Page 47 of A Prince Among Pirates
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.”
“Aviscount, are ye? Fancy title, that.”
“I’m not a viscount, my father is. Had I remained with him, I mightone dayhave 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 laughingatme, 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.”
