Chapter Twenty-One #2
I accept it, despite the heat of the room. The water on my skin has cooled me enough that I don’t mind wrapping the blanket around myself, and I decide to push off my stockings and trousers, too. I sit beside Tristan on the bed, wrapped in the dark, worn quilt, too exhausted to stand any longer.
He says nothing to me, and I say nothing back.
We sit there for a while in silence, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
It might even have been companionable, were it not for the weight of what I saw pulling at me.
A chill prickles along my spine, spreading gooseflesh down my arms and thighs.
I shiver and hug the quilt closer to me.
The longer we sit, the less in focus the room around me becomes. I am aware of my steady breathing, and the constant shift of Tristan beside me, but nothing else. I try to focus on my body, but the blood is draining from my extremities, leaving them cold, stiff, and cramped.
By the time I come back to myself, Tristan is absent—as are my bloody clothes.
I am alone in the room with Captain Sharpe, who sits in a wingback chair at the center of the room with his jacket off and his shirt open, a pint of ale in one hand.
I must make some small sound, for he turns my way and is on his feet the moment our gazes meet.
“You’re awake.”
“Was I asleep?” I ask. My throat hurts.
Sharpe shakes his head and pushes the pint into my hand. “You were…” he trails off, as if unsure how to answer. “Here. Drink this. We need to get you to the ship while we still have the cover of dark. There’s a shirt, trousers, and shoes for you to wear.” He points to the second chair.
I drink the ale without questioning him, then hand it back with a few sips left. He hesitates but takes it and finishes it off in one gulp. “Come on, Kitten. Can you dress yourself?”
The question seems absurd, but I am too aware of the stiffness of my body to make any protest. I simply nod and push myself to my feet. Captain Sharpe takes my arm and helps me up, then holds on to me, as if afraid I might collapse at any moment.
Maybe I will.
I let him hold me up, and focus on grabbing the trousers, on sliding in one leg at a time. The more I move, the easier it becomes. I pull on the shirt, tucking in the front but leaving the back tail out, and step into the shoes. They are too big, but for the short journey to the dock, they’ll do.
Then Sharpe’s fingers are in my hair. The sensation rips me from my anesthetized, in-between state and right into the present.
I gaze up at him, but he says nothing as he smooths my hair back as best he can, holding it in a queue at the base of my neck.
It’s impressive, considering we’re facing each other.
I watch him tug the blue ribbon from his hair with his free hand, and in the next moment it’s wrapped around my own dark waves and tied securely into place.
“There.” His voice startles me. “No one will look twice at you in these clothes,” he says as he brushes a few loose hairs down to frame my cheekbones. “Let’s get you back to the ship.”
I never want him to stop touching me like this.
But then his hands fall away from me, and I am left feeling cold and empty once more. He pulls on his jacket and unlatches the door, waiting for me to join him before he opens it and ushers me from the room.
I don’t remember most of the night after Captain Sharpe smuggled me back on board the Deliverance. It’s just a blur of Sharpe’s voice, soft and low, his arms around me as I wept. When I wake in the morning, I am shocked to find him still abed—beside me.
I sit up on the sturdy mattress, heavy bedclothes rumpling in my lap.
The curtains are drawn closed, but sunlight filters through them, giving the whole space a warm, cozy glow.
I am still in the scratchy shirt and trousers Sharpe brought to me the night before, which means Captain Sharpe’s virtue remains intact.
Still, the shock of waking beside him has me reeling.
I’ve never shared a bed with someone before.
Of course I’ve had lovers—but never have I fallen asleep or awoken with another body beside me in my bed.
I stare at Sharpe as he sleeps, unnerved by the sight.
He seems peaceful in a way I have never seen him before.
I have seen him relaxed, happy, and drunk…
but never entirely at ease. It softens his features in a way that makes him look quite young.
I suppose that’s a silly thought; he’s only a few years my senior.
But something about his presence makes him seem so much more worldly.
I am tempted to lie back down and simply listen to his soft breathing, but his dark lashes flutter, and a moment later he is gazing back at me.
I try not to think about the funny little flip my stomach does as our gazes meet and hold for longer than I am comfortable with.
Then he sighs and sits up, his movements slow and languid. “Kitten…,” he mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep.
I shiver a little despite the immense heat of the room. “Captain.”
He rubs at his face and pushes the bedclothes aside, then leans against the pillows. “I’ve called the men back. We’re leaving port as soon as everyone is on board.”
I blink at him, unable to wrap my head around his words for a moment because they aren’t at all what I expected to hear. “Have you?”
“After you fell asleep.”
So he didn’t just fall asleep beside me.
He waited for me to fall asleep, left, and then deliberately came back and climbed into bed with me.
Heat spreads across my face from temple to temple.
I’m not sure what to say, but as I flip through various possibilities in my mind, a flash of lifeless blue eyes pulls a gasp from me, and my entire body tenses up.
By now I’ve seen men die before, but something about Jeffrey Reuter’s death feels more real, more violent. More terrifying.
Sharpe, reading my thoughts as he always does, reaches out silently and draws me to him. “You’re safe, Kitten,” he whispers into my hair as I melt against his chest in a way that is both foreign and frighteningly familiar.
I nod, swallowing down the lump forming in my throat as he tugs the ribbon loose from my queue. His fingers in my hair are just too much, and I am overwhelmed with the need for more—but I dare not ask.
“What now?” I whisper.
“We’ll go to Le Cap to resupply. Your friend Captain LaBarre is likely gone by now.”
My friend. I can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth. “And from there?” I ask, relaxing a little more as my breathing begins to match his.
“From there we go to the colonies to sell whatever goods we have.”
“What about Jeffrey Reuter?”
“He isn’t my problem anymore.”
I lift my head to look up at Sharpe, and his fingers go still on the back of my neck. “You aren’t concerned about who killed him? What are we to tell the men?”
“The men know what they need to. My officers are aware that he’s dead; they don’t need to know how. As for Reuter—my quarrel was with him. If he’s dead, it dies with him. I’m not about to stick around to solve his murder when the only suspect is here in my bed.”
Good Lord in heaven.
Again I am at a loss for words. It’s not a position I’m used to. Is Captain Sharpe saying he would valiantly overlook a murder if it could be tied back to me? Or is this just how he speaks when he’s unguarded?
A knock at the door saves us both from ourselves. To my further surprise, Captain Sharpe doesn’t shove me from his bed and scramble to his feet. Instead he simply turns his head and cranes his neck a bit as he calls, “What is it?”
“Breakfast, Captain,” Billy’s voice replies through the door.
“Breakfast,” Sharpe murmurs to me before he lets me go.
I miss his body against mine the moment he turns to slide from the bed, but my grumbling stomach makes a convincing argument about needing sustenance, and I move to follow him.
“Coming,” Sharpe calls to Billy, and I watch as the shadow across the stained-glass door moves away.
I glance at my trunk as Captain Sharpe sits heavily on his settee to pull on his boots.
“I’ll be out in a moment,” I say as I step over to it.
The purse full of stones is sitting on top of it, so I snatch it up and slide open the unlocked top drawer of Sharpe’s desk, swapping the purse out with my own.
I reach in as I return to my trunk and fish out my key, then kneel to unlock it.
“Don’t be long, Kitten. Billy made maduros with the plantains you got him.”
I smile at that. “I won’t,” I promise.
He eyes me for a moment, as if wondering whether it’s safe to leave me on my own.
I can see him staring at me in my periphery.
But as I begin to rifle through my clothes, selecting what I plan to wear for the day, he seems to decide I am fine to be left to dress.
He gets to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of the settee and pulling it on in one smooth motion as he leaves the room.
And then I am alone, and the stuffy room seems to fill at last with enough air for me to breathe.
Ten minutes later I am dressed in a fetching pair of violet trousers, a clean white shirt, and a lavender waistcoat. These colors never fail to cheer me, and I think I will have the crew less worried if I reappear looking more foppish than ever.
I step out on deck and am surprised to see the twins, Billy, Captain Sharpe, Mr. Tydes, Cook, Rodriguez, and a few other men all perched or standing around with plates in hand. It’s strange to see them all in one another’s company like this. It’s also strange to see them taking breakfast on deck.
We are no longer docked at Port Royal but instead anchored some hundred yards or so out to sea.
A skiff is making its way slowly across the water towards us.
This must be what Captain Sharpe meant when he said he’d called the men back.
If they see the ship anchored instead of docked, they will know something is wrong and return quickly.
Billy is the first to see me. “Kit!” he exclaims, grabbing a plate for me as I approach.
“Good morning, Billy,” I say as I take the plate with a smile. “Are these your famous maduros?”
“My mother’s famous maduros,” he corrects me.
“Of course, forgive me,” I say as I pick one up with my fingers and examine it. They smell delicious. Golden brown in color, the outside feels crispy and a little greasy on my fingertips. I take a bite out of it.
I have eaten bananas before. They aren’t common by any means, but my father’s status means connections to people with connections.
Through various journeys and trades, my family was exposed to things from other countries in small but frequent doses.
I remember enjoying bananas every time I ate one, but I can’t recollect the exact flavor.
As I chew the maduro, which is lightly crisped on the outside but soft and warm inside, I know with certainty that this flavor is quite different.
The outside has a caramelized sweetness to it, and the inside is velvety against my tongue.
I eat the second half of the slice I’m holding and nod enthusiastically as Billy watches. Both texture and flavor are delightful.
“Billy, this is delicious,” I say after swallowing.
He pats my shoulder. “There’s plenty,” he says. “Have your fill.”
“Trying to fatten me up?”
Billy chuckles and picks his own plate back up. “A little meat on your bones is never a bad thing.”
“I’ve plenty of meat on my bones,” I say.
He laughs again, but I can tell by the tone of it he isn’t laughing at me, but rather out of sheer happiness. I laugh as well, and as he returns to Rodriguez and Captain Sharpe, I join the twins, who are both fastidiously licking their fingers.
“Good morning,” I say.
“I forgot what ye look like when ye aren’t pukin’,” Trevor says kindly.
Tristan kicks him but laughs anyway. “Yer lookin’ fancy.”
“I’m feeling fancy,” I say as I sit on the deck beside them.
Tristan instantly snatches a maduro from my plate and crams it into his mouth. “Cap’n says we’re goin’ to Le Cap as soon as everyone’s back.”
“He told me,” I say, after shooting him a glare and turning away to protect my plate. “How many men are we still waiting for?” I can see that much of the crew is here, either eating or working in the rigging. I’m sure there are more belowdecks.
“Just one er two.”
I can hear the splash of oars now, and a moment later the low thuds and clunks of men climbing the rope ladder to come aboard. I can’t see who’s climbed aboard from where I sit, but someone calls “Everyone accounted for, Captain!” over the clamor of the skiff being hauled back into place.
I get to my feet once I finish my food, brushing off the back of my trousers.
Then I turn—and see Renard making his way across the deck, looking harassed and tired.
Apparently, he is once again the last of the men to return from port.
The glance he shoots my way is brief but irritated.
As he disappears belowdecks, I am left wondering if I imagined the expression on his face, or if I have somehow mishandled this entire situation.