Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Four months.
Four months I have lived on this ship… and yet I am absolutely flabbergasted.
Flummoxed even. I am downright confounded, and perhaps if I sit here in my hiding spot and continue to go through the entire list of synonyms in my head, I will not have to process the humiliating and terrifying truth of Captain Sharpe’s words.
Pirates.
PIRATES.
I have somehow accidentally become a pirate! I’m not sure if I am afraid or just mortified. These men have become like a family to me over the last few months, and though I always knew they were a bit rough around the edges, I never once pegged them as bloodthirsty criminals!
Is my life now in danger? Or merely my pride?
This will likely go one of two ways: They will reveal some calculated plot to ransom me back to my awful family, or they will mock me relentlessly for my sheer stupidity.
I keep thinking back to Renard’s face when I told him that I had chosen the Deliverance out of convenience.
He has known from the start what an absolute boob I am.
I look up at the sound of gunfire overhead.
When Captain Sharpe told me to get out of sight, I ran below with the intention of hiding in the hold—but the sound of a cannon, and the reverberating jolt of the shot, send me scurrying behind the stairs to the officers’ quarters.
There is nowhere to hide in the open layout of the fo’c’sle.
I try the door to the officers’ salon first but find it locked.
As are the next two doors. It is the door to Renard’s quarters that finally gives way.
I stumble into the room, slam the door behind me, and shove a chair under the handle.
It will do nothing to keep out an aggressor who truly wants to get in, so stuffing it there was unnecessary.
Even if it would keep an aggressor out, I realize with a small pang of guilt that there is no aggressor after me.
Captain Sharpe told me to hide; if he meant to hurt me, he wouldn’t have made such an effort.
Or he wants me to hide so whoever is on that ship doesn’t know he has a future viscount held captive!
No, I am being ridiculous. I glance around the dimly lit room.
I’ve been in here once or twice before, sharing a drink with a few of the men, but being in here alone feels like a huge overstep.
Still, I can’t bring myself to go back out into the open just yet, so I sit on the edge of Renard’s bed and cover my ears to block out the sound of guns and shouting.
Captain Sharpe has no idea I am an almost-viscount.
He knows I’m a rich nobleman who is running away from my problems, nothing more.
Though he has teased me here and there about being secretive, he has never once truly asked me why I boarded his ship.
He either doesn’t care or is the sort of man who believes everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.
Which isn’t very pirate-like, really, if you think about it.
Nothing about Captain Sharpe is pirate-like, in fact.
He is intelligent and well mannered. He wears clothes fine enough that he could almost pass for a gentleman, and he carries himself with elegance.
Is this a snobbish thing to think? Or is it snobbish only if I mean it in a bad way?
Admittedly, my knowledge of pirates is limited to rumors spread by the kin of sailors.
If Captain Sharpe said not to come out, no matter what I hear, how will I know when to come out? Am I to sit down here for the remainder of our voyage? Surely Renard will want his bed back at some point. I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased to find me in here to begin with.
I jump at the sound of a particularly shrill scream and raise my eyes to the ceiling once more, as if it might offer some insight as to the happenings on deck.
Shockingly, it does not. In fact, I can barely see it in the dim light offered by the one measly porthole over Renard’s bed.
Not only is it useless in lighting the room, but the porthole is on the side facing away from the other ship, so I can’t even look through it to see what’s happening.
Although I am not sure I really want to.
The moment the thought crosses my mind, a body plummets down directly in front of the porthole. I swear I saw a sword run straight through the man’s stomach—but was it one of their men or ours?
A wave of nausea hits me as forcefully as I imagine that man’s body hit the water. What am I doing here? I could be drinking at a party, or at home eating a fine dinner beside my pregnant wife—ah, yes. That’s why I am here.
In truth, my time on board the Deliverance has allowed me to reflect further on poor Katherine Stuart—and though I did wrong her by jilting her on her wedding day, I still believe I did her a service by not allowing her to marry a confirmed bachelor.
It’s not her fault she was partnered with the absolute worst human in England; I just cannot be a married man.
The thought of being tied down in such a way terrifies me, and to be trapped in a loveless marriage after being raised in a loveless home is far too terrible to consider.
But… am I better off here, cowering away from the violence on deck? Thinking about my dubious life choices and moral failings in this moment is giving me a headache.
Or perhaps it’s the guns and screaming.
Either way, my head is starting to pound and nausea roils at my insides.
I lie on my side and pull my legs close to my chest, then grab the lumpy monstrosity Renard calls a pillow—truly, why does he still have this after all my efforts on the Canaries?
—and jam it over my head to muffle the sounds of gunshots and screaming men.
Miraculously, it helps. The battle on deck is muffled into occasional soft booms and distant cries.
It does nothing to dull the shudder of the Deliverance with each cannon blast, however.
The smell of gunpowder is overpowering, even here in Renard’s quarters.
It almost entirely masks the smell of body odor and liquor that usually lingers.
I close my eyes and try to tune it out. I don’t want to think about how many of my friends are dying up on deck while I cower down here in the dark.
Before I know it, I am startled out of my thoughts by a bang on the door.
“Damn it, Kit!” Renard grunts through the one-inch opening he’s managed. I sit up and slide off the bed, but then stop myself before pulling the chair out of the way.
“What do you want?” I demand. Bold of me, considering I am in his room.
“Ta go ta fuckin’ bed,” Renard replies, sounding irritable. “An’ ta have a drink. Open the door!”
I shouldn’t. Captain Sharpe told me not to. “Captain—”
“He said ta find ye—open the door an’ stop bein’ a wee shit.”
I let out a puff of air and cross my arms. He’s probably telling the truth. In any case, if he wanted to hurt me, he could simply kick the door down.
“I didn’t know you were pirates…”
“Oh, I ken,” Renard says, and now he sounds amused. I can see him smirking through the slightly open door.
That familiar mocking expression on his handsome face is enough to calm my nerves somewhat.
Or at least to annoy me enough that I forget I am meant to be afraid.
I step over to the door and push it closed, then tug the chair out from under the knob.
I slide it back under his small desk and open the door fully.
“You could have told me.”
Renard gives an unfriendly laugh and steps into his room.
I should be grateful that he doesn’t reprimand me, but I am instantly overwhelmed by the sight of blood splattered across his shirt and throat.
The nausea comes roiling back with a force.
He seems uninjured, but I’m not sure if that’s better or worse—that it’s someone else’s blood.
“I coulda,” Renard agrees. “Fer an educated lad, yer no’ all that bright, are ye? ”
I should be offended. I am a little offended, but he’s also painfully correct, and I can’t say anything to argue with him. And I am still terribly unnerved by the blood covering his front. So instead I just huff and roll my eyes as I step out of his room.
I make my way back towards the fo’c’sle slowly, keeping my head down and trying to remain out of sight. I’m still not sure whether I’m afraid or embarrassed. As I round the corner and make it to the doorway, one of the crew grabs me by the shoulder. Rodriguez.
“Where’d you go off to, lordling?” he asks, shoving a mug of ale into my hands. “You missed all the fun!”
We’ve got on just fine since the Canaries, but the use of “lordling” instead of the usual “Mr. Kit” has me a little on edge. Is he drunk, or angry with me? Or both?
His mood seems strange, and he smells of metal. I lower my eyes, and the sight of blood on his shirt too sends my queasy stomach roiling once again. Is it his blood or the blood of some innocent merchant?
And what does it say about me that I hope it’s the latter?
I exhale sharply through my nose and swallow the bile in my throat as I turn my eyes away. “I had to hide the ledgers.”
He laughs and slaps my shoulder a few times, then takes the mug of ale back to drink half of it himself.
I can see bottles and mugs being passed around generously between hammocks.
The men are getting rowdy drunk in some kind of celebration, and I think it would be wise for me to stay out of the way.
I slip free from his grasp and duck under his drinking arm to flee towards the stairs.
I struggle for a moment with the decision: up or down?
I feel ridiculous. The sight of boots on the stairs makes my choice for me.
I hurry down and make my way towards the hold.
The hold is familiar; I spend many days down there taking stock of the inventory with the twins.
When I finally reach the hold and slam the door behind me, I am met at last with blissful quiet.
The sound of water moving against the walls drowns out the drunken celebration and revelations that have me so rattled.
I should be out there drinking and celebrating too…
shouldn’t I? I love getting drunk and having a grand time, but my nerves are shot.
And anyway, I’m not so sure I can stomach a celebration after watching a man fall to his death.
Even the recollection sends a wave of nausea through me.
I slide between the stacks of crates to a space only the twins and I know about.
I found it one day by accident, and Tristan confessed that he and Trevor set up the crates this way so they could sneak down to nap during the day sometimes.
There is a blanket on the floor and a makeshift pillow made of a few rags folded together.
Right now I am more grateful than ever for the twins and their lazy cleverness.
I sink down into the small space and lean back against one of the crates.
The hold smells of fermenting fruit, which means there is likely a crate of produce somewhere we didn’t account for.
I don’t mind the scent; it could almost pass for wine.
Almost.
I will sleep here for a little while, and when the men have drunk themselves into oblivion, I will sneak out on deck and find Captain Sharpe.
We reach port in just a few days. I will get off the ship then and find another one to take me back to Europe.
Not to England. But I could see myself bashing around Paris for a few months.
And this time I will make sure the ship I choose is not full of pirates.
Even though I would miss the tentative brotherhood blossoming between the twins and myself…
Though perhaps not as much as I would miss the sound of that rumbling baritone muttering “Kitten” with barely contained exasperation.