Chapter 6 #2
“Hell, Heather, are you all right?” Percy leaned forward to put a hand to her shoulder, and another jolt of heat raced through her.
“Fine,” she wheezed, handing the parchment to him.
He tilted the parchment toward the candlelight, and his eyes fairly bulged as he read.
“Sodding hell, Heather!” he hissed. “This contains plans to overthrow the Crown. It asks if the recipient has properly hidden the forgeries”—he waves the other documents in his free hand—“mentions this author’s intent to support ‘H’ in parliament upon his return to England, and explains what they’ve done to provide passage upon a Royal Navy frigate.
It then explicitly demands that ‘H’ destroy this letter upon reading. ”
“Sodding hell, indeed,” Heather breathed, fisting her frigid, trembling hands against her chest. Her pulse raced, and an overwhelming swell of conflicting emotions rushed through her, namely triumph…and a healthy amount of panic.
Percy’s wide gaze met hers through the flickering candlelight, his chest rising and falling with his rapid breaths. “This document implicates these two people for high treason.”
“He must have kept the letter—instead of destroying it, as demanded—in order to extort something from ‘G.’”
Percy nodded in thought. “You don’t imagine ‘G’ is the Prince Regent, do you?”
“He was in love with Maria Fitzherbert. Mayhap this is a way to dissolve his marriage to Princess Caroline?” Heather offered.
“I don’t see the logic in fabricating a son,” Percy murmured, glancing up toward the orlop above them. “But we haven’t the time to ruminate on it at the moment.”
“Noted.”
With sure movements, Heather refolded the proof she needed to put Hanley on trial, stuffed it—carefully—between her breasts, and helped Percy rearrange the crates and chests back to the way they’d found them.
Squinting into the setting afternoon sun, Heather strode across the quarterdeck with another book on horticulture under one arm. She caught Percy’s gaze as he handled some ropes, and walked casually toward him.
“Are they safe?” he asked in a hushed tone, his gaze fixed on the lines above.
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed in the affirmative. She’d hidden them amongst the pages of her mother’s journal.
He gave a subtle nod, and she continued past him to rest her elbows on the ship’s railing. She turned her face into the wind, relishing the cool air on her flushed cheeks.
She’d done it. She’d found damning evidence against the earl. All that was required of her now was to discreetly present the information to the Sapphire’s captain, Sir Willard, have him put the earl in the brig, and turn both frigates around to return to England.
Her gaze slid toward the helm, where the Earl of Shite stood barking orders at the captain and his first mate. She sighed, despite the wild fluttering of her pulse.
The only obstacle was to find a time in which she could speak to the captain without the earl or his staff around to intervene.
“Pardon me, Miss Morgan,” a hesitant voice said from beside her.
Heather turned to see one of the earl’s footmen standing close by, and she offered him a tentative smile. “Yes?”
“His lordship has requested your presence in the mess.”
Her stomach gave a dip. The earl could not possibly know that she’d pilfered his documents…could he? Her gaze flicked over the footman’s shoulder to where the earl had been. But he was gone.
“Very well,” she capitulated.
The young man stepped aside to let her lead the way to the companionway. He followed close behind her as she descended to the mess deck, and all the while Heather’s nerves grew increasingly fraught.
The moment both her feet touched the deck’s wooden planks, a hand clamped tightly around her upper arm. Clunk. Her book dropped as she spun to face the earl.
“I warned you,” he growled.
“Warned me?” she asked.
“You must learn acquiescence and obedience, and I intend to—”
“Are they not one and the same?” she asked smartly.
His grip tightened, his fingertips digging painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arm as he dragged her toward her cabin. Two of his footmen stood close by, observing the exchange, while the naval sailors milling about the mess deck watched from afar.
She would be able to defend herself against the earl and at least one of his men, but if others stepped in to defend the blackguard, she would most certainly lose.
“I’ll not tolerate a rebellious nature,” the earl snarled. “And I’ll not be made a cuckold.”
They reached her cabin, and he spun her around to slam her back against the opened door’s frame. Sparks danced behind her eyelids as her head knocked hard against the wood. She groaned and attempted to put a hand to her head, but the earl pinned her arms at her sides and pressed his body into hers.
Revulsion roiled in her gut, and she gritted her teeth against it.
“In the coming weeks you shall come to realize, Calluna,” he breathed against her cheek, “just how dangerous a man I can be.”
He pulled back to pinch her face in one of his hands, and she gasped at the sudden shock of pain. For an older man, he was a sight stronger than one might expect—more than she had expected, certainly.
One of the nearby footmen shuffled his feet, the sound barely audible over the busy activity of sailors stomping about the ship. With a huff of derision, the earl pulled back.
“Miss Morgan is not to leave her cabin,” he said, his cold gaze still locked on hers.
Then, without warning, he grabbed her bodily and shoved her into her cabin.
Heart in her throat, Heather stumbled forward and braced for inevitable impact.
Despite her efforts, her hip struck the edge of the chest of drawers before she landed sideways upon her hanging bed.
The pain, however, was naught when compared to the fear that ignited in her chest.
The earl meant to keep her locked in her cabin for the entirety of their month-long journey.
We cannot arrive in the Americas. Dread crept up her spine in an alarming tingle.
If she couldn’t find a way to apprehend the earl before they reached land, her power would be significantly diminished, for surely the man’s servants would fight on his behalf, and authorities in the Americas would do naught about a man accused of crimes across the ocean.
“Might I at least have my book?” she called out.
She ought to have requested a meeting with the captain directly upon discovering information on the earl, rather than ruminating on it.
Hell, but she hadn’t the faintest understanding of a captain’s relationship to his crew; might he listen to a man such as Percy, particularly when it came to incriminatory information regarding an honoured guest?
The earl might very well strike before Percy had the opportunity to speak with the captain, resulting in Percy being put in the brig instead.
Her breath all but froze in her chest. What had she done?