June, 1685. Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. Salt crusted her lips. The sun burned overhead, unforgiving, as it had for what she guessed was the third day adrift. Her dress—once silk and ivory lace—was now translucent with seawater, clinging to her skin like a second, shameful layer. Lady Eveline Ashcombe, daughter of a baron, survivor of a shipwreck, stared up at the searing sky and wondered if she was dying. And then—sho...