Page 136 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
Together, they’d be questioned.
The ship rocked with another round of cannon blasts. Cedric scuttled forward, sheltering himself beneath another fallen rafter. His gaze slid across the ravaged room as he adjusted the makeshift bandage, ensuring the cloth was secure against his wound.
There were so many memories, so many lessons—many of them quite painful at Rowland’s hand. Though he’d known this was his last voyage when he sailed from Ceresus, he never expected this moment to be as sentimental as it had become.
What does one keep to commemorate the death of a fictitious man?
Waiting until he was certain no more of the roof would collapse, he rose and darted out from under the beam’s protection. He headed toward the window, taking a haphazard path past Mr. Evans’ immobile body.
The latch had been tampered with. The window opened just a hair. He surmised Alana must have attempted to escape Mr. Evans through the window and either couldn’t or was prevented from completing the task.
Wrenching the window open, he inhaled as the sea breeze greeted him with a friendly kiss. Perhaps he could convince Rowland to construct the new distillery closer to the English coast. He was fairly certain his captain suffered from the same oceanic affliction, as did Mr. Hayward.
Sea water flowed through their veins.
There was just one final promise he needed to fulfill.
Turning, he headed toward the bed, skirting the growing piles of ash and debris. He collected one of Mr. Cheswick’s pistols—the other having been given to Mr. Hayward—and Mr. Evans’ gun from the blanket.
There probably wouldn’t be enough ship left to investigate once the Navy had completed their attack. However, the desk was sturdy and might survive as long as a cannonball didn’t strike the thick wood. If the Navy did discover the pistol, alongside Mr. Evans’, it would be more evidence that Captain Shaw murdered Harris Cheswick.
Crawling under the desk, Cedric twisted onto his back and reached out toward a concealed compartment carved into the side. He unlatched the door, pulled it open, and retrieved the sack of gold from the base of the cache—a hiding place he’d never had to use until this voyage—then he set both pistols inside the cavity and closed the door, securing it.
He flipped over onto his knees, and scuttled backward, dragging the sack with him, the gold coins clinking as he pulled the bag across the floor.
“I knew you’d hidden that somewhere in this room!”
Cedric’s head popped up.
He stared at Mr. Evans, or more specifically, Mr. Evans’ legs, as he’d apparently climbed from the floor while Cedric was hiding the pistols. Heart pounding, Cedric’s gaze shifted to the bed, searching the rubbish collecting atop the blanket for the metal glitter of the penny knife.
“Missing something?”
Cedric’s head whipped back to Mr. Evans, who leaned against the edge of the desk, his legs crossed at the ankle, clutching the absent weapon in his fist.
Before Cedric could react, Mr. Evans brought the knife down, slicing Cedric’s arm through his sleeve and drawing blood. Cedric jerked backward, moving out of reach of Mr. Evans and the knife’s sharp blade.
The sack of gold sat on the floor between them, taunting.
Mr. Evans stared at it, then Cedric, alternating between scowling and glaring, but he didn’t move.
“Pick it up,” Mr. Evans said.
“I don’t want to.”
“I said, pick it up!”
“No.” Cedric folded his arms across his chest, his top hand pressing against the cut in his forearm, staving off the blood dripping down his fingers. The slash was deeper than he suspected, and the wound burned beneath his fingers, but Mr. Evans didn’t need to know that.
“If I lean down to pick up the sack, you’ll hit me with the chair.”
“Probably.” Cedric tilted his head, curious what course of action Mr. Evans would decide upon.
He assumed the man would attack.
He was correct.
With a shriek, Mr. Evans raised the knife and lunged at Cedric, swinging the blade, his eyes pulsating with murderous desire.
