Page 82 of Stilettos & Secrets on the 7 Seas

“Rogers arrived earlier than I expected. And we need to— You know.” I jerked my head toward Shrug, who was busy cutting a bite off the pig rump to check the degree of doneness.

“Brilliant. I’ll get the rope. Annie Oakley, you’re in charge of the gun.”

* * *

I helpedAce row us out to theRanger. I pulled hard on the oars and gave the beach one last look. “Do you think Shrug will escape before he’s cooked?”

Ace grunted as he pulled his paddles through the white-capping ocean. “Eventually, the grease from the pig’ll make it easier for him to squeeze out of the ropes. But with all that white lace and ruffles, he’ll have a hard time convincing his mates to help ’im.

Shrug, now wearing my white frilly dress and red stilettos, lay tied on top of the pig rotating over the spit. Dousing the fire to a slow burn was a difficult decision, but I didn’t want to cause him any permanent harm.

“Did I have to leave my stilettos?”

“You’re pretending to be a man, they clash.” Ace huffed. “Now, row.”

Shrug’s rifle lay next to me, and I’d stolen his clothes. They fit me, sort of. I tucked a loose strand of hair under Shrug’s hat, tightened the kerchief around my neck to hide my key, and sniffed. “Do I smell bad?”

“Hon, you smell like a teenage boy’s sweaty soccer socks.” Ace angled the boat toward theRanger. “Help me row, or I’m throwing you overboard.”

I adjusted my oar, pulled hard, and prayed Shrug didn’t have lice or any other affliction I couldn’t cure with antibiotics.

By the time we reached Vane’s ship, the sun sat on the horizon like a giant fireball, carpeting the sea in oranges and pinks. We managed to sneak aboard through the shadows of the ship. The twelve-gun sloop wasn’t as large as theSea Storm, but Vane had trained the crew, and their scruples leaned toward kill first and ask questions later.

I followed Ace down into the hold. Marco sat with his back against a barrel. A white shirt hung on him like an older brother’s hand-me-down. He’d dropped, at my guess, at least ten pounds and looked like he’d been dragged through the pig fire. Chains cuffed his wrists and ankles. His eyes opened wide when we got close enough for him to recognize us.

“Bloody ’ell, would ya look at what’s left of ’im,” Ace said in a rather ominous tone. “He’s a fright for sore eyes.”

Sailors worked not too far from us, so I put a finger to my lips.

“Go home,” Marco growled. “I have a plan.”

The men in my life sounded like the gypsy’s parrot, telling me to go home. It was rather annoying.

I pointed to his chains. My tone deadly serious. “Your plan fails, and you get dead.”

His mouth pulled into a stubborn line.

“We need to get the ’ell out of here.” Ace glanced nervously at the men stacking cannonballs next to each gun.

“I can’t leave.” Marco ran a hand through his disgusting hair matted with dirt and something that looked like bird shit. His chains clinked with his movement. “You don’t understand.”

“I do understand.” I knelt next to him. “You sent me.”

“That’s right, doll.” Ace squatted down to have a look at Marco’s chains. “You sent us a box with your bloody obituary.”

“No, I would never…” He paused.

“Well, you haven’t sent the obituary, yet.”

“I’d never put you in danger. Risk your life to save me. It’s a mistake.” Marco huffed.

“We can discuss semantics later. First, we have to get these chains off.” I reached for his hand. He grabbed my wrist, stopping my inspection of his cuffs.

He pulled his shirt open.

“I can’t leave.”

My eyes trailed up the open front of his shirt. His chest was bronze, but his neck was bare—a vacationer’s tan without the vacation.

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