Page 30 of A Prince Among Pirates
Again Captain Sharpe’s brows arch up. He watches me closely, and I try very hard not to stare back at him. “Why were you sleeping on my settee?”
“The bed was taken.”
I don’t knowwhyI’m being such a colossal ass right now. Sneaking into his cabin was unwise. He’s being gracious by not knocking me on my ass.
I sigh and look up at him. “I didn’t know what else to do,” I confess pathetically. “I was afraid to go back to my hammock.”
He frowns, and I realize my error. I’ve insulted him. By admitting my fear in returning to my assigned bed, I’ve acknowledged that my opinion of the crew has changed. I’m not sure how to fix this, and when I open my mouth to try to correct myself, he holds up a hand and shakes his head.
“We’re the same people we were yesterday, Kitten.”
I grimace as I look up at him, torn between my own bias and the truth of how I’ve grown to love these men.Arethey truly the same? Doesn’t murder change a person? Doesn’t thievery diminish a man? But then that damned nickname. My body goes slack at the sound of it, and I want to cry. From relief? From humiliation? I don’t know, but my breath hitches, and I cover my face with my hands to try to stop my emotions from bubbling over.
“Cook is serving breakfast now. Fresh eggs and fish. Go down and eat with the crew. Make it clear to them you aren’t a threat.”
“A threat?” I ask, my voice strangled as I look up at Captain Sharpe.
“Your wealth and social status make you a threat to our kind if you choose to be. You could turn on us when we reach the next British port.”
“But I—”
“Prove it.”
I swallow and get to my feet. “You can’t possibly believe I would turn on you like that.”
“I don’t,” Captain Sharpe says, his voice softening. “But the men don’t know you as I do. I’ve watched you change over the last few months, Kitten. I saw the moment you took off that stuffy cravat and loosened the top button of your shirt for the first time. The moment you rolled up the sleeves of your expensive linen shirt. The moment you left your jacket on the back of my desk chair and stepped out of this cabin in just your waistcoat, shirt, and breeches. You may have been born a gentleman, but you’re becoming a seaman now.”
His attentiveness both moves and terrifies me. I understand what he’s saying. I feel the truth of it in my bones: I’m no longer trapped under the scrutiny of high society. Here at sea, I’ve become free in a way I never knew possible.
But I don’t want to live the rest of my life at sea. I don’t want to spend the next few years pillaging trade ships and killing British seamen. I don’t want to die at the noose before I reach twenty-five, as so many men who choose this life do. I wonder for a brief moment if Prince Henrywouldhang me. I wonder if my father would intervene, or if he would attend my hanging with an alfresco meal and a cigar to celebrate.
“How long have you been at sea, Captain Sharpe?”
“Twelve years, six months, three weeks, and two days,” he says.
I’m startled by his answer. I stare at him, frowning. “How old are you?” I ask, suspicious now that Renard’s assumption was more accurate than I realized.
Sharpe smiles almost ruefully and picks up his teacup once more. “Three and twenty.”
So Renard wasn’t wrong. Sharpe was a mere child when he became a sailor. Eleven is so terribly young to live at sea like this. “Why—”
“Go eat, Kitten,” he says firmly. “When you finish, we have a great deal to add to the ledgers.”
With that, he stands, teacup in hand, and makes his way out of the cabin to have his tea in the fresh sea air, as he does every morning.
I am rarely up early enough to eat breakfast with the men, so I take my time changing into fresh clothes and wetting my hair with the pitcher of water beside the captain’s bed.
As I kneel in front of my trunk and sift through the silks inside, my fingers brush something I don’t recognize by touch. I pinch the thick paper and pull it out. My heart races as I find myself staring at the envelope I found in my father’s desk. The envelope with my name on it.
I brush my fingers over the lettering and slowly turn it over to stare at the wax seal on the back. For a moment I am tempted.I touch the seal, but something makes me hesitate.
It’s ridiculous, but I can’t bring myself to break the seal. Not yet. I don’t know what’s in here, but I do know I’m not yet ready to open it. I shake my head and drop the envelope back into the trunk. Even touching it sends chills running down my spine.
I choose my clothes deliberately: black trousers and a white shirt, with a silver brocade waistcoat. It feels a bit like a costume, but I hope the sentiment will be clear to the crew. Black is the color of mourning in high society, but the color of choice among pirates. I haven’t a black shirt, so the rest will have to do.
They likely won’t even notice, but it is my armor, and it makes me feel better. I roll up my sleeves and leave my shirt collar open, because Captain Sharpe had a point about my loosening up in the last few months. And because it’s damned hot on the Caribbean Sea.
I smooth my dark, dampened waves back into a tiny queue at the base of my neck, tying a tight bow with my ribbon.
