Page 29 of Kidnapped by the Pirate
But enough of this. If they were to be trapped in the cabin together for the time being, he had to forestall any more damn questions. Imperiously, he ordered, “Read me something. Shakespeare.”
There was only silence from the corner, and when Hawk looked over, Plum sat frozen, a piece of dried meat between his fingers, his hand halfway to his mouth. “R—read?”
Was it Hawk’s imagination, or had the color drained from Plum’s face? “I’m bored. Surely you are too. Here is the solution.” He narrowed his gaze. It would be an agreeable way to pass the day, yet Bainbridge was acting as if he’d been ordered to walk the plank.
Plum seemed to recover himself and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. I wasn’t able to bring my spectacles when you kidnapped me.” He shoved the meat in his mouth and chewed.
“There’s a magnifying glass in the top drawer of the desk.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “Oh. I’m… I’m not sure it will really work the same.”
Annoyance flared. “Try it.”
Face pinched, Plum made his way to the desk, bare feet hesitant. He opened the drawer, then closed it. “I don’t see it.”
“Look. Harder. If I have to get out of bed and it’s in there, I will not be pleased.”
Sighing, Plum opened the drawer and promptly removed the glass. Why the devil was he so opposed to the idea? The longer he dragged his feet going to the bookshelves, the more Hawk’s bafflement gave way to irritation. He declared, “I want The Tempest.”
Tilting his head to read the spines, Plum ran his fingers over them, the glass hanging unused in his right hand. Seconds ticked by, and he still hadn’t picked out the book.
Was he being obstinate for the sake of it? For fuck’s sake, now that Hawk had decided he wanted to relax, his prisoner was apparently determined to be difficult. “The blue one at the end.”
Plum took the book back to his corner. Very, very slowly. Hawk inhaled deeply, fists clenching. Clearly he’d been too lax, or seeing him brought low by the injury had put ideas into Bainbridge’s head as to just who the fuck was in charge here. Plum was his prisoner and needed to be reminded of it.
Hawk commanded, “Start reading. Now.”
Feet tucked under him, Plum opened the book, the old leather creaking. He held the glass, but didn’t use it. “Uh…”
“I believe we begin on a ship at sea, do we not?” Then Hawk sneered. “You are lettered, aren’t you?” He’d worked damn hard to learn to read and speak more or less like a gentleman, a struggle Walter Bainbridge’s son could never understand. Hawk had wanted to pass the time pleasantly for both of them, and this bizarre rebellion was his thanks?
Plum’s cheeks went even redder, and something flared in his eyes—embarrassment, fear, shame. He gripped the book so tightly his fingers were white. Hawk realized there was a tiny divot in his chin that was only visible from certain angles, not quite a cleft.
As Plum’s jaw clenched, Hawk watched him, baffled, the rush of anger and frustration giving way to utter confusion. Did Bainbridge raise a son so lazy that he hadn’t learned to read? No. Impossible.
The sheer misery etched on Plum’s face tugged at Hawk, and for a moment of madness, he wished he could ease the mysterious pain. He crushed the impulse, his voice hard as stone. “Are you stupid?”
Instead of indignant denial, Bainbridge slammed the book shut and shouted, “Yes!”
Hawk blinked. He could only ask, “What?”
Plum clutched the book to his chest, eyes on the floor. “I’m a dullard. I can’t read.”
Ridiculous. Hawk laughed humorlessly. “What game do you think you’re playing?” He tried to imagine what Plum would gain from this ruse and came up empty. “Do you think I’m stupid? Your station, the way you speak—of course you can read.”
Face scarlet, Plum’s chest rose and fell. “I’m telling you I can’t. I’m stupid.”
Fury swept Hawk to his feet despite the howl of protest from his wound. “And I call you a liar. It’s a peculiar lie, I’ll grant you that. A simpleton wouldn’t know the words you do. Wouldn’t be able to use them properly, as you do. You’ve shown intelligence in how quickly you learned to bend the line, in tending to my leg. Why do you insist on this fiction?”
Plum slumped against the wall, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I barely read half as well as most children. A quarter. It’s the truth. Susanna has read to me since I was small—read for me, covering up my insufficiency. Tutor after tutor failed to educate me. Then Mr. Chisholm came, and…” Looking down, he swallowed hard.
Yes, there was definitely something there, a vulnerability regarding the tutor. Hawk filed away the information, ignoring a spark of something that could not be jealousy, before prompting, “And what?”
