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B eatrice stirred from her slumber, the gentle rocking of the ship lulling her into a momentary daze.

Her hand instinctively reached across the cramped berth, seeking the warmth of Matthew’s presence.

Instead, her fingers met only the cool hush of empty space.

She blinked, the remnants of sleep retreating as a twinge of curiosity stirred within her.

“Matthew?” she called, her voice husky and soft in the still cabin.

There was no reply, only the faint creaking of timbers and the distant hum of activity above deck.

A light knock at the door drew her attention, and she hastily sat up, adjusting her gown.

Her limited wardrobe, the same she had been wearing when mistakenly brought aboard, reminded her again of the voyage’s unexpectedness.

The door opened to reveal a cabin boy, his tanned face creased with a polite smile. “Pardon the intrusion, Miss Sinclair. I thought you might enjoy some tea.”

“Thank you.” She smiled as the boy carried a steaming pot and tea cup to the table. “Might you know where Lord Lorne has gone?”

“He is helping the crew with their duties, ma’am.”

Beatrice’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Matthew? Assisting the crew?” The very notion was absurd, a contradiction to the lazy, self-indulgent rogue she had so thoroughly cataloged in her mind.

“Indeed, miss. Quite helpful, if I may say so.”

She managed a polite nod as the boy departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Shaking her head, Beatrice swung her legs over the side of the bed and began to tidy herself.

She adjusted her stays and checked the fit of her gown, ensuring her appearance was presentable despite the limitations of her attire.

Her fingers deftly worked through the tangles in her hair, though her mind remained on the cabin boy’s words.

Matthew—working? It was almost laughable.

“Well,” she muttered, fastening the clasp of her cloak, “this I simply must see for myself.”

Ascending the narrow stairs, Beatrice emerged onto the deck, where the brisk sea air met her with a salty kiss.

She paused, her gaze swept by the brilliance of the open ocean.

Sunlight danced across the waves, turning the sea into a vast, shimmering expanse.

The sight filled her chest with a fleeting, inexplicable sense of peace.

Her attention shifted as a grizzled voice called out her name. She turned to see Captain Harker standing near the helm, his stance as steady as if he were rooted to the deck itself. He tipped his hat, his expression warm and inviting.

“Miss Sinclair,” he greeted her, his voice resonating over the sound of the waves. “Finding your sea legs, are we?”

She approached with measured grace, her cloak billowing slightly in the ocean breeze. “Indeed, Captain. Though I fear it has been less a matter of finding them and more one of sheer necessity.”

The captain chuckled, his craggy face creasing in amusement. “A fine spirit you’ve got, miss. I daresay the sea suits you better than you might think.”

Her lips curved in a small smile. “You are too kind, Captain. I must confess, however, that my presence here today is less about acclimating and more about satisfying a rather unseemly curiosity.”

Harker arched a bushy brow. “Oh?”

“I hear that Lord Lorne has taken to assisting the crew,” Beatrice said, her tone laced with disbelief. “I had to see it for myself.”

The captain’s expression softened with something akin to approval. “Aye, he’s been quite the surprise. A man of his station, jumping in where needed? It is rare, I’ll admit. But he has proven himself willing and able.”

Her curiosity deepened, though she tried to mask it with a nonchalant tilt of her head. “And has he truly been useful?”

Harker’s grin widened. “He’s not afraid to dirty his hands, if that’s what you’re asking. Even the men respect him for it. Hard work has a way of leveling the field, Miss Sinclair. It reveals what a person is truly made of.”

The captain’s words lingered in her mind as she made her way to the railing, her gaze scanning the bustling activity of the deck.

Amidst the sailors hauling ropes and adjusting sails, she spotted him.

Matthew Everhart, Earl of Lorne, stood at the center of the chaos, his once-immaculate appearance transformed.

His sleeves were rolled, exposing arms honed with unexpected strength. The sun caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, and his dark hair, usually so meticulously styled, fell in disheveled waves across his forehead. He pulled on a thick rope alongside two sailors, his movements steady and efficient.

She had expected incompetence, perhaps complaints.

But as she observed his steady efforts, her amusement wavered.

She found herself captivated, her eyes tracing the lines of his frame as he worked.

There was a rawness to him now, a lack of pretense that she could not reconcile with the image of the arrogant rake she had known.

Her lips parted, unbidden, as admiration stirred within her.

“Who are you,” she murmured, “and what have you done with the preening scoundrel I thought I knew?”

Matthew’s gaze lifted, drawn instinctively to hers. His eyes met hers across the deck, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face before it softened into a grin. He handed off the rope to another sailor and approached her.

“Miss Sinclair,” he greeted, his tone light but edged with warmth. “Have you come to supervise my labor? Or perhaps to offer advice?”

Beatrice raised a brow, her voice dripping with mock disdain. “I would not dream of it. I merely came to see if the rumors were true. Imagine my shock at finding you doing manual labor.”

“And?” he prompted, his grin widening. “Are you impressed?”

She hesitated, a spark of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Surprisingly, yes. Though I would advise against letting it go to your head.”

His laughter was genuine, a rich sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Noted,” he said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. “Though coming from you, any compliment feels like high praise.”

Their playful exchange ended too soon, the call of a sailor drawing Matthew back to his tasks.

Beatrice lingered at the railing, her heart fluttering in a way that unsettled her.

As she watched him return to his work, she could scarcely deny the growing respect she felt for him—or the way his presence seemed to pull at something deep within her.

That evening, back in their cabin, Beatrice felt the tension of the day melting away. The memory of Matthew’s toil still lingered in her mind, he was an enigma she could not quite reconcile. Needing a distraction, she reached for the deck of cards.

“Care for a game, Lord Lorne?” she asked, holding the cards aloft.

Matthew’s eyes lit up with mischief. “You are challenging me? A bold move, Miss Sinclair. I hope you are prepared for defeat.”

“We shall see,” she retorted, shuffling the deck with practiced ease. “I daresay you learned nothing from our last game.”

The next hour passed with sharp banter and laughter, the playful rivalry easing the weight of their circumstances. Beatrice’s gaze sparkled with triumph as she laid down a winning hand, and Matthew’s exaggerated groan of defeat filled the cabin.

“I am convinced you are a cardsharp,” he declared, leaning back in mock indignation. “No one is this lucky.”

“Perhaps I am simply better than you,” Beatrice quipped, her smile widening.

Matthew’s laughter faded into a softer expression, his gaze lingering on her. “You are full of surprises, Bea. I will give you that.”

As the evening wore on, their conversation turned quieter, more reflective. When Matthew rolled his shoulder with a wince, Beatrice’s brows knitted in concern.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Just a bit sore,” he admitted. “Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

Without hesitation, she moved behind him. “Sit still,” she instructed, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Let me help.”

Matthew stiffened at first, but as her fingers began to knead the tension from his muscles, he relaxed with a low sigh. “Good God,” he murmured. “Your hands are magic.”

Beatrice’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, but she kept her focus on her task.

The intimacy of the moment was undeniable, scandalous to be sure, but she could not be bothered to care.

As she massaged his tight muscles, the air between them thickened with unspoken possibilities as heat spread through her.

When she finally pulled away, she avoided his gaze, her heart pounding.

She had never been so bold—never let herself reach out in this way, never felt the heat of another’s skin beneath her touch, never crossed a line that now felt all too easy to blur.

Beatrice inhaled a slow breath before speaking.

“You should take the bed tonight,” she said, gesturing to the narrow mattress. “You will rest better.”

Matthew’s brows shot up. “And leave you the floor? I could not.”

Despite herself, worry prickled at the edges of her resolve.

He was still the man who had wronged her, the man she had set out to punish.

And yet… she could not deny that the thought of him suffering, even from something as mundane as sore muscles, left an uncomfortable weight in her chest. Beatrice shook her head.

”We can share the bed. Provided you can behave yourself," she added quickly, her tone brooking no argument.

"Any liberties and you will find yourself back on the floor. "

He hesitated, studying her face as if searching for trickery. A slow smile spread across Matthew's face, but it lacked its usual rakish edge. "You have my word as a gentleman," he said softly, an unexpected sincerity in his voice.

Beatrice nodded briskly, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. "Well then, that is settled." She turned away, busying herself with preparing for bed, acutely aware of Matthew's presence behind her.

As they moved about the small cabin, a palpable shift in the atmosphere enveloped them.

Beatrice found herself hyper-aware of Matthew's every movement, the rustle of fabric as he removed his coat, the soft padding of his feet across the wooden floor, as he turned his back so she could remove her gown.

This was madness. What was she thinking?

Yet even as doubt gnawed at her, Beatrice could not bring herself to rescind the offer.

Something had changed between them, a tentative understanding blooming in the wake of shared hardship.

And as she slipped beneath the covers, her heart pounding, Beatrice wondered just how far this newfound connection might lead them.

A short time later, she lay rigid beneath the covers, her body a taut line of nervous energy. Beside her, Matthew's presence was a palpable warmth, his breathing steady. The gentle rocking of the ship seemed to underscore the tumultuous emotions coursing through her.

"Beatrice?" Matthew's voice was low, barely above a whisper.

She swallowed hard before responding. "Yes?"

"Thank you.” He blew out a breath. “For this." There was a vulnerability in his tone that she had never heard before.

Beatrice turned her head slightly, catching sight of his profile in the dim light. "You are welcome," she murmured, surprised by the softness in her own voice.

A moment of silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words.

Beatrice's mind raced, grappling with the sudden realization that her perception of Matthew had shifted dramatically.

The rakish earl who had once been the bane of her existence now lay beside her, his usual bravado replaced by something far more genuine.

"I never thought I would say this," she began, her words tinged with wry amusement, "but you impressed me today. Working alongside the crew... Looking entirely at ease among them… it was unexpected."

He chuckled softly, shifting slightly, and she felt the brush of his arm against hers, sending a jolt through her body. "I suppose even a rogue like myself can surprise on occasion."

"Indeed," she replied, her heart racing at the proximity.

She found herself torn between the desire to maintain her carefully constructed walls and an unexpected longing to let them crumble.

"Though I warn you, do not let it go to your head.

I would not wish to inflate that already sizable ego of yours. "

As the words left her mouth, she realized her usual sharp tone had been replaced by something closer to playful teasing. Matthew seemed to notice as well, for when he spoke again, there was a warmth in his voice that made her breath catch.

"Heaven forbid," he murmured. "Though I must admit, your good opinion means more to me than I ever thought possible."

The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Beatrice found herself at a loss for words, her usual quick wit deserting her in the face of Matthew's sincerity. Instead, she allowed herself a moment of honesty.

"Perhaps," she whispered, "I have been too quick to judge you."

His hand found hers, his touch gentle and questioning. Beatrice's instinct was to pull away, to retreat behind the safety of her usual prickly demeanor. But something held her in place, a curiosity—no, a desire—to explore this newfound connection.

As they lay there, fingers tentatively entwined, she could not help but wonder how they had arrived at this moment. The man beside her, who had once wronged her, now stirred feelings she scarcely dared to name.

This was dangerous, and yet, she allowed herself to relax into the warmth of his presence even as her mind cautioned restraint.

The warm pressure of Matthew's hand in hers felt like an anchor in the storm, a promise of something she dare not allow herself to want.

With that thought, she drifted into a restless but hopeful sleep, her heart both wary and open to what the future might hold.