Page 116 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“We’ll claim Mr. Johnson took ill—which the men will believe due to his affinity for alcohol—and that Mr. Evans took him ashore for medical treatment. Then, we’ll transfer Mrs. Parker and Miss Flannery to his cabin, explaining that we’ve moved the remaining hostages from below. Tomorrow, we’ll take them to the exchange.”

“And fix the ship to blow?” There was anger in Mr. Hayward’s voice.

“I thought you didn’t want to become a captain.” Cedric started on a third rope.

“You’ll kill all the men.”

“It’s no worse than they’d do to us when they discover what Evans did.”

Mr. Hayward folded his arms, silently challenging Cedric’s cavalier attitude. Leaving off his rope, Cedric turned and placed a hand on his first mate’s shoulder.

“We’ll row ashore and book passage to England, leaving the men to wait for Mr. Evans’ return—he is, after all, their new captain. Then, I’ll send a missive to Captain Taylor explaining that we had to change our plan and that you will be returning to Wiltshire with me.”

“What will we do in Wiltshire?”

“Run a distillery.” Cedric smiled. “Are you looking for employment?”

Mr. Hayward snorted and grasped the end of the fourth rope. “As it turns out, I am.”

“Perhaps Miss Appleton could be persuaded to accompany—”

“I don’t meddle in your affairs, and you don’t meddle in mine.” Mr. Hayward glared at Cedric.

“Of course.” Raising his hands, Cedric stepped away from him, returning to his rope.

They worked quickly, unwinding the damaged ropes, and threw them over the railing before any man passed their direction. Then they turned toward the bow, Cedric’s spirits rising with the possibility of this new plan succeeding when three clangs echoed across the deck.

His heart stopped.

Whirling around, his gaze swept the horizon, landing on a small black dot skirting the edge of the point. It wasn’t a longboat.

It was a Naval ship!

“All hands!”

The three clangs rang out again.

“How did they find us?” Mr. Hayward asked, tension radiating from his body.

“They must have captured Mr. Johnson and Mr. Evans, and they revealed where we were hiding.”

Swear words poured from Mr. Hayward, bouncing along the deck in a frustrated staccato that electrified and mobilized the crew.

“Mr. Hayward, get us moving!”

Nodding, his first mate raced across the deck, shouting directions to the men, then dove into the hole in the center of the deck, vanishing from sight.

Cedric waited for the burst of speed that would occur once the furnace received more fuel, but it didn’t occur. Instead, a low rumble rolled through the ship. His hands kneading the railing’s worn wood, Cedric’s stomach clenched into a ball of terror as the Naval vessel closed the distance between them.

Something was wrong.

He left off his sentry position and raced across the deck. Climbing down the ladder, he was met with a thick cloud of black smoke. He covered his mouth and nose with his arm and blindly walked forward, calling out to his first mate.

“Over here,” a faint voice called out.

Following the sound, Cedric inched toward the portside and found three men crumpled in the corner, coated in soot, sweat, and burns.

“What happened?” he asked, kneeling beside Mr. Hayward, whose arm was wrapped in a dirty cloth.