Page 52 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“Reload and fire!”

Roughly half of the second round of cannon blasts struck the stern of the cargo ship, flinging pieces of the vessel into the air. Deadly sharp wooden fragments rained down, and men on each side scattered, racing for cover from the shrapnel.

“Reload and prepare to board!” he yelled.

His men rushed back to the starboard side, readying their grapnels.

“Fire!”

The third round ripped several holes in the side of the cargo vessel, then grapnels flew and hooked into the side of the cargo vessel. Instead of firing back, the cargo ship’s crew ran toward the bow en masse and leapt off the side.

A cheer went up from his crew, but the uneasy feeling in Cedric’s stomach magnified.

He squinted at a small blob that appeared in front of the cargo ship, and gasped when he realized it was a long boat, the men aboard rowing as though their lives depended upon getting as far away from the vessel as possible.

His chest constricting, Cedric’s gaze flicked back to the cargo ship.

A plume of thick, black smoke rose from the center of the main deck.The flames in the stern wouldn’t have burned through the ship that quickly.The cargo vessel was rigged to detonate.

They’d sailed into a trap.

“Cut the ropes!” Cedric yelled, pulling the wheel. “Hard port!”

They weren’t going to get far enough away from the blast.

“Take cover!”

Confusion spread across the deck, and the men turned toward him, grumbling at the sudden change in directive. They were still lamenting Cedric’s command when the first barrel of gunpowder exploded aboard the cargo vessel.

A quick succession of blasts followed.

Those closest to the railing, unable to shield themselves from the explosions, fell to the water, their screams of pain ceasing as they sank beneath the ocean’s brutal waves.

“What happened?” Mr. Johnson appeared beside Cedric, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead.

“The only thing aboard that cargo ship was gunpowder,” Cedric replied, wrestling with the wheel. “We’ve taken some damage to the rudder.”

“Lost a few men, too.”

“I saw the ones fall from the main deck. Did we lose any below?”

“Don’t know yet. We took shrapnel on the gun deck, but there were no serious injuries.” Mr. Johnson swiped the trickle of blood leaking down his face and took possession of the ship’s wheel. “Where are we heading?”

“South.” Cedric indicated the coastline. “The Naval vessel is too far away, and they’ll stop to rescue the crew from the cargo ship.”

“Are we looking for another—”

“No,” Cedric cut him off. “Not until we know the extent of the damage to my ship.”

“Yes, Captain,” Mr. Johnson replied, a flash of relief in his eyes. It was clear this near-death experience had rattled his second mate.

Whispers followed Cedric around the ship, questioning the cause of this sudden turn of fortune. As he inspected the hull on the gun deck, the word ‘cursed’ floated over his shoulder. He lifted his head, his gaze sliding over the worried faces of the crew gathered around.

They’d lost four men in the initial explosion, and another two died before they could be brought below. They’d also lost whatever goods had been aboard the cargo ship—if there had even been any—the Navy was in pursuit, and their ship was crippled.

He would have used the word himself, but knowing the superstitious nature of these men, he’d crushed the fear before it festered in his head.

Straightening, Cedric addressed the men.