Page 124 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“But the Navy,” she managed to wheeze out, struggling to remain conscious.
“Will not arrive in time to rescue you.” He grabbed the rope, pulling her arms over her head. “And neither will Captain Shaw.”
He dragged her toward the captain’s quarters in a haphazard path, pulling her over every broken board that littered the damaged corridor, ripping her clothing and skin. With each yank, he glanced at her, obviously enjoying each cry and gasp as agony coated her body. Once he pulled her into the chamber, he dropped the rope and crouched beside her.
“Give me the key.”
“What key?” she whispered, her breathing ragged. Tremors wracked her limbs.
“The key to this cabin.” His eyes narrowed.
“I dropped it.”
“Where?”
“I thought it would work on the other door as well.” She pushed her chin up, indicating the outer door on the opposite side of the corridor.
Mr. Evans made a noise in his throat as though he thought that was the most unintelligent choice a person could make, then rose. He stalked into the corridor, heading toward the outer door.
Flipping onto her stomach, Alana’s head swam. She paused, waiting for her vision to clear, then pushed up, climbing to her feet, and stumbled toward the door.
Digging her bound hands into her pocket, she extracted the missing keys, then kicked the edge of the cabin door. It swung just as Mr. Evans realized her treachery. He charged toward her, the curse words pouring from his mouth cut off when the door slammed shut.
She fumbled with the keys, struggling to get the correct one into the lock, and braced herself against the door as Mr. Evans slammed into the wood. Before he could turn the handle, she shoved the key into the lock, twisted it, securing the door, and backed away from the entrance, watching the wood quake with his anger.
If he managed to get into the chamber, she’d need a way to fight him, but first, she needed to free herself from the binding. Her gaze slid across the damaged room and landed on the shards of the broken whiskey bottle.
Picking her way around the fallen rafters, Alana headed for the armoire. She selected the largest piece of glass—the bottle’s neck—and rubbed the edge against the hemp.
The fibers split, pulling apart, then fell from her wrists. She rubbed them with a sigh, inspecting the red marks left on her skin by the rope.
She had no idea of the damage done to her back when Mr. Evans dragged her through the corridor but suspected her injuries were great, as her shirt was sticking to her skin.
She tugged the material over her head, turning away from the blood-stained cloth, and tossed it to the side. Opening the armoire, she searched for Cedric’s shirts. After selecting a clean one, she pulled the garment over her head, wincing as the soft cloth brushed the fresh lacerations.
With Mr. Evans trapped in the corridor, she needed another way to escape this cabin, and she could only think of one solution.
The window.
Hobbling around the desk, her gaze slid to the door, which continued vibrating with Mr. Evans’ frustration, then shifted to the window. She peered down at the water churning behind the boat.
Would she float long enough to be discovered? What would happen to Louisa and Cedric?
When the fourth cannon blast rocked the ship, flinging her against the glass, Alana took it as a sign not to delay. She tore at the latch, prying the window open a sliver.
“Mrs. Dubois!” The voice sent a chill rippling down her spine. “You haven’t completed your obligation to me.”
She spun slowly, her stomach clenching in horror. The cannonball had ripped through the door separating Mr. Evans from her!
Before she could push the window open further, his hand whipped out and closed around her hair. Yanking her against his body, he restrained her arms against her sides and marched her over to the bed. Flinging her down, he flipped her onto her back, then reached down and unfastened her pants, yanking them from her body.
When she kicked at him, he grabbed her leg with a chuckle, then pinned it to the bed with his knee.
“You can only trick me once.” Shoving his trousers down his legs, he straddled her hips. Fingers encircling her throat, he squeezed.
She slapped at his hands, her strength fading as he crushed the life from her body. She’d be dead in a few minutes, then it wouldn’t matter what desecration Mr. Evans chose to do to her corpse.
How cruel it seemed to escape her uncle’s killer only to fall to a nameless pirate.
