ANY DUKE IN A STORM

Escape

A/N
Welcome to my first chapter before you read please if you see any mistakes, errors, or something confusing, let me know so I can fix it, so you can have more enjoyable reading experience! If you haven't already go follow my old account @divineandgambit It's been 6 years long years but I'm happy to get back to what I love. I'm planning to try to post this book on sites like Fanfiction.net and Archiveofourown so be on a lookout for that. And I'm looking for someone to try to help me find someone to try to do/help with my cover art. Enough rambling enjoy the chapter with more to come!!!

British West Indies

1868

Jack Saint snarled through the bars of run down prison, slamming his abraded hands into the rusted metal pipes. Five weeks and counting since he'd been betrayed and locked in this hellhole....his own shipmates turning on him for the promise of coin. He'd expected to be quietly dispatched within the first days, but time had stretched on from one week to the next.
He knew what they were waiting for-Captains Prince's arrival. Jack knew without a doubt that the rather un-princely rat bastard also known as his loathsome uncle, was behind all of this.

Pitch Black was a two faced turncoat. Jack had to escape....before Pitch arrived to gloat and make his death a personal vendetta.
Each day that passed made escape seem more an impossible task, but Jack wasn't a man to stand idly by and wait for death. He bit is thumb at Death each time sailed out of the path of a hurricane or took on the lawless cutthroats of the high seas who were intent on anarchy.
Men were always ready to stab him in the back. He had the scars to show for it, but he wasn't a man who gave up at the first sign of trouble. In fact, he welcomed it.

Though he was weak from the lack of food, Jack kept his muscles strong with daily exercise in the cramped cell. Even when they were burning and quivering, he pushed himself more. Made himself eat the thin gruel his keepers shoved into his cell twice daily. Bided this time. The opportunity would present itself, and when it did, he would be ready.

Jack ran through his exercises again, running in place to get his heart pumping. When he was through the repetitions and coated in sweat, he said on the edge of his thin-filled pallet and peered upward. The silver of a window near the high, bricked ceiling let in some golden and red light that told him it was measly late evening. He had no idea what day it was as the hours had started to converge after enough time had passed, but keeping track was necessary. He slept when it was dark and kept his body and mind honed when it was daylight.

"Time for your bath, ye lordship," a nasal voice called out.

Jack bristled with irritation, but stood and stripped. Grime and grease were caked onto his skin and his scalp itched. He was lucky if his "baths" came once a week, but at least they kept him feeling somewhat human.

"Top of the morning' to ya, Monsieur le Duc," Hans went on, butchering the pronunciation as he always did, the last part of that sounding like monshoe lah dook.

Jack exhaled a derisive snort at the address. Yes, it was his title—a disgraced title. Louis-Napoleon himself had granted it to his father as a victory title and then stripped away his lands on the words of a liar—but the men in his line of work used it like an insult. Jack supposed it was. Then again, he didn't give a shit about being a duke.

If it wasn't a matter of his family's honor, he'd stay far away from Paris. He wouldn't think twice about returning and attempting to clear his father's name. But vengeance boiled in his blood and his uncle had to pay.