Page 90 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

She glanced at him, conflicted, and ultimately decided to forgive him and Mr. Annesley for their cowardice. What would they have been able to do—aside from watch—while locked thirty feet away had Mr. Evans carried out his atrocious intentions on her body?

“It wouldn’t have changed our situation, and by revealing my secret, I would have placed both your lives in greater danger,” she replied, turning toward him.

“Why did you lie?” Mr. Annesley asked, his pale face peeping through one of the squares. “You would have been treated better, kept with the hostages instead of this cold room, and protected from men like Mr. Evans.”

“My husband passed away,” she said, flicking her gaze to him, “ and I cannot request the funds from my family.”

“You couldn’t have been the only woman aboard the Crescent Rose in that position,” replied Mr. Annesley. “What happened to those ladies?”

“They were forced to jump from the ship.” She grimaced. “However, I can’t swim, so I dressed as a man.”

“Well, your pretense was quite effective.” Mr. Annesley released the slats, pulling his face from the square. He seemed quite irritated by the admission.

“Who cut your hair?” Mr. Woodford asked, ignoring the indecipherable muttering coming from Mr. Annesley as he paced their cell. “You couldn’t have done it alone.”

“The woman who was staying in the room across from mine cut it,” Alana replied, pulling on a short strand at the base of her neck. “I was supposed to cut hers as well, but we were interrupted, and she ran. I don’t know what happened to her after we were separated. I think she was forced to jump.”

“We’ve seen all the hostages,” Mr. Woodford replied, his voice kind. “Can you describe…”

“Mrs. Parker.”

“Mrs. Parker,” he repeated, inclining his head.

“She had red hair, darker than mine, but the color is unforgettable, and she’s a head taller than me.” Hope burgeoned in Alana’s chest. “Is she on the ship?”

“No.” Mr. Annesley’s sharp voice echoed in the cargo hold. “She’s not with the hostages.”

“You could have said that more delicately.” Mr. Woodford’s soft voice chastised his companion. “Don’t punish Mrs. Dubois for your difficulties.”

“Difficulties?” She leaned forward, staring at them through one of the small openings. “Is Mr. Annesley ill?”

“Mr. Annesley’s wife wasn’t brought aboard this ship, either.” Mr. Woodford placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “He didn’t know what became of her and has been verbally imagining all kinds of horrific outcomes. You’ve provided him with a truth that has changed the narrative.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Birdie can’t swim either.” Mr. Annesley’s soft words sent a sliver of pain slicing through her heart. His wife had drowned.

He slid down the side of the cage, dropped to the floor, and slumped over, his body shaking. Mr. Woodford knelt beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Alana said, glancing at Mr. Woodford.

“You couldn’t have known,” he replied, waving off her concern.

“Were you married as well?” she asked, hoping his reply wasn’t as emotional as Mr. Annesley, who’d curled into a howling ball of agony.

“Yes, however,” he glanced at Mr. Annesley, “Gwendolyn’s father agreed to pay for her release. Mr. Hayward confirmed she was traveling with the first group of hostages. They took her ashore earlier this evening.”

“And you believe Mr. Hayward?”

“I have no reason not to,” he replied, jerking his head toward the barrel stationed in front of their cage. “He’s been honorable in all his promises, including paying us when he loses at cards.”

“An ethical pirate?” She raised her eyebrows. “Do you think he’ll release you?”

“As long as we don’t give him—or any other man—a reason to kill us, Mr. Hayward guaranteed we will be released prior to reaching the island of Ceresus.” Mr. Woodford glanced down at Mr. Annesley, who’d fallen silent and was now laying on his back, staring at the ship’s rafters.

“I, too, am thankful for Mr. Hayward’s honor. He’s the only man aboard this ship who possesses any.” She offered a small smile.

Shouts echoed from above, drifting through the small hole in the deck, the voices of angry men growing in volume. Pressing the side of her head to the cage, Alana strained her ears, trying to decipher Mr. Evans’ words.