Meade made his way up the path leading to the warehouses, two heavy sacks pitched on his back, their cumbersome weight doubling him over until his chin could practically touch his protruding belly. He entered the warehouse, falling to his knees and letting the bags drop to the rotted wooden floor beside him.
The relief was blessed.
He rose up, shaking strands of unkempt hair out of his face and dragging a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Sugar. Pounds and pounds of wretched sugar.
What a waste. Granules—useful only to make cake. Pretty poor chance of making any real money out of that.
Then again, there hadn't been much money made out of anything else lately either. At least not for him. And his belly was the only one he cared about feeding.
Well, all that was about to change. After his talk with Lyman, everything would change.
The warehouse door flung wide, striking the wall with a thud.
Meade whipped around to see who had joined him, automatically stooping to snatch his knife from his boot.
He straightened, the blade glinting in the dimly lit warehouse.
Faint or not, the lighting was good enough. He recognized Medford right away by his haughty air and deceptively hunched shoulders.
"Put the knife away, Meade." The viscount advanced toward him in slow, predatory steps. "I think it's time we had a talk."
Meade wasn't alarmed. He'd expected a visit like this the minute he made his demands. Of course Lyman would go straight to Medford. He was the one who paid their wages. As for Medford's anger, well, he'd expected that, too. The son of a bitch didn't take threats lightly. He liked being in control. That suited Meade just fine. He didn't want control. He wanted money. Which, after this little talk, was just what he'd get. Because Medford needed him. They both knew that.
Steeling himself, Meade ignored Medford's command. How the hell did he know the bastard wasn't armed? He couldn't take that chance. No, he'd keep his blade right where it was—clutched and ready.
"I don't wanna talk." The privateer's eyes glinted, his whiskered jaw tightly set. "I want me money. All me money. And more of it from now on."
"So I heard. Fifty percent more." Undeterred by Meade's weapon, Medford never paused, walking forward until he could almost touch the gleaming blade—then halting. "The fact is, you won't be getting your money. Not yet. I don't have it. And
your generous wage increase? That you won't be getting at all."
"Then I won't be deliverin' yer merchandise."
"Ah, but you're wrong. You will be delivering my merchandise—willingly and without further threats." Medford slipped his hand into his pocket, and Meade tensed, his fingers tightening about the handle of his blade.
"I told you to put that away, Meade," the viscount commanded.
"And let ye shoot me? Not a chance."
"I don't plan to shoot you." George withdrew his hand and flourished a sheet of paper. "I won't have to. That task will be taken care of for me."
Meade's eyes narrowed. "What are ye talkin' about?"
A tight smile. "If you'll hold this up to the light, you'll see it's an arrest warrant. It was issued by the magistrate himself. You're a wanted man, Meade—a renowned privateer and smuggler. Why, if I turn you in, you'll be in the gallows before you know it, hanging by the neck at the end of a very short, tight rope. How does that sound?"
Lowering his blade, Meade snatched the page, brought it over to the window. He swore at the official-looking seal at the bottom of the document, knowing right away what it meant.
"Now, can we renegotiate our terms?" George inquired. "Instead of your demands for an increase and your threats to expose me, why don't we settle for keeping things just as they are? In return, I'll pretend I never heard of you, should I be asked. I'll simply ignore the dictates of my conscience, refrain from turning you in. I think that's a fair arrangement, don't you?"
Silence.
"Good. Then we understand each other. Right, Meade?"
Another long silence, during which Meade felt his heart drumming wildly in his chest. Hanging. Dying. Feeling his neck crack in two.
Nothing was worth that.
Resignation sank deep in his gut, and he saw his fortune go up in smoke. "Yeah, Medford," he muttered bitterly. "Right."