Page 44 of A Prince Among Pirates
I’m not sure whether he’s trying to insult me or encourage me, but I frown at him and nod, gripping the rope tightly. When I look up, Tristan is staring down at me, one half of his face illuminated by the torch. His arm is outstretched, ready to help me over the rail. I take a deep breath and haul myself up.
It’s bloody difficult. That first pull is the hardest part, but Renard, bless him, lifts me up by the waist, and I am somehow able to get both feet onto the side of the ship. I do my best to climb the wobbly rope as I step along the side of the ship. I can do this. I can do this.
I slip and gasp loudly.
Ican’tdo this.
I look down at Renard, absolutely petrified, but he’s already climbing up behind me. All I can do now is keep going; if I fall, I’ll send us both careening into the skiff again. It’s a struggle and it takes me far too long, but I make it almost to the top, and then Tristan and Trevor grab me under my arms and drag me up on deck.
My landing isn’t nearly as graceful as I would have liked, yet it’s far more graceful than I could have expected. My feet arealmostsilent as they meet the deck planks.
I freeze as I stare down at the body of the guard Renard shot. His hair is so dark, it could almost be black. My gaze drifts lower, and I see that the bolt went in through his left eye and lodged there. The contents of my stomach rise up into my throat as I stare at him. I’m quite sure I will vomit.
Abruptly, hands on my shoulders spin me around and push me against the rail. I recognize that grip as Tristan’s. I lean over the rail and suck in a sharp breath as he rubs my back gently.
Then Renard swings himself over beside me, and I can hear him and Trevor lifting the body up and over the rail, dropping it into the ocean. I turn away as the man plummets into the pitch-black waters below.
“We’ve got nae time fer delicate sensibilities,” Renard hisses in my ear.
I know he’s right. I swallow back my virtue, knowing it has no place here tonight. I must get my head on straight, or I’ll getus all killed—and that would put quite a damper on my future as a free bachelor. I turn to face the group and nod, doing my best to avoid looking at the pool of blood behind Trevor.
“Right,” I manage.
It’s a calculated risk, but we leave the grappling hook on the rail and hope no one will notice it. We make our way on light feet to the stairs leading to the quarterdeck. Renard waves his arm to motion us down, and we all drop into a squat. He holds one hand up, then makes his way slowly down the stairs, as if he were the guard on patrol.
He disappears around a corner, and a moment later there is a soft thud, followed by a low whistle. I have no idea what that means, but Trevor springs into action. He descends the stairs, and Tristan and I watch from our spot at the top as his silhouette disappears and then reappears—dragging a body. Despite myself, I turn away as he pushes the man over the rail. He must wave us on, for Tristan taps my arm and leads me to the quarterdeck.
Renard is at the wheel, and there is light coming from the windows of the captain’s cabin behind him. Tristan and I both drop once more to the floor of the deck.
“Cap’n’s inside,” Renard whispers, staring ahead to avoid bringing attention to us. “Trevor, deal weth the guard on the fo’c’sle.”
Trevor says nothing, but he immediately turns towards the front of the ship and makes his way to the fo’c’sle in a slow saunter, gazing out at the water as he does. As I watch him, I realize, not for the first time, that I am wholly unprepared for this lifestyle. I turn to Tristan, and he reads my expression without myhaving to say a word. He smiles and nods towards the captain’s cabin, before crawling to crouch under the windows to the right of the door. I follow suit, crouching under the left-hand windows. There are cabins on either side of us as well, but no torches or candles burn inside either. The officers who belong to these cabins are either asleep or inside the captain’s quarters with Sharpe.
I risk a glance inside, tipping my head up to peek in. I haven’t time to get a good look, though, because the figure of a man is approaching the door. I drop back down and press myself tightly to the wall. “Renard,” I whisper frantically. “Someone’s coming.”
He doesn’t react, but he must have heard me. The cabin door opens and nearly hits Tristan. I hold my breath and pray I won’t be seen as the French officer who volleyed with me on deck this afternoon steps out.
“Jean-Baptiste,” he calls. “Suivez-moi.” He motions to someone behind him, and another officer follows him, letting the door swing to close itself as they make their way belowdecks.
I don’t think—I just reach out to snatch the knob before the door can fully close. As quickly and silently as I can, I round the door and slip inside. The latch clicks shut, but no one pays it any mind.
No one but Captain Sharpe.
He looks right at me, and though his posture doesn’t change, the glint in his eyes most certainly does. He’s sitting casually in a chair by the back galley windows, with two officers facing him. They hold guns, but they aren’t trained on Sharpe. They are merely a reminder of who is in charge.
What the devil have I got myself into?
I have to trust that Renard and the twins will do whatever they can to prevent anyone from coming back inside. Slowly I raise myself to my feet and pull the pistol out from the back of my waistband. I can see the way Sharpe’s gaze locks on to the gun as he speaks in perfect French to the men standing before him.
“Comment trouvez-vous le climat aux Caraï bes?” he asks. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I hesitate for only a moment, then turn the gun in my hand so I’m gripping the barrel instead. I don’t know how to do anything but knock men out with it.
One of the men snorts. “Il fait chaud,” he snaps, as if he hates the heat of the Caribbean. I can’t blame him, in that stuffy uniform.
I step closer and raise the pistol. It’s a mistake. My palms are sweaty, and the barrel slips out of my hand. I fumble to catch it before it hits the floor, but in my panic I miss spectacularly, and the gun clatters to the planks with a deafening thud.
At once both men guarding Captain Sharpe swivel about. Before I can utter a word in my defense, one of them shouts, “Hé! Vous là-bas!” and they both raise their guns directly at me.
This is now the second time today I have had Frenchmen point their guns at me. This time I am significantly less indignant about it. I raise my hands to eye level and stumble back a step as my mind scrambles in search of some excuse.
