Page 28 of A Prince Among Pirates
Which isn’t very pirate-like, really, if you think about it.
Nothing about Captain Sharpe is pirate-like, in fact. He is intelligent and well mannered. He wears clothes fine enough that he could almost pass for a gentleman, and he carries himself with elegance. Is this a snobbish thing to think? Or is it snobbish only if I mean it in a bad way? Admittedly, my knowledge of pirates is limited to rumors spread by the kin of sailors.
If Captain Sharpe said not to come out, no matter what I hear, how will I know when to come out? Am I to sit down here for the remainder of our voyage? Surely Renard will want his bed back at some point. I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased to find me in here to begin with.
I jump at the sound of a particularly shrill scream and raise my eyes to the ceiling once more, as if it might offer some insight as to the happenings on deck. Shockingly, it does not. In fact, I can barely see it in the dim light offered by the one measly porthole over Renard’s bed. Not only is it useless in lighting the room, but the porthole is on the side facingawayfrom the other ship, so I can’t even look through it to see what’s happening. Although I am not sure I really want to.
The moment the thought crosses my mind, a bodyplummets down directly in front of the porthole. I swear I saw a sword run straight through the man’s stomach—but was it one oftheirmen or ours?
A wave of nausea hits me as forcefully as I imagine that man’s body hit the water. What am Idoinghere? I could be drinking at a party, or at home eating a fine dinner beside my pregnant wife—ah, yes. That’s why I am here.
In truth, my time on board theDeliverancehas allowed me to reflect further on poor Katherine Stuart—and though I did wrong her by jilting her on her wedding day, I still believe I did her a service by not allowing her to marry a confirmed bachelor. It’s not her fault she was partnered with the absolute worst human in England; I just cannot be a married man. The thought of being tied down in such a way terrifies me, and to be trapped in a loveless marriage after being raised in a loveless home is far too terrible to consider.
But… am I better offhere, cowering away from the violence on deck? Thinking about my dubious life choices and moral failings in this moment is giving me a headache.
Or perhaps it’s the guns and screaming.
Either way, my head is starting to pound and nausea roils at my insides. I lie on my side and pull my legs close to my chest, then grab the lumpy monstrosity Renard calls a pillow—truly, why does he still have this after all my efforts on the Canaries?—and jam it over my head to muffle the sounds of gunshots and screaming men.
Miraculously, it helps. The battle on deckismuffled intooccasional soft booms and distant cries. It does nothing to dull the shudder of theDeliverancewith each cannon blast, however. The smell of gunpowder is overpowering, even here in Renard’s quarters. It almost entirely masks the smell of body odor and liquor that usually lingers. I close my eyes and try to tune it out. I don’t want to think about how many of my friends are dying up on deck while I cower down here in the dark.
Before I know it, I am startled out of my thoughts by a bang on the door.
“Damn it, Kit!” Renard grunts through the one-inch opening he’s managed. I sit up and slide off the bed, but then stop myself before pulling the chair out of the way.
“What do you want?” I demand. Bold of me, considering I am inhisroom.
“Ta go ta fuckin’ bed,” Renard replies, sounding irritable. “An’ ta have a drink. Open the door!”
I shouldn’t. Captain Sharpe told me not to. “Captain—”
“He said ta find ye—open the door an’ stop bein’ a wee shit.”
I let out a puff of air and cross my arms. He’s probably telling the truth. In any case, if he wanted to hurt me, hecouldsimply kick the door down.
“I didn’t know you were pirates…”
“Oh, I ken,” Renard says, and now he sounds amused. I can see him smirking through the slightly open door.
That familiar mocking expression on his handsome face is enough to calm my nerves somewhat. Or at least to annoy me enough that I forget I am meant to be afraid. I step over to thedoor and push it closed, then tug the chair out from under the knob. I slide it back under his small desk and open the door fully.
“You could have told me.”
Renard gives an unfriendly laugh and steps into his room. I should be grateful that he doesn’t reprimand me, but I am instantly overwhelmed by the sight of blood splattered across his shirt and throat. The nausea comes roiling back with a force. He seems uninjured, but I’m not sure if that’s better or worse—that it’s someoneelse’sblood. “I coulda,” Renard agrees. “Fer an educated lad, yer no’ all that bright, are ye?”
I should be offended. Iama little offended, but he’s also painfully correct, and I can’t say anything to argue with him. And I am still terribly unnerved by the blood covering his front. So instead I just huff and roll my eyes as I step out of his room.
I make my way back towards the fo’c’sle slowly, keeping my head down and trying to remain out of sight. I’m still not sure whether I’m afraid or embarrassed. As I round the corner and make it to the doorway, one of the crew grabs me by the shoulder. Rodriguez.
“Where’d you go off to, lordling?” he asks, shoving a mug of ale into my hands. “You missed all the fun!”
We’ve got on just fine since the Canaries, but the use of “lordling” instead of the usual “Mr. Kit” has me a little on edge. Is he drunk, or angry with me? Or both?
His mood seems strange, and he smells of metal. I lower my eyes, and the sight of blood on his shirt too sends my queasystomach roiling once again. Is ithisblood or the blood of some innocent merchant?
And what does it say about me that I hope it’s the latter?
I exhale sharply through my nose and swallow the bile in my throat as I turn my eyes away. “I had to hide the ledgers.”
