“Isn’t she pretty, lass?” Tomas leaned into her. Over the stench of sweat, he smelled of smoke, and had a faint burr to his voice as if he were perhaps from Scotland. Or was it Spain? With a name like Tomas, that she could see. And he was as smelly and wicked as a Spaniard, but his features belied that parentage. He looked like one who was born of the islands. She had no desire to ask him. “One day, she’ll be mine, when our good captain tires of playing the thieving pirate and returns to the mainland.”
She shook her head, refusing to comprehend his greed. All she wanted was to be back at home, preparing for dinner. By now she would have been missed, but no one would worry until night fell. By then, it would be too late. She would be on The Night Hawk, far way from England, in the hands of
