Page 7 of The Heart of an Earl

Back farther.

His shoulder blades hit another wall.

“Here, this is it.” Her right arm still holding the blade to his neck, her left hand dipped past Des and she opened the latch in the door to Des’s right.

“In.”

She loosened the blade on his neck and Des turned to the side, stepping into the room. Captain’s quarters.

She shoved him into the room, stepping in behind him, and her body ran into his. Slight. Bones. No mass on her at all. A feather bouncing off of him.

She stepped to the side of a wide desk, the blade hanging loose at her side now that she had gotten him into the room.

The smell hit him instantly.

Rot. Meat rotting. Rotting in the heat of Caribbean waters.

He coughed, the stench sending tears springing to his eyes.

His arm went to his nose and he buried his nostrils into the thick of his blood-splattered white sleeve. “What? What is that?” He looked to the woman.

“He’s been dead for days now—a week, maybe more.” She turned from Des and pointed to the far side of the room, past the foot of the bed set against the back wall.

A corpse.

A blanket half over it. Folded into the corner.

Decaying.

“Weeks, now, I guess. I lost track.” She jumped in front of Des, looking up at him. “My husband, Redthorn, the captain of this ship.”

Horror sent Des’s eyes to slits. “What in the hell—”

“I’ve hidden it. He told me it was yellow fever taking him before he died. He told me to hide it. The crew thinks he’s still alive—they think he’s got the pox, so no one has dared to enter the room. I give them orders from Redthorn, dead though he is.”

Des shook his head. “What? Why?”

“I think to survive. What do ye think would happen to me if they knew he was dead?” Her right arm flung out—the tip of the blade pointing toward the main deck, her voice shaking with rage—with frustration. “Jackals, the lot of them. I wouldn’t last a day. And it would be a dastardly day.”

“Aye. It would be that.” His gaze went to the corpse in the corner. “But what makes you think we’re any better?”

“I don’t. But I’ll cross that bridge when I need to.”

Full understanding of her desperation hit him and Des looked at her again. Looked at her not as someone about to kill him. Very possibly an ally. “What do you propose to do?”

“Have the crew surrender. Direct order from the captain.”

Des nodded. “Your men will listen?”

“Aye. They will. If there’s one thing the lot of them are terrified of, it’s Redthorn. Death is preferable to his rage.” She paused, oddly shaking her head, losing herself in time for a long second. “Was. Was preferable.”

“Agreed.” Des grabbed her left arm, pulling her to the door—more to escape from the stench than anything else. “I’ll get you off this ship and onto theFirehawk,but we go back out there now—now before another man falls.”

She ripped her arm from his grip, her blue-green eyes a death glare upon him. Her show of scorn for his manhandling obvious, she tucked her dagger into the sheath about the top of her right boot and shoved past him, stalking toward the door.

Charging out past the long table, her steps slowed as she looked over her shoulder at him. “Get your blade about my neck and shove me out there.”

Des pulled his dagger from his boot and jumped forward, grabbing her about the chest from behind and locking her arms to her sides. He set his blade along the side of her neck.

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