He looked down at the young man, one cheek bunched up where it pressed against the gray paint of the wooden porch, mouth open and drooling. “Beggin’ yer pardon fer droppin’ by wif no notice. Jus’ got in from Nearin’ Vast, where I been dealin’ wif some scalawags…” “Successfully, I hope?” “Oh, we settled ’em down some. Caught all but the one I most wanted, is the pity. So I was up visitin’ the old man,” he nodded in the direction of the Ryland mansion, “and I saw the body lyin’ here. Feared foul play. But looks like young Wentworth jus’ took an odd spot fer his evenin’ nap.” Shayla nodded her thanks. The pirate had a hat in his hands, but he hadn’t worn it anytime lately. His golden tresses were perfectly combed out, falling down to his shoulders in waves. He wasn’t wearing his usual yellow vest, but a gold-colored one, fine satin trimmed in maroon, with fine piping at the seams. He smelled of expensive cologne and the open sea. The contrast between the confident, courteous captain and the slobbering, whiskey-sodden Wentworth could not have been more pronounced.
