Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
My lungs burn with the exertion of running.
Accidental pirate or not, I was still bred a gentleman, and we are simply not built for activities like running for our lives on cobblestone in heels.
I don’t even know where it is I’m running to.
I’ve entirely forgotten the name of the inn where I was meant to meet Captain Sharpe, and I’m not brave enough to slow down so I might read the street signs.
The port isn’t that big. If I run long enough, surely someone who knows me will come to my rescue.
Despite my hoping for exactly this, when a hand does shoot out of the crowd to grab at the back of my jacket, I can’t help but scream.
I try to wrench away, but another hand covers my mouth, and moments later I am dragged off the street and into a tight alley that smells of piss.
I flail my arms to fight my assailant off—it is just too much to be attacked like this on the very same day I’ve nearly witnessed a murder!
“Mr. Kit!” a familiar voice hisses in my ear, just as the back of my hand makes contact with a face. I stiffen and open my eyes. The alley is shadowed by the buildings; even now in the afternoon light, it is hard to see who stands in front of me.
The red hair is a giveaway, though, and heat floods into my cheeks and chest. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. Christ—have I ever blurted before?
“What’s happened?” Trevor asks, even as he’s rubbing his jaw. A little dramatic—I know I didn’t hit him that hard.
“Mr. Kit, yer covered in blood,” Tristan says from behind me, releasing me to put some distance between himself and my blood-soaked clothes.
I can’t answer. My chest is heaving, my head spinning.
I try to explain, but instead I am just spluttering and humiliating myself as tears come pouring down my cheeks all at once.
I am so relieved it’s the twins who found me.
While I am sure they will tease me later for crying in public, they won’t do it in front of the other men.
“Trevor, find the cap’n,” Tristan says, pulling my jacket off my shoulders.
Trevor stares at me for a moment, then nods and flees from the alley.
“My clothes are ruined,” I sob, because I can’t bring myself to talk about Jeffrey Reuter’s body and the blood pooling beneath it. I want to erase the image of his hollow, terrified eyes as they stared through me.
“Come on, let’s get ye out of sight,” Tristan says. I hear the rustle of fabric as he pulls my purse from the jacket pocket. Then he abandons my best jacket in a puddle of what I am certain is urine. “What do you have in here, rocks?” he grumbles.
“Yes,” I whimper—and, bless Tristan, he laughs.
I am not quite far enough along in my life as a pirate to laugh in a situation like this.
I’m not sure I ever want to be that far along…
though at the same time, I wouldn’t mind having the ability to find the humor in this moment.
As it is, I am struggling just to think over the pounding of my pulse in my ears and the ache in my chest.
I try to control my breathing as Tristan hauls me through a door at the back of the alley.
“You, lad,” I hear Tristan say, and some inner voice allows me to recognize the irony of sixteen-year-old Tristan calling anyone “lad.” But then a boy of about twelve approaches us, his brows high as he stares at me.
I can’t tell if it’s the blood or my wretched crying that has him so horrified, but either way, I suppose he is right to be so.
“I need a room,” Tristan says, digging into the purse to pull out a few coins. He drops them into the boy’s hand. “There’s an extra shilling in there for ye if ye tell no one that doesn’t look like me.”
Clever. Tristan is so clever when he wants to be. If I weren’t still trembling from shock, I might praise his quick thinking. As it is, all I want is to be safe behind a locked door and to get out of these bloody clothes.
Moments later I get my first wish.
The bolt sliding into place is exactly what my heart needs. I grab on to the back of a chair in the middle of the room and hunch over, still panting. The room is spinning, and I don’t want to be sick.
Tristan wisely says nothing. He just gives me space and waits by the door. But he doesn’t have to; as my body recognizes I am safe, my mind automatically slips back to the horrible thing I just saw. I can’t stop it. I let out a strangled sort of sob and turn to find a bedpan.
It’s nearby, thank Christ. I drop onto my knees beside it, and then every last bite of the lunch I ate less than an hour ago empties from my stomach.
Captain Sharpe arrives sometime while I am retching into the bedpan.
I can hear him and Tristan whispering behind me each time I manage to stop long enough to breathe.
Then I am hauled to my feet once more, but I recognize Sharpe’s hands, so I don’t fight him.
I turn towards him instead and, God help me, I bury my face in his shoulder.
“What happened?” he asks. His voice is quiet.
I hear the click of the door as Tristan leaves us.
At some point one of them shuttered the windows and lit the sconces on the wall and the taper on the bedside table.
The room has an eerie, flickering glow to it, casting haunting shadows on the walls around us.
“I don’t know.” I’m amazed the words come out without too much shaking. Sharpe is breathing slowly and deeply, and my body responds. My pulse seems to slow and my breathing evens out, like his. I am safe. I am safe, and he will know what to do. “He was dead when I got there.”
Captain Sharpe’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows down the implication of what I’ve said. “How?”
I lift my head. He’s staring at the dingy wall, not at me. Somehow that’s a relief. I don’t think I could maintain eye contact while talking about this. “Someone slit his throat.” I can’t bring myself to say it any louder than a whisper. “He… he was still warm.”
Sharpe’s arms tighten around me. He narrows his eyes, and the set of his jaw goes rigid. Finally he looks down at me. “You weren’t hurt?”
I shake my head, because I can’t answer that question out loud without crying again, and I don’t want to appear any more ridiculous in front of Captain Sharpe. Not unless I’m doing it on purpose.
He nods as he studies my face in the dim candlelight, as if to confirm that I’m truly not hurt. “I shouldn’t have sent you alone.”
“I’m all right,” I manage to whisper.
“You were smart to run,” he says, as if he thinks I need to hear that.
But I know I was smart to run. I don’t feel foolish or guilty for running.
I nod in agreement, and he heaves a great sigh.
“We’ll wait here until dark, and then I’m bringing you back to the Deliverance.
Too many people saw you for you to remain here at port. ”
I hadn’t thought of that. My eyes widen. “I won’t be suspected of his murder, surely.”
“You’ll likely be the only suspect, Kitten,” Sharpe says with a frown. Then he lifts one hand to brush my hair off my forehead. It’s a strange gesture. It disarms me. No one has ever touched me quite like that before.
I pull away from him, but I try to make it look like it’s because I want to tie my hair back, not because his tenderness is terrifying me. I smooth some strands away, only to stop and release it with a little gag. “It’s in my hair.”
“I already sent Tristan down for a pitcher and basin.”
Thank the good Lord in heaven for Captain Sharpe. I offer him a dramatic sigh of relief in response and am rewarded with the soft rumble of a reluctant chuckle. “When he comes back up, I’ll leave you to wash and find you something to wear.”
I don’t want him to leave me alone, but I nod anyway. I can’t imagine that asking him to stay while I bathe would be anywhere near the realm of appropriate. “Thank you, Captain Sharpe.”
“You certainly keep me on my toes, Kitten,” Sharpe says. There is a tap on the door, and he opens it just enough to peek out, then all the way to let Tristan inside. “Keep him out of trouble, Tristan.”
Tristan smirks, as if he knows he’s capable of doing no such thing. “Aye, Cap’n,” he says to the closing door, before he sets the pitcher and basin down on the table.
The water is steaming, even in the Jamaican heat.
I could kiss Tristan for that. I slide out of my ruined waistcoat and drop it onto the floor.
Then I peel my shirt away from my skin, tugging it over my head, and drop it into the pile with my waistcoat.
The blood has dried by now, and the sensation of it on my skin makes me shudder.
“You’re a saint,” I say to Tristan as I step over to the table and lift the pitcher out of the basin.
I pour some water into the bowl and set the pitcher down, then begin the work of cleaning my hands and arms.
“No one’s ever called me that before,” Tristan muses, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
I wash as quickly and thoroughly as possible with the limited water I have. Back home, I could have a hot bath drawn for me in the large wooden basin by my fireplace. I could soak in water scented with rose oil or cinnamon.
I try not to think about this as I splash the last of the water into my hair for another rinse.
I comb my fingers through it, pleased to find it free of blood, if not free of tangles.
I work the worst of them loose with my fingers and squeeze the water out.
With no ribbon to tie it back, I must leave my hair loose around my ears and neck.
I must look positively rakish—shirtless and wet, with my hair overgrown and loose.
I am suddenly very aware of my body, and of Tristan’s presence, in a way that didn’t occur to me when I was caked in blood and desperate to be clean. I turn to him and cross my arms—which is ridiculous, I know.
Tristan’s brows rise, then he stands and tugs the blanket off the bed, offering it to me.