Page 40 of A Prince Among Pirates
Wait—where am I? Have I got blackout drunk in a brothel? I blink a few more times and lift my gaze to the face attached to those breasts. All at once the bliss of sleeping in my own bed on the cool side of my pillow crashes down around me. I am staring into familiar twin faces.
“Mr. Kit?”
It is Tristan who speaks first. It wasTristanwhom I saw out on deck in a blue dress. It wasTristan’s breastsI was admiring only a moment ago. I sit up abruptly, throwing off the covers.
It’s a mistake.
I sway as the cabin begins to spin. Before I can turn away and retch once more, Tristan’s cool hand is on my forehead and a mug is pushed at me. I don’t think, I just drink. And I’m stunned to realize it’s water running over my tongue. Cool water, with a strange flavor of petrichor, that’s refreshing in a way water has never been before. I drink it down entirely, then lower the mug and stare at the twins.
What. Is. Going. On?
“Tristan, what are youwearing?” I finally manage, my gaze dropping once more to the bodice of his dress. “Have youbreastsunder there?”
“We had to look the part of a merchant vessel,” Trevor says protectively as Tristan crosses his arms over his chest.
I frown and set the empty mug on the bedclothes. “And this is what you came up with?”
“No one expects a lady on a pirate ship,” Tristan says in his defense.
I suppose that’s true.
“Blue is not your color. You’re better suited to green and tan,” I grumble as I get to my feet. Tristan’s shoulders slacken, and he smiles at me in a way that is somehow both confused and appreciative.
He lets out a puff of laughter then, dropping his arms altogether. “Convincin’, though, ain’t I?”
“Aren’t you,” I correct.
“That too.”
“Mr. Kit, we haven’t much time,” Trevor interjects. “Cap’n Sharpe is gone.”
“Gone?”I ask, fairly alarmed. “Gone where?” This is a ship—where could he possibly have gone to?
“The French frigate took him as theirguest.”
I frown, stepping between them to move into the center of the cabin. They are beginning to crowd me, and I need room to think and breathe. It is then I notice my rather marked lack of shoes. I stare down at my stockings, and the confrontation on deck comes flooding back in a series of short flashes: Me bashing through the door of Sharpe’s cabin. Me yelling at the French navy. Me outing myself to everyone on board as the heir to the viscountcy of Falmouth. Me vomiting on Captain Sharpe’s cabin floor while he had his arms around me.
Oh Christ. I didn’t just vomit on the floor. No, I distinctly recall retching onhis boots. How humiliating. I allow my gaze to drift to the spot, but it has been cleaned up. By whom I cannot tell, but I turn to the twins sheepishly. “Right…”
“Are ye really a viscount?” Tristan asks.
“Should we call ye Lord Davenport?” Trevor adds.
“Ah… no, and… no,” I say. “My father is a viscount, and I am just… Kit.”
“But yer not,” Trevor insists.
“What happens when we get to port?” I ask, to change the topic.
Trevor frowns. “We all hang, unless the French believed yer story.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” I ask, holding out my hand with my father’s ring still on it. “I offered them proof.”
“They wouldn’t have taken the cap’n if they had,” Tristan explains.
I deflate and sink down onto the settee. “This is my fault, isn’t it?”
“Well, only partly,” Trevor offers helpfully. I jerk my head up, and I can tell by his expression he is surprised by my surprise at his agreement.
