Page 9 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“Mr. Cheswick’s request,” Mrs. Taylor replied with a shudder. “He knows we have them, and he’s searching for me. He’s extremely angry he hasn’t acquired me yet.”

Rowland’s grip on her tightened.

“He will never have you,” he growled against her ear. “Not while there is blood flowing through my veins.”

She curled into him, her forehead against his, and they fell silent, two entities breathing as one.

For the second time that day, Cedric felt as though he were interrupting something deeply personal. He turned away and raised the pistol, gauging the weight in his hand.

A shadow moved outside the window.

“Are you expecting anyone?” asked Cedric, rising.

Before either could respond, he strode across the floor, yanked open the door, and leveled the pistol with the eyes of the unknown guest.

“If you shoot me, who will listen to you complain about the food?” Mr. Hayward’s gravelly voice asked. He didn’t flinch, not even when Cedric cocked back the hammer.

“Remind me why I keep this crotchety old man aboard my ship.” Cedric glanced back as Rowland approached from behind, the other pistol in his hand, his wife gone from the room.

“I’ve got seven years on you.” Mr. Hayward threw his shoulder into Cedric’s chest as he passed.

Rowland lowered his weapon. “You’re only proving his point.”

Mr. Hayward shrugged.

“Would you like a drink?” Rowland asked, returning to the table. He set down the pistol and gestured at the decanter.

“I wouldn’t turn down your fine whiskey.” Mr. Hayward claimed the chair nearest the door.

Both of them ignored the soft groan that escaped Cedric as he crossed the floor. A week wasn’t long enough for him to heal properly, which they all knew, but no one would say anything regarding his stubborn attitude.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Taylor said as she returned to the room, carrying a third glass. “Delightful to see you again, Mr. Hayward. How’s Miss Appleton?”

Cedric had never seen the man flustered, but that one innocent question turned his first mate into a babbling youth. He glanced down, his weather-beaten skin adopting a bright red tinge.

“No, ma’am, I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with her today.”

“That is a shame. Perhaps I should invite her for tea…” She glanced at Rowland, her eyes gleaming with the possibility of matchmaking.

Of the same mind, her husband waved his hand, accepting her suggestion, and she was out the door, shawl flying behind her before Mr. Hayward could protest.

“I hope you had reason to torment my first mate,” Cedric said to Rowland as the door swung closed.

“Not all of your secrets have been shared with my wife.” Rowland reached for the decanter, then filled all three cups. “If you wish her to know your full history, I could call her back. She’d be overjoyed to learn you hail from Wiltshire.”

Pursing his lips, Cedric glanced at Mr. Hayward, a silent apology in his eyes.

“We parted amiably last month,” Mr. Hayward replied, digging in his pocket. He extracted a gold chain, a portion of his share of their last raid, and turned the necklace over in his calloused hand, murmuring to himself. “She loves pretty things. They distract her from the harsh realities of life.”

He was referring to the scar that stretched from his hairline to his chin. A gift from his first employer, punishment for a mistake made when Mr. Hayward was still a young boy. He’d lost his sight in that eye, but opted to leave his eyelid unsewn, to prevent others from realizing his disability.

“What about sailing?” Rowland asked, lifting his glass. “Would Miss Appleton enjoy a sea voyage?”

“I never thought to ask.” Frowning, Mr. Hayward returned the necklace to his pocket, patting the space twice to ensure the chain was secure. “Why do you?”

“Shaw is retiring.”

“I have no desire to run my own ship.” Mr. Hayward lifted his glass and drained the whiskey, then gestured at Cedric. “Captain knows this.”