Page 43 of A Prince Among Pirates
I swallow hard and glance up at Trevor. I have never seen a man killed before. Not in front of my own eyes. I am relieved to see that he doesn’t appear smug or satisfied. He doesn’t have the wicked look of a murderer. Instead he’s focused and frowning as Renard comes to help him haul the two men back into the captain’s cabin, where we might divest them of their uniforms.
My blood is like ice in my veins as I follow behind. Tristan has disappeared—to finally change out of that dress, I assume. My mind is racing as I shut the cabin door behind me and hurryto help Trevor with the buttons of the French uniforms.
That’s when I see Renard has wrapped the length of rope around the other man’s neck and is squeezing, hard. My stomach drops, and the world slides out of focus.
“What are you doing?” I gasp. “He’s already unconscious!”
Renard looks me square in the eyes as he twists the rope tighter. “Dead men tell nae tales.”
Sixteen
It’s madness, what we are doing here. I am terrified as we row silently toward the French naval frigate drifting nearby. In some severe lapse of judgement, Trevor handed me an oar when we first lowered the skiff into the water. I didn’t even argue with him; Iactuallyattempted to row, watching Trevor’s movements and doing my best to copy him. It is no easy feat, with my legs spread wide on either side of the crossbow Renard insisted we bring. I try not to think about what it will be needed for as I row, wincing at the sound of water splashing each time the oar strikes the surface. Surely, this can’t be right—we’ll most certainly be heard.
Moments later Renard slaps the back of my head—rude—and yanks the oar from my hands. I give it up without complaint.
“Ye’ll wake the entire navy,” he growls from behind me.
It’s just as well, for my nerves are shot. My blood is thundering in my ears so loud, I’m sure it alone will alert every man onboard to our approach. I try to distract myself from the pitch-black waves rippling around our tiny skiff. I don’t even realize I am staring until Tristan kicks my shin.
I jump and grab at my leg, glaring at him.
“Stop starin’ at ’em,” he hisses at me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Iwasn’t,” I hiss back. He isn’t eveninthe blasted dress anymore. There’s nothingtostare at!
But I am grateful for the distraction from my terror. I shift in the boat carefully, leaning closer to Tristan. “Are we going to talk about it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“No,” Tristan says.
I frown a little, but I’m not going to pester him. IlikeTristan, and though I am still nonplussed, I don’t want to ruin one of the first genuine friendships I have ever formed. I nod and sit upright. “All right.”
He seems surprised when I don’t press him further, but he offers nothing, and I don’t ask—just as he doesn’t press me about my father’s title.
“All right, lads,” Renard whispers as he gets to his feet, rocking the skiff in a way that makes my heart jump into my throat. I grip the sides of the little boat, even as I turn to watch him. He is wearing one of the dead men’s uniforms, and I am disturbed by the wrongness of seeing him in it.
He reaches a hand towards me, and for a moment I simply stare at him. Then I recall the weapon between my feet. I shift, gripping the sides of the skiff once more, then exhale as Imanage to somehow lift the crossbow without knocking Tristan in the face.
Renard levels an annoyed look at me as he takes it. I don’t have time to sulk, though; he waves his hand at me and points to some kind of wooden lever at my feet. I hand it to him and watch in silent amazement as he uses the lever to force the string of the bow back. There is a click, and he drops the lever back into my arms and sets a bolt into the crossbow. All this is done quickly, with a silent grace, and I can only think about how long that would have taken me and how loud I would have been doing it. Thank goodness I was born with a pretty face and will never be in a position to need a weapon like that.
I make the mistake of following Renard’s gaze. We are close enough to the frigate now that I can see a guard moving slowly across the poop deck. He has not seen us yet, but the torches on deck illuminate him even from this distance.
Trevor goes back to rowing quietly, and as we close in on the frigate, I hear the snick of the bolt being loosed. I close my eyes just in time to avoid seeing the man die, like the coward I am. Tristan’s hand on mine is my signal to reopen them, and—bless him—he offers me a sympathetic smile before reaching over me to take the crossbow from Renard.
“Let’s go, b’fore the second guard finds him,” Renard says. He takes a grappling hook in his left hand and swings it around for a moment before tossing it up. It catches on the rail of the poop deck with a thunk, and we all freeze.
Silence.
The four of us exchange glances, but no one speaks. We all know our roles. It’s Trevor who climbs up first. He, too, has donned a uniform. I hope his red hair won’t give us away.
Tristan climbs up next, dressed in his usual black breeches and brown shirt. I swallow hard and stare at the rope. Now that it’s my turn, I am all at once very aware of how high the poop deck is. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. “Leave me down here. I’ll mind the skiff.”
Renard gives me another look. He’s tied the skiff to the end of the grappling hook’s rope. No one needs to mind it, but I am too scared to move. He grabs me by the collar and hoists me up, and I nearly scream out of fear of falling over.
I must truly be the worst pirate ever.
He pushes me towards the rope and comes up behind me as I grab on to it. “I’m not strong enough,” I whisper.
“Ye’ve been livin’ on a ship fer near half a year, Kit. Yer no’ a soft rich boy anymore.”
