Page 70 of A Prince Among Pirates
Trevor shrugs. “Cap’n won’t be pleased,” he says. “We’re too near the continent for him to be so reckless.”
“Don’t let him hear ye sayin’ that,” Tristan whispers.
“What’s he gonna do?”
“Yer just feelin’ brave ’cause yer talkin’ to Kit, ’n’ he’s scared of Kit.”
“He’s notafraidof me,” I say with my mouth full. I swallow my bite of apple and wipe the corner of my mouth with my thumb. “He just finds me wanting.”
“He’s jealous ’cause the cap’n is buggerin’ you.”
That comment earns Tristan a shove from me, but he just laughs as he stumbles forward a step. The twins are the only people who know the truth about Captain Sharpe and myself, because when we find moments to sneak away into our hiding spot in the hold, I feel safe enough to tell them about it in hushed whispers. The truth being that Captain Sharpe isnotbuggering me…yet.
Trevor has no interest in men in that way, but he’s curious all the same. Tristan, however, is a wellspring of questions on the topic. Because they know so much, they tease me relentlessly when they think no one can hear them. I don’t mind, because they keep my secrets for me, though they assure me the men likely wouldn’t care much either way.
“He’s not—” is all I manage to get out before the boom of a nearby cannon rips through the air. No one on board has time to react before the entire ship surges—and the rigging overhead shreds, crashing down around us.
Twenty-Five
Tristan shoves Trevor and me under the stairs seconds before wood splinters and scraps of fabric plummet into the spot where we just stood.
“Was that a warning shot?” I hear someone yell.
“Get the new men belowdecks!” Mr. Tydes hollers. Oh God—the new men. None of them are trained in sailing or battle yet, and if we are boarded, they could be enslaved once more.
“We haven’t time to fly colors,” Trevor says, sounding terrified.
My gut clenches. He’s right. If we’ve been seen, they already know we aren’t privateers. If it’s truly a frigate like Naeem says, all the men on this ship are dead unless we come up with something very clever, very quickly.
I turn to Tristan, but he’s gone. “Tristan?” I call, stepping outfrom under the stairs just in time to see Captain Sharpe emerge from the fog.
He hauls me into his arms and lets out a puff of air. “I saw the mast fall,” he says. I’ve never heard his voice sound quite so strained.
“I’m all right,” I say. “Tristan disappeared.”
“Tristan!” Trevor screams from behind us. “Get down!”
Everyone looks up—and though the fog is thicker now with dust particles and smoke, Tristan’s red hair is just visible as he moves through the rigging with the Union Jack in his grip.
“Is he insane?” I gasp.
“Shit.” Sharpe pushes me at Trevor and is hurrying towards the remains of the mizzenmast, apparently intent on climbing after Tristan, when a second shot splits the air.
My heart drops into my stomach as I stare up at Tristan, willing him to hold on as tightly as he can, just as the cannonball hits the water on our starboard side and rocks the ship hard enough to send both Trevor and me sprawling.
I don’t hear a scream, nor do I see Tristan’s body come crashing down from the skies, but I can’t find him through the fog now. Trevor helps me to my feet as theDeliverancerocks back and forth, but I don’t waste time thanking him before I rush into Sharpe’s cabin to rifle through his desk.
I come up with what I’m searching for just in time to hear a single gunshot. Instinct screams for me to hide from danger, but I am running on pure terror now—and the men are in trouble. Captain Sharpe’s crew—mycrew.
I hurry out on deck with the British letter of marque in my hand, holding it up in the air. “We have our papers!” I cry out.
How have they boarded us so fast? Captain Sharpe stands at gunpoint with his hands raised, looking grim as he stares down the barrel. I can’t stop myself from marching over to them, papers in hand. “I have our papers!” I say once more, then stop short as a gun is trained on me. This feels different than when Captain LaBarre boarded us. This feelshostile.
The papers are snatched from my grip, and I raise my hands to eye level the same way Sharpe has, my chest heaving. I want to say something else, but then an English officer steps forward and glances around at the crew until his gaze falls on me. His eyes widen, and he motions for the gun trained on me to be dropped.
I leave my hands where they are.
“Master Davenport, I presume?” he says.
