Page 123 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
This one was more damaging than the first two, and above their heads, a horrific sound of wood splintering echoed, followed by a loud crash.
Water leaked from the ceiling, forming a small puddle on the desk beside Alana’s face. The steady drip was accompanied by a new sound, a low creaking that grew in volume when Mr. Evans glanced up.
The roof caved in, one of the rafters striking Mr. Evans as it fell across the desk. He collapsed with a groan, the beam pinning him to the floor.
Relief pouring into her body, Alana crawled off the desk and jerked up her trousers, her head whipping toward the window. Two Naval ships approached, and she was never more grateful to see them, despite them ripping apart Cedric’s ship with cannonballs.
She bent, removed the key ring from Mr. Evans’ trousers, and darted away from him, fearing that he would wake again.
Had she time, and a knife, she would have castrated Mr. Evans—a fitting punishment for any man who wished to steal pleasure from a woman—but the idea of touching him again, especially there, turned her stomach. She decided death by drowning or explosion was punishment enough.
Shoving the key in the lock, she twisted, then opened the door. Tucking the keys into her trousers’ pocket, she picked her way through the corridor, which sported similar damage to Cedric’s cabin.
Her eyes skated upward.
Something had crashed into the roof, and bits of sky were exposed between rigging and jagged boards.
Louisa!
Alana hadn’t thought of her since Mr. Evans entered the cabin.
Was she trapped in Mr. Hayward’s quarters?
Stopping at the door, Alana knocked, which seemed silly considering the commotion occurring around her, but proper decorum had trained her to knock, and so she did, once, before forcing the door open and peering inside.
“Louisa?” she called out, stepping further into the room.
The cabin was destroyed. Debris coated everything, hiding the bed and other furniture beneath a layer of smoldering wood and hemp. Alana couldn’t determine if Louisa was trapped inside or if she had escaped to the main deck.
“Louisa?” Alana hobbled over to the bed, her gaze sliding along the ruined mattress.
If Louisa had chosen to take cover there, she would have been crushed. Spinning slowly, Alana’s eyes drank in the room. There didn’t appear to be any place Louisa could have hidden, which meant she had to be on deck.
Holding onto that shred of hope, Alana moved back into the corridor, her eyes automatically checking on Mr. Evans, whose dark head was still visible beneath the rafter.
She limped to the outer door, grasped the handle, and shoved.
The door didn’t move.
It wasn’t possible!
This door didn’t lock. At least, she didn’t think so since she’d never seen anyone lock it. Inspecting the door, she confirmed there was no lock, no hole at all, just a crude iron handle. It should open, but it didn’t. The door wouldn’t budge.
She pounded on the door, beating both fists against the wood, and yelled, praying that someone would hear the sound. Pressing her head against the door, she listened for the comforting sound of someone moving on the opposite side, but she heard nothing… except for heavy breathing.
What the hell?
Turning around, Alana gasped.
Standing less than three feet behind her was Mr. Evans, blood dripping down his hate-filled face, his trousers fastened securely around his waist. There was murder in his eyes.
As Alana flung up her arms into a defensive pose, he lunged, his hands closing around her throat, cutting off the petrified screams pouring from her mouth, and slammed her head against the door.
Black spots danced in her vision, and she slumped in his grasp, her stunned body refusing to follow commands.
Chuckling, Mr. Evans released her, and she dropped to the floor, landing across a small mound of rope.
“That’s an interesting suggestion.” Reaching down, he yanked the cord from beneath her, then he knelt and grasped her hands. Winding the rope around her wrists, he grinned. “Fortunate for us, the bed wasn’t damaged.”
