“We weren't gonna hurt ’im!” Wren screeched at the lad. “You shot out my knee! I'll likely not walk again without a crutch. High and mighty, aren’t you?” Wren's free hand crawled towards his unfired pistol lying in the grass. “I know who you are, don’t think for a minute I don’t.” Wren gave another cry. “I’m crippled because of you!”
“Don’t.” The boy sounded blasé and a bit annoyed. “Justdon't. I'll be forced to shoot you again, perhaps in your other knee. Or maybe your stomach. That’s a painful death I’m told. You’ll suffer for days before expiring with your guts in your hands.”
Wren paled. His blood-stained hand retreated from the pistol and returned to his knee, where he rocked in pain.
Bobo's mouth hung open in shock, a bit of drool dangling from his lips.
What a gruesome little lad he was. While Nick was grateful his time in Bermuda would not start with a bloody hole inhisstomach, he found he was a bit irritated he'd been needlessly rescued. And that Bobo and Wren would not meet their deserved demise at his hands.I’m the bloody Devil of Dunbar.Saved by a boy from incompetent thieves no less.
“Go on.” The boy said, lifting the pistol a bit higher, prodding Bobo to move.
Bobo nodded, eyes wide, his chin quivering in fear. Slowly, his hands in the air, he made his way to Wren. Hooking his beefy arms around the younger man, he turned away from the boy as if afraid to look the lad in the eye and scooped up his friend.
Wren’s cheeks puffed out as he tried to stand on his injured leg. He glared at the boy, his eyes narrowing into slits. “I’ll not be forgetting this.” He winced. “Your name won’t protect you.” He spit into the grass and leaned his body against Bobo.
The boy didn't flinch or even acknowledge the implied threat. His arm remained steady, pistol aimed at the two men until they hobbled off around the corner. A trail of blood from Wren's shattered knee wound through the dirt and grass, marking their passage.
The boy lowered his pistol to his waist but kept the weapon cocked. He turned towards Nick, his arm taut, ready to shoot Nick at a moment’s notice.
Nick rather thought the boy's suspicion a bit unwarranted, given the circumstances. He unraveled his tall form slowly until he stood, towering over the lad. He held up his large hands in supplication and took a careful step towards his savior.
The pistol came up in a flash.
Nick raised a brow in question but put some distance between himself and the pistol.Distrustful little shit.“Nice hat.” Nick gave the lad a polite smile. "You smell of chocolate. Do you have a horde of it stockpiled in the mangrove swamp?"
“Funny.” The boy didn’t lower the pistol.
A bit of wind gusted up and blew against the boy’s oversized shirt. The cotton billowed about his slight frame.
Nick struggled again to make out the lad’s face beneath the hat, but the brim was too large, ridiculously so. Almost, Nick thought, as if the lad was concerned about getting too much sun on his cheeks.
Wind whistled again through the alley, this time causing the fronds of a large palm to sway to and fro.
The boy’s shirt puffed about him like a sail around his form, threatening to pull the well-worn cotton out of the lad’s waistband. A light brown lock of hair fell from beneath his hat, landing neatly on his shoulder.
The boy cursed under his breath.
Nick lifted a brow in surprise.What a salty vocabulary the boy had.No doubt he was the bane of his tutor. He lowered his hands and slowly moved forward.
“That's far enough,” his rescuer snapped. “You may have noticed that I am an excellent shot.”
“I did, indeed,” Nick admitted. “You are a most excellent shot. I wonder what you could do with a knife?” His gaze flickered down to the bit of silver protruding from the top of a boot.
“And at this close range.” The pistol turned to point directly at Nick’s chest. “I would do far worse than ruin your coat.”
“Agreed. I am quite partial to this coat.” Nick swept a hand down one tailored sleeve. “I’ll behave.”
“Newly arrived?” The boy lowered his pistol but did not put it down. He walked over to Wren's discarded pistol and bent to pick up the weapon. “Only the newly arrived are stupid enough to venture into the Green Parrot. I'm betting Drusilla served you.” The tone was clipped and decidedly upper class.
Nick took objection to being called stupid. “I was not stupid enough to drink Dru's concoction,” he countered. “And yes, my ship docked mere hours ago. I've received such a charming introduction to your little island and its citizens that I am considering settling here.”
“Oh, I doubt you’d like it.” The boy snorted. “I’ve seen many an English gent come to these islands and leave within a month.”
“I disagree.” Nick threw out the story he'd concocted for himself. “I am here to purchase land and start my life afresh. I have a wealthy patroness, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
“I didn't ask for your life history, though I'm sure I'd find it endlessly entertaining.” The boy shook his head. “You'd do better to take the next ship back to London and ask your ‘patroness’ for her assistance there. While Hamilton, and indeed all of Bermuda abounds with opportunity, I'm not sure you are suited to the climate.” The brim of the hat pointed towards Nick’s brow, now dripping with sweat.
He'd been nearly robbed, killed, and now his reputation as a gentleman was being insulted all in one afternoon! Nick was having a glorious time. The current situation was the most amusing thing that had happened to him in ages. “Bermuda and it’s ‘climate’ do not concern me in the least.” He wiped his brow. “I’ll get used to the heat as well as the citizenry.”
