The Englishman Alestair Kincade's reputation precedes him as far southwest as Panama. Even as a child I had heard tales of his adventures, and more recently, news of his latest conquests made it into whispered conversations within the Mercado manor. It's no great secret that some fear this former privateer just as much as others admire him. Everyone knows he's been sailing the warm waters of the Caribbean for almost thirty years, pausing just long enough to either destroy or unite his enemies. For Kincade, there is no middle ground, but this unique combination of ruthlessness and democracy has served him well. In fact, it's earned him not only an immeasurable amount of respect and gold, but also the coveted title of Pirate King.

We sail for a day and a half before I even have the chance to face my infamous captor. Until then, I'm locked in a small cell in the belly of the ship we boarded in Portobelo. The voyage is rough and unpleasant. It's my first time at sea, and I am clearly not cut out to be a sailor. At times I wish someone would have just shot me while we were still back at the manor, just to spare me this agony.

I can neither keep water nor food down, not even the stale twice-baked bread Smythe brings me. All my remaining energy quickly seeps from my body, and by the second night, I'm too weak to even shoo the rats at my feet away. They bite my ashen skin, leaving small, raw wounds.

Nightmares haunt what little sleep I manage to get, making me relive that horrendous night over and over again. But it's not my own story that takes the forefront, but rather Luciana's as I see her trapped in the smoke-filled manor. In my dreams, she struggles for breath, crying out my name before collapsing and burning in the flames.

I wake every time in a sweat, shaking from sadness and guilt at not having been able to save her. My only solace is in knowing this is all in my imagination, and in reality, my friend could have had time to escape.It's the only thing that keeps me going over those two days at sea.

By the time the vessel drops anchor again, the storms have finally subsided. The ship's entire crew seems to be topside, but instead of a whole gang of buccaneers, only a handful disembark. They make me join them.

I'm sitting in the middle of the rickety rowboat again, but at least now I have an old pair of boots and a heavy, leather jacket to keep me warm. As with everything else, these stink of sweat and fish. I don't even want to think about the last man who wore them, lest I get sick again.

The trip to shore is brief thanks to the calm seas and shorter distance to the beach than two nights ago. My kidnappers won't tell me where we are, but the landscape is already very different from back home. There, tropical trees cover the gently sloping hills that make up my narrow country separating the Atlantic from the Pacific. Here, even by the light of the full moon, I can see that hardly any vegetation covers the barren, rocky mountain straight ahead.

We approach from the north, which means our destination is most likely an island. No one helps me out of the craft and I end up hip deep in the tide. The dip itself doesn't bother me; I actually wish I could take a proper wash. But my wet clothes soon wear me down, and I quickly become out of breath. This is the most I've moved around since being captured, and my body definitely feeling the exertion.

Marching up an incline, I try to keep pace with my half-dozen companions as we head toward a nearby town. They're in jovial spirits, singing and hollering along the way. I believe they may have uncorked a fresh barrel of rum before leaving the ship.

Mister Smythe is the only person who keeps silent. He walks behind, just a few paces back, dutifully steering the group toward our destination. When two sailors break into an impromptu fistfight, Smythe's the one who separates them with a shot into the air.

I'm about to test his reasonableness and ask for a short breather when a steep pitched roof comes into view. I decide to postpone the favor and instead, push through the pain.

Soon, we begin hearing other sounds besides those made by our group. The distant laughs—and the occasional scream—get increasingly louder as we approach. Finally, we come upon the first example of civilization we've seen in days. When the building is in full view, it's just one of many lining a central street. I exhale in gratitude; hopefully, I can rest soon.

"You have until daybreak," Smythe yells after the men as they disappear into the town. He then turns to me and smiles. "Lean on my shoulder, if ya please. It looks like ya could use a hand."

I'm curious about his reasons for helping me, but my throbbing knee won't let me refuse. I accept the offer and hobble into the town's square with his assistance. The slow going allows me to pay more attention to my environment, which is quite fascinating.

The architecture itself is much more ornate than what I've ever seen, with rounded gables and open balconies. Each building we pass is painted a different, vibrant color. I wish I could see the pinks, yellows, and blues in the light of day. I bet they would look magnificent.

While I can't understand many of the words written on the shingles hung above the doors, clever illustrations often accompany them. A hat indicates a milliner, boots a shoemaker, and a coffin an undertaker. The most common sign features the ubiquitous barrel and bottle combination. Saloons occupy almost every other facility and from the looks of it, business is booming.

Men in various states of inebriation are everywhere: drunkenly stumbling in the middle of the dirt road, obliviously passed out against nearby walls, or precariously leaning over second-story railings. It's nothing I haven't seen before. The fishermen andfarmers of Portobelo were no better on the rare days they had an extra piece ofsilver to spend on drink.

There are women, too, amongst the rabble, but they're the type I was always told to avoid. Their skirts are high and their blouses are low, putting their wares on full display. They're also clearly outnumbered. Two or more potential suitors surround many of these wenches. Judging from their boisterous smiles, they don't seem to mind.

We come to a stop in front of what—so far—has been the grandest structure. There's no sign, but the lights are all lit and there's music coming from inside. An armed guard at the door must mean not everyone is allowed to gain entry, but we have no problem getting in.

A surprising atmosphere greets us.

The interior space stretches all the way to the second level, where an open balcony runs along the perimeter. Candelabras hang on long chains from the ceiling over circular tables spread throughout the downstairs area. Each table is packed with guests who are either drinking or playing cards, but most often, they're doing both.

These men are noticeably different than those we passed outside, but I know their kind just as well. I would see them whenever I visited my father at his station, and like those soldiers of Fort Portobelo, they're also more refined both in their look and their demeanor. Instead of wearing the scraggly, dirty clothing of lowly crew members, they're dressed in the more distinguished outfits of officers. Their jerkin buttons and baldric buckles are gold, not tin. Their breeches are pressed, not wrinkled. Their hats are adorned with the plume of an ostrich, not a cockatoo. They're also not fall-down drunk, but just intoxicated enough to be having a good time. Some are accompanying the piano, singing a popular pirate song even I've heard before. The rest are concentrating on either their game or glass. Smythe leads me toward the bar.

"I do believe a small drinky would do us both good, miss." He addresses me for the first time since we broke off from the others.

I begin to shake my head, but he cuts me off before I can protest further. "It'll help dull the pain in that bum knee of yours. Plus, a little liquid courage's never hurt no one that's about to face the Pirate King."

I gulp, remembering the reason we're here. Meanwhile, the barkeep pours the honey-colored liquid into a metal cup and pushes it toward me. "Rum for the lady."

I've never tasted liquor, so I first take a small whiff. It turns out to be a very bad idea. The fumes burn my nostrils, taking the acrid taste down the back of my throat and making me choke.

Smythe laughs with glee.

"Down the hatch." He raises his own cup and empties its contents into his mouth. Swallowing the vile liquid, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before emitting a content aaah.

"Well, don't just stare at it. That'll do you no good." I don't seem to have a choice. I raise the rum to my lips and try to mimic his delivery, but my technique's flawed. I only manage to get half the drink in my mouth while my brain vehemently tells me not to swallow.

My eyes water, but through the tears I notice several men watching me with mixed emotions. Some have a lecherous glare, while others an almost sympathetic compassion. The majority, however, are laughing at my discomfort. I can hear it clearly because the music's stopped and the room's gone completely silent.

I imagine it's one of the jokesters who starts chanting drink, drink, drink. The others quickly join in.

With tears streaming down my face, I say a prayer, pinch my nose, and gulp. Without leaving time for hesitation, I pour the remaining rum into my mouth and swallow.

The room erupts in cheers and Smythe slaps me on the back. "Well done, miss. We might make a pirate of ya, yet."

The drink already wants to come back up, but I force myself to smile. My head is tingling and a warm current shoots through my limbs. Hmm. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all.

"Time's a wastin'. Let's take ya' to meet the man in charge." Smythe nods toward the upper level.

I wobble a bit as I follow him up the stairs, all the way to the last door on the open walkway. He knocks three times, loud enough to be heard over the piano that's started up again. Either there's no answer or my ears are failing me, but Smythe opens the door anyway. He nudges me inside, and it's only as he backs away that I realize he's not staying with me. The door closes with a soft click behind me.

The room is dark, save for the glow coming from the dying embers in the fireplace. My eyes are immediately drawn to the farthest point in the room where two figures are sitting. I fiddle with my jacket sleeve and continue to stand quietly, unsure of what to do.

After a muffled whisper in her ear, a busty blonde jumps off the man's lap. She hurries past me with a giggle and leaves me alone with the Pirate King. He remains seated, his face hidden in the shadows.

"Who are you?" he asks in a low baritone. The unexpected sound sends a shiver up my spine and for once, my mouth reacts faster than my frazzled brain.

"Ana," I blurt out before realizing my potentially disastrous mistake. The only reason I'm still alive is because my captorsthink I'm the daughter of Admiral Mercado, and the slip may have just cost memy life. I pray this man doesn't notice, but my hope is short-lived.

"What?" He leans forward, and the light reveals his bushy, dark beard.

I straighten my posture and raise my chin. I try to clear my mind and focus on an acceptable explanation, but the rum's not helping. Just when I think I'm a goner, an idea hits me.

Although I've never made the connection before, it suddenly occurs to me that my friend and I have more in common than just our looks thanks to our shared Spanish heritage.

"My name is Ana." I clear my throat. "It's short for Luciana. You know, a term of familiarity?"

He remains quiet and I'm certain he sees through the lie. I knew impersonating someone else wasn't going to be easy, but I thought I'd last for more than two days. I hold my breath, waiting for his wrath, but it doesn't come. When the shadowy figure leans back in his chair once more, I exhale.

"Very well, Ana. Can you take a step forward?" His English pronunciation is even better than that of Luciana's straight-from-Oxford tutor.

I shift my weight to accommodate the pain in my knee and shuffle forward.

"You're injured." His tone is somewhere between a statement and a question. I stop and shake my head, but he's undeterred. "Show me."

I bite my lip and contemplate mylimited choices. Either I shun modesty and comply, or I refuse and he makes meshow him anyway. With a sigh, I hold out my right leg and pull my nightgown up to my thigh. My knee's dark purple and twice its normal size.

"What did those rotten scallywags do to you?" he bellows, slamming his hands on the armrests. For a brief moment he looks like he's about to stand, but he remains seated.

I release the fabric, letting it fall to my ankles again. "Nothing! I fell out of my own clumsiness." I automatically defend my kidnappers, before remembering how they treated my friends. "But your men killed all of the . . all of my servants. They showed them no mercy."

The memory—perhaps combined with the effects of drink and my illness—brings tears to my eyes. Reaching up, I wipe my cheek with the sleeve of my jacket.

"Those wren't my men, but apologize for their actions, nonetheless. My God, what is that stench?" He puts a hand to his nose.

I turn my head and sniff my collar. "I think that's me," I admit sheepishly.

"I can't have you aboard my ship smelling worse than a two-week old fish. I'll have the girls draw you a bath before sending a physician to tend to the leg." He pulls the hood of his coat over his head and stands. He's much taller than I expected.

"Thank you . . . uhm, what should I call you? Mister Kincade? Pirate King? Your highness?" I can't suppress a giggle that has clearly bypassed my brain.

He mulls over the query. "You can address me as Captain." His tone is more casual than before. Although his face is still obscured, I image he's now smiling.

"Captain, of course." I smile back. "Thank you, Captain. I really appreciate—" I begin, but his sudden approach makes the rest of the words stick in my throat.

Taking several, long strides toward me, he picks up two curved blades leaning against the fireplace. Grabbing one in each hand, he slowly raises his right arm and walks even closer to me until the tip of the blade is touching my chest.

"I don't want you to misconstrue my generosity, Señorita Mercado." He shakes his head. "You are my prisoner until such a time as I see fit to release you. Meanwhile, you will do well to remember your place. Is that clear?"

Only a few feet separate us, and he's looking down at me, but I dare not meet his eyes. Instead, I nod my agreement and he lowers the weapon. He sheaths both blades before walking past me and leaving the room.

I must be frozen in place for several minutes because I don't even get to the nearest chair before an older woman arrives with a bucket full of steaming water. A motherly sort, she quickly goes about her business, lighting candles to reveal a velvet covered bed, as well as an ample tub in the corner. A younger girl brings more water, then a tray full of food before helping prepare the bath with lavender scented oil.

Thinking I'm someone important, they offer to help mebathe, but I politely refuse. This reversal of roles almost makes me laugh untilI remember my predicament. After they leave, I undress and climb in the tub,dipping below to wash the filth out of my hair. As I sit up, the warm waterrelaxes my muscles, and I begin to eat. I take small pieces of the fruit and bread first, getting my stomach used to food again. Meanwhile, the warm water relaxes my muscles. I finish the roasted chicken and soak until the water has cooled. I could stay even longer, but a knock at the door makes me quickly dress.

With rest and the right types of herbs, I would have managed on my own, but in spite of my protests, the surgeon insists on treating me. Imagining he got his directives straight from Kincade, I don't blame him for not wanting to fail. Something tells me not many people live to see another day after crossing the Pirate King.

While he cleans and bleeds my wound, the physician advises more rum to help numb the pain. Even then, the procedure makes me sweat, and I am glad when he is finally gone.

Author's Note: At the end of this book, there is a free, BONUS CHAPTER that retells this first meeting between Ana and the Captain from his POV. But don't read it until you've finished with the rest because knowing what was going through his mind will reveal some major spoilers!!!