Page 120 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
There was no one visible.
Was he dead?
“Captain Shaw?” Mrs. Parker’s soft voice broke through his confusion. “Are you alive?”
“I’m hoping not.” He groaned and tried to move his arms but couldn’t, finding himself crushed against the deck by rigging and debris.
Pain rolled through his body, the weight of the wood stealing the oxygen from his lungs, slowly suffocating him. He struggled to free himself, but each time he moved, the pile of debris settled, pressing down on his chest and shoulders. He must have resembled a beetle, trapped on its back and desperately wiggling his legs to free itself.
He always assumed he’d be shot. As choices of death went, crushed by the crow’s nest wasn’t the one he would have selected.
“If you were dead, you’d go to heaven. Would that be aboard a ship?” Labored, Mrs. Parker’s voice came from his left, breaking through his macabre thoughts. She coughed, the sound nearing, and a moment later, her soiled face floated into his restricted view.
“Men like me don’t go to heaven,” he ground out, hissing as another cannon blast rocked the ship and shifted the mound crushing his torso.
“Are you suggesting I’ve gone to Hell with you?” she asked and dragged the hunk of rope from his face.
“Mrs. Parker, if you were in my Hell, the place would be much more enjoyable, which it cannot be, and therefore, I must have survived the blast.”
“If you’d like to swear, I won’t be offended.”
He did.
Ignoring his blasphemous tirade, Mrs. Parker crouched beside his head, grabbed hold of a broken piece of wood, and grunted.
It lifted half an inch.
He cried out when she dropped the full weight on his chest again and jerked his body, the unevenly stacked pile tilting and threatening to topple forward. Mrs. Parker’s hands flew out, and she braced her feet as she steadied the heap.
“I can’t free you,” she admitted, glancing down at him. Her voice was tinged with fear.
“Find Mr. Hayward,” he replied.
Hopefully, the Navy didn’t shoot at them while she was searching for him. Without her holding the pile of wood, he’d have no protection if the ship rocked. The heavy debris would fall, squashing his head and killing him.
Steeling his voice, he repeated the command, overriding the visible protest hovering on her tongue. “He’ll instruct some of the crew to free me. While they’re removing the wooden wreckage from my chest, Mr. Hayward can deal with Mr. Evans.”
“There’s a small problem with your plan,” Mrs. Parker replied, paling.
“Which is?”
“The door is blocked by part of the mast.”
Cedric twisted his head in the direction she pointed, his gaze landing on the barely visible entryway leading to the officer’s quarters.
There was no way in… or out.
Over the turmoil of the Navy’s attack, he heard a blood-chilling scream echo from the corridor.
Alana.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ALANA
“There’s only one shot in that pistol, Mrs. Dubois.”
Snarling, Mr. Evans slashed his arm down, and smacked the gun out of her hands. The weapon skittered across the floor, sliding under the desk. Then his hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing. Leaning forward, his heavy body ground against hers.
