Chapter Twelve
Twelve
I don’t sleep. My mind races all night, and when I finally can’t stand it anymore, I crawl out of my hiding spot and open the door as quietly as I can.
I am utterly exhausted and in desperate need of a soft bed.
I haven’t a clue what time it is; I really ought to inquire about purchasing a pocket watch at port.
The ship is quiet. But as I make my way up to the deck, feeling my way through the dark, I hear soft voices: the night crew, still working. It’s too early for me to be up here.
The light from the sliver of the crescent moon overhead casts an eerie glow over the Deliverance as I make my way across the deck to the captain’s cabin.
I am careful not to look too closely at the deck, lest there be any remnants of the bloodshed from this morning.
When I slip and catch myself on the railing of the quarterdeck steps, I tell myself it was soapy water and not blood that nearly sent me toppling.
One more step and I am in front of the stained-glass door to Sharpe’s cabin. For a moment I consider knocking, but change my mind and try the handle instead.
To my amazement, it’s unlocked.
I slip into the room as quietly as I can.
Once the door is closed behind me, it’s dead silent and pitch black inside.
The room smells of metal. Not the metallic odor of blood, but the distinctive tangy scent of coins.
Over that I detect the musk of old papers and the sulfuric scent of snuffed-out candles.
It’s a familiar smell, and it has somewhat of a calming effect on my frayed nerves.
I keep still for a few moments, holding my breath and willing my heart to shut up as I listen for any signs of wakefulness from Captain Sharpe, who is likely passed out in his elegant bed.
He doesn’t immediately swear at me or throw a dagger at my head, so I assume he hasn’t woken up.
I tiptoe across the room, knowing my way by heart.
When my outstretched fingers find the worn velvet of the settee in the middle of the room, my pulse eases and I exhale slowly.
I sit and slide my feet out of my shoes, just barely able to hold in the groan of relief as I stretch my toes.
I don’t care how angry he’ll be to find me sleeping on his settee; I’m exhausted and desperate for a cushion to lie on.
I get comfortable, pulling my shirt collar up to cover my face, since I have no blanket to snuggle into.
Seconds later the clink of glass on wood startles me awake.
“Ah, His Highness has woken,” Captain Sharpe purrs from beside me.
I sit up abruptly and do a quick scan of the room.
Somehow, in less than a minute, the sun has risen and is now shining brightly through the large windows along the gallery.
I squint into the light and turn to face Captain Sharpe, who is standing over me with his arms crossed, wearing an expression somewhere between vexed and amused.
“Good morning, Captain,” I mutter as I reach for the teacup on the table before me.
He snorts and sits beside me, shaking his head as he snatches up his own teacup. “I had the men looking for you half the night.”
“No you didn’t.”
His brows rise, and he stares at me over his cup. He’s most definitely annoyed.
“You would have found me in minutes if you’d asked the twins where I was.”
He’s silent a moment longer before he begins to laugh. He sips his tea and sets the cup down with a great imitation of a long-suffering sigh. “And where were you?”
“Hiding.”
He levels a look at me. “What are you doing on my settee?”
I frown into my tea. It has no sugar, and I am not a fan of tea without sugar. I dare not ask for it right now, though. “I was sleeping,” I point out. “Before you woke me up.”
He laughs again and rubs his hands over his face. “Kitten… that mouth of yours is going to get you killed one day.”
I grimace and set my tea down. Its bitterness does nothing to wash away the bad taste in my mouth from last night’s attack. “Yes, my father often tells me so.”
Again Captain Sharpe’s brows arch up. He watches me closely, and I try very hard not to stare back at him. “Why were you sleeping on my settee?”
“The bed was taken.”
I don’t know why I’m being such a colossal ass right now. Sneaking into his cabin was unwise. He’s being gracious by not knocking me on my ass.
I sigh and look up at him. “I didn’t know what else to do,” I confess pathetically. “I was afraid to go back to my hammock.”
He frowns, and I realize my error. I’ve insulted him. By admitting my fear in returning to my assigned bed, I’ve acknowledged that my opinion of the crew has changed. I’m not sure how to fix this, and when I open my mouth to try to correct myself, he holds up a hand and shakes his head.
“We’re the same people we were yesterday, Kitten.”
I grimace as I look up at him, torn between my own bias and the truth of how I’ve grown to love these men.
Are they truly the same? Doesn’t murder change a person?
Doesn’t thievery diminish a man? But then that damned nickname.
My body goes slack at the sound of it, and I want to cry.
From relief? From humiliation? I don’t know, but my breath hitches, and I cover my face with my hands to try to stop my emotions from bubbling over.
“Cook is serving breakfast now. Fresh eggs and fish. Go down and eat with the crew. Make it clear to them you aren’t a threat.”
“A threat?” I ask, my voice strangled as I look up at Captain Sharpe.
“Your wealth and social status make you a threat to our kind if you choose to be. You could turn on us when we reach the next British port.”
“But I—”
“Prove it.”
I swallow and get to my feet. “You can’t possibly believe I would turn on you like that.”
“I don’t,” Captain Sharpe says, his voice softening.
“But the men don’t know you as I do. I’ve watched you change over the last few months, Kitten.
I saw the moment you took off that stuffy cravat and loosened the top button of your shirt for the first time.
The moment you rolled up the sleeves of your expensive linen shirt.
The moment you left your jacket on the back of my desk chair and stepped out of this cabin in just your waistcoat, shirt, and breeches.
You may have been born a gentleman, but you’re becoming a seaman now. ”
His attentiveness both moves and terrifies me. I understand what he’s saying. I feel the truth of it in my bones: I’m no longer trapped under the scrutiny of high society. Here at sea, I’ve become free in a way I never knew possible.
But I don’t want to live the rest of my life at sea.
I don’t want to spend the next few years pillaging trade ships and killing British seamen.
I don’t want to die at the noose before I reach twenty-five, as so many men who choose this life do.
I wonder for a brief moment if Prince Henry would hang me.
I wonder if my father would intervene, or if he would attend my hanging with an alfresco meal and a cigar to celebrate.
“How long have you been at sea, Captain Sharpe?”
“Twelve years, six months, three weeks, and two days,” he says.
I’m startled by his answer. I stare at him, frowning. “How old are you?” I ask, suspicious now that Renard’s assumption was more accurate than I realized.
Sharpe smiles almost ruefully and picks up his teacup once more. “Three and twenty.”
So Renard wasn’t wrong. Sharpe was a mere child when he became a sailor. Eleven is so terribly young to live at sea like this. “Why—”
“Go eat, Kitten,” he says firmly. “When you finish, we have a great deal to add to the ledgers.”
With that, he stands, teacup in hand, and makes his way out of the cabin to have his tea in the fresh sea air, as he does every morning.
I am rarely up early enough to eat breakfast with the men, so I take my time changing into fresh clothes and wetting my hair with the pitcher of water beside the captain’s bed.
As I kneel in front of my trunk and sift through the silks inside, my fingers brush something I don’t recognize by touch. I pinch the thick paper and pull it out. My heart races as I find myself staring at the envelope I found in my father’s desk. The envelope with my name on it.
I brush my fingers over the lettering and slowly turn it over to stare at the wax seal on the back. For a moment I am tempted. I touch the seal, but something makes me hesitate.
It’s ridiculous, but I can’t bring myself to break the seal. Not yet. I don’t know what’s in here, but I do know I’m not yet ready to open it. I shake my head and drop the envelope back into the trunk. Even touching it sends chills running down my spine.
I choose my clothes deliberately: black trousers and a white shirt, with a silver brocade waistcoat.
It feels a bit like a costume, but I hope the sentiment will be clear to the crew.
Black is the color of mourning in high society, but the color of choice among pirates.
I haven’t a black shirt, so the rest will have to do.
They likely won’t even notice, but it is my armor, and it makes me feel better. I roll up my sleeves and leave my shirt collar open, because Captain Sharpe had a point about my loosening up in the last few months. And because it’s damned hot on the Caribbean Sea.
I smooth my dark, dampened waves back into a tiny queue at the base of my neck, tying a tight bow with my ribbon.
And then I am ready.
I make my way down to the galley and take a plate, far too aware of all the eyes on me as I gratefully choose a chunk of warm bread from the pile beside the fire. I glance up at Cook and nod without a word.
He goes very still, and then he begins to laugh.
I freeze, clinging to my plate, my cheeks turning to molten fire as everyone looks up, first at Cook, then at me. After a moment another man begins to laugh… and then another. Billy steps up beside me, laughing louder than the rest as he claps a hand onto my shoulder.