Page 131 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

Had he moved?

She lifted the pistol and pointed the weapon at him. Edging past Cedric, she crept over to Mr. Evans, her gaze inspecting the floorboards around him.

His gun, partially hidden beneath the rafter, blinked in the bright sunlight. Taking a deep breath, she darted forward, grabbed the pistol, and backed away from Mr. Evans, pointing both weapons at him.

Cedric twisted around as best he could, worry in his eyes. “Did you see something?”

“No.” She offered him a tight smile, rounded the desk, ducking under the rafter, and set one pistol down in the center of the beleaguered furniture. Pulling out the drawer, she glanced up at Mr. Evans.

He remained immobile, but her body refused to relax.

Shoving her hand into the drawer, she felt around for the knife, her fingers closing around the cold handle. After removing the blade, she collected the second pistol from the desk, then juggling all three weapons, she ran back to the bed and dropped everything onto the mattress.

Darting around Cedric, she yanked open the armoire, and pulled out several clean shirts, which she tossed on the bed. “I don’t have anything to clean your wound. I broke the bottle of whiskey over Mr. Evans’ head.”

“There’s one in the bottom of the armoire,” Cedric managed. He’d braced his arms against the mattress, using it to keep his body aright.

Alana dropped to her knees, digging around in the base. She pulled the bottle out, opened it, and was about to take a swallow when she paused and lowered the container.

“Is it inappropriate to drink at this time?”

“Inappropriate?” Cedric snorted. “The Navy is destroying this ship, we’ve both almost been killed, and you’re about to dig a bullet out of me. I’d say it’s the perfect time.”

She nodded, accepting his explanation, and tipped the bottle, taking a long drink.

“Some of that had better be for me,” he grumbled when she drew in a breath.

“I’m saving it for your wound.”

“Do you want to learn the language I’m capable of?”

She laughed and passed him the bottle.

Rising, she collected the top shirt from the pile and grabbed the knife, unfolding the blade. She shredded the cloth into strips and tied the ends together, forming one long piece to use as a bandage. When she took the bottle of whiskey from Cedric, it was more than half-empty.

“I needed this,” she said in a playful chastisement.

“I don’t want my surgeon drunk.”

“Just your cabin boy?” She poured a bit of whiskey on the tip of the knife.

“Or girl.” He smirked and leaned forward, folding his arms on the bed and setting his head on top of them. Then he inhaled a slow breath. “I’m ready.”

Digging a bullet from a man’s back—or shoulder, in this case—while a ship is rocking is quite difficult, but trying to complete the surgery while cannonballs and gunfire are echoing around was nearly impossible.

With each gouge, Cedric cried out, and despite him trying to muffle the sounds, she could hear, and feel, every stab.

“Got it!”

The slug popped out and hit the floor with a light clink.

Cedric exhaled the breath he’d been holding but hadn’t steeled himself for the whiskey she poured over the wound. He swore loudly.

“You’re correct.” Alana pressed a clean folded shirt against his back. “That language isn’t fit for a gentleman.”

Chuckling, he raised his head from the bed and glanced back at her. “I could teach you some new words.”

“That you could, Captain Shaw, and I’m fairly certain my brothers would disapprove.”