Chapter Fifteen #2
“It’s a new moon,” Mr. Tydes says, his eyes still wide, though he isn’t staring at me now. He’s staring through me as he considers the plan. “If you’re quiet enough, they won’t see you coming. You can sneak on board and find Captain Sharpe.”
Trevor sets something into my hand. It’s cold and heavy, and I drop my gaze to see a pistol lying there. I jerk my head back up, alarmed. “What’s this?”
“It’s not loaded, Mr. Kit,” he promises. “No offense… but I don’t trust ye with a loaded pistol. But they won’t know it isn’t loaded.”
I swallow hard and nod, getting to my feet. “I’m… going to change into something less…” I motion at the bright color of my waistcoat. “Conspicuous.”
“I’ll get Renard,” Mr. Tydes mutters.
I make quick work of my clothes, switching into black and navy blue so I might blend better into the velvety dark of the ocean on a moonless night. I slip my father’s ring back into my purse, not wanting to risk losing it now that I’ve come to realize how helpful it can be.
By the time I am dressed, Renard is in the cabin, speaking softly to Mr. Tydes.
He lifts his head as I approach and smirks at me.
Apparently, they’ve told him the plan, and he approves.
Good—I’m too antsy to try to convince anyone of anything.
“Ready?” I ask, sliding the pistol into the waistband of my trousers as I’ve seen other men do.
Mr. Tydes lifts a brow at me. “Never the front of your trousers,” he says, motioning to where I’ve hidden the unloaded pistol. “You’ll shoot your bollocks off.”
Tristan hides a laugh behind a cough, and I wrinkle up my nose. “It’s not loaded.”
“Put it in the back anyway. One day you may have need of a loaded pistol, and if you do it wrong the first time, you’ll do it wrong again.”
I roll my eyes but do as he says, taking the pistol out and pushing it into the back of my waistband instead. It sticks into the small of my back, but I don’t complain.
Once that’s done, Mr. Tydes nods and picks up the wooden platter. “Good,” he says. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, we are stepping out of the captain’s cabin. It’s full dark now. I take Tristan’s arm like I might have taken Kitty’s and lead him towards the port rail. We make sure to pass the two Frenchmen, who stand silent and armed—waiting, it would seem, for an excuse to shoot one of us.
I pay them no mind, though my heart is racing. I’ve done plenty of immoral things in my life—but breaking the law in front of a soldier is quite a new experience for me.
“I thought we’d never shake your brother,” I say to Tristan, just a little too loud.
Tristan blinks at me, and I can’t tell if he’s playacting or if he really has no idea what I’m talking about.
Either way, it’s effective. I press him to the rail with my body, and he gives an unladylike grunt that almost sends me pealing with laughter.
I duck my head beside his to hide my expression and hope it looks like I’m whispering sweet nothings into his ear, when something cold and hard nudges my arm.
Thank Christ, they’ve intervened before I have to kiss Tristan.
That would have been terribly awkward—like kissing my brother.
I haven’t a brother, but I imagine Tristan and Trevor are the closest I’ll ever come to it.
Kissing one’s own brother is a step too far, even for me.
I turn to the Frenchman who has had the gall to nudge a member of the peerage with the tip of his musket. “Excuse me, sir,” I demand.
“Take your illicit tryst elsewhere, monsieur,” he orders with a nod.
I step back, my arm still hooked around Tristan’s waist. “How dare you interrupt us. I—”
I don’t need to say anything more, nor does Tristan need to re-create page 210. The Frenchman facing us whips around to see Trevor strangling his companion with a length of rope. Before he can sound the alarm or shoot someone, I jump into action.
On pure instinct, I release Tristan and pull out the pistol, slamming the butt of it down onto the Frenchman’s skull with a sickening crack. He crumples instantly, and I am left staring at him with wide eyes as Trevor struggles with his own prey.
For a moment nobody moves. (That is, nobody but the Frenchman trying to squirm free of the rope.) I forget how to breathe entirely until I lift my gaze to see his face turning blue.
It is a swift reminder to inhale, and so I do, taking a step back as I watch him drop lifelessly to the deck beside his unconscious partner.
I swallow hard and glance up at Trevor. I have never seen a man killed before.
Not in front of my own eyes. I am relieved to see that he doesn’t appear smug or satisfied.
He doesn’t have the wicked look of a murderer.
Instead he’s focused and frowning as Renard comes to help him haul the two men back into the captain’s cabin, where we might divest them of their uniforms.
My blood is like ice in my veins as I follow behind. Tristan has disappeared—to finally change out of that dress, I assume. My mind is racing as I shut the cabin door behind me and hurry to help Trevor with the buttons of the French uniforms.
That’s when I see Renard has wrapped the length of rope around the other man’s neck and is squeezing, hard. My stomach drops, and the world slides out of focus.
“What are you doing?” I gasp. “He’s already unconscious!”
Renard looks me square in the eyes as he twists the rope tighter. “Dead men tell nae tales.”