Page 8 of A Prince Among Pirates
I realize my fatal error, for I have given him ammunition to tease me further.
“Kit, is it?” There is a mischievous glint in his dark eyes as he laces his fingers together across his stomach. “A lost kitten, then.”
I suck in a breath as my belly does a strange little loop. This epithet makes me feel a certain kind of way, and I dare not examine too closely what that might mean. I swear I could kick myself, were it physically possible. I grimace briefly.
“Kit Mortimer,” I amend. Though I detest the name, it is better to go by it now, as there isn’t a soul living or dead who would ever suspect me of willingly going by the name Mortimer.
The captain’s lips draw back into a toothy half grin. “Pleasure to meet you, Kit Mortimer,” he purrs. “I’m Captain Sharpe. Welcome aboard theDeliverance.”
Four
Youmustbe joking.”
“Abject horror” is the only way I can describe the feeling in my gut as I stare into the dimly lit dampness of the fo’c’sle belowdecks. Surely, this is some kind of jest at my expense.
The room has a lived-in quality that suggests it has never made acquaintance with a mop. Nor has fresh air ever been allowed to permeate the space, as my nose is brutally assaulted with a cocktail of body odor, stale grog, and sick. Dingy grey-brown hammocks hang around the room, stacked in twos. I think at one time they must have been white, but no longer.
I turn to the whiskerless, silver-haired man, who I’ve discovered is the ship’s first mate. His name is Tydes, which seems a jest in itself, but he has assured me it is his true name. “You have a stateroom for me, surely,” I press.
He stares back at me without the slightest hint ofamusement. He points to a hammock strung a few feet from the door. “Your stateroom,my lord,” he says, voice positively dripping with disdain.
My stomach drops and my shoulders sag. Not only is Mr. Tydes unamused by me, he appears to actively mislike me—which is just preposterous. Everyone likes me. My mind races as I try to come up with an alternative solution to our problem, for that is what it is:ourproblem. If I am not given appropriate lodgings for my rank, I will make sure to let my displeasure be known.
Constantly.
“If you don’t like it, you can string up a hammock on deck with the men who prefer to sleep under the stars,” Mr. Tydes grunts. “Or you can see yourself off theDeliverance.”
I’m sure he would simply love that. In fact, I’m rather considering it when there is a strange shift in the ship below my feet. I glance around, as if the hammocks and stench might have answers for me.
Mr. Tydes smirks at me, his eyes crinkling in a way that could almost be friendly, were he not an ornery old bastard with apparently no sense of humor. “We’re weighing anchor, lordling. Best settle in.”
“Weighingwhat?” I ask, nearly losing my footing as the ship shifts again beneath me. My eyes widen and I realize what he means. We’re putting out to sea,now, and I no longer have the option of boarding another ship.
I open my mouth to complain further, but Mr. Tydes has already turned his back on me and is making his way up on deck.Following him out into the chaos of men bustling about, doing whatever it is sailors do to make a ship sail, I scan the crowd for my temporary manservant and realize both heandmy trunk are nowhere to be found.
“My things!” I shout to absolutely no one in particular. Nobody is paying attention to me, though a few men give me strange glances as they pass by.
Panic sets in, and for a moment all I want to do is curl up in a ball right here on the ship’s deck. I don’t, of course—how humiliating would that be?—but I do march forward, dodging sailors as I make my way back to the stained-glass door of the captain’s cabin. I knock briskly on the glass and cross my arms as I wait for him to emerge.
He doesn’t, and I cannot hear over the shouts of the crew behind me if he has given me leave to enter. Well, I won’t be left standing out here like a fool. I’m a viscount, for Christ’s sake! (Almost.) I turn the handle, pleased to find the door unlocked. Before anyone can stop me, I let myself into the cabin.
The curtains along the gallery windows are drawn back now, so I can see around the room fairly well. The weapons that littered the table are now mounted along one wall. Before I can consider why the captain has need of so many weapons, I spot my trunk at the foot of the rather grand four-poster bed, which appears to be built into the wall.
The captain is not here to see my disgruntled expression as I stomp over to my trunk and check the lock. It is unscathed, so at least no one has tried to rob me. Still, I have no intention ofleaving my things unattended here. I glance at the small settee bolted to the floor in the middle of the room. Leaving my trunk where it is, I go to the settee and sink into the cushions with a sigh. Despite the hollering outside, the captain’s cabin is relatively peaceful.
As much as it pains me to admit, Digby was right: I am no adventurer. I have been on this ship for less than an hour, and I am already spent.
But the thought of Digby Hale stiffens my resolve. No, I cannot allow that dishrag of a milksop to have one up on me—even though he will never know it, as I plan to disappear over the horizon and never return to the shores of Falmouth again. Come hell or high water, I will make something of myself. (Preferably without either of those things.) It sounds a bit dramatic, but I mean it—Digby, my father, and the prince’s opinions of me be damned.
It’s time I drew my own path in the sand.
When I wake, I am instantly horrified. I sit up and scrub my hands across my face. My first thought is that I hope my father didn’t catch me sleeping in the sitting room—but then I look up and am met with the unreadable expression of Captain Sharpe.
“Comfortable, Mr. Mortimer?”
I grimace at the name. “Ugh, anything but that.”
His brows rise, and I realize he is expecting me to cower before him. I won’t—I technically outrank him. I draw myself tomy feet and calmly smooth out my waistcoat, deliberately taking the time to right my clothes. It is a power play, and I can tell by the way his expression shifts to one of dismayed amusement that he is well aware of what I am doing.
