Page 141

T he gentle creaking of the ship's timbers roused Matthew from his fitful slumber.

Pale dawn light filtered through the cabin's small porthole, casting a muted glow across the cramped quarters.

He shifted on the narrow bunk, his shoulders protesting the night spent on less-than-accommodating bedding.

Blinking away the remnants of sleep, he became acutely aware of the faint sound of scratching—rhythmic and deliberate.

Matthew propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze landing on Beatrice.

She sat near the porthole, her back straight, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders in a soft cascade.

The light framed her in a soft halo, lending her an almost ethereal quality.

But what caught his attention was the movement of her hand across a page, her quill darting swiftly as she worked on something unseen.

"I didn’t know you could draw," he said, his voice rough from sleep.

Beatrice startled, her hand pausing mid-stroke as she turned toward him. Her green eyes flicked over him, wary, though her cheeks held a trace of warmth. "There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Lord Lorne," she replied, her tone cool but not unkind.

Matthew smirked, rising to his feet. "Evidently so, Miss Sinclair. You continue to surprise me."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was no mistaking the faint upward tilt of her mouth—a flash of satisfaction she tried to mask. "Is that so difficult to believe? That I might possess talents beyond what you have assumed?"

He leaned back against the cabin wall, folding his arms across his chest. "Not at all. In fact, I find it rather fascinating."

Beatrice raised a skeptical eyebrow at his tone. "I assure you, sir, I am an open book—though perhaps not one you have ever cared to read."

He opened his mouth to respond, but a sharp knock at the door saved him. A cabin boy entered, bearing a tray laden with fresh bread, butter, and steaming coffee. The enticing aroma filled the room, momentarily distracting both of them.

"Your morning meal," the cabin boy announced, placing the tray on the small table before retreating with a polite nod.

Matthew joined her at the table, settling opposite her. They ate in silence at first, the awkwardness between them palpable. He found his gaze wandering to her hands as she broke a roll apart with practiced precision, her movements graceful despite their cramped surroundings.

Desperate to break the tension, he ventured, "I trust you slept well?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, her expression unreadable. "As well as one might in such conditions," she replied. "And you?"

Matthew let out a dry chuckle, tearing off a piece of bread. “I have indeed enjoyed more comfortable nights, but I daresay in this case, the company compensates for the discomfort."

Her eyes flashed, and she set her cup down with a firm clink. "No need for false flattery, Lord Lorne. I am certain you have had far more agreeable company in the past."

"Perhaps," he admitted, his tone softening. "But that does not mean yours is not agreeable, Miss Sinclair."

Her gaze narrowed, as though searching for a hidden agenda in his words. He held her stare, willing her to see the sincerity in his expression. For a moment, she seemed to falter, her sharp retort caught on her tongue. Instead, she merely inclined her head.

"How generous of you to say so," she murmured, her voice quieter.

Their conversation was interrupted by another knock. Matthew rose to answer it, revealing a young sailor holding a folded note. "From Captain Harker, sir," the lad said, his gaze darting curiously between Matthew and Beatrice.

Matthew accepted the missive and unfolded it. Beatrice leaned forward slightly, her curiosity evident despite her composed exterior. "What does it say?" she asked.

"An invitation," Matthew replied, scanning the page. "The captain requests our presence for dinner in his quarters this evening."

Her posture stiffened, her fingers twisting in her lap. "I see," she murmured. "And I suppose you are eager to attend?"

He studied her, noting the tension in her shoulders and the guarded look in her eyes.

"It would be unwise to refuse," he said.

"Besides, I must confess I am curious to hear his thoughts on our... situation. Perhaps he will have a measure of pity on us and help arrange our return voyage. He most certainly knows other captains and if he is willing to vouch for us…”

Her eyes flashed with defiance. "You intend to humiliate me, then?"

"Hardly," he replied, irritation creeping into his voice. "But it would be no less than you deserve. Surely you see the advantage in?—"

"In what?" she interrupted, rising to her feet. She hesitated, her hands fisting at her sides. "In painting me as some wayward girl in need of rescue?"

Matthew stilled, caught off guard by the vehemence in her tone. “That is not what I intend?—"

"Is it not?" she demanded, pacing the small cabin. "I will not be made a fool of, Matthew. Not by you, not by anyone."

Her words stung, though he was not sure why. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. Forcing himself to remain calm, he said, "If you would simply trust me for once, you would see that I have no intention of making a fool of you."

Beatrice halted, her back to him. When she finally turned, the fire in her eyes had dimmed slightly, replaced by something almost vulnerable. "Trust, Lord Lorne, is something I will never again give lightly."

The weight of her words hung between them, but Matthew found himself unable to respond. Instead, he turned back to the table, his thoughts churning as the silence stretched on.

As evening approached, the cabin grew warm with the golden light of the setting sun.

Matthew watched Beatrice as she stood before the small mirror, her movements precise as she struggled to tame an errant curl.

She muttered under her breath, her frustration evident in the sharp motions of her hands.

Before he could second-guess himself, he stepped forward. "Allow me," he murmured, his voice softer than he intended.

Beatrice froze, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. For a moment, he thought she might refuse, but then she nodded, her expression wary.

His fingers brushed her hair as he worked, and he was struck by its softness. "There," he said after a moment, stepping back. "Perfect."

Beatrice turned to face him, her cheeks flushed. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Matthew cleared his throat, retreating to give her space. As she adjusted her dress, he could scarcely help but notice the way it framed her figure, elegant despite the simplicity of her attire. "You look..." he began, searching for the right words.

"Yes?" she prompted, her tone challenging.

"Magnificent," he murmured, the word slipping out before he could temper it.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she quickly masked it. "How kind of you to say," she said, but the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her pleasure. “Matthew?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed. “I am sorry for my earlier behavior. The truth is I am embarrassed by what I have done, and would much prefer to forget about it. None of this,” She held her arms out indicating the cabin, “is your fault.”

He stepped closer. “There is enough blame to share.” He offered his arm and she rested her hand on his forearm.

The ship’s slow rhythm accompanied them into Captain Harker’s quarters.

The small space was transformed by candlelight, the warm glow reflecting off polished wood and gleaming brass fixtures.

A table set for three awaited them, its modest spread made inviting by the captain’s thoughtful presentation.

"Miss Sinclair, Lord Lorne," the captain greeted, rising to his feet. "Welcome. Please, sit."

Beatrice curtsied gracefully, her composure impeccable. "Thank you for your kind invitation, Captain."

Matthew inclined his head, noting the captain’s keen gaze as they took their seats. "We appreciate the hospitality."

As the meal progressed, the conversation flowed easily.

Captain Harker regaled them with tales of his voyages, his gruff voice softening as he spoke of distant lands and treacherous seas.

Matthew found himself drawn into the stories, but his attention frequently drifted to Beatrice.

She engaged the captain with wit and intelligence, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“What led you to choose my ship, Miss Sinclair?” Harker asked, his gaze holding hers. “And how did you become ensnared in your own daring plot?”

Beatrice, ever composed, responded smoothly. "Fate, perhaps. Or an appreciation for unplanned adventures."

Matthew’s lips quirked at her deflection, but he remained silent, observing the exchange with interest.

"The sea," Harker said thoughtfully, "has a way of testing those who cross it. Revealing their mettle. Perhaps this journey will do the same for the two of you."

Matthew met Beatrice’s gaze, her expression unreadable. As they bid the captain goodnight and returned to their cabin, the unspoken weight of the evening lingered between them.

Later, as the ship rocked gently beneath them, Matthew lay awake, his thoughts consumed by the woman mere feet away.

Beatrice Sinclair was a puzzle—one he found himself increasingly eager to solve.

And though he could not yet name the feeling stirring in his chest, he knew one thing for certain—his irritation had dissolved, leaving behind something far more dangerous.