Page 57 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“Why?” She glanced back and forth between the two men.
“He said the job was beneath him.” The first man lifted his shovel and stabbed the edge into the coal. “He said if we refused to shovel, the Navy would catch us, and we would be rescued.”
The second man raised his eyes to her, his shovelful of coal halfway to the fire. “That pirate Evans shot Mr. Williams in the chest and told us if we declined, we would be killed as well. Our lives didn’t matter to him.”
“We kept shoveling,” the first man said bitterly, flinging his load into the flames. “I suggest you do the same.”
Digging her shovel into the pile, Alana groaned as she lifted a mound of coal. Twisting, she threw it at the furnace’s mouth.
They worked themselves into a silent rhythm, each of them pitching a shovel every third minute, until sweat poured down their backs, dripping from their soot-covered faces.
Mr. Evans stepped from the shadows and placed a heavy hand on Alana’s shoulder. “Enjoying yourself, Dubois?”
“There are worse duties I could have been assigned.” She shook him off and tossed another shovelful into the fire.
He laughed, the cold, brittle sound rippling down her spine.
“Captain says you’ve completed your task admirably. The three of you are to receive extra rations for your effort. Come with me.”
Crooking his finger, he led them through the bowels of the ship toward the cargo hold. Stopping at the first box, he pried off the lid, collecting four bottles of rum and handing each of them one bottle. The fourth he tucked under his arm.
At the second box, he repeated the process, extracting three loaves of bread, handing them each a loaf and taking a fourth for himself.
Leading them back out of the cargo hold, he called to Mr. Hayward as they passed beside the mound of coal. “Captain says they’ve earned repose.”
Mr. Hayward popped out from behind the pile, his eyes gleaming. “I’ll see to these two. You take Dubois back to the captain’s quarters.”
“Put them backin the brig, Mr. Hayward,” Mr. Evans replied, stepping toward him, a snarl curling his lip.
Arching his eyebrows, Mr. Hayward snatched the fourth bottle of rum from Mr. Evans and pulled the cork with his teeth. He spat the cork on the floor.
“You’re in my domain, Evans. I’m king down here. They will be in the brig before sunrise,” he said, taking a long drink from the bottle. “Gentlemen, if you would follow me. Our card game begins in five minutes.”
Fuming, Mr. Evans shoved Alana toward the ladder. Putting his hands on her butt, he shoved her up the rungs.
She burst out the hole, rolling onto the deck, and crashed into Captain Shaw’s legs, losing hold of her bread and rum.
His gaze dropped to her, anger transforming his features into a terrifying glower. “How did you inform them?”
“Captain?” She stared up at him, perplexed.
What was he talking about?
His fist closed around her shirt, ripping her from the deck. She dangled from his hand, her feet swinging a foot above the boards.
“That Naval ship knew which direction we were heading. They should never have found us.” He held her an inch from his face. “How are you communicating with them?”
“I’m not!” She clutched his hand, trying to pull away from his grip, or at least loosen his fingers enough to gulp down a lungful of oxygen. “I was with Carter, then you.”
“Carter wasn’t conscious. He can’t confirm your story.” Captain Shaw’s eyes darkened to black. “You may think you can escape by murdering me—”
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it last night,” she snapped.
Apparently, the shock of her words caused Captain Shaw to drop her.
“With what weapon?”
“The cannonball.” She stared up at him from the deck and rubbed her neck. “You were asleep. I could have smashed in your head.”
