Page 64 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
He made no effort to move.
Cedric flipped the bucket over and sat on it, then drew his pistol and placed the barrel against Mr. Dubois’ temple.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, digging the steel into Mr. Dubois’ skin.
“No.” Mr. Dubois rolled his eyes upward, staring at Cedric. “But it’s your ship, you do what you want.”
“Very good.” Cedric lifted the muzzle to reveal a small indentation gouged into the man’s temple. “I’m pleased you’ve learned so quickly.”
“Thanks.”
Sarcasm.
Mr. Dubois was quite entertaining while inebriated, however, the aftereffects of the drink on his body would be interesting to witness.
“Attend Carter’s funeral first, then I’ll decide if I’m going to hold you responsible for his death.”
Mr. Dubois replied with an incomprehensible word, which Cedric assumed meant he agreed. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawled out from behind the table. Holding onto the chair, Mr. Dubois pulled himself into the seat, then glanced over at Cedric, his face ruddy.
“It’s lovely under there,” he said, swinging his arm at the table’s base.
“I know,” Cedric replied, rising, and tucked the pistol away, “I’ve been beneath that table a few times myself.”
“I’m not dressed for a funeral!” Mr. Dubois announced, shock exploding across his face, and fussed with the torn portion of his shirt.
“Carter doesn’t care what you’re wearing.” Rolling his eyes, Cedric leaned down and unlatched the iron cuff from Mr. Dubois’ ankle, who sighed loudly, professing his gratitude for the cannonball’s removal. “It goes back on once you return to this cabin.”
“Why?” Indignance colored Mr. Dubois’ tone.
“Because you loathe it.”
“I loathe you.” Pushing on the back of the chair, Mr. Dubois stood.
“Ah, that’s a shame.” Cedric’s arm whipped out, his hand closing around Mr. Dubois neck, and he squeezed. “We were getting along so well.”
“Kill me and you won’t learn my connection to Wiltshire,” Mr. Dubois gasped. His hands clenched at his sides, as though he was forcibly restraining himself from fighting for his life.
Narrowing his eyes, Cedric dragged Mr. Dubois closer, and loosened his grip just enough to allow Mr. Dubois to breathe.
“Explain.”
“After Carter’s funeral.”
“You’re in no position to negotiate.”
“I’m in the perfect position,” Mr. Dubois tilted his head. “You want something. I don’t.”
Cedric shoved Mr. Dubois backward with a snarl.
Mr. Dubois crashed into the chair, knocking it over as he fell to the ground. Peering up at Cedric over his bare feet, Mr. Dubois grumbled, “Was that necessary?”
“Yes,” Cedric snapped.
Why did this man irritate him so much?
“Captain?” Mr. Evans called through the closed door.
“Enter!” Cedric yelled.
