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M atthew leaned back in his chair, finishing the last bite of the hearty stew that had been brought to their cabin.

The meal, though simple, had done little to ease his simmering frustration.

Across the narrow table, Beatrice dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, her movements composed and serene, as if she were dining in a fine London townhouse rather than a cramped ship’s cabin.

Her infuriating calmness grated against his already frayed patience.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A sailor entered, his weathered face expressionless as he collected their dishes. “Captain Harker requests your presence in his cabin, my lord,” the man said, his voice tinged with deference.

Matthew raised an eyebrow, exchanging a brief glance with Beatrice before rising to his feet. “Very well,” he said, smoothing his coat. “Lead the way.”

Beatrice moved toward the door. “I shall accompany you.”

The sailor shifted to block the door. “You will remain here.”

Matthew nodded toward the chair, and said, “Stay.”

She exhaled a loud breath and sank onto the chair, defeat flashing through her gaze.

Matthew offered a slight smile, then turned and followed the sailor from the cabin.

The narrow corridors of the ship creaked underfoot as Matthew followed the sailor.

He noted the efficiency with which the crew moved, their work punctuated by the snapping of ropes and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull.

Soon, they arrived at the captain’s quarters, a modest but well-ordered space that spoke of years spent at sea.

“Come in,” came a gruff voice from within.

The sailor opened the door, stepping aside to allow Matthew to enter. The captain sat behind a sturdy desk, charts and navigation tools spread before him. He motioned for Matthew to take the chair opposite him, his sharp eyes appraising.

“I am Captain Harker.” He held Matthew’s gaze with an apprising stare. “And you are?”

“The Earl of Lorne,” Matthew said.

“My lord,” Harker began, his tone measured. “I’ve summoned you to clarify a matter that’s left me… intrigued. How, precisely, did you and the young miss come to be aboard my ship?”

Matthew suppressed a groan, already weary of recounting the tale.

“Captain,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “it would seem that Miss Sinclair, in her infinite wisdom, arranged for me to be abducted and sent to America as part of some misguided lesson she sought to teach. Unfortunately for her, she appears to have been ensnared by her own scheme.”

Harker’s brows shot up, his expression hardening. “Abduction? By my crew?”

“It would appear so,” Matthew said dryly. “Though I suspect coin played a role in persuading them to comply with such dubious instructions.”

The captain’s jaw tightened. “Let me assure you, my lord, I do not condone such behavior aboard my vessel. The sailors involved will be reprimanded, and there will be no further incidents of that nature.”

Matthew inclined his head. “Your assurances are appreciated, Captain. Though, the situation is far from resolved.”

Harker studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

At last, he said, “For the duration of this voyage, Lord Lorne, you and Miss Sinclair are passengers, not prisoners. You have leave to enjoy the journey within reason, but I’ll not tolerate trouble aboard my ship.

Miss Sinclair, however spirited she may be, is your responsibility. I suggest you keep a close eye on her.”

“Could I persuade you to return us to London? I am willing and able to compensate you for the trouble.”

The captain steepled his fingers as he leaned forward. “I am afraid not. I have a schedule to keep and a family waiting for my return, My lord. I can ill afford to lose the time. This ship will continue onward to America.”

Matthew’s jaw clenched. The idea of being saddled with Beatrice’s antics for weeks on end was hardly appealing, but he nodded nonetheless. “Understood, Captain.”

Harker’s gaze remained steady. “There is another matter. I was paid for one passenger, not two. Given the situation, I will overlook the additional cost.”

Matthew’s temper spiked. “Your generosity is appreciated, Captain,” he said, his tone edged in sarcasm.

The captain’s lips thinned before he slid a small wooden box across the desk. “To help pass the time,” he said. “Books, paper, ink, and a deck of cards. Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”

Surprised by the thoughtfulness, Matthew nodded his thanks. “You are generous, Captain.”

“I expect cooperation in return,” Harker said firmly. “I believe we are finished here, my lord.”

Matthew rose, the box tucked under one arm, and made his way back to the cabin.

His mind swirled with conflicting emotions—anger at Beatrice for orchestrating this disaster, resignation to the circumstances, and a begrudging fascination with her audacity.

She was unlike any woman he had ever known, and though she vexed him to no end, he could not deny the intrigue she stirred within him.

He opened the door to find Beatrice sitting primly on the edge of the bed, her arms crossed. Her eyes flicked to the box in his hands, curiosity sparking in their green depths.

“The captain,” Matthew said curtly, setting the box on the small table, “was not aware of our abduction. All the same, he is unwilling to return us to London. He provided us with a few things for the journey.” He opened the lid, revealing the contents.

Beatrice leaned forward, her interest evident. “How thoughtful of him.”

Matthew’s gaze darkened. “Do not mistake this as indulgence, Beatrice. He made it quite clear we are passengers, not prisoners, but we are also not to cause trouble.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“And as if this situation were not unbearable enough, I am now responsible for you.”

Her lips twitched, though whether in amusement or annoyance, he could not tell. “I hardly need a keeper, my lord.”

“That,” he drawled, pacing the length of the cabin, “remains to be seen.”

Beatrice’s brows rose. “Well, I didn’t ask you to watch over me. Perhaps you could simply inform the captain of that oversight.”

Matthew stopped mid-stride, fixing her with a pointed look. “Tempting as it may be to see how far your charm gets you, I would prefer not to risk further calamity. For now, we’re stuck with one another. Do try not to make things worse. After all, it was you who suggested a truce.”

Beatrice’s chin lifted, a spark of defiance lighting her features. “I shall endeavor to behave, my lord, if only to spare you the strain on your evidently fragile nerves.”

Matthew barked a laugh, though his annoyance lingered. “Fragile, is it? We shall see who yields first, Miss Sinclair.”

As he resumed his pacing, he could not help but cast a glance her way, taking in the graceful line of her posture and the fire in her eyes.

She was maddening, unpredictable, and entirely captivating.

How he would love to take her over his knee and tan her hide for putting them in this untenable situation.

He tore his gaze from her as he turned to pace the other way. It was not long before the confined space and his own turbulent thoughts made him feel as though the walls were closing in. Beatrice’s steady gaze followed him, her composure only serving to stoke the embers of his frustration.

He stopped abruptly, spinning toward the small table where the captain’s box rested.

Pulling out the deck of cards, he fanned them across the surface with a flick of his wrist. The soft rustle of the cards sliced through the taut silence, a welcome distraction from the storm still lingering between them.

“If we are to survive this voyage without throttling one another,” he began, his voice clipped but steady, “we might as well find some means of distraction. Care for a game?”

She arched a brow, her expression caught between surprise and amusement. “I thought you considered me intolerable company, my lord. Has desperation truly set in so soon?”

He fixed her with a pointed look, his lips quirking in a sardonic smile. “If I had any other options, Miss Sinclair, I would gladly avail myself of them. Unfortunately, you are all I have got.”

She stood, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her skirts, and moved to the table with a measured grace. “Very well. What shall we play?”

“Whist,” he said, pulling a chair back for her before taking his own seat. “The game is straightforward enough, even for you.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed at the jab, though a faint smile played on her lips. “How generous of you to keep my limitations in mind.”

They began to play, the cards flipping between them with rhythmic precision. For a time, the room was filled only with the soft sounds of their game: the shuffle of the deck, the faint slap of cards against wood, and the occasional rustle of fabric as one leaned forward or shifted in their seat.

He meant to play distractedly, but her skill forced his focus. “You are remarkably good at this,” Matthew admitted after she won a second hand, his voice edged with reluctant admiration.

Beatrice leaned back, a small, triumphant smile gracing her lips. “Surprised, my lord? One might think you would have learned not to underestimate me by now.”

He chuckled, the sound low and grudgingly amused. “Underestimating you, Miss Sinclair, would indeed be a grave mistake.”

Their banter continued, the sharp edges of their earlier quarrel softening as the game stretched on. Matthew found himself watching her more than the cards—the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief when she outmaneuvered him.

“How did you learn to play so well?” he asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them.

Beatrice cocked her head, contemplation flickering across her face. “My father taught me,” she said, her tone softer now. “He has an affinity for games of strategy. He always says they reveal a person’s true character.”

Matthew raised a brow, intrigued by the glimpse into her past. “And what has my character revealed thus far?”

Her lips twitched, though her gaze turned assessing. “That you are more resourceful than you appear. And perhaps not entirely devoid of charm, when you choose to wield it.”

He laughed, the sound genuine this time. “High praise indeed, coming from you.”

They played several more hands, the tension between them gradually giving way to something warmer, more companionable. By the time Beatrice claimed her third consecutive victory, Matthew was leaning back in his chair, his irritation from earlier a distant memory.

“Well played,” he conceded, gathering the cards and returning them to the box. “It seems I have underestimated your talents once again.”

Beatrice inclined her head, her smile tinged with amusement. “Perhaps you’ll learn, in time.”

As he closed the lid of the box, Matthew found himself struck by the peculiar turn the evening had taken.

Here they were, two reluctant travelers thrust together by circumstances neither had fully controlled, yet sharing a rare moment of ease.

It was an uneasy truce, to be sure, but one that hinted at the possibility of more.

“Tomorrow,” he said, rising to his feet, “I will go above deck. If I cannot arrange our return, at least I will learn the lay of the ship. It would be best if you occupied yourself here, and refrained from stirring up any further chaos.”

Her eyes gleamed with mock innocence. “I shall endeavor to behave, my lord. Though I make no promises.”

Matthew shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “Of course you don’t.”

As he prepared the cabin for the night, his thoughts remained on Beatrice. She was infuriating, exasperating, and entirely unpredictable. Yet, as he extinguished the lantern and settled onto the floor, he could not deny that she was also utterly captivating.

Across the room, Beatrice lay on the narrow bunk, her back turned to him.

Matthew’s irritation warred with a begrudging curiosity. What manner of madness had driven Beatrice to such lengths? She was a puzzle, a contradiction of sharp wit and maddening stubbornness, and yet she drew his attention in ways he could not quite fathom.

“Miss Sinclair,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

She turned her head. “Yes?”

He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Do you regret it? This… folly of yours?”

Beatrice rolled over, her gaze finding his. “I believed it was the right course of action at the time,” she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. “But now… I am sorry for the trouble I have caused.”

Matthew propped his head up, studying her. There was a vulnerability in her answer, an honesty that caught him off guard. “Honesty suits you,” he said, his tone more thoughtful than teasing.

She blinked, clearly unprepared for the compliment. She averted her gaze to the blanket covering her, her fingers twisting in the fabric. The silence between them shifted, no longer heavy with tension but filled with unspoken questions and tentative understanding.

He smiled as he closed his eyes intent on trying to sleep. Whatever lay ahead on this cursed voyage, one thing was certain: Beatrice Sinclair would ensure it was anything but dull.