Page 45 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

Had he been watching her sleep?

After another moment, Captain Shaw moved away from her, trudging toward the bed. Sinking onto the mattress, he pulled off his boots and dropped them to the floor. The bed groaned under his weight as he leaned back.

Something soft smacked her in the head.

The other pillow.

Her arm snuck out of the blanket’s warm cocoon and snagged the pillow, dragging the cushion beneath her head, and she sank into a fitful sleep.

A gunshot echoedin the distance. Terror seized her throat.

Running down the hill toward her father’s house, Alana tripped over the hem of her long skirt, hurtling to the ground and sliding down the slope. Coming to rest at the hill’s base, she sucked in a ragged breath, then pushed herself up, racing toward the small garden and her father, who lay immobile in the dirt.

“Da!” Screaming, she flung herself at the shadowy figure standing over her father’s body, knocking him aside.

She rolled with the man, crashing into the base of a rose bush, thorns scratching her arms and face. Ignoring the cuts, she crawled on top of the man, whose face resembled that of the man responsible for her uncle’s death.

Her hands wrapped around the man’s neck, crushing his throat, but as she squeezed, her brother’s face materialized, replacing the murderer’s evil sneer, and she released him, toppling backward with a shriek.

Her eyes whipped open.Staring upward, her eyes focused on a wooden ceiling as the nightmare faded from her mind.

Where was she…She pushed up with a start, her gaze focusing on the dim outline of an armoire.She was on Captain Shaw’s ship, and she’d been dreaming about…

“Who’s Aidan?” Captain Shaw’s leaden voice rolled from the bed.

“Pardon?” Alana pulled at the front of her shirt, which stuck to her sweaty skin.

“Aidan,” he repeated, sitting up. “You were screaming his name.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Older?”

“The second oldest.”

“I most certainly kidnapped the wrong son.” Captain Shaw rose from the bed, ignoring his boots, and padded over to a small iron stove in his stockings.

He grabbed a long stick and opened the grate, stabbing the wood into the fire. Once the piece was aflame, he used the fire to light a nearby lantern, then tossed the stick back into the stove. Closing the grate, he carried the flicking lamp to his desk.

“Do you think your brother would pay for your life?” he asked, hanging the lantern on a hook shoved into the wall behind his desk.

Sitting in the chair, he selected a sheet of paper from under the ledger and lifted a quill—one of two—from a golden inkwell, then glared at her, drumming his fingers on the desk as he waited for her response.

“Yes,” Alana replied, wrapping the blanket around her torso, “but they don’t have the funds to do so.”

“You seem quite sure of your family. You must love them very much,” he said, brushing the top of the quill underneath his chin.

“I would do anything for them.”

Even travel to America.

“And how would they pay for your release?” he asked, scribbling a few words on the top of the sheet.

“They would sell the family home and lands.” She held up her hand, stopping his next question. “I won’t ask them for assistance. I will pay my own debt.”

“You can sleep in the bed.” Waving his hand, he bent over the parchment, scratching the tip across the paper.

“Will you not be returning to it this evening?” Alana asked, pulling herself onto the bed.