A Prince Among Pirates

Prelude

Cannon fire before breakfast is obscene—and waking up to it is an atrocity.

The haze of last night’s exploits still fogs my mind as I tumble out of bed and hit the floor with an ungentlemanly grunt.

The ship groans in agreement as it sways, sending my innards rolling.

I want to vomit, but the second cannon blast shocks my system into waking.

I have just enough sense to grab on to the wooden frame of the captain’s bed as the ship lurches from the impact.

Have we been hit? Or was it just the waves that sent us bobbing back and forth?

The question of why I woke up in pirate Captain Sharpe’s bed will have to be a future Kit problem. I have neither the time nor the presence of mind to reflect on that particular matter at the moment.

The whereabouts of my trousers is another issue I dare not examine too closely.

I search the cabin, find them—thank Christ—and manage to yank them on as another explosion fills the air.

The silence that follows is both deafening and terrifying.

Fear settles into my lungs like a living thing, dragging them down as I struggle to breathe.

Then, somewhere beyond the ringing in my ears, I can hear the crew scurrying about on deck as their shadows pass over the stained glass of the cabin door.

“Hoist a white flag!” someone calls from above.

It isn’t the captain’s deep, melodious voice.

It sounds more like the first mate. My stomach sinks—an anchor into a bottomless pit of fear that sends my blood rushing.

I draw in a sharp breath as I come back to myself and rummage about for my waistcoat.

I find it under Sharpe’s settee and dive for it, then haul it onto my shoulders.

Mercifully, my stockings and shoes lay on the floor beneath it, and I am able to pull them on despite how much my fingers tremble.

We’ve been boarded. Unfamiliar voices are speaking on deck now. It doesn’t sound like English, but my ears are still ringing from the blasts, and I am uncertain if it’s a language I understand. Whatever it is, they sound angry.

I can hear Captain Sharpe’s voice now too, as calm as ever as he tries to placate our aggressors. The silhouettes of their bodies through the stained glass seem to be in uniform. There are flashes of blue, and red, and perhaps some white—which means they could be Spanish. Or French…

Or English.

Bloody hell, for countries constantly at war, we are certainly all lacking in originality. Who says a navy uniform can’t be a fetching shade of chartreuse or a sensible bisque?

No matter who it is out there harassing the crew of the Deliverance, they are almost certain to kill the men and arrest the captain now that they’ve got a thorough look at our colors.

I am the wild card here. And it’s absolutely insane what I’m considering doing to intervene.

This plan will most likely get myself and everyone else shot—but really, it’s hardly my fault these men decided to become pirates.

Still, they haven’t thrown me overboard yet, so I suppose I owe it to them to at least try to prevent a massacre.

I collect my cravat from where it peeks out beneath a pillow on the settee, sliding it under my collar and tying it deftly with muscle memory.

At the last moment a glimpse of my trunk brings an idea bubbling up through the haze of drink.

I kneel before it and unlock it with the key I’ve carelessly left in the keyhole.

The lid gives a small creak of complaint as it opens, but after digging through the tangle of clothes, I find my prize within a small velvet purse at the very bottom and slide it onto my first finger.

Dropping the lid shut once more, I stand with my back straight and then march towards the door.

I am quite drunk, but nonetheless, the swirling vortex of fear inside me stills as I smooth my thick hair back into a queue.

Decision made, I am now utterly calm as I fall into the familiarity of being moments from doing something woefully ill-conceived.

I throw open the door to the captain’s cabin and march out on deck, equipped with my best disdainful glower, my chin tilted up in haughty disgust.

I am good at this game. For eighteen years I was trained in the art of snobbery. My father is a viscount, for Christ’s sake, and a permanent member of the House of Lords. Of course, the crew of the Deliverance don’t know that. I have kept it well and truly secret from them, for my own protection.

Until this moment.

“How dare you board my vessel?” I demand, ignoring the scandalized glare Captain Sharpe shoots my way, and the seven guns that are immediately trained upon me. “Have you the slightest inkling of who I am?”

My words, as I suspected, are met with a stunned silence.

Dear Reader, you might be wondering how a highborn lad such as myself got swept up into such wanton roguery. Allow me to set the record straight—as I would not be here but for the negligence of those who ought to have been keeping me in check.