Page 137

M ist veiled the docks, shrouding the evening bustle in secrecy.

Beatrice drew her cloak closer, shielding herself from the night’s damp chill.

Around her, the docks stirred with activity: the sharp creak of ship masts, the rhythmic clatter of barrels on cobblestones, and the faint cries of gulls echoing above the gruff chatter of rough sailor voices.

Hidden in the shadows of a weather-beaten warehouse, Beatrice watched the scene unfold, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. She scanned the docks, her pulse quickening as she searched for the man who had haunted her waking hours—and her dreams—for far too long.

“Where are you, Matthew?” she whispered, her gloved fingers gripping the folds of her cloak. The words were a mix of determination and trepidation, carried away by the salty breeze.

She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply to steady herself.

She should not be here and yet, she could not stay away.

She had to see her plan executed. It had been crafted with meticulous care: lure Matthew to board the wrong ship, have him detained, and send him far from England’s shores, to a place where his charm and title would offer no protection.

It was justice, she reminded herself. Justice for the pain he had caused, for the lives he had disrupted with his arrogance and selfishness.

And yet, as she watched and waited, a seed of doubt took root. Was she truly acting in the name of justice, or was this revenge cloaked in something else entirely?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud clatter of crates nearby. Beatrice’s gaze swept across the foggy expanse of the docks. Her pulse quickened as a figure emerged from the mist—a tall man in a dark traveling cloak, his confident stride unmistakable even in the dim light.

Matthew.

Her breath caught in her throat. He walked with an air of effortless assurance, his cloak billowing behind him. Even at this distance, she could see the faint smirk on his lips, as if the world existed solely for his amusement.

“Insufferable man,” she muttered, her hands clenching into fists beneath her cloak. “How dare he look so... untroubled?”

Her gaze lingered on his face, those captivating blue eyes scanning the docks with the casual curiosity of a man who believed himself untouchable. It was infuriating, yet she could not deny the pang of guilt that twisted in her chest.

“He made his choices,” she reminded herself fiercely. “Now he must face the consequences.”

As Matthew approached the row of ships, a sailor stepped into view, his weathered face etched with feigned distress. Beatrice strained to hear as the man intercepted Matthew, his voice quivering with desperation.

“M’lord,” the sailor began, wringing his hands. “I beg your pardon, but I need your help. There’s a man aboard that ship—a good man—who’s fallen into trouble. He needs assistance, and I don’t know where else to turn.”

Matthew stopped, his brow furrowing as he regarded the sailor. Beatrice felt a flicker of unease as she noted the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hand hovered near the hilt of his walking stick.

He was suspicious.

For a moment, she feared he would dismiss the plea and walk away. But then she saw the familiar flicker of gallantry in his eyes, the chivalrous instinct that had once been part of his charm.

“Very well,” Matthew said with a nod, his rich voice carrying easily over the din of the docks. “Lead the way.”

Beatrice released the breath she had not realized she was holding, her heart racing as Matthew followed the sailor toward the ship. The trap was set, and her carefully orchestrated plan was unfolding perfectly.

As Matthew stepped toward the gangplank, the air seemed to shift. A flurry of movement erupted around him as several men emerged from the mist like shadows, their faces grim with purpose.

“What is the meaning of this?” Matthew demanded, his tone sharp as he turned to face the men surrounding him.

The sailors moved quickly, their hands grasping at his arms and shoulders. Matthew’s confusion gave way to fury as realization struck.

“Unhand me!” he roared, his voice ringing out across the docks. “You dare lay hands on me? I shall see you all swinging for this!”

From her hiding place, Beatrice watched in growing alarm as Matthew fought back.

He moved with a ferocity that took even the sailors by surprise, his movements precise and powerful.

A well-aimed punch sent one man staggering backward, while another stumbled under the force of a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Do you know who I am?” Matthew bellowed, his blue eyes blazing with fury. “I will see you all punished for this treachery!”

The chaos drew the attention of nearby dockworkers, their curious murmurs adding to the cacophony. Beatrice’s stomach churned as she realized her plan was unraveling. She had anticipated resistance, but not this level of ferocity.

This was meant to be a clean departure. She had not planned for violence. Not like this. She could not abide it. Guilt twisted her gut as she sprinted toward the ship. “Stop! Leave him alone.”

One of the men turned toward her, his eyes narrowed, and yelled, “Seize her!”

Before she could react, rough hands seized her arms, dragging her toward the ship. Her hood slipped in the struggle, revealing her face.

Time seemed to slow as Matthew’s gaze locked onto hers. For a moment, his expression was one of pure disbelief. Then, recognition dawned, followed swiftly by a betrayal so raw it made Beatrice’s breath catch.

“You,” he spat, his voice low and venomous.

The sailors shoved them both toward the ship, their protests falling on deaf ears. Beatrice stumbled as the gangplank swayed beneath her feet, her heart pounding as she was forced aboard alongside Matthew.

“This is a mistake. You must release us,” Beatrice argued. “I hired you. Consider your obligation over and release us at once.”

Her words fell on deaf ears.

The cabin door slammed shut behind them, the lock clicking into place. The air inside was thick with tension, the small space amplifying the storm of emotions swirling between them.

Beatrice pressed herself against the far wall, her pulse racing as Matthew paced the cabin like a caged lion. His blue eyes burned with anger, his movements restless and unpredictable. She took a small measure of comfort in the fact he appeared to be unharmed.

“Well, Miss Sinclair,” he said finally, his voice icy. “I believe you owe me an explanation.”

Beatrice lifted her chin, drawing on every ounce of composure she had left. “I owe you nothing, Lord Lorne,” she replied, though her voice wavered slightly.

Matthew stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “Nothing? You orchestrate my abduction, and you claim to owe me nothing?”

She hesitated, her mind racing for an explanation that would calm the storm in his eyes. But before she could respond, the ship lurched beneath their feet, the anchor lifting as the sails caught the wind.

A sobering realization dawned—they were adrift, untethered from solid ground.

“What have you done?” Matthew demanded, his voice rising.

Beatrice swallowed hard, her confidence crumbling under the weight of his fury. “I… I owe you nothing,” she said softly, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears.

Matthew’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “Nothing? You had me dragged onto a ship like a common criminal, and you owe me nothing?”

“It is no less than you deserve!” Beatrice shot back, her temper flaring despite her fear.

“For what?” Matthew demanded, his voice thunderous.

Beatrice hesitated, her resolve wavering. The truth was too dangerous to reveal, yet she could not deny the weight of her guilt.

“Your transgressions. The women you have trifled with,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is your comeuppance for the hearts you have carelessly trampled on.”

Matthew stared at her for a long moment, his anger tempered by something else—confusion, perhaps even hurt. But the moment passed, and his expression hardened once more.

“Well done, Miss Sinclair,” he said coldly. “You have made your point. Now have us released at once.”

“I never meant for it to go this far. The ship’s crew does not know me. I hired someone to act as a liaison between me and our captors in order to arrange your trip.”

“My trip?” He arched a brow, disbelief and anger clouding his gaze. “And where, pray tell, am I going?”

“Because of you,” she held up a hand to stay him, “we are bound for America.”

“Are you mad?” He advanced a step, his glare burning into her. “You, madam, had me abducted and forced onto this ship. You conspired with criminals and landed yourself in this… Debacle. The blame is yours and yours alone.”

As he turned away, Beatrice sank onto the narrow bunk, her mind racing with regret and uncertainty.

She had set out to teach Matthew a lesson, but as the ship carried them farther from England, she could not shake the feeling that she had only succeeded in ensnaring them both in a tangled web of consequences they might never escape.

What the devil was she to do now?