Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
It’s well past noon—I can tell by the position of the sun as I burst through the doors of the captain’s cabin and march out on deck like I own the place. In fact, I think it may be quite late. I’m a little alarmed Captain Sharpe let me sleep for so long.
“How dare you board my vessel? Have you the slightest inkling of who I am?” I demand.
Seven guns seem a tad much to be aimed at one person—especially when that person is me. I appear to have startled the men who boarded us. I stare down the barrels pointed at me in the silence following my outburst, ignoring the itch of Captain Sharpe’s gaze boring into the back of my skull.
They are most definitely French; I can see that now as I stand mere feet from them.
French is good—they are less likely to know my father but will still understand the importance of his title.
I look from man to man, trying to maintain my air of haughty disgust and infuse it with a hint of aristocratic rage.
Finally, I lock gazes with an officer, turning to him and raising one brow expectantly.
“Eh bien?” I demand. I hope my French isn’t rusty—I want them to be intimidated. “Vous, monsieur! Je suis Christopher-Henry Davenport, fils du vicomte de Falmouth. Vous perturbez mon voyage!”
He seems unmoved by my complaints.
“Is my French not clear enough?” I demand when he doesn’t respond.
“You are disrupting my tour! If my father, the viscount, hears how the French navy boarded the vessel he carefully procured, then bullied his only son and heir, he will bring his complaints to the Prince of Wales himself!” I slide my father’s ring off my first finger and hold it out to him as proof of my identity.
This gets some reaction. The guns trained on me slacken, and the men turn their gazes to their officer, who is glaring at me now. I am grateful to past Kit for having the sense to steal this ring off my father’s desk months ago.
“Your French is perfect, Master Davenport.” That’s something no one has ever accused me of before. “You must forgive me…” He steps forward to see the ring, and I take advantage of the pause in his speech to interject.
“Must I?”
I’m sure he winces, but he recovers from it well.
He stops a few feet from me and takes my ring.
His frown deepens, but when he hands the ring back, all seven guns drop to the men’s sides.
“You must forgive me,” he repeats carefully.
“We were not made aware of an official tour. We have only just begun a parley with your captain. You are on the king’s business, then? ”
I scoff and slide the ring carefully back onto my finger, because I need time to come up with a response.
I hadn’t realized we were in the midst of a parley.
I do hope I haven’t muffed it up. Captain Sharpe moves into my periphery, and I take a mere second to glance his way.
He’s crossed his arms and is looking like he wants to throttle me and kiss me at the same time.
“I’m on no one’s business but my own,” I say with a sneer.
“I am nobility, not an errand boy. This tour was meant to be my last hurrah after Eton, before settling into married life. Surely you are familiar with the concept of a tour? Or can your nobility not afford such standard luxuries? Perhaps young Frenchmen must settle for a measly prenuptial feast at home?”
The officer is offended now. I can tell by the way his brow twitches and his fist clenches. He wants to punch me. Good. I’d prefer to annoy him into letting us alone, as this half-baked “plan” of mine certainly doesn’t hold any water.
“Shall I fetch my papers as well?” I ask, turning back towards the captain’s cabin to remind him of where I emerged. Why else would I be sleeping in the captain’s cabin, were I not the person in charge on this ship?
Why else, indeed.
“Non, monsieur, that will not be necessary,” he says, exasperation clear. “Your crest is proof enough.”
I face him and lift my chin again. All this moving around is starting to make me queasy. “You have disturbed my crew.” I glance around at the men, and—good God—I hope I hide my alarm well enough. What the hell are they dressed as?
Renard is wearing a suit I can tell isn’t the best quality, but it’s still strange to see him looking so sharp.
Billy stands beside him in some sort of ill-fitting livery.
What on earth? I even glimpse someone in a dress.
Who is that? “A-and my guests,” I stammer, hoping he doesn’t notice how my voice cracks.
He has no answer. Thank Christ. I watch as he takes a steadying breath, continuing on before he can speak.
“If you disembark immediately and leave us be, I may not press charges upon my return home.”
“Press charges? Mons—”
“The Prince of Wales is my fiancée’s godfather, monsieur,” I snap at him.
I can hear men murmuring behind me. I didn’t want to give so much away, but I need these Frenchmen off this ship before my charade falls apart.
And before I retch up the food and wine going sour in my belly.
“Do you think he would take kindly to the French navy shooting at his goddaughter’s future husband?
It sounds like a declaration of war to me. ”
“W-war? Monsieur,” he splutters. “Please be—”
“If you are about to ask me to be reasonable, I suggest you hold your tongue and return to your ship. I may not be armed, but my captain is, and I am not above having him shoot you in the kneecap if you annoy me further.”
He clamps his mouth shut, and Captain Sharpe’s laugh from behind me nearly makes me lose my cool.
I cross my arms to keep from laughing myself—or from falling over, whichever comes first—and the officer glowers at us both.
At first I think he will not leave. My stomach twists in my gut as I stare at him, trying to look annoyed and unafraid.
By some miracle, he seems irritated enough by my behavior to give up his persecution of the crew. He shouts a few orders in French, and his men fall in line beside him. I keep my arms crossed, my brow raised menacingly, as I watch them caucus.
Before the officer leaves, he turns his gaze upon me once more and offers me an unfriendly smile. “Very well, my lord,” he says. His accent is truly grating on my nerves. “We will escort you to port, to prevent any further molestation to your vessel.”
The entire crew seems to tense up. Or is it just me? I squint and frown. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, no—I must insist. The son of an English viscount? I could not possibly let anything happen to you. I will leave two of my men in your service for the remainder of the voyage. You are heading for Cap-Francais on Saint Domingue, are you not?”
I’m about to ask, Are we? when Captain Sharpe steps forward to stand beside me. “Yes, as I told you before his lordship joined us on deck.”
I do my best not to appear surprised by this information. I’m truly beginning to regret stepping out on deck at all. What will we do if these Frenchmen remain on the Deliverance? Surely, we’ll all be killed.
“It is settled, then,” the French officer says. He motions to two of his men, giving them their instructions in French as I turn towards Captain Sharpe.
Without moving his head, he glances back to the cabin door with one raised brow, as if to dismiss me.
I take the hint. “I’m going inside,” I announce, trying to sound petulant. (I’m fairly good at that.) “It’s far too hot out here in the sun.”
“I am sure we will meet again, Master Davenport,” the French officer sneers.
I keep my expression carefully neutral as Sharpe and his men stare at me, dumbfounded. Then I return the officer’s sneer with one of my own, not bothering to hide my irritation as I march back towards the captain’s cabin.
I could do this. I could be a pirate—a real one. With this small victory, I feel a little invincible. Something I almost recognize as hubris wells up in my chest as I cross the deck.
But like Icarus and his waxen wings, I can feel the intoxicating thrill from my little performance fading as I near the cabin door, and my heart is pounding against my ribs loudly enough to drown out whatever Captain Sharpe says as I walk away.
I slam the door behind me as he volleys with the French officer. I don’t even hear him enter the cabin, for I am in a full panic now. Maybe I’m not as cut out for this as I hoped. My heart may just break through my rib cage at this point. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
Then, all at once, he is grasping my shoulders and hauling me back to my feet. I hadn’t even realized I was on the floor.
“Kitten.” Captain Sharpe’s voice is soft against the back of my ear. “Breathe. We’re all right. It was nicely done.”
If I could breathe, I would. But as I try to take control of my breathing, last night’s bad decisions come bubbling back up into my throat and I promptly vomit on the floor—and Captain Sharpe’s boots.