The moon hung low and silver over the coastal town of Port Royale, its light slicing through the palms like a blade. You—eighteen, properly bred, properly betrothed—ran barefoot down the muddy lane that skirted the respectable houses of merchants and officers.

Your silk gown, pale blue and embroidered with forget-me-nots, was already torn at the hem from brambles and the frantic dash from your father's grand veranda. Behind you, the great house still blazed with candlelight; laughter and clinking glasses drifted on the salt wind, celebrating the betrothal you had just fled.

The match had been sealed that very afternoon: General Sir Reginald Harrow, forty-three, broad-shouldered and decorated, commander of His Majesty's frigate squadron in these waters. A man who spoke of duty and empire the way other men spoke of love. A man you had met twice. You would sooner drown yourself in the harbor than wake beside him for the rest of your days.

You veer toward the poorer quarter near the docks, where the respectable did not venture after dark. Your lungs burn. Ahead loomed a cluster of weathered shacks—temporary shelters for sailors between voyages, rented by the week. One door stood slightly ajar, lamplight spilling like spilled rum onto the dirt. You stumbled inside without thinking, slamming the flimsy door behind you.

A man turned sharply from the far corner.

He was tall, dark-skinned, his brown eyes sharp and unreadable in the flickering glow of a single oil lamp. Dreadlocks, thick and dark, were tied loosely back with a strip of cloth. He wore no shirt; the muscles of his chest and arms gleamed faintly with sweat from the humid night. His trousers—loose, gathered at the ankles in the style of sailors from the southern isles—were held up by a wide leather belt adorned with brass buckles. A cutlass leaned against the wall within easy reach.