Page 142

M orning light spilled through the porthole, painting the wooden walls in gold and rousing Matthew from restless sleep. Stretching, he let his thoughts drift to the previous evening’s dinner with Captain Harker.

Beatrice had surprised him. Her wit and laughter had held him captive, an irony not lost on him.

He recalled how her heart-shaped face lit with mischief as she engaged the captain with her sharp repartee, her words a mix of intellect and warmth.

It wasn’t the Beatrice he had expected—or thought he knew.

Shifting his gaze across the cabin, Matthew’s eyes settled on Beatrice.

Her sleeping form lay still in the opposite bunk, her features softened in repose.

In the quiet morning light, she seemed almost fragile, a stark contrast to the fiery woman who had tangled with him time and again.

Loose tendrils of hair framed her face, and her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep.

He watched her, unable to look away, captivated by the rare glimpse of vulnerability she unknowingly revealed.

As if sensing his gaze, Beatrice stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and then her eyes opened, meeting his. For an instant, neither spoke. Heat crept up Matthew’s neck as he realized he had been caught staring. He cleared his throat, searching for a way to dissolve the tension.

“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice husky from sleep as she sat up and smoothed her hair.

“Good morning,” Matthew replied, his tone more composed than he felt. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” she said lightly, though her faint smile betrayed her own discomfort at their proximity. “I suppose one must adjust to such... accommodations.”

Matthew inclined his head. “True enough. Though I daresay the company helps mitigate the discomfort.”

Beatrice arched a skeptical brow, her sharp wit surfacing. “Is that so, Lord Lorne? Or are you simply indulging in false flattery?”

“Neither,” Matthew countered, his gaze steady. “I find your company... intriguing.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked away, masking her reaction by pulling at the hem of her sleeve. “Well, let us hope we both find this voyage tolerable enough to survive it.”

“Indeed,” Matthew offered, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I have decided to think of it as an adventure.”

Beatrice considered his words before nodding, her gaze sparkling with faint amusement. “I shall tolerate this adventure—so long as you do not make it unbearable. I do reserve the right to call off our truce should you prove insufferable.”

“I will endeavor not to,” he quipped, rising from his pallet.

As they tidied themselves and moved about the cabin, there was a quiet sense of accord between them, fragile but promising.

Matthew watched Beatrice surreptitiously as she pinned her hair, marveling at her deftness and the grace in her movements.

The Beatrice he thought he had known was a woman of barbed words and rigid defenses, but this voyage had begun to reveal the layers beneath her sharp exterior.

Before he could delve deeper into his musings, a sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Matthew exchanged a glance with Beatrice, who shrugged in silent question. Crossing the room, he opened the door to reveal a cabin boy, who greeted them with a polite bow.

“Lord Lorne, Miss Sinclair,” the boy said. “Captain Harker requests your presence on deck.”

Beatrice hesitated, her brows knitting together as uncertainty flickered across her face. Matthew extended a hand, his expression softening. “Shall we?”

She hesitated only briefly before placing her hand on his arm. “Lead the way, my lord.”

The narrow passageway swayed gently with the motion of the ship, and Beatrice stumbled slightly as they ascended the stairs. Matthew’s grip steadied her. “Steady now,” he murmured, voice low. “I would hate for you to take a tumble… unless it’s straight into my arms.”

Beatrice scoffed, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “You are truly incorrigible.”

When they emerged onto the deck, the vastness of the ocean stretched before them, an endless expanse of deep blue beneath a cloudless sky.

The salt-tinged air carried the cries of gulls, and the ship swayed rhythmically beneath their feet.

Beatrice’s fingers rested lightly on Matthew’s sleeve before she withdrew them, her gaze sweeping over the horizon.

“Ah, there you are,” Captain Harker called from the railing, his voice rising above the crash of waves. “I thought it was time you both saw what makes life at sea so extraordinary.”

Beatrice stepped forward, her interest piqued. “And what is that, Captain?”

“The endless possibility,” Harker said, gesturing expansively at the horizon. “Out here, there are no walls, no suffocating expectations. The sea strips us bare, forces us to confront who we truly are.”

The captain’s words unsettled him, striking too close to home. Beatrice had already begun to expose cracks in the armor he had long worn, forcing him to see his own vulnerabilities with unsettling clarity. He glanced at her, wondering if she felt the same pull of introspection.

Harker interrupted his thoughts. “Come,” he said, leading them across the deck. “I’d like to introduce you to the crew.”

Beatrice followed eagerly, her questions flowing freely as the captain explained the ship’s operations.

Matthew trailed behind, watching as she charmed the sailors with her genuine interest and sharp mind.

When the captain tasked him with assisting the crew on the rigging, Beatrice’s playful smirk and teasing quip—“Let us see if you are as skilled with ropes as you are with words”—sparked an unfamiliar sense of pride in him.

Later, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, Captain Harker approached Beatrice with a small package. “Miss Sinclair,” he said warmly, “I heard you have a talent for sketching, and thought you might appreciate these.”

She unwrapped the package, revealing a fine leather-bound sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils. Her eyes widened, and a genuine smile lit her face. “Captain, I... I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll document this journey,” Harker said with a smile. “Capture its beauty and its challenges. Let your art tell the story.”

Beatrice clutched the sketchbook to her chest, her gratitude evident. “Thank you. Truly.”

Matthew watched the exchange, his chest tightening inexplicably. Her joy was radiant, unguarded, and it stirred something deep within him. As they returned to their cabin, he found himself stealing glances at her, marveling at how recent events had transformed her demeanor.

She settled at the table, opening her new sketchbook with reverence. The scratch of charcoal on paper filled the small space, a soothing rhythm that Matthew found strangely comforting. He leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on her as she worked, utterly absorbed in her art.

Matthew exhaled, shaking his head at himself. He ought to be furious with her. Instead, he found himself intrigued “You are rather remarkable, you know,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

Beatrice’s hand stilled, and she looked up at him. “Am I?”

He stepped closer, his voice low. “More than you realize.”

For a moment, their gazes held, the air between them charged with an unspoken connection. Matthew knew he was treading dangerous waters, but he could not bring himself to look away.