Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Before disembarking the Deliverance, I go to Captain Sharpe’s cabin to rummage through my trunk for my purse, doing my very best to ignore the anxiety building in my gut. The captain has already left his quarters; he is likely on the dock with his officers, dispensing orders and coin.
I find my purse and lock my trunk, dropping the key into said purse as I turn to leave the ledger in Captain Sharpe’s desk—and jump back a step, swearing under my breath.
Renard is standing in the open doorway, watching me with a peculiar frown.
“Damnation, I didn’t see you there,” I sigh as I slide my purse into my inside jacket pocket.
Renard lifts his gaze from my pocket and crosses his arms. “Ready fer that drink?”
“I promised the twins I’d go into the market with them.” I slide the ledger into the top drawer, then close and lock it, putting the key into my waistcoat pocket, where I know it will be safe. Not that I think I need to worry about any of the crew—but I still prefer to be careful.
“Market closes at sundown,” Renard says, sounding distracted as he watches me. He lifts his gaze to my face once more and nods towards the bright orange glow off to the west. “Ye can go weth ’em tomorrow.”
“Ah.” I frown a little, then acquiesce. “A drink it is, then,” I say as I step out of Sharpe’s cabin.
Renard glances inside just before I close the door. “Still keepin’ yer things in Cap’n’s cabin, hmm? Dinnae trust the men?”
I laugh as we cross the deck. “I’m not worried about the crew. But unless someone moves it for me, that trunk isn’t going anywhere.”
Renard claps me on the back and squeezes my bicep, which is annoying. I swat him away, even as he laughs. “Yer no’ as wee as ye were when ye came aboard, lad. Ye might surprise yerself.”
“I doubt it,” I say, though secretly I am a little pleased to hear it.
I don’t see Captain Sharpe or the twins when Renard and I make it to the dock. My legs feel strange and stiff as I reacquaint myself with the rigid, unmoving earth beneath my feet. I kind of hate it.
“Fergot how ta use yer land legs again?” Renard asks with a grin that’s more of a sneer.
“Apparently so.”
“It’ll take a minute er two, but ye’ll get used ta it again.”
I already know he’s right, but I don’t say so.
By the time we step inside a raucous tavern called the Crown and Cup, I’ve readjusted to walking on land—and the second we step through the door, my senses are overwhelmed.
Though it was noisy as we approached, it’s so loud inside that I’m quite certain I can see sound vibrating in my vision.
The scent of body odor mixed with burned meat and liquor hangs heavy in the thick, stale air, and it’s all I can do not to gag.
Renard guides me to a table by a back door that is empty of people but covered in dirty mugs and half-eaten food.
I grimace as I sit, and when he holds his hand out to me, I reach into my purse without complaint and drop a few coins into his hand.
My trunk key lands in his palm and he raises a brow. “I cannae buy us dinner weth this.”
“Ah, apologies,” I say as I take it back and replace it with another coin. He pats my shoulder, with a scoff, and pushes his way through the crowd to the bar, while I sit back to wait.
It’s not long before Renard returns with two pints and a pretty barmaid with an ample bosom. She sets down two plates heaped with potatoes and small cooked hens, then takes the dirty plates and winks at me before walking away without a word.
Once my belly is full and I’ve had two more pints of ale, I feel much more relaxed.
The clamor of the tavern makes it impossible to focus on any sort of conversation, but I don’t mind.
Pleasantly tipsy, I loosen the tie of my shirt and run my fingers through my hair.
“It’s hot,” I point out. How very astute of me.
“Aye.”
“And loud.”
“Aye.”
I frown at Renard and push myself up. “I’m going to see if they’ve any rooms for let. I want to sleep in a real bed tonight.”
Renard stands as well, pint in hand. How many has he had? I don’t remember seeing him order refills, but perhaps they came with mine. “Aye, right. We can drink upstairs fer a bit.”
I try not to think about how he’s just invited himself to drink in my room. I suppose I shouldn’t think much of it, since he and I were drinking in his quarters on the Deliverance only the day before.
I push my way to the bar to make arrangements for a room for the night. After a lot of yelling back and forth over the noise, I finally toss some coin onto the counter and point up. It’s more than enough for a room—and more drink.
The barkeep scoops up the coins with a nod.
“Wine,” I say. “Not ale.”
Not ten minutes later Renard and I step into my let room.
It’s hardly the nicest place I’ve ever stayed, but it’s not the worst. I’ve been in brothels far less clean and comfortable than this.
The bed isn’t large, but it’s fine for me on my own.
There is a small table with two chairs on either side of it.
I set the wineglasses down, glancing up when I hear the bolt on the door slide into place.
Renard shrugs at me as he turns away from it. “If we’re gettin’ pissed, cannae be too careful.”
True.
Still: “I can’t get too pissed; I have work to do in the morning.”
Renard snorts at that and sits down. “Yer already pissed.”
I grin and slide out of my shoes before sinking into my own chair. “No.”
“Aye.”
“Maybe a little.”
He smirks and gives a shake of his head as he pops the cork on the wine and pours us each a glass.
Then he drinks directly from the bottle before setting it down.
A more sober version of me would be disgusted by that, but somewhat-drunk me doesn’t care.
I clink glasses with him and drink down a third of mine in one go.
I grimace. It’s not good wine—but then, this isn’t a dinner party, where the point of wine is to taste it. This is a tavern, and I’m getting drunk with a friend.
“Congratulations on becomin’ a real pirate, lad,” Renard says to me after setting his own glass down.
I’m surprised by the comment. I sit up straight. “I didn’t realize the captain had told you.” It’s Renard’s turn to be confused, so I elucidate. “About Jeff Reuter.”
“Ah,” Renard says, nodding. “He started ta…” He studies me, assessing. I wonder if he’s deciding whether I am smart enough to follow through with Sharpe’s plan. “What’d ye find out?”
I lean forward conspiratorially, holding my glass with both hands. “He was embezzling. He wasn’t very discreet about it either. I think he assumed the captain would never have anyone else look at the books, so he barely bothered to cover his tracks.”
Renard raises his brows. “Nae,” he whispers.
“Yes!” I say with a little too much enthusiasm.
It’s like gossiping about classmates back at Eton, and I’m rather enjoying myself.
“He stole a great deal of coin and jewels from the ship. He must have taken it all with him when he ‘mysteriously disappeared,’ ” I say, waving my arm for dramatic effect, though it makes me spill a bit of wine on my black trousers.
I wrinkle my nose and pat at the wet spot. At least they’re black.
“Just him alone?”
I look at Renard. “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”
“Ah, nae one else disappeared,” he says quickly. “I’m sure he worked alone.”
I nod, but his comment gets me thinking. “I wonder if he’s spent it all.”
“I guess we’ll never ken,” Renard says.
“We may,” I say, taking another long sip of my wine and smiling. “The captain asked me to find him.”
At that, Renard appears truly shocked, which is rather annoying. Why shouldn’t I be able to find him? I’ve surely proven myself at this point. My scheme to rescue our captain from the French navy went off (almost) entirely without a hitch, did it not?
“What?” I demand. “I’m capable of finding someone.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Pishposh,” I say, waving a hand. “He won’t know why I’m looking for him. I’ll ask around at a few taverns in Jamaica, pretending I’m seeking a bookkeeper. The captain will take over after that. It’s hardly a daring rescue mission.”
Renard is silent for a while. I take the opportunity to finish my glass of wine and pour another. Then his mouth widens into a dangerous grin—the gold of his tooth glinting in the candlelight. For a moment he looks like the dashing villain out of a faerie story.
“What?” I ask, somewhere between delightfully charmed and irrefutably disquieted.
“Usin’ yer pretty face ta lure him in, are ye?”
“Hardly, more like my heavy purse.” Then I blink and narrow my eyes at Renard. Is he flirting with me? He’s called my clothes pretty in jest before—but never me. Immediately I slip into my usual manner, letting my thighs fall open as I lounge back in the chair and grin. “You think I’m pretty?”
Renard watches me for another long while with a frown. Just when I am about to take it back, he seems to come to some kind of decision. He gets up off his seat and leans over me, one hand on either arm of my chair. I raise my brows and stare up at him. And a moment later his mouth is on mine.
Though in truth I am shocked by this turn of events, I let him kiss me.
I let him take the glass of wine from my hand and set it on the table beside us.
I let him take hold of my collar and pull me up—all while his tongue is in my mouth.
It’s been ages since I was kissed like this.
Digby was the last person to touch me, and I find that, despite my not having expected it, I want it.
I need it.
I wrap my arms around Renard’s neck and moan into the kiss as he backs me towards the bed. I don’t know how far I should let this go, but at the moment all I can think about is how desperate I am to have his hands on my body. Really, any hands on my body… but his are here, and already exploring.
Though I can think of another set of calloused hands I would vastly prefer to these…
The thought nearly kills the mood entirely for me. When did I become so… romantic? Some part of me wants this to continue, if only to expel these unfamiliar—and unwelcome—thoughts of monogamy from my head.
I need to stop thinking about Captain Sharpe. Especially in this moment. I work open the buttons of my waistcoat and somehow do not trip as we move across the room. I drop the navy silk onto the floor, and it lands with the chink of coin, then my arms are around Renard’s neck once more.
He breaks the kiss as my calves bump the side of the bed. His hands are on my waist now, sliding up to free my shirt from the waistband of my trousers. My pulse quickens as I feel his skin on mine, his fingertips sliding across my belly and then hooking in the front of my trousers.
I am dizzy with want for this, even as my mind wanders to brown eyes and beaded locs.
Stupid. I push the thought away once more.
I didn’t realize until this moment just how starved for touch I have been since running away from home.
For more than companionable slaps on the back or nudges from the men.
I need to be touched—and if Captain Sharpe can’t be the one to do it, maybe this is fine…
I plop onto the bed, drawing Renard in for another kiss.
He presses his knee into the mattress beside me as he leans into it, grunting under his breath.
Somehow the kiss is losing momentum. Is he losing interest, or am I?
Lord in heaven, have I gone soft in my months at sea?
Am I ruined now, all because of one damned pirate’s dashing smile and irresistible charm? He’s never even expressed—
Then Renard bites my lip, and I jerk my head back with a gasp.
I try not to blame him. He doesn’t know how much I hate rough play. But before I can tell him, his hand is in my hair and he’s jerking my head back to expose my neck.
“Hey,” I gasp as his mouth finds a sensitive spot just under my earlobe.
Suddenly I am in my father’s study with Digby Hale once again, the taste of metal on my lip. I hate that. I shove Renard away—probably a bit too hard, but I am drunk and he is still on one foot. He stumbles back and nearly collides with the chair behind him.
“The fuck?” he snaps at me, looking understandably bewildered and annoyed.
“Sorry, I—”
He steps forward before I can finish, and then he strikes me with an open palm across the face. The son of a bitch actually strikes me.
My head snaps to the side and I take in a sharp, strangled gasp. I stare at the wall with wide eyes as he stares at me, his chest heaving in my periphery. I’ve been roughed about a bit since joining the crew, but this… this feels different.
“What’d ye do that fer?” he growls.
I look up at him. I can taste blood inside my mouth now. “Get out.”
“Fine, I’ll find myself a woman instead,” he says with a sneer, picking up my purse from the floor and rummaging through to pull some coin from it. “Ye owe me.” He pockets whatever he’s taken and drops the purse onto the floor as I get to my feet.
I don’t argue with him. I don’t care that he’s taken money from me; I just want him out of the room now. I hate how quickly I’ve sobered up from this interaction. I’ve skipped right over the pleasurable buzz of intoxication and landed deep in a pounding headache.
It’s probably for the best anyway. Apparently, I am destined to be a monk for the rest of my life, for want of a man who very likely has absolutely no interest in me beyond my ability to do sums, keep his ledgers, and flirt with reckless abandon.
As soon as I hear Renard close the door, I cross the room to lock it behind him. Then I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. If he’s left a bruise on my face, there’ll be hell to pay. For now, though, I need to vomit and I need to sleep. I’ll worry about my face tomorrow.