Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
The next evening we arrive in Cap Francais, or Le Cap as the men call it, having apparently found the wind as I slept during the night. I woke alone in the captain’s bed, which was disappointing, until he came into the room with a grin on his face and a plate full of breakfast for me.
We carefully do not discuss my sleeping in his arms last night, and I carefully do not suggest that if I’d woken in his arms as well, there might have been some gentle morning enjoyment between us. Still, his mood has remained buoyant all day, which has the men in good spirits as well.
Except for Renard.
Renard is eyeing me suspiciously as I linger beside Captain Sharpe under the stairs to the quarterdeck, holding a stack of papers as Sharpe, Mr. Tydes, and Billy discuss the letter of marque I’ve brought out to them.
Sharpe takes the papers from me and offers them to Mr. Tydes to look over.
Then he touches my arm, and despite the innocence of that gesture, I find myself glancing around to see if anyone saw it.
Sharpe has never touched me like this out in front of the men.
In private, or with only the twins in the room, he has never held back, but out on deck he has always been careful.
Right now he isn’t being careful.
Mr. Tydes notices, but he says nothing—merely glances my way and lifts his brows before his gaze drops back to the papers. Billy, bless him, is entirely oblivious. But Renard saw. He saw, and he is staring straight at me.
Great.
“Did you hear me, Kitten?”
I jump and tear my gaze away from Renard to blink up at Captain Sharpe. “What?”
“I said we won’t be here long,” Sharpe says, frowning down at me.
“I have business to attend to with Tydes.” He holds up the letter of marque.
“The men are free to do as they like for the evening. You don’t have to stay on board, but best not to go off alone.
Go ahead and get a hot meal with the men, Kitten. ”
I nod. “All right.”
He smiles at me, and though I am all too aware of Renard’s piercing gaze, I can’t help the warmth that swells inside me at the sight of that particular smile—a smile Sharpe seems to reserve only for me.
He ruffles my hair, then turns to follow Mr. Tydes onto the dock with our paperwork. I notice then that the flag proudly displayed at our stern is the Union Jack.
Leave it to Captain Sharpe to hang a Union Jack while in port at a French colony.
A hand clapping down on my shoulder startles me out of my amusement. I gasp as I whip around to face Rodriguez, who grins broadly, all teeth and pretty blue eyes.
“You’re jumpy, lordling,” he says. “Join us for a pint.”
I sigh, putting a hand to my chest for dramatic effect. “Yes, very well. Let me get my purse.”
Rodriguez chuckles, and I realize that I’ve likely offered to pay for our drinks—but I can’t bring myself to care.
I let myself back into Sharpe’s cabin and take my purse, then decide to wear my jacket.
It’s hot, but I won’t be caught in a French colony underdressed.
I smooth my hair back into its queue and step back out, closing the cabin door behind me.
Twenty minutes later a group of seven of us are crammed around a table in a noisy tavern, and I am already shrugging out of my jacket. It’s too hot inside, and in any case, there’s no gentry around to be concerned about my state of dress.
Rodriguez holds up seven fingers to a barmaid, then leans back in his seat. “Drinks are on Mr. Kit tonight.”
“How generous of me,” I say as I carefully drape my coat over the back of my chair.
This earns me a laugh from the table, and I find myself smiling as I settle back into my seat—until I spot Renard stepping into the tavern.
Our gazes meet, and I raise my brows at him.
For a moment I think he’s going to turn and run, but then Martel calls him over, grabbing a chair from a nearby table.
Renard sits down across from me, and I offer him a tentative smile. He gives a half-hearted nod in return and looks away.
Splendid. This isn’t awkward at all.
I want to say something, as he’s been avoiding me for too long, and it’s becoming clearer every day that he would rather ignore me than apologize—but I can’t say that in front of the crew. “I’m apparently paying for drinks tonight,” is what I come up with.
He turns back to me and scoffs a little. “We should’ve asked fer the good stuff, then.”
Well, it’s something. I’m about to say something else when his attention is pulled away from me. I turn to follow his gaze.
“You lot sailed in with the Union Jack,” says a young man with short dirty-blond hair and deeply tanned skin as he approaches our table.
He has dirt smeared on one cheek, and his nail beds are filthy, but his clothes are clean.
Not a sailor, perhaps an immigrant farmer.
His accent sounds almost cockney—or rather, like it may once have been cockney.
I glance at Renard, but he doesn’t seem concerned about the question. “Aye, we did. Who’s askin’?”
“I’m Bobby,” the young man says. “We ’eard a few weeks ago about the king. Still doesn’t feel real.”
“The king?” I ask, sitting up straight. “What about him? Has something happened?”
The young man looks at me, his brows shooting up. My accent has alarmed him, it seems. “A regular dandy,” he observes.
“Quite. What about the king?”
“You ’aven’t ’eard?” he asks.
I’m getting a little annoyed. “Clearly not.”
“ ’E up ’n’ died this past June. Prince ’Enry, or I guess it’s King ’Enry now, took the throne with ’is lady wife.”
My heart drops into my stomach. Henry has been made king?
I knew it would happen someday, of course, but I’m shaken all the same.
I wonder how much my father has benefited from his dear friend taking the throne.
I wonder if Kitty has found a new match, or if I ruined her by fleeing.
Now that she’s the goddaughter of the king himself, her dowry will likely be far greater than it once was.
“First we’re hearin’ of it,” Renard says, though his gaze is on me. “We’ve had nae news while out ta sea.”
“What does it matter to us?” Martel chimes in. “They’re all the same in the end.”
“Look like you’re gonna be sick,” Bobby says to me, just as the barmaid appears with our ale.
“I’ll be fine,” I manage, reaching for my drink.
“Kenned him well, did ye?” Renard asks. I mislike the way he’s assessing me. I don’t want to talk about this, especially not here and now.
“Not very well, no,” I say.
“Mm-hmm…”
Now everyone is staring at me. I ignore them, bringing my ale to my lips to swallow down a few large gulps.
“Any other news?” Martel asks Bobby, though he’s still staring at me. They all are. I can feel their gazes boring into my face, and I hate it.
“Oh yes,” Bobby says. “The seamen who came with the news brought wanted posters all the way from England.”
“Did they, now?” Renard asks a bit too loudly. All attention shifts to Bobby—thank Christ. “What’s he wanted fer?”
Bobby shrugs. “Wouldn’t say, but ’e’s wanted alive. No reward for ’is death.”
“Let’s see it,” says another one of the men (Christ, I can never remember his name. John? George?), and Bobby disappears into the crowd, presumably to find this wanted poster.
I’m not sure why they all care so much—unless they expect the Deliverance might want in on the reward. “Think it a large sum?” I ask.
“I imagine so, if they’re looking all the way down here,” Martel muses.
“Wonder what this man did.”
Martel shrugs. “Who cares? Money is money.”
Bobby returns with a few others and sets the sketch on our table. “Looks a bit like your fancy friend ’ere,” he says with a laugh.
Alarmed, I lean forward to examine the poster.
I frown down at the face staring back at me.
“Hardly,” I say. It resembles a young version of Prince Henry, not me at all.
“The nose is all wrong.” Then my gaze falls to the bottom of the sketch, and I swear my heart skitters to a dead stop.
“Ten thousand guineas?” I cry out. That’s an absurdly astronomical amount of money.
This, of course, piques the crew’s interest. Renard spins the poster to get a better look at it. Something flashes across his face for the briefest moment. “Mmm… he’s right,” he says with a grin. “One expensive haircut away from yer face.”
“It’s not my face,” I insist. “Besides, what could I possibly be wanted for? I haven’t done anything.”
Renard smirks at me in a way that puts ice in my veins. Is he taking the piss, or is he suddenly recalling our first conversation and reconsidering whether I was lying?
“Kit’s right,” Martel says as he picks the poster up. “The nose is all wrong. Kit’s is much bigger.”
I’m drawn out of my thoughts as I gasp and yank the poster from his hands. “How dare you, I have a beautiful nose!”
The poster is snatched from my grasp before I can take another look at it. John-George—Christ, I really need to be better about remembering names—laughs as he holds it up beside my face. “What if he’s been playing us this whole time?” he teases. “Mr. Kit is actually a hardened criminal.”
“Don’t worry, lordling,” Rodriguez chimes in with a wink. “Even for ten thousand guineas, we won’t let them touch you. You’re one of us now; you belong to the sea.”
I am just as touched as I am horrified by the declaration. I might smile at the promise of the crew’s protection were the idea of belonging to the sea not quite so disturbing.
“What could an almost viscount be wanted for?” Martel asks with a smirk, narrowing his eyes playfully at me. “Did you steal your father’s fortune and run, Kit?”
I glance around and give Martel a sharp look for announcing my title where others can hear. Outside of teasing, the crew haven’t seemed bothered by the truth of my identity—but we don’t know the men around us.
“Murder,” Renard says, and we all look at him. I laugh, because at first I think he’s recalling our first conversation upon the Deliverance. Finally offering an olive branch, perhaps?
But the look he gives me isn’t one of friendly teasing, and the laugh dies on my lips. “What are you on about?”
Renard sits back, a sneer twisting his handsome face. “Where’d ye go after the pub in Jamaica, Lord Davenport?”
This isn’t funny anymore. I can’t believe he has the absolute gall to accuse me of murder after avoiding me like the plague for days. I frown and toss a few coins onto the table. “I’m tired,” I say as I get to my feet. “I’m going back to the ship.”
“Ahh, Kit—we’re teasing!” Martel says, though he looks puzzled at the exchange.
I glance once more at the poster as I pull on my jacket, then snatch it from John-George’s hands before turning to leave with it. This elicits more laughter, and I am grateful that the group isn’t paying Renard’s odd accusation any mind.
I catch Renard’s gaze on my way out. He isn’t laughing; he’s frowning at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then someone’s ale tips, sloshing across the table, and the tense moment is broken as Renard jumps to his feet to avoid the wave of sticky liquid.
I step out into the stagnant evening heat, rolling up the wanted poster and tucking it into my jacket pocket.
Though I dare not run and draw attention to myself, I walk back towards the docks as quickly as possible.
I don’t want anyone else to see my face and agree that the chap in this sketch looks anything like me.
I hurry down the dock, grateful for the dark as I pass a small group of soldiers.
I can’t get back onto the Deliverance fast enough.
I wish I knew where Captain Sharpe went.
I hate feeling this vulnerable without his strong presence to ground me.
I’ve become dependent on him to help me keep my head.
Though I know the men were taking the piss for laughs, the wanted poster still troubles me.
It may not be a very good likeness, but…
it could be me. What if my father is looking for me after all?
Perhaps Elizabeth had another girl, and he finds himself without a spare and in need of his heir once more.
Or, more likely, perhaps the new King Henry is out for blood after I jilted his goddaughter the morning of her wedding.
I shudder at the thought of him and my father working together to bring me home, just to make me suffer.
Ten thousand guineas is an absurd sum for petty revenge, but I suppose men like King Henry and my father have little to do but flaunt their pride, count their money, and make those they deem beneath them suffer for their enjoyment.
As I cross the gangplank onto the Deliverance, I hesitate and glance over the edge, into the shimmering black waves.
For a moment my stomach drops. I scramble onto the deck, shaking now from the rush of fear that overwhelms my senses.
I make my way to Captain Sharpe’s quarters, feeling queasy.
A cool breeze caresses my face, carrying with it the whispered promise that I belong to the glittering dark below.