Chapter 1
Nassau, New Providence, Siren’s Revenge Punch House, 1717
T
heRingswayed over Slippery Crock’s grime-encrusted waistcoat, winking at Captain Blake Keene in the lantern light. The bloated cockerel slammed yet another shot of rum into the back of his mouth before running a sleeve beneath his nose and snorting like a pig in heat.
The Ring.
Blake should tear it from the snake’s neck, but the pirate’s three over-sized mongrels he called a crew stood behind him, eyeing the card game with black scowls, clearly itching for a fight.
He glanced at his cards and then at the pile of doubloons glittering in the center of the table. Thus far, he had proven his skill at Piquet, earning more winnings than he thought old Crock possessed. But the blasted maggot refused to give up, insisting louder and louder with each glass of rum that he would rob Blake of his ship, his coins, and his clothes before the night ended.
Crock’s belch roared over the clamor of a concertina in the corner, along with the shouts, insults, and slurs of a punch house full of pirates deep in their cups. A barmaid slammed another bottle of rum onto the table, winked at Blake, and sashayed away. His gaze followed her swaying hips. It had been a long while since he’d indulged in female company.
Four dark figures in the distance caught his eye—olive-skinned men dressed in black from their tricorns to the dark cloaks cast about their shoulders, down to their silver-spurred boots. Not pirates. Blake could spot a pirate blindfolded. Nay, these men did not fit in this place. Neither were they drinking. Instead, Blake found their glances oft landing on him. Or was it Slippery Crock they sought?
Cursing, Crock tossed down a card, snapping Blake’s gaze back to the game. Standing behind him, his quartermaster, Finnegan Wix, chuckled. The sweet scent of tobacco emanating from the man’s ever-present pipe showered down on Blake, bringing an odd comfort.
Crock shot him a seething look.
Finn was right. Blake would win this round, the entire pot, and an extra ten pounds’ worth of silver ducats Crock said he was good for. Finally, he would have the slippery cur right where he wanted him.
Blake laid out the final card. Its snap against the crusty table sealed Crock’s doom as the sight of the ace narrowed his dark eyes and tied his already crooked grin into a knot.
“That’ll do it then. Pay up, you swag-bellied toad!” Blake’s bosun, Claude Maston, shouted in his ever-so-slight French accent from behind him. One of only two crewmen Blake had brought. Would they suffice should fisticuffs ensue?
One of Crock’s henchmen sneered and spat to the side.
Slippery Crock seemed to be having trouble breathing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he blinked uncontrollably as he stared at the fortune he had just lost. “I’ve got nothin’ left, ye thievin’ barracuda! Ye cheatin’, lyin’ son of a whore! I’ll ’ave yer throat fer this!”
Crock’s henchmen gripped the hilt of their blades as their captain started to rise.
Blake heaved a weary sigh and raised his hand. “Sit down, Crock. Hear me out. I have a proposition.”
The old pirate, whose scaly skin resembled his name, swayed on his feet, gripped the edge of the table, and slumped back to his chair, uttering curses that would make a slattern blush.
One of his men drew a pistol. Before he could cock it and point it at Blake, both of Blake’s men drew their weapons and leveled them at Crock.
A few nearby patrons glanced their way in anticipation of a fight.
“The Ring around your neck.” Blake nodded toward the jewel. “Add it to the pot, and I’ll play you one more game. Winner takes all.”
A slow grin coiled the knave’s thin lips. “All?”
“Aye. You win, you get everything, including the Ring.”
Crock snorted. “I’ll play ye one more game, but I’m not puttin’ the Ring in.” He poured more rum into his glass.
“The Ring goes in, or I take my coins now and leave.”
Crock’s dirt-encrusted forehead wrinkled as he fingered the ancient jewel. “What’s got ye so fired up ’bout this Ring? It ain’t worth that much, save fer the gold it be made of. Don’t even know what these strange etchin’s and words mean.”
Blake grinned. “Let’s just say I collect artifacts.”
Slippery Crock snorted, wrinkling his over-sized nose as if he smelled something foul. “Why would ye give up so much fer a blasted piece o’ jewelry?”
One of the henchmen—the larger one who resembled a bull—hmphed. “We had nothin’ but bad luck since ye got that Ring, Cap’n. Get rid o’ it, says I.”
