Chapter Sixteen #3
Panic wells up inside me, making my chest tighten painfully.
I try to swallow the lump forming in my throat, but there’s no room for it to go down, as my ribs are thoroughly crushing my lungs.
I didn’t kill anyone last night—but I took part in the men’s deaths.
I am responsible, whether they died by my hand or not.
I was also nearly shot. There’s that, too.
Where do I go from here? I fear I have reached a precipice, and I have no choice but to throw myself into the abyss and pray someone is waiting below to catch me. Now I am certain that I can never return home, not after last night.
“I…”
“You’re one of us now, Kitten. Remember what I said before: You’re a seaman now. My crew are loyal to one another. That goes for you, too. Go and mess with the crew. You have to sleep in your own hammock tonight.”
I blink up at Sharpe, moved yet again by his ability to see me. But I also see that he’s given me an out, and I take it. “Pity, I’ve got used to your bed.”
“Good Lord, Kitten, the men are already starting to suspect I’m buggering you. Don’t make it worse.”
I can’t help but bark out a laugh as I am reminded of the conversation I had with poor Digby Hale the night of my engagement party.
Buggery and lawlessness? Where do I sign up? A self-fulfilling prophecy.
But Captain Sharpe doesn’t laugh with me, and a cold chill settles into my stomach, killing my laughter on the spot. Once I remember how to inhale, I manage to ask, “Do they really?”
Sharpe snorts, which is something I would find revolting from anyone else, but he somehow makes it seem charming. “Go,” he says, before he finishes off the port in his glass, sets it down, and crosses the cabin to his settee. “Tomorrow morning I’ll have an assignment for you.”
I watch him for a moment as he sits and works open the laces of his boots, curious. My own boots are set neatly beside my trunk, so I slip them on and lace them up quickly. As I cross the cabin towards the door, Captain Sharpe speaks once more.
“Oh—and, Kitten?”
I stop and turn to face him, but he’s got his back to me. “Thanks for rescuing me. It was very gallant of you.” He glances at me, and his smirk sends a warm rush over my cheeks.
I give a stiff nod, then retreat from the cabin to join the crew belowdecks. I wonder if it’s true that the crew think I’ve had amorous congress with the captain. No one has treated me any differently lately—at least not that I’ve noticed.
But now that they know who I really am, will that change? Am I now at risk of being ransomed back to my father? The thought terrifies me, even as I force myself to push it away. I have to learn to stop thinking the worst of these men when they’ve given me no reason to.
“Lord Davenport!”
I freeze at the sound of my father’s title. I’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, and I look up to see Renard standing outside the fo’c’sle with his arms crossed. He grins at me, his eyes narrowing a bit as the sunlight glints off the very roguish bit of gold in his handsome smile.
I frown at him as I take the last few steps. “That’s my father’s title, not mine.”
“A viscount, are ye? Fancy title, that.”
“I’m not a viscount, my father is. Had I remained with him, I might one day have become a viscount… but I left. I have no title or viscountcy. I’m just… Kit.”
“Ye can’t just up an’ decide one day ta no’ be a viscount.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Renard, I don’t—”
“Have a drink weth me, Yer Lordship.”
My frown deepens. “Not the swill from the galley.”
“Ah, nae indeed. My own private stash.”
“More of your… rum?”
He laughs—but I get the feeling now that he’s laughing at me, rather than with me—and shakes his head. “Nae, lad. I traded weth Tydes fer a few bottles of good Scotch whisky.”
That piques my interest. “Did you? When?”
“No’ an hour ago. Lost a bet, he did.”
I can assume that bet had something to do with me, but I decide I really don’t want to know, so I just nod and motion for Renard to lead the way.
He obeys my suggestion, passing under the stairs and down the dim hallway to his small quarters.
I follow him inside and sit on the edge of his bed with all the familiarity of an old school chum.
He doesn’t seem bothered; whatever the usual dynamics may be between crew and boatswain, we’ve surely reached a point where I can call him a friend.
He pulls a bottle out from behind his pillow and uses a knife to strike the neck.
I am both horrified and impressed as the neck breaks cleanly and the glass around the cork hits the floor. Renard takes a swig directly from the bottle and hands it to me. I stare at it, then squint up at Renard.
“Am I to drink from a broken bottle?”
“Aye, lad.”
“And if I cut my lip open?”
“Sip carefully.”
I narrow my eyes. “What if I swallow a shard of glass?”
“My advice would be ta no’ swallow a shard of glass, Yer Lordship,” Renard says, rolling his eyes.
I grimace, both from the title and the thought of sipping whisky from a broken bottle. I bring it to my lips and very gingerly tilt it, gulping down more than I intend to. Wincing as I swallow, I hold the bottle back out to Renard.
“I don’t want to get drunk. I think one sip of that was enough.”
“Turnin’ soft, are ye?” Renard asks as he sits beside me.
“When did I stop being soft?” I ask.
He scoffs and takes another swig from the bottle. “Fair ’nough.”
“I’m still nursing a headache from last night. I think I need a day to recover. Why don’t we get pissed together tomorrow night?”
“Aye, we’ll be on land by then.”
I perk up at this. “Will we?”
“Aye, the cap’n wants ta spend a day out of sight, lest those frogs work out where we disappeared ta in the middle of the night.”
“Ah. And where are we stopping?”
Renard takes another long swig and wipes his bottom lip with the back of his hand before he grins broadly at me. “The Republic of Pirates.”