Page 50 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
They both started, a crumb of fear passing through their eyes, and mumbled a hasty ‘yes, Captain’ as they scurried off.
Cedric shifted his gaze to Mr. Johnson, who’d worked under Cedric long enough to know to walk away without speaking. Once he was alone, Cedric strode toward the bow, heading for the crew’s quarters.
Two men returned to his employ, but he’d sent Mr. Dubois to care for three.
“Where is my third man, Dubois?” Cedric bellowed as he descended to the next deck.
“Shush!” Mr. Dubois leapt out of the shadows and clamped a hand over Cedric’s mouth, and twisted around, his gaze landing on a bunk where a bundle of blankets rose and fell in a slow rhythm. Then, as if realizing what he’d done, Mr. Dubois turned back to Cedric, his face paling. He removed his hand, immediately darting out of Cedric’s reach.
“Wise decision,” Cedric replied, striding forward.
Mr. Dubois backed up as Cedric came toward him and slid in between bunks, trapping himself between Cedric’s approaching form and the ship’s wall. Terror glowing on his face, Mr. Dubois forced himself to step toward Cedric and gesture to the bundle on his left.
“Carter needs real medical attention,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to hear.
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re on a ship,” Cedric replied and pointed at Mr. Dubois. “You’re the doctor.”
“There might be an actual doctor aboard,” he argued, sinking onto the bunk. His hand fluttered over Carter’s stomach, not quite touching the man. “Have you asked any of the hostages?”
“What motivation have they to save lives?” Leaning against the bunk behind him, he drew his pistol.
“I don’t understand.” Mr. Dubois lifted his head, his eyes widening at the sight of the gun.
“If Carter dies, you die.” Cedric pointed the muzzle at Carter, then at Mr. Dubois’ chest. “I can’t tell a hostage that.”
Anger replaced the fear, flashing through Mr. Dubois’ eyes like blue lightning.
“I will not ruin my family, Captain Shaw. I don’t care the cost.”
“Your life is the cost.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Mr. Dubois shook his head.
“As you wish.”
“If you kill me, Carter will certainly die.”
“And I thought you weren’t concerned about the welfare of my crew,” Cedric said, returning his gun to its holster. “After we take this next ship, there will be additional men in need of your skills.”
“Are you going to kill more people?”
There was something beyond disapproval in Mr. Dubois’ tone, disappointment perhaps, as if he’d hoped, despite Cedric’s denial that he was not a good man, that there might be a modicum of kindness.
“It’s possible.”
“Do they ever just give up?”
“Certainly. Makes the transfer of goods much easier. However,”—Cedric leaned forward, forcing a cold smile—“I prefer they fight. It’s more amusing.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he replied, poking Mr. Dubois in the shoulder with his finger. “Many times. You’ll need to think harder if you wish to insult me. And I will convince you to ask your family for money. You’ll beg me to send that letter. Know that I can do much worse to you than those bruises lining your neck.”
He turned and left, climbing out of the crew’s quarters, Carter’s groans of agony bidding him farewell.
“It’s a cargo ship.” Mr. Johnson greeted Cedric as he emerged onto the main deck, then held out a spyglass. “They’ll have more weapons.”
“Are you suggesting we abandon our quest for riches?” Cedric accepted the telescope and stared at the top deck of the other ship, counting the number of visible men.
