Page 37 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“I was not suggesting treachery, Captain Shaw,” she replied, lifting the needle from the box. “I’m merely warning you of my inabilities.”
Lowering the pistol, he indicated for her to continue, extending his injured left arm and resting his palm on her knee. The heat from his skin blazed through her trousers.
Her hand slid up his sinewy arm, the muscles flexing underneath her feathery touch. Desire rippled through her body, pooling in her abdomen. Her stomach clenched.
A peculiar look passed over his face, as though he’d experienced the same intense reaction to her touch. Reaching down, he grabbed her wrist, lifting her hand and inspecting her fingers.
“I’m willing to bet you’ve never performed labor.”
She snatched her hand away, her eyes narrowing.
“Regardless of your opinion of gentlemen, Captain Shaw, you asked me to assist you. Either remain silent and allow me to perform the task or find someone else to help you.”
His arm whipped out, fingers closing around her chin. Pinching the skin, he wrenched her head, yanking her toward him.
“You are not in anyposition to give demands. You are alive because you amuse me. Do not lose my kindness.” Flinging her off the bed, he watched her crash into the unyielding edge of the open armoire door.
Pain exploded in the center of her back, radiating down her spine. She screamed in agony, rolling back and forth on the floor, her hands clamped to her back, tears rolling down her face. He rose, stepped over her body, and extracted a shirt from the armoire, his cold gaze dropping to her.
“You have failed your first test this evening, Dubois. Pray you do not fail your second.”
“Captain?” A muted knock sounded at the door.
Alana rolled to her side, pain pulsating through her back. Lifting her head with a groan, her gaze slid across the floor, and she sucked in a breath, grateful for the interruption.
“You have not earned a reprieve.” Captain Shaw’s deep brown eyes darkened to black.
A shiver raced through her body.
Did he intend to beat her to death?
CHAPTER EIGHT
CEDRIC
“Enter,” Cedric barked, adding more force to his voice than necessary and noting with satisfaction that Mr. Dubois recoiled from the command.
Although he didn’t completely trust Mr. Dubois, Cedric doubted a man so cowardly would attempt a second attack, especially since, if he managed to severely wound Cedric this time, he’d still be trapped aboard a pirate ship with the rest of the crew… and they were less forgiving.
The door scraped open, and a trunk slid into the room, propelled by an invisible force. Mr. Hayward followed a moment later, a second trunk resting on his shoulders.
He crossed the room and set the small trunk on the corner of the desk. Returning for the first trunk, he positioned the larger chest beside the desk, nearest a table and chairs. He spun, his gaze sliding over Mr. Dubois’ crumpled body, showing no emotion for the man’s distress, and landing on Cedric.
“Captain, I’ve brought what you requested.”
“Divide up the rest of the trunks among the crew, then point the ship south, and inform the crew we’ll attack the next ship we find,” Cedric replied, strolling toward Mr. Hayward, the whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers.
Cedric set the bottle on the desk, beside the small trunk, and draped his shirt over the back of a gilded chair.
“I’ll shoot any man who complains about his share,” Mr. Hayward grumbled, the scar across his face stretching with displeasure at the assigned task.
“If you wish.” Cedric dropped into his chair. A soft tickle on his arm caused him to glance down a slow trickle of blood, steadily dripping from the gash.
“Need any assistance?”
Cedric lowered his gaze to Mr. Dubois, his voice hard. “Does Mr. Hayward need to perform the task for you?”
Mr. Dubois glared up at him from the floor, forcing the word through his clenched jaw. “No.”
