns blazed again and again, the sloop’s smaller battery echoing.

But within minutes Viola knew it was already too late. The sloop’s sweeps cut the black water fast as dolphin fins, getting her under way swiftly as only a small vessel could without the wind to assist. She headed straight toward sea. Cannon shot flew, canvas on the April’s deck caught fire and plummeted, tumbling down the stairs to the gun deck in a flurry of sparks.

Alarm bells across the main street split through the pounding blasts. The port officials were awake.

Soon enough, Viola could do nothing. Moving out of range of even her long nines, the sloop sent off a final round of shot into the water between them.

“The men are ready at the oars,” Jin said calmly beside her. “Insufficient numbers to make any speed and man the guns at once. But do you wish us to make pursuit?”

Viola clutched the rail, the sloop’s lanterns fading into the dark. “Damn it.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“No!” She swung around to him, heartbeat pounding. “Of course not. We could never catch them. What do you think I am, an imbecile?” She pivoted to scan the deck strewn with debris, pocked in places by shot and burn marks. “Damn it.”

“She is not badly hit. The men will clean her up within a day.”

She knew this. The sloop had not tried to do damage, only to distract while they rowed away. At the mouth of the harbor the faintest flicker of white told her the Curaçaons had found wind and were hoisting sail. The arsonists had escaped.

Commotion sounded at the gangplank. A man wearing a hastily donned coat and a gray wig askew, his shoes unbuckled, clambered onto deck flanked by two soldiers uniformed in red with muskets at their shoulders.

“Where is the master of this vessel?” the bewigged man clipped with the persnickety officiousness only an English port official could manage under present circumstances.

Viola went forward, stomach tight, schooling her voice.

“I am her master. What can I do for you, sir?”

“You?” He took in her tattered skirts, then looked over her shoulder. “Is this the truth?”

“This is Violet Daly, sir, master of the April Storm out of Boston,” Jin said smoothly, his English accent particularly pronounced.

“Does she know she has won herself a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds firing within the limits of the harbor?”

“I would not be surprised if she suspected as much.”

“Bloody hell, man. Does she think she can blast away in the middle of the night without attracting anyone’s notice?” He swept his arm toward the clusters of people gathered across the street. “She’s woken up the entire town! Frightened my wife clear out of her nightcap.”

“Miss Daly had reason to fire.”

The port master finally turned his attention on her. “It had better be a dashed good reason, young lady.”

Viola’s belly twisted. No man spoke to her as though she were a little girl, especially not in the wake of the second greatest heartbreak of her life. No man.

“A sloop full of Curaçaon arsonists has escaped your port.” She controlled her tone with effort. “Not two hours ago they set fire to Aidan Castle’s fields. We chased them here and attempted to waylay them despite the dead wind.”

His eyes were wide. “Arsonists? And after all that firing you failed to catch them?”

She pinched her lips. “No doubt if we’d had you aboard to man the guns we would not have, sir. I am terribly sorry you arrived late.”

The port officer blustered. “Now see here, young la-”

Jin stepped forward. “I suspect you are eager to return to bed, sir. Perhaps we could postpone this discussion until morning. I am certain Miss Daly will be happy to oblige.”

“Stay out of this, Seton.”

“At least someone aboard this ship is speaking sense,” the port official clipped. He poked a forefinger toward her. “I will expect you at my office by nine o’clock, miss. And if I hear you have absconded during the night, I will not hesitate to send out a vessel after you to collect that fine and have you imprisoned.”

She clamped down on the retort that rose to her lips and nodded. With another skeptical pass of his gaze over her garments and a shake of his head, the port officer turned and strode from the deck, the soldiers in his wake.

She rounded on Jin. “What do you think you’re doing, speaking for me?”

“Assisting you.”

“I didn’t need your assistance.”

The half moon glittered in his eyes. “Humbly, I beg to differ.”

“There’s nothing humble about you, you arrogant-”

“Perhaps you would rather continue this discussion in the morning as well.”

“Damn it. One hundred and fifty pounds.” She hadn’t fifty pounds aboard ship let alone thrice that. She headed for the stairs to the gun deck, to refuge in her cabin, the one place that belonged to her, where no man could insist she do as he bid.

The fallen sail blocked the steps.

“Get this out of my way,” she shouted to the nearest sailors. They bent to it, but slowly, weary from the battle or too much drink. Her gaze traveled around. The lot of them stood glassy-eyed and slump-shouldered. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew they were as disappointed in the failure as she. But it was more than that. Becoua’s dark eyes looked so soft gazing upon her, almost…

It could not be pity. She would not stand for it to be pity.

“No.” She swept her hand across her vision. “No! Just go. Get out of here, off this ship until I tell you to return.” Her hands shook. She was exhausted from the ride on the horse, the emotions, the entire day filled with far too many feelings. Her lungs ached and she wanted to be alone. She must be alone. “All of you, go!” She pivoted to Seton. “Except you.”

She could not throw him off the ship. She still had one day. She might yet win the wager. She had no idea how. He was immovable. He would not be won over by her seduction or frustrated by her incivility. He would not be moved by her at all.

He was watching her now with his unreadable blue eyes, standing perfectly still while her men filed from the ship in cowed silence. Little Billy came last and she stopped him.

“Why did you bring horses to Mr. Castle’s farm, Billy? Why were you and Matouba there tonight at all?”

He shrugged. “Cap’n bade us, ma’am.” His footsteps descended down the gangplank. She sucked in the night air, trying to breathe, the sensations streaming inside her alien, like panic but deeper and cold.

This was wrong. She should be hot with anger and betrayal, she knew, filled with the heat of fury. This was worse. She had felt it only once before, months after Fionn stole her away from England, the day she finally understood that he would not take her back home, no matter how she pleaded.

She moved again to the companionway. The main topsail had fallen, twisted in its lines and far too heavy for a lone soul to move. She grabbed at its bulk anyway, pulling and tripping over the scalded ropes and her ripped hem.

“Viola, let it be. Or allow me to call some of the men back to move it before you injure yourself.” His voice cajoled. More pity, from the most unlikely source.

The cold dug deeper.

“Damn and damn!” She cut her arm through the air as though she held a cutlass and could slash at the ruined canvas. “Damn! Give me your sword.” She flattened out her palm.

“You don’t need a sword, and you don’t want to cuss like that.”