Chapter Sixteen #2
I don’t think—I just reach out to snatch the knob before the door can fully close. As quickly and silently as I can, I round the door and slip inside. The latch clicks shut, but no one pays it any mind.
No one but Captain Sharpe.
He looks right at me, and though his posture doesn’t change, the glint in his eyes most certainly does. He’s sitting casually in a chair by the back galley windows, with two officers facing him. They hold guns, but they aren’t trained on Sharpe. They are merely a reminder of who is in charge.
What the devil have I got myself into?
I have to trust that Renard and the twins will do whatever they can to prevent anyone from coming back inside.
Slowly I raise myself to my feet and pull the pistol out from the back of my waistband.
I can see the way Sharpe’s gaze locks on to the gun as he speaks in perfect French to the men standing before him.
“Comment trouvez-vous le climat aux Cara? bes?” he asks. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I hesitate for only a moment, then turn the gun in my hand so I’m gripping the barrel instead. I don’t know how to do anything but knock men out with it.
One of the men snorts. “Il fait chaud,” he snaps, as if he hates the heat of the Caribbean. I can’t blame him, in that stuffy uniform.
I step closer and raise the pistol. It’s a mistake. My palms are sweaty, and the barrel slips out of my hand. I fumble to catch it before it hits the floor, but in my panic I miss spectacularly, and the gun clatters to the planks with a deafening thud.
At once both men guarding Captain Sharpe swivel about. Before I can utter a word in my defense, one of them shouts, “Hé! Vous là-bas!” and they both raise their guns directly at me.
This is now the second time today I have had Frenchmen point their guns at me. This time I am significantly less indignant about it. I raise my hands to eye level and stumble back a step as my mind scrambles in search of some excuse.
Thankfully, at least one of us is competent. I didn’t even see Captain Sharpe get to his feet, but there is a sickening snapping noise, and the guard closest to him crumples to the floor. Sharpe smirks at me, a mischievous gleam in his eye that both terrifies and enthralls me.
The gun on me wheels about towards Sharpe, but he is ready for it. He grabs the barrel and yanks, knocking the Frenchman off balance. I realize I am, once again, being useless, and I thoughtlessly throw myself into the man’s back, grabbing him about the waist to tackle him to the floor.
He loses his grip on his weapon, and as I push myself onto my hands and knees over him, the butt of his gun comes slamming down into his temple. Twice. I grimace at the second blow, but before I have time to get to my feet, Sharpe grabs me by the collar as Renard had and yanks me up.
I’m getting a little sick of being treated like a rag doll.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks, sounding a little too incredulous for my liking.
“They forced me to play rugby at Eton,” I explain, smoothing out my trousers.
“You’re brave, Kitten—I’ll give you that,” he says as he thrusts me towards the door. I hear him toss the Frenchman’s gun to the floor, and as I glance back over my shoulder, I see him scoop up the gun I dropped instead.
The instant I push the door open, a hand darts out from nowhere and grabs a fistful of my hair. I cry out as I am dragged to the deck. Before I can haul myself back up, I am yanked once again to my feet by that hand in my hair. I yelp again and grab for the man’s wrist.
“Can you make up your mind?” I demand.
He turns me, hooking an arm around my throat as he pins me to his chest and drags me back a step. I am left facing Captain Sharpe and Tristan, feeling rather ridiculous.
Sharpe raises my gun to point it at the man holding me. Shit—I probably should have told him it isn’t loaded. “Release him and we won’t shed any more blood,” he says.
It is only then that I realize there is a pool of blood on the deck between us, and an officer lying face down in it. I look away quickly and try to wrench myself free. As I do, I hear the click of the trigger and wince.
“Kitten, you…!”
I don’t hear the rest of what is likely a string of curses from Captain Sharpe, for the man holding me suddenly lurches forward, and we both tumble to the deck. I yell—all right, scream—as I land mere inches from the pooling blood, kicking my legs until the Frenchman is off me.
Then Tristan is pulling me up, and I see that Trevor has tackled the Frenchman from behind.
Renard helps Trevor to his feet, then steps forward with a knife in his hand.
I realize he is about to kill the man, and I turn away—just in time to see the officer from this morning struggling to stand a few yards away.
He pulls a pistol from inside his uniform jacket, and I turn to shove Tristan just as the shot rings out.
Tristan hits the floor hard, but I am frozen in place, heart pounding.
I am only distantly aware of Trevor tackling the officer to the deck and hitting him repeatedly in the face as I stare down at the new hole in my shirtsleeve.
“Trevor, let’s go!” Renard yells as he steps past me to haul Tristan to his feet.
Sharpe’s hand clamps around my wrist, and he pulls me towards the stairs to the poop deck. “Trevor, now!” he shouts. The whole ship has surely heard that shot. I glance behind me, relieved to see that Trevor has obeyed and is running towards us.
He follows Sharpe and me up the stairs, where Tristan and Renard are already standing beside the grappling hook and the bloodstain from tonight’s first kill. I want to vomit, but my stomach is so knotted, I can hardly even inhale.
Sharpe releases my wrist as he peeks over the side, down to the skiff. He takes one look at the rope, and then my face, and shakes his head with a silent chuckle. What is it about this man that makes me feel so seen? Even when I don’t want it?
He pushes my pistol into the front of his trousers—damn you, Tydes—and mounts the rope, then hoists me over his shoulder without warning.
A second later we are dangling over the ocean, and I fear I might faint from the rush of terror.
I grip the back of Sharpe’s jacket as he lowers us, far too fast, down towards the fathomless ocean below.
And then I am on my back on the floor of the skiff, panting as my blood rushes and my head spins.
Sharpe is grinning as he takes a seat behind my head, staring down at me. “Well, well—the kitten has claws after all,” he says, and that’s the last thing I hear before, humiliating as it may be to admit, I faint.
Some hours later I wake once again in Captain Sharpe’s bed—but this time my trousers are, blessedly, still on, and the ship is not being blown to smithereens.
I slide out from under the bedclothes and smooth the wrinkles in my shirt as best I can.
I freeze at the sight of the bullet hole in my left sleeve, and my heart does a strange little skitter as I recall how close Tristan and I were to being shot last night.
I’m still staring at the fraying hole when Captain Sharpe’s smooth baritone startles me from my thoughts.
“You’re awake.”
“Very observant.”
“Are we going to be bitchy now?”
I turn to him. He’s sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair with booted feet up on the desktop. He has a glass of port in one hand, and his brow is arched as he stares right back at me.
My own brow twitches, but so does the corner of my mouth, and a moment later we are both laughing.
I push thoughts of nearly dying aside and make my way over to his desk in my stocking feet. “How long was I out?”
“A few hours. I told the men you were indisposed. They have… questions.”
I’m sure they do. “And you?” I ask.
He takes his feet off the desk and leans forward to rest his elbows against it instead as he stares at me.
“A million. I’m especially curious about your reckless decision to rescue me off a French frigate.
” I have questions of my own, but they can wait.
Despite his words, his relaxed demeanor means most of them are already answered.
He smirks and sits back. “Is there any danger of your father chasing after you?”
I frown as I consider what he’s asked me. Part of me doubts my father would care enough to come after me, but then, I am his son and heir. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.
Sharpe frowns and reaches up to run his fingers over his beard. “That’s a problem, Kitten.”
“No one knows I’m aboard this ship.”
“Except for Captain LaBarre and his men.”
“Who?”
Captain Sharpe gives me a pointed look and waits. When I do nothing but stare back at him, he sighs and shakes his head. “The French gentleman you dressed down on the deck of my ship yesterday.”
“Oh, him,” I say with a chuckle.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny.”
“I do. He was an utter ass. And he nearly shot me!”
“Kitten,” Sharpe says, and I hate how serious his tone is. “If word gets back to your father that his heir is on my ship, how can I be sure he won’t send the English navy after me? We did kill a few of LaBarre’s men.”
“My father doesn’t have nearly as much pull as I made him out to have,” I insist. “And I’m sure his replacement son has been born by now, so I doubt he’ll be much concerned that his heir is on a pirate ship when his spare is safe at home.” I’m not sure what to say about the men they—er, we—killed.
Captain Sharpe clearly wants to argue, but after a moment he concedes my point and stands. He looks like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. We stare at each other for a few moments, and I can tell by his expression that he’s seeing me again. “Are you all right?”
I tense up. I wasn’t expecting that question, but now everything from the night before comes rushing back, and I am dizzy from the memory of it. I’d rather not think about it. I’d rather lock it away in a box inside my head and focus instead on what to do about the crew knowing my true identity.