Page 58 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“Admitting that isn’t the best way to stay in my good graces, Mr. Dubois.”
“I didn’t do it, did I?” Climbing to her knees, she collected her bread and rum.
“Was that because you didn’t have a way off this ship, and you would have lost my protection?” He tilted his head.
Smug. Just like Aidan.
“BecauseIam not a murderer.”
She rose, rolled her shoulders back, and marched—as best she could with her injured ankle—across the deck toward the captain’s quarters.
Captain Shaw’s heavy hand wrapped around her arm and yanked, pulling her backward before she could enter the corridor, and spun her around to face his ire.
“I didn’t dismiss you.”
“We are heading to the same location,” she replied, exhaustion crawling through her voice. “I’d prefer to eat my bread and rum while not being accused of something I didn’t do, but if that is your wish, I cannot stop you.”
Brilliant, Alana. Taunt the pirate.
The smug expression was most definitely gone from Captain Shaw’s face. Several emotions filtered through his eyes—anger, irritation, hatred—and she wasn’t certain which one he’d land on, but she hoped it didn’t result in more pain.
Then, he laughed.
“Only you, Dubois, would be brave enough to make such an unintelligent comment to someone who could kill you.” He opened the door to the corridor. “It must come from having older brothers.”
“Probably,” she murmured, perplexed by his behavior.
“You may eat at the table,” he said, unlocking the door to his cabin.
She nodded, still confused by his kindness, and hobbled over to the nearest chair. Dropping into the seat, she set her bottle of rum and loaf of bread on the table.
Before she could take a bite, the familiar chill of cold metal shot through her ankle. She glanced down in time to see Captain Shaw clamp the cuff around her uninjured leg.
“Because after wounding my other ankle and forcing me to shovel coal for an hour, you think I still have the strength to escape?” she asked, loathing flowing through her body.
Her fingers tightened around the rum bottle.
“What do you intend to do with that?” His hands closed around the cannonball, lifting the iron sphere from the floor as though he intended to throw the ball across the room, forcing Alana to follow.
“Drink it,” she growled.
They both knew that wasn’t true.
“You’d rather drink that swill than my whiskey?”
“Are you offering?” She forced her fingers to release the bottle and picked up the bread.
Dropping the cannonball, Captain Shaw rose and snatched the rum bottle from the table. He turned, exited the room, then returned a minute later without the rum and closed the door.
“Mr. Johnson thanks you for your gift.”
He reached into the small cabinet and removed a bottle of his whiskey, which he set on the table in front of Alana.
“Are we heading to Ceresus?” she asked, pulling out the cork.
She took a swig and eyes watering, held the bottle out to Captain Shaw. He stared at her. After a moment, he accepted the bottle, rounded the table, and sat in the other chair.
“We have one more obligation.” He saluted her with the bottle, then took a long drink.
