The night is too bluidy still.

As James MacArron boarded the blockade runner Abigail Lee, the relentless quiet set his senses on full alert. He scanned the deck. The privateer had earned a reputation for a cool, logical head and a warrior’s instincts at the helm of a ship. Under his command, the Highland Sorceress had outrun and captured dozens of the swiftest blockade runners ever built, seizing cargo and collecting bounties as he made his fortune.

This mission to confiscate the munitions smuggled in the hold of the blockade runner and ensure the arms never reached the port at Charleston was like so many others. Commandeer the vessel. Take control of its cargo. Claim the bounty offered by the secretive agent who claimed to represent the highest echelons of Lincoln’s government.

What the hell was in the air tonight? An unspoken warning set his back teeth on edge. His instincts had never betrayed him.

So far, every aspect of the mission had gone to plan. As always, the element of surprise had worked to their advantage. The first of his crew to board had made short work of the watchmen. The sight of the deadly sharp cutlass and revolver wielded by each of MacArron’s crew was enough to compel most of the young, green sailors to surrender. This night was no different. Only one foolhardy lieutenant had dared to challenge the raiding party, but faced with a pistol to the forehead, he’d quickly rethought his position on the matter.

Still, the sense of unease would not leave him in peace. Jamie marched over the deck, his boot heels thudding against the worn wood. He held his knife at the ready, drawing an intangible strength from the feel of the dirk’s worn hilt. Centuries earlier, his ancestor Shaw MacDougall, the notorious captain of the Savage of the Sea, had carried the weapon in battle. The knife had been passed down through generations of men with MacDougall blood flowing in their veins.

Jamie’s first mate had taken the wheel of the Abigail Lee while the blockade runner’s crewman lay hogtied and gagged, muffled curses spewing around the strip of cloth in his mouth. If the bastard had any sense, he’d thank God Jamie preferred to take control of a ship with little bloodshed. Capturing the cargo was an act of strategy. Violence was necessary, but one did not need to behave like a barbarian. Over time, he’d learned fear was as effective a weapon as a gun.

Below deck, his men had set about ensuring the surrender of the rest of the crew. They’d tow the captured ship to a nearby island where the cache would be off-loaded onto a military frigate and the sailors would be released to wreak havoc another day.

“Captain, we’ve found somethin’…ye’ll want t’see this,” Lieutenant Wilson called from the hatch leading to the hold. “I’m bringin’ it up.”

The ruddy-faced lieutenant rushed up the stairs. He extended his find to Jamie. The broadsword gleamed beneath the light of a single oil lamp. Its hilt was thick and unadorned, save for a blood-red ruby embedded in the metal.

“Good God, what the hell did ye find?” Jamie studied the weapon in Wilson’s hands. What in blazes? From the looks of it, the sword was very old, an antiquity possessing a value far beyond the jewel in its hilt. Could it be the Bloodhead Sword—a legendary weapon said to have been carried in battle by Robert the Bruce?

Without warning, the young lieutenant let out a cry of misery. Clutching at his chest, his eyes wild with terror and pain, Wilson gasped as he took a step toward Jamie.

The sword fell from Wilson’s limp hands. He pitched forward. Collapsed.

The ship’s captain emerged from the shadows behind the wounded officer, his pale gaze strangely calm.

A streak of light filled Jamie’s senses. A dagger’s razor-sharp blade sliced through his flesh. The rush of agony nearly brought him to his knees. He brushed his hand against his face, swiping away blinding streams of blood.

“Keep your filthy hands off of it.” Captain Lachland’s words dripped with venom. “You don’t know what you have.”

Jamie dodged another slash of the knife. Then another. He curled his hand around the hilt of his dirk. Through the fog of pain and blood, he aimed his strike.

The blade plunged into Lachland’s chest.

The captain’s eyes went wide. His fingers splayed against his chest, as if he might stem the flow of blood from the heart wound.

As Albert Lachland’s head tipped forward, he uttered his final words.

“My kin will have their revenge.”