Читать книгу The Wicked Redhead - Beatriz Williams - Страница 19

NOW I am already gone cold, already froze up and sick at the image of that dead captain’s head standing guard by his wheel, so what do I do at the sound of those fireworks but shriek. Shriek and startle and spill my whiskey all over the floor, the deck as they call it, while Anson lifts his arm away from my shoulder and puts his hand inside his jacket. Draws out a revolver. Logan jumps to his feet and swears. Heads right out the cabin door, and Anson turns to me.

“Stay here, for God’s sake!”

“You know I won’t.”

Anson is not a man who speaks profane, not the kind of man who takes the name of his Lord in vain, but he does now. Swears good and loud, better and louder than the captain himself, and hands me the revolver.

“You keep under cover at least, all right? You do as I tell you. And if you need to shoot, you just shoot. God knows you can fire a gun straighter than any man here.”

I stare down at the revolver in my palm, and then I look back up at Anson. Blazing, bruised face full of trust.

“Jesus God, how I love you,” I say.

He snatches my hand and commences to bolt straight out that door, pulling me behind, and I move my legs after him so fast as I can, because I will not be left behind to discover Anson’s blank face staring sightless, no sir. No more than I will be left behind to die in some dank cabin.