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“Aye.” His hands dove back into the chest and he started yanking daggers from the bottom, steel clanking against steel as he tossed them onto the bed. “And I’ll be leaving Weston on board to guard you. But should they get past him, I want you well armed.”
“If they get past him?” The words barely audible, she sank backward onto the chair by his desk. “But he’s yer best fighter—ye will need him.”
“Exactly—he’s the best, worth three men in battle—so he’s the one I leave to protect you.”
He stood up, strapping blades of various sizes to his body. Two daggers to his right leg, a cutlass dangling from a scabbard around his waist. One dirk tucked along the band of his scabbard. A parrying dagger stuffed along his left boot.
He picked up two small daggers and set them on her lap. “Here. One for each boot. Get them hidden.” His eyes ran her up and down. “I think we can get at least one pistol hidden along the folds of your skirt. We just need to strap a sheath around your waist, then sink it between the fabric.”
Before she could shift on the chair, he’d grabbed a leather belt with a sheath attached and bent over her, wrapping it around her waist. His breathing fast on her neck, his hands moved around her waist, setting the buckle of the belt in place.
For a moment he paused, looking at her, his hands pressing around her ribcage. “You will be fine, Torrie. I guarantee it. No harm will come to you.”
“There are no guarantees, Roe. I ken it more than most.”
His fingers tightened on her sides. “No. But then again, you’ve never had me guarantee you anything.”
A wicked smile came to his face, so full of male pomposity and aggravating arrogance it made her laugh.
He chuckled, releasing her. “I don’t know if you laughing at me is what I was hoping for there, but I’ll take it if it puts the spark of fight into your eyes.”
He stood and turned back to the weapons cache, pulling out three pistols and starting to load them. His hands were quick with the powder and balls—practiced as though he’d done it far more often than the most seasoned soldier.
“I don’t laugh at you. I laugh because I don’t know what else to do.” She leaned forward to tuck the daggers along the inside of her boots. The steel of the blades sent cold twinges of pain along her skin, but not enough to remove them. She’d regret it if she needed them and didn’t have them at the ready. “When I followed you down onto the docks, this was not how I imagined any of this turning out.”
He stepped back to her, tucking one of the pistols into the sheath about her waist. “Yet here we are.”
She nodded. “Here we are.”
“Suck in.”
She sucked in her belly and he slid the leather of the belt underneath the top band of her skirt.
“Wait—I should have asked.” His hands didn’t leave her waist. “You know how to use this as well?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve shot one—since I was at Vinehill—but yes. And I wasn’t the worst shot.”
He nodded with a smile. “Good.”
He turned to the bed and started piling the rest of the stash of weapons into his left arm as he nodded with his head to the row of windows above the bed. “The right windowpane pushes open—if the worst happens, there’s a ledge out there that leads to a small wedge of space you can only access from the outside. There are nuts and brandy in there. You can hide in it for a few days, maybe more. There’s also a rope secured to a beam, so you can get yourself down to the water to swim to land if you get close enough.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I thought you guaranteed me no harm.”
“And this is how I do it. Always a back-up plan.” He pulled the door open. “But in the meantime, you stay in here no matter what. I’ll send Weston down when we’re close—that is assuming we get close. They’ve already started to run, but we have the full sails at the moment and they don’t. You’ll know we’re in range when you hear cannons.”
She stood, nodding. “You’re dragging me into something I don’t want to do, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I am, lass, but you’ll be better for the experience.” The wicked smile was back on his face.
“Tell me that when it’s over.”
“I intend to.” He nodded to her and was out the door.
{ Chapter 9 }
There he was. The wretched refuse that was Lord Bockton.
Hovering in the corner, a slew of men in front of him. The bastard that had sent a blade across Captain Folback’s neck.
