Page 35 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“If he remains there another minute, shoot him,” Captain Shaw said. “We need to abandon this ship, and I have no patience for weakness.”
He vanished, his spiteful words swirling around Alana’s head. Mr. Wickes removed his pistol from his waistband, pointing the gun at Alana’s back.
“Captain’s orders,” he said, his voice even.
“Move, Alana,” she murmured aloud, stretching out her hands.
Grabbing the sides of the board, she dragged herself forward, drawing her legs up behind her. She crawled across the plank, pulling herself inch by inch, her eyes locked on the ship. As she reached the other side, a small sigh escaped her lips.
A man leaned over the railing, grabbed the waistband of her trousers, and flung her over his shoulder. She bounced once, rolling on the deck, and crashed into the mast, her body folding unnaturally. She groaned, drawing her knees into her chest.
“And who do you belong to?” the man asked, yanking her from the deck.
“Captain wants him,” Mr. Evans said, leaping over the railing, having traversed the board with the three other men who were tied to the mast. “Chain him in his quarters. You three, follow me.”
Nodding, the man grabbed the rope binding Alana’s wrists and dragged her across the deck.
“You’re lucky,” he said, pushing open a door and ushering Alana inside. “Captain doesn’t often show prisoners favor.”
“I don’t understand.” Alana followed him into the small room.
Moonlight streamed in from a window in the center of the room, highlighting an ornate desk and chair. A lit oil lamp chased the shadows to the edges of the cabin, bathing the walls in soft light.
“Captain hasn’t had a cabin boy,”—his eyes flicked over Alana—“for several months. I’m surprised he decided to take one on. However, you must have captured his attention. I pray you do not lose his sympathy. He’s the only man aboard who possesses any.”
Dragging a cannonball from underneath the desk, the man knelt at Alana’s feet.
“Do you?” Alana asked, balancing on one foot as he unfastened her shoes.
“No.” Glancing up, his blue eyes darkened, then he yanked off her boot. “No need for these.”
“My shoes?” squeaked Alana. “What if I need…”
“Why would you need them?” he asked, his calloused hands sliding up her leg. He yanked quickly, removing the second boot. “You’re on a ship. Stockings too, unless you’d prefer that I continue to strip you.”
“No.” Alana bent over and ripped the material from her feet.
With a nod, the man secured an iron cuff around her bare ankle. The cuff attached to a chain which stretched three feet to the winglet of the cannonball.
In one quick movement, he sliced through the ropes binding her wrists, then, rising, he kicked the cannonball, which rolled toward a large bed in the far-right corner of the room—dragging Alana—and bumped gently into the frame.
“You can start with the bed. Captain will be along in a bit.”
When the door closed and locked, announcing the departure of the man, she collapsed onto the rumpled bed and sobbed, terror pouring from her in fearful howls that echoed off the cabin’s exposed rafters.
How had she managed to end up in this predicament? Surely, this situation was much more dangerous than remaining on her father’s estate with her brother and a stockpile of rifles.
A glint of light hit her face, and she lifted her head, wiping her face. The light flashed again, shining through the cabin window.
Curious, she rose and headed toward the glass, finding herself restrained halfway across the room. Grumbling, she spun, and yanked on the chain. The cannonball rolled, completing one full rotation before stopping again.
With a growl, she pulled the chain again, setting her whole body against the weight of the cannonball, and dragged it forward another three feet. There was just enough chain length for her to press her face against the glass, her leg stretched out behind her at a bizarre angle.
Her gaze searched the water for the light.
Sliding along the burning ship, Alana’s eyes reached the stern of the Crescent Rose. She gasped. Floating twenty meters behind the ship was a lifeboat with people aboard. Squinting, she cupped her hands around her face.
Women! A boatful of women! Was it possible Mrs. Parker had survived? But how had the lifeboat dropped into the water? The fire would have destroyed the wood long before it burned through the ropes.
