Page 48 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
Relief poured into her when she discovered she was alone, albeit on the floor, her torso smashed against the base of the desk.
He must have thrown her after she lost consciousness.
Unfolding her body with a soft cry, she flipped onto her back and inhaled a shaky breath. Her throat ached, throbbing where Captain Shaw’s fingers had crushed her neck. She didn’t need a mirror to know there would be visual evidence of his assault.
The door creaked, and Alana froze, her heart racing. Her terrified gaze whipped to the room’s only entrance.
Had he returned to kill her?
Peering around the edge, the man with a scar carving up his face nodded when he found Alana. “Captain said you might be awake.”
“Where is he?” she asked, coughing and massaging her throat.
“Occupied,” replied the man. “You’ll need Captain’s sewing box.”
“Who are you?” Alana grabbed hold of the desk and pulled herself up, wincing as she climbed to her feet.
“Mr. Hayward.”
“Where are we going?” Shuffling across the floor, a grimace hovered on her lips as she forced her aching body to move.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Mr. Hayward grumbled. When she didn’t speak again, he ground out, “Crew’s quarters.”
After another few minutes of sloth-like movement, she reached the armoire and pulled open the door, her gaze sliding over the shelves, searching for the sewing box. He hadn’t threatened her, but she could feel his impatience growing with each second.
“Ah!” She snatched up the small box, shut the armoire door, and turned with a nervous grin, waving the box at Mr. Hayward. “Let’s go.”
She wasn’t ecstatic about leaving the captain’s quarters and exposing herself to the dangers of walking about a pirate ship, but at the same time, she didn’t think she’d survive another encounter with Captain Shaw’s mercurial temperament.
Mr. Hayward led her into a small, dim corridor lit by a single lantern, which hung next to the door. Twin doors led off both sides of the hallway.
“Who—”
“Mine and Mr. Johnson’s quarters,” Mr. Hayward snapped. “And you’re to stay out of both of them. You belong to Captain.”
Alana swallowed. She’d heard that phrase several times, and each time, it brought a conflicting sense of comfort and terror.
Mr. Hayward pushed through a door in front of them, leading her onto the main deck. They walked toward the bow, dodging men who rushed around them.
“What’s going on?” she asked, stumbling as she ran to catch up to him.
“There’s another ship.” He didn’t elaborate, but there was no need. She understood the ramifications behind those words. Pulling open another door, he pointed to a steep staircase that looked more like a crude ladder carved into the side of the wall.
“You’re not coming?”
Mr. Hayward shook his head. “Wickes is waiting for you. He’s the least injured of the three. Remain in the crew’s quarters until someone collects you. Don’t wander off. The punishment for abandoning your post is death.”
He turned away, not waiting to see if Alana followed his instructions, and she assumed in his position—someone who slept near the captain must be an officer of some kind—he expected people to comply without question.
She leaned over the hole, debating how best to traverse the steep steps, and decided to climb down facing the wall.
Holding onto the frame, she lowered herself, feeling for the next step with her toes before releasing her grip on the wood. She scuttled down the ladder, a sigh escaping her lips when she reached the lower deck.
“Dubois?”
“Mr. Wickes,” Alana greeted the man with a quick bob of her head, her gaze sliding over a rust-colored bandage wrapped around his waist. “I was told there are men in need of medical attention.”
“Start with Carter. He’s been moaning most of the night.”
