Page 60 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
He glanced upward, as though contemplating how each solution would affect her, then shrugged and returned his gaze to her.
“One definitely is.” The dark grin hovered on his mouth. “The other might be.”
“Then, I pick the second option.”
Before she could react, Captain Shaw’s hand whipped out and closed around her jaw, bruising the skin between his merciless fingers.
“Whatever gave you the impression that you had any choices aboard my ship?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CEDRIC
Mr. Dubois paled.
“Did you not threaten to kill me with a cannonball while we were on deck?” Cedric tilted his head. “Should I return your kindness?”
They both glanced down at the cannonball cuffed to Mr. Dubois’ ankle. The heavy ball of iron rolled back and forth between them, encouraged by the soft sway of the ship.
“If you beat me to death, you won’t get your answer,” Mr. Dubois said, lifting his gaze. His voice trembled, belying the bravado he attempted to force into his statement.
Cedric released Mr. Dubois, then strode to the small cabinet, leaned down, removed two more bottles, which he set on the table next to the first, and the two goblets.
“Sit.” He pointed at a chair, then emptied the contents of the opened bottle into the cups.
Confusion on his face, Mr. Dubois hobbled over to the table, dragging the cannonball behind him, and sank into the nearest chair.
“Drink.” Cedric shoved the goblet at Mr. Dubois.
“I don’t understand.” Mr. Dubois hesitantly picked up the chalice, sniffing the liquid as though he expected the whiskey to be poisoned.
“Option two.” Lifting his goblet, Cedric tipped his head back and swallowed, then slammed the cup on the table. “Your turn.”
“How will this be painful?” asked Mr. Dubois, the goblet hovering near his mouth.
“For every drink you refuse, I will strike you.” Balling his fist, Cedric touched his knuckles to Mr. Dubois’ jaw in demonstration, giving it a slight push. “Understand?”
Nodding, Mr. Dubois hastily swallowed the whiskey, then set the cup back on the table. Cedric opened the next bottle and refilled the goblets.
“Again.”
It took twenty minutes to get through the second bottle. By the time Cedric opened the third, Mr. Dubois was swaying in the chair and was forced to grab hold of the table, so he didn’t fall onto the floor.
“Now,” Cedric dragged a seat beside Mr. Dubois, and pulled the man toward him. “Where is your family?”
“Wiltshire,” Mr. Dubois replied with a giggle, and slid down in his chair until his chin was level with the table. “But you won’t find them there.”
“Why?” growled Cedric.
“Because he’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?” he asked in irritation.
Perhaps this hadn’t been the best choice. Mr. Dubois was drunk and talking in riddles.
“Dubois,” Mr. Dubois replied from beneath the table.
He curled into a little ball where he landed, and fell asleep, the sound of light snoring echoing softly.
