Page 139

T he relentless slap of waves against wood jolted Beatrice from her fitful slumber.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim cabin, where feeble light filtered through a salt-encrusted porthole.

The air was thick with brine and aged timber.

Each breath held a metallic tang, a bitter reminder of her new reality.

Beatrice’s stomach lurched with the ship’s roll. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting the nausea rising in her throat. “Breathe,” she whispered, the word a fragile mantra that barely reached her ears over the groaning hull and rhythmic crash of waves.

The memories of the previous night surged into focus: the mist-shrouded docks, the cacophony of shouting, and Matthew’s furious gaze—searing with betrayal. Beatrice closed her eyes against the haunting image, but it was no use. The sharp edges of reality surrounded her, unyielding.

Her fingers traced the coarse mattress, seeking escape where none could be found. “Drat,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “This cannot be happening.”

Yet it was happening. The ship’s unsteady rhythm only reinforced her reality. Her meticulously constructed plan had unraveled into disaster. Worse, she was ruined. Matthew would never marry her, and after what she had done, who could blame him?

She pushed herself upright, ignoring the stiffness in her muscles.

Her gown now hung in wrinkled disarray, a testament to the chaos of the night before.

She attempted to smooth the fabric with trembling hands, a futile effort that only highlighted the dissonance between her polished past and the disheveled present.

“Think, Beatrice,” she muttered under her breath, willing herself to regain composure. There had to be a way out of this.

She scanned the cramped cabin, noting the worn chair, the small table bolted to the floor, and the single porthole offering a glimpse of endless, churning blue. Her heart sank. She was trapped, not just by wood and iron, but by the very choices that had led her here.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, she thought, the irony biting.

Her gaze flicked to Matthew, then locked onto the door.

For a fleeting moment, she entertained the idea of escape.

But the heavy, iron-banded wood stood as an unyielding barrier.

Even if she could somehow slip past it, where would she go?

The ship was a floating prison, its confines offering no refuge from the man she had wronged.

That thought sent a shiver through her, and her mind conjured an image of Matthew—not the charming rogue who had once captivated her, but the furious man who had stared her down the previous night, his gaze blazing with betrayal.

Beatrice flinched at the memory. “Damn you, Matthew Everhart,” she whispered, fury and regret twining in her voice. “And damn me too.”

A low groan broke the silence, startling her.

She turned sharply, her gaze landed on Matthew.

He sat slumped against the opposite wall, his tall frame barely contained by the space.

His dark hair was tousled, his traveling coat creased, yet he exuded an effortless presence that made the cabin feel even smaller.

“At last, some honesty from you.”

Beatrice froze as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers with the intensity of a storm. Gone was the playful mischief that once danced in their depths; what remained was a searing anger, as cold and unrelenting as the sea around them.

“Matthew,” she began, her voice faltering under the weight of his gaze. She straightened her spine, determined not to cower. “You are awake.”

His laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. “Awake, Miss Sinclair? Oh, I am far more than awake.” He pushed himself upright with a deliberate grace, towering over her even as the ship rolled beneath them. “Though I must confess, I hoped this might all be a fever dream.”

“This is no dream,” Beatrice replied, her tone clipped. “Nor is it a nightmare—though I imagine you see it as such.”

His lips curled into a humorless smile. “And what else should I call it, Beatrice? Being abducted, stripped of my autonomy, and tossed into the unknown at your behest? Enlighten me.”

Beatrice bristled at his tone, though her stomach twisted with guilt. “I did what was necessary,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance.

“Necessary?” Matthew’s voice rose, incredulous. “You orchestrated this chaos—this madness—and call it necessary? Do you comprehend the gravity of what you have done?”

“I comprehend it far better than you,” Beatrice shot back, her temper flaring despite her fear. “You think this was easy for me? That I acted on a whim?”

Matthew stepped closer, the small cabin amplifying his presence. “I think you acted like a reckless fool,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And now, we both pay the price.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she refused to look away. “You are wrong,” she said softly. “I was trying to teach you a lesson.”

The words seemed to catch Matthew off guard. He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched her face. “A lesson?” he repeated, disbelief coloring his tone. “And what, pray tell, was I meant to learn?”

Before Beatrice could answer, the cabin door creaked open, and the sailor from last night stepped inside. The grizzled man filled the doorway, his presence commanding instant attention. His sharp eyes swept over them, and he folded his arms across his broad chest.

“Enough,” the man growled, his voice rough as the sea. “I’ll not have your quarrels disturbing the crew. You’ll keep to this cabin unless instructed otherwise, and you’ll follow my orders without question. Understood?”

Matthew’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. Beatrice managed a shaky “Yes,” her voice barely audible.

Satisfied, the sailor gave a final, assessing glance before stepping back into the corridor. The door closed with a heavy thud, leaving Beatrice and Matthew alone once more.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Beatrice sank onto the narrow bunk, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirts. Matthew resumed his pacing, his long strides confined to the short length of the cabin.

“This is a disaster,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “And that was no captain."

Beatrice watched him, her own thoughts a chaotic whirl. “We need a plan,” she said, breaking the silence.

Matthew stopped, leveling her with a skeptical look. “A plan? And what exactly do you propose, Miss Sinclair? That we charm our way out of this situation?”

“No,” Beatrice replied, her tone firm. “But we cannot afford to be at odds. If we’re to survive this journey, we must work together.”

Matthew laughed, the sound harsh. “You expect cooperation after what you have done? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I expect you to recognize necessity,” Beatrice shot back. “Do you imagine I desired this? That I wished to be here with you?”

Her words hung in the air, charged with emotion. For a moment, his expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his anger. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But that does not change the fact that you have placed us both in an untenable position.”

Beatrice rose, hesitation flickering across her face. “Then help me make it tenable,” she said, her gaze pleading. “Please, Matthew. For both our sakes.”

The cabin’s sway punctuated the tension between them. After a long pause, he sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Very well,” he said. “A truce—for now.”

Relief washed over Beatrice, though it was tempered by the knowledge that their challenges were far from over. Together, they would face the sea, the crew, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.