Page 61 of A Prince Among Pirates
The bolt sliding into place is exactly what my heart needs.I grab on to the back of a chair in the middle of the room and hunch over, still panting. The room is spinning, and I don’t want to be sick.
Tristan wisely says nothing. He just gives me space and waits by the door. But he doesn’t have to; as my body recognizes I am safe, my mind automatically slips back to the horrible thing I just saw. I can’t stop it. I let out a strangled sort of sob and turn to find a bedpan.
It’s nearby, thank Christ. I drop onto my knees beside it, and then every last bite of the lunch I ate less than an hour ago empties from my stomach.
Captain Sharpe arrives sometime while I am retching into the bedpan. I can hear him and Tristan whispering behind me each time I manage to stop long enough to breathe. Then I am hauled to my feet once more, but I recognize Sharpe’s hands, so I don’t fight him. I turn towards him instead and, God help me, I bury my face in his shoulder.
“What happened?” he asks. His voice is quiet. I hear the click of the door as Tristan leaves us. At some point one of them shuttered the windows and lit the sconces on the wall and the taper on the bedside table. The room has an eerie, flickering glow to it, casting haunting shadows on the walls around us.
“I don’t know.” I’m amazed the words come out without too much shaking. Sharpe is breathing slowly and deeply, and my body responds. My pulse seems to slow and my breathing evensout, like his. I am safe. I am safe, and he will know what to do. “He was dead when I got there.”
Captain Sharpe’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows down the implication of what I’ve said. “How?”
I lift my head. He’s staring at the dingy wall, not at me. Somehow that’s a relief. I don’t think I could maintain eye contact while talking about this. “Someone slit his throat.” I can’t bring myself to say it any louder than a whisper. “He… he was stillwarm.”
Sharpe’s arms tighten around me. He narrows his eyes, and the set of his jaw goes rigid. Finally he looks down at me. “You weren’t hurt?”
I shake my head, because I can’t answer that question out loud without crying again, and I don’t want to appear any more ridiculous in front of Captain Sharpe. Not unless I’m doing it on purpose.
He nods as he studies my face in the dim candlelight, as if to confirm that I’m truly not hurt. “I shouldn’t have sent you alone.”
“I’m all right,” I manage to whisper.
“You were smart to run,” he says, as if he thinks I need to hear that. But I know I was smart to run. I don’t feel foolish or guilty for running. I nod in agreement, and he heaves a great sigh. “We’ll wait here until dark, and then I’m bringing you back to theDeliverance. Too many people saw you for you to remain here at port.”
I hadn’t thought of that. My eyes widen. “I won’t be suspected of his murder, surely.”
“You’ll likely be the only suspect, Kitten,” Sharpe says with a frown. Then he lifts one hand to brush my hair off my forehead. It’s a strange gesture. It disarms me. No one has ever touched me quite like that before.
I pull away from him, but I try to make it look like it’s because I want to tie my hair back, not because his tenderness is terrifying me. I smooth some strands away, only to stop and release it with a little gag. “It’s in my hair.”
“I already sent Tristan down for a pitcher and basin.”
Thank the good Lord in heaven for Captain Sharpe. I offer him a dramatic sigh of relief in response and am rewarded with the soft rumble of a reluctant chuckle. “When he comes back up, I’ll leave you to wash and find you something to wear.”
I don’t want him to leave me alone, but I nod anyway. I can’t imagine that asking him to stay while I bathe would be anywhere near the realm of appropriate. “Thank you, Captain Sharpe.”
“You certainly keep me on my toes, Kitten,” Sharpe says. There is a tap on the door, and he opens it just enough to peek out, then all the way to let Tristan inside. “Keep him out of trouble, Tristan.”
Tristan smirks, as if he knows he’s capable of doing no such thing. “Aye, Cap’n,” he says to the closing door, before he sets the pitcher and basin down on the table.
The water is steaming, even in the Jamaican heat. I could kiss Tristan for that. I slide out of my ruined waistcoat and drop it onto the floor. Then I peel my shirt away from my skin, tugging it over my head, and drop it into the pile with my waistcoat. Theblood has dried by now, and the sensation of it on my skin makes me shudder. “You’re a saint,” I say to Tristan as I step over to the table and lift the pitcher out of the basin. I pour some water into the bowl and set the pitcher down, then begin the work of cleaning my hands and arms.
“No one’s ever called methatbefore,” Tristan muses, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
I wash as quickly and thoroughly as possible with the limited water I have. Back home, I could have a hot bath drawn for me in the large wooden basin by my fireplace. I could soak in water scented with rose oil or cinnamon.
I try not to think about this as I splash the last of the water into my hair for another rinse. I comb my fingers through it, pleased to find it free of blood, if not free of tangles. I work the worst of them loose with my fingers and squeeze the water out. With no ribbon to tie it back, I must leave my hair loose around my ears and neck. I must look positively rakish—shirtless and wet, with my hair overgrown and loose.
I am suddenly very aware of my body, and of Tristan’s presence, in a way that didn’t occur to me when I was caked in blood and desperate to be clean. I turn to him and cross my arms—which is ridiculous, I know.
Tristan’s brows rise, then he stands and tugs the blanket off the bed, offering it to me.
I accept it, despite the heat of the room. The water on my skin has cooled me enough that I don’t mind wrapping the blanket around myself, and I decide to push off my stockings andtrousers, too. I sit beside Tristan on the bed, wrapped in the dark, worn quilt, too exhausted to stand any longer.
He says nothing to me, and I say nothing back. We sit there for a while in silence, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It might even have been companionable, were it not for the weight of what I saw pulling at me. A chill prickles along my spine, spreading gooseflesh down my arms and thighs. I shiver and hug the quilt closer to me.
The longer we sit, the less in focus the room around me becomes. I am aware of my steady breathing, and the constant shift of Tristan beside me, but nothing else. I try to focus on my body, but the blood is draining from my extremities, leaving them cold, stiff, and cramped.
