Page 95 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
She smacked the rope, causing the cord to vibrate with a soft thrum. “How do I get you out?”
“Do you have a knife?” Cedric looked at Mr. Hayward.
“Not in my cabin,” Mr. Hayward replied. “However, there could be one on Mr. Johnson. Do you think you could collect the knife, Mrs. Parker?”
She didn’t reply, and Cedric assumed the request had frightened her. But she surprised him, returning several minutes later, huffing, and muttering under her breath.
“What happened?” Mr. Hayward asked, a protective undercurrent rolling through his tone.
“He kissed me!” she said, sawing followed her indignant reply.
“Please tell me that’s the rope you’re cutting and not a piece of Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s the rope.” Mrs. Parker chuckled. “But thank you for suggesting such a marvelous idea. I shall consider it after I rescue you.”
A piece of the rope snapped, then the hammer of a pistol clicked back.
“Drop the knife!”
“Who said that?” Cedric asked, peering through the cracks in the door.
“Mr. Johnson is awake,” Mrs. Parker murmured, raising her hands.
“We meet again, demon,” Mr. Johnson said.
“It’s my red hair,” Mrs. Parker’s soft voice crept under the door. “This has happened more frequently than I care to admit.”
“I thought I’d dreamed you,” Mr. Johnson said, walking toward her, “that you were a nightmare sent to torture me, but here you are.”
He pulled the trigger, missing Mrs. Parker by several feet.
The bullet ripped through the upper half of the door, creating a small hole for Cedric to peer through, and struck the inkwell, spraying a fountain of black liquid across his desk.
“What did you do the last time it occurred?” Cedric asked and pressed his face to the door.
“I hit my father in the head with a vase and knocked him unconscious.” She glanced over her shoulder at Cedric’s door. “You don’t have any vases in this corridor, do you?”
“Not one.”
A second shot rang out, and Cedric ducked, the bullet sailing over his head and nearly striking the window. The slug embedded itself in the wall, leaving a deep cavity.
“Stop shooting up my ship!” he bellowed, hoping the command would deter Mr. Johnson’s rum-soaked brain.
There was a pause.
“Captain?” Mr. Johnson’s voice was filled with confusion. He glanced around the small corridor. “Where are you?”
“I’m in my quarters.”
“Don’t open your door. There’s a demon outside of it.”
“Mrs. Parker isn’t a demon,” Cedric replied, bracing his hands on both sides of his face as he peered through the small hole.
“She’s tricked you, too!” Mr. Johnson pulled the trigger a third time.
This time his bullet found a target.
Behind Cedric, Mr. Hayward gave a low grunt, and dropped to his knees, blood blossoming across his sleeve. His face paling, he slumped over, his hand pressed to the gushing wound in his arm.
