Page 36 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

An explosion rocked the ship, and the cannonball rolled backward, dragging Alana away from the window.

Cursing, she hopped after the ball, the chain digging into her soft flesh. Collapsing on the bed, she slid her fingers between the cuff and her ankle, blood coming away on her fingertips. She swore and kicked the ball.

“Curious language from a gentleman.”

Shrieking, Alana’s head whipped up. Captain Shaw stood in the doorway, an amused grin on his face.

“I believed myself alone.”

“Gentlemen only curse in private?” Stepping into the room, he closed the door.

“You would be surprised by the behavior of gentlemen.” Alana reached for one of the two flat pillows on the mattress, fluffing the cushion before tossing back at the head of the bed.

Nodding his agreement, Captain Shaw skirted around her and opened the door to an armoire fastened to the wall. As he removed his shirt, a muffled groan escaped. He peeled away the cloth stuck to his shoulder slowly, revealing a peculiar map of scars etched across his body.

“Was that my fault?” She pointed at the open wound on his arm.

His head popped out around the door. “Would that please you?”

“It would not upset me.” She stuck her fingers between the cuff and her ankle, holding them up. Blood glistened on her fingertips.

His gaze flicked down at her hand. “I appreciate your honesty, Dubois.”

“What do you expect of me?”

“You do whatever I say,” Captain Shaw snarled, and set a small box next to her on the bed. “Currently, I expect you to sew up my arm.”

He was shirtless!

She blushed, her gaze sliding down his bare chest, defined by years of hard labor.

Not that Sebastian was unattractive, but he’d had a more refined, stout physique.

Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth.

It had been two years since she’d had relations with a man… and here she was, fantasizing about a pirate—a man whose cruel reputation extended through countries, instilling fear in ladies and gentlemen alike.

Forcing her eyes down to the bed, she flipped open the box’s lid. A needle and a spool of thread greeted her. “I cannot sew.”

“Most gentlemen can’t, however, there aren’t many doctors at sea.”

Lumbering across the room toward the far wall, he grabbed a bottle from his desk and returned to the bed, dropping beside her. He pulled out the cork and tipped the bottle backward, drinking deeply. Lowering the base, his eyes slid over Alana, then he tilted the rim toward her, offering the bottle.

“And thisisyourfault.”

“I’m not certain drinking will help my lack of talent.”

“It won’t, but it will calm your nerves.”

She nodded, accepting the alcohol. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed the rim to her lips, tipping the bottle. The liquid burned her throat. Coughing, she leaned forward on her knees.

“It’s fairly strong.” He grinned, taking the bottle from her hand. She glared at him through watering eyes. “I should have warned you.”

“Considering you’re about to trust me with a needle and thread, I would think you would be a bit kinder to me.”

A pistol cocked, ripped from an unseen location, the muzzle pointing directly at her face.

“Are you saying I cannot trust you, Dubois? Mr. Hayward is more than capable of sewing up my injury.”