Page 68 of A Prince Among Pirates
“Let’s see it,” says another one of the men (Christ, I can never remember his name. John? George?), and Bobby disappears into the crowd, presumably to find this wanted poster.
I’m not sure why they all care so much—unless they expect theDeliverancemight want in on the reward. “Think it a large sum?” I ask.
“I imagine so, if they’re looking all the way down here,” Martel muses.
“Wonder what this man did.”
Martel shrugs. “Who cares? Money is money.”
Bobby returns with a few others and sets the sketch on our table. “Looks a bit like your fancy friend ’ere,” he says with a laugh.
Alarmed, I lean forward to examine the poster. I frown down at the face staring back at me. “Hardly,” I say. It resembles a young version of Prince Henry, not me at all. “The nose is all wrong.” Then my gaze falls to the bottom of the sketch, and I swear my heart skitters to a dead stop. “Ten thousand guineas?” I cry out. That’s an absurdly astronomical amount of money.
This, of course, piques the crew’s interest. Renard spins the poster to get a better look at it. Something flashes across his face for the briefest moment. “Mmm… he’s right,” he says with a grin. “One expensive haircut away from yer face.”
“It’s not my face,” I insist. “Besides, what could I possibly be wanted for? I haven’tdoneanything.”
Renard smirks at me in a way that puts ice in my veins. Is he taking the piss, or is he suddenly recalling our first conversation and reconsidering whether I was lying?
“Kit’s right,” Martel says as he picks the poster up. “The nose is all wrong. Kit’s is much bigger.”
I’m drawn out of my thoughts as I gasp and yank the poster from his hands. “How dare you, I have a beautiful nose!”
The poster is snatched from my grasp before I can take another look at it. John-George—Christ, I really need to be better about remembering names—laughs as he holds it up beside my face. “What if he’s been playing us this whole time?” he teases. “Mr. Kit is actually a hardened criminal.”
“Don’t worry, lordling,” Rodriguez chimes in with a wink. “Even for ten thousand guineas, we won’t let them touch you. You’re one of us now; you belong to the sea.”
I am just as touched as I am horrified by the declaration. I might smile at the promise of the crew’s protection were the idea of belonging to the sea not quite so disturbing.
“What could an almost viscount be wanted for?” Martel asks with a smirk, narrowing his eyes playfully at me. “Did you steal your father’s fortune and run, Kit?”
I glance around and give Martel a sharp look for announcing my title where others can hear. Outside of teasing, the crew haven’t seemed bothered by the truth of my identity—but we don’t know the men around us.
“Murder,” Renard says, and we all look at him. I laugh, because at first I think he’s recalling our first conversation upon theDeliverance. Finally offering an olive branch, perhaps?
But the look he gives me isn’t one of friendly teasing, and the laugh dies on my lips. “What are you on about?”
Renard sits back, a sneer twisting his handsome face. “Where’d ye go after the pub in Jamaica,Lord Davenport?”
This isn’t funny anymore. I can’t believe he has the absolute gall to accusemeof murder after avoiding me like the plague for days. I frown and toss a few coins onto the table. “I’m tired,” I say as I get to my feet. “I’m going back to the ship.”
“Ahh, Kit—we’re teasing!” Martel says, though he looks puzzled at the exchange.
I glance once more at the poster as I pull on my jacket, then snatch it from John-George’s hands before turning to leave with it. This elicits more laughter, and I am grateful that the group isn’t paying Renard’s odd accusation any mind.
I catch Renard’s gaze on my way out. He isn’t laughing; he’s frowning at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then someone’s ale tips, sloshing across the table, and the tense moment is broken as Renard jumps to his feet to avoid the wave of sticky liquid.
I step out into the stagnant evening heat, rolling up thewanted poster and tucking it into my jacket pocket. Though I dare not run and draw attention to myself, I walk back towards the docks as quickly as possible. I don’t want anyone else to see my face and agree that the chap in this sketch looks anything like me.
I hurry down the dock, grateful for the dark as I pass a small group of soldiers. I can’t get back onto theDeliverancefast enough. I wish I knew where Captain Sharpe went. I hate feeling this vulnerable without his strong presence to ground me. I’ve become dependent on him to help me keep my head.
Though I know the men were taking the piss for laughs, the wanted poster still troubles me. It may not be a verygoodlikeness, but… itcouldbe me. What if my father is looking for me after all? Perhaps Elizabeth had another girl, and he finds himself without a spare and in need of his heir once more.
Or, more likely, perhaps the new King Henry is out for blood after I jilted his goddaughter the morning of her wedding. I shudder at the thought of him and my father working together to bring me home, just to make me suffer. Ten thousand guineas is an absurd sum for petty revenge, but I suppose men like King Henry and my father have little to do but flaunt their pride, count their money, and make those they deem beneath them suffer for their enjoyment.
As I cross the gangplank onto theDeliverance, I hesitate and glance over the edge, into the shimmering black waves. For a moment my stomach drops. I scramble onto the deck, shakingnow from the rush of fear that overwhelms my senses. I make my way to Captain Sharpe’s quarters, feeling queasy. A cool breeze caresses my face, carrying with it the whispered promise that I belong to the glittering dark below.
Part III
