You have a sword to your neck.

It's a cutlass. Old type of sword with a gently swayed blade, a 'pirate sword'. Yet, it gleams as if it were freshly forged.

And it's a few centimeters from your neck. The man who put that sword there is breathing heavily, his chest clad in some fine shirt slightly heaving, his Captain's hat askew.

After a breath in, he intones the question-- the order-- in an English accented growl full of power. "What business have you aboard my ship."

Fair enough, considering he found you without warning at nine in the morning in his cabins.