Page 144

B eatrice blinked away the remnants of sleep. The warmth of Matthew’s presence beside her was an unspoken truth, a quiet force pressing against the walls she had so carefully built.

With a quiet sigh, she carefully extricated herself from the bed, mindful not to disturb him.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath her bare feet as she made her way toward her meager belongings.

Her fingers brushed over the delicate embroidery on her gown, the fabric a tangible reminder of how unprepared she had been for this voyage.

She had never been without the luxury of a maid’s assistance before, and the reality of her situation pressed down upon her as she reached for her stays.

She tugged at the laces, her fingers slipping as she struggled to pull them tight.

Each motion was a battle, the stubborn fabric refusing to yield to her will.

Frustration simmered beneath her composed exterior, her breath growing short with irritation.

The confining nature of her garments mirrored her predicament, each tug and pull reminding her of just how little control she had over her circumstances.

"Need assistance?" Matthew's voice, rough with sleep, sliced through the quiet.

Beatrice stiffened, her fingers stilling on the laces.

She glanced over her shoulder to find him propped up on one elbow, his dark hair mussed and his gaze gleaming with amusement.

He was watching her with an easy, knowing smile, the kind that made her insides twist in ways she refused to acknowledge.

"I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you," she replied primly, schooling her expression into one of practiced indifference. She should have slept in her gown. Had she done so, she would not be in this predicament, but her stays had become unbearable.

"Of course you can," Matthew chuckled, stretching with the lazy confidence of a man utterly at ease. "I should have known better than to offer assistance to a woman as fiercely independent as you."

Beatrice bit back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unsettled her. "And I should have known better than to expect a man of your reputation to sleep through the morning."

"Ah, but you forget, Miss Sinclair," he said, sitting up fully now, the sheets pooling at his waist, "I am a changed man. My days of idle indulgence are behind me."

She scoffed, her fingers resuming their work with renewed determination. "A leopard does not change its spots so easily, Lord Lorne."

"Perhaps not," he mused, his gaze lingering on her struggle. "But even a leopard may learn to appreciate the beauty of a different coat."

Her breath hitched. She felt his gaze like a tangible force, his presence filling the small cabin, surrounding her in a way that made her pulse quicken. The intimacy of the moment was too much, too dangerous, and yet she could scarcely bring herself to break it.

Averting her gaze, she yanked once more, stubborn pride refusing to let her yield. But after another failed attempt, she exhaled sharply. “I am loath to admit it, but I may require your assistance after all,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He moved before she could reconsider, rising from the bed with a quiet grace that sent her heart into a frantic rhythm. His footsteps were soft against the wooden floorboards as he stepped behind her, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of her chemise.

His fingers skimmed her spine before settling on the laces, and a slow shiver unfurled down her back, betraying her resolve.

His touch was both confident and careful, his fingers firm but reverent.

The scent of sandalwood and sea salt clung to his skin, mingling with the faint musk of sleep, an intoxicating blend that set her senses on edge.

She held her breath, willing herself to ignore the way her pulse thrummed at the feel of him so near. With every tug, awareness prickled along her spine. Her body betrayed her resolve, leaning slightly into his touch, craving a warmth she did not dare name.

When he finished, his hands lingered on her shoulders, his thumbs barely grazing the delicate fabric of her sleeves. Beatrice felt as though the air had been stolen from the room, an unnamed tension hummed between them, persistent as the tide.

She stepped away abruptly, reaching for her gown. "Thank you," she managed, her voice steady despite the whirlwind within her.

Matthew hesitated for the briefest of moments before stepping back himself, as if recognizing the unsteady ground they both stood upon. "Perhaps we should take breakfast on deck," he suggested, his voice slightly strained. "I find myself in need of fresh air."

Beatrice nodded as she worked to secure her gown, grateful for the reprieve. “It is a splendid suggestion.”

They ascended to the deck, the crisp morning air carrying the scent of salt and the tang of the sea.

The vast expanse of ocean stretched endlessly before them, the waves rolling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

She inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air clear the lingering haze of the morning’s encounter.

They ate in companionable silence, the distant cries of gulls and the rhythmic creaking of the ship filling the space between them. Beatrice watched Matthew with quiet curiosity, noting the way his usual carelessness had been replaced by something more contemplative.

"I must admit," he said at last, his gaze fixed on the horizon, "I have gained a newfound respect for the crew and their labors. It is no easy task, keeping a ship such as this afloat and on course."

Beatrice arched an eyebrow. "I would not have taken you for a man to appreciate the value of hard work."

"Perhaps I am learning," he said with a wry smile, turning to face her. "Perhaps I am beginning to see the world through different eyes."

Something in his tone, in the way he looked at her, sent a strange ache through her chest. She wanted to say something, to challenge him as she always did, but for once, she found herself at a loss for words. Instead, she turned away, her thoughts tumbling like the waves against the ship’s hull.

L ater that afternoon, Beatrice retreated to a shaded corner of the deck, balancing her sketchbook on her lap.

Her pencil glided across the pages, capturing the angles of the ship and the interplay of light on the sails.

Her sketches had always been an escape, a way to make sense of the world around her.

Something she desperately needed.

“You are quite skilled.” Matthew's voice, warm with curiosity, interrupted her thoughts.

Beatrice glanced up to find him standing before her, his hair wind-tousled, his sleeves rolled up in the same effortless manner as before.

"You flatter me," she replied, her tone measured but tinged with amusement.

"Not at all," he countered, taking a step closer. "May I?" He gestured toward the sketchbook.

She hesitated, then handed it to him. His fingers brushed against hers, sending an unexpected shiver down her spine. Matthew turned the pages slowly, his expression shifting from amusement to genuine admiration. "These are remarkable, Beatrice. You have an eye for detail."

A soft warmth spread through her chest at his praise. “It is a distraction," she admitted, "a way to focus on something other than our current predicament."

Matthew handed the book back to her, his fingers lingering against hers for a fraction too long. "Perhaps. But it is also a window into your mind, and I find myself more intrigued by the day."

Beatrice looked away, unsettled by how easily he could dismantle her defenses. She had prided herself on her independence, on her ability to remain unaffected by men like him. And yet, here, in the midst of the vast ocean, something was shifting between them.

A gust of wind whipped strands of hair across her face, and she turned back to the railing just as the sky darkened. The crew moved swiftly, securing cargo and tightening sails. Beatrice shivered, though not entirely from the sudden chill in the air.

Matthew, noticing the change, straightened, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon. The first droplets of rain spattered against the deck, and the wind picked up, howling through the rigging. Beatrice clutched her sketchbook to her chest as the ship pitched beneath her feet.

"Go below deck, Beatrice," Matthew ordered, his voice firm but not unkind.

She hesitated, watching as the crew sprang into action.

A powerful wave crashed against the ship, and Beatrice stumbled. Before she could regain her footing, a strong hand grasped her wrist.

"Come with me," Matthew said, his grip steady. He guided her toward the stairs leading below deck, his touch lingering even after he released her.

The cabin door slammed shut behind Beatrice, muffling the wind and rain.

She paced the narrow confines of the room, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

Each minute stretched into eternity as she waited, her heart pounding.

Then, just as she was about to throw open the door, it burst open of its own accord.

Matthew stood in the doorway, drenched and breathless. Relief crashed over her, so sudden and overwhelming that she nearly staggered.

“You are drenched,” she blurted, concern tightening her voice.

Matthew smirked, shaking water from his hair. "I noticed."

“We must get you dry.” She thrust a towel at him. “Before you catch your death of cold.”

He accepted it, amusement flickering in his eyes. "If you wished to undress me, Bea, you needed only to ask.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks burned. "Stop being ridiculous."

Matthew peeled off his sodden coat and shirt, raking a hand through his damp hair before shaking out the lingering drops. Beatrice turned away, focusing on lighting the lantern instead. When she finally risked a glance, she found him watching her, something unspoken lingering between them.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For worrying about me."

Beatrice swallowed, her pulse unsteady. "Of course. Despite my actions to the contrary, I do not want harm to befall you."

His blue eyes darkened, unreadable, searching. "Beatrice..." Her name was a whisper, a plea, and when his fingers grazed her cheek, her breath caught—too fast, too unguarded.

“You should rest,” she whispered, stepping back before she did something reckless. Before she leaned in. Before she welcomed his kiss.

The unspoken words between them remained heavy in the air as they prepared for sleep. Beatrice lay awake, acutely aware of Matthew beside her. The ship rocked gently, the storm fading into the distance, but her thoughts churned like the restless sea.

She had set this course with vengeance in mind, but somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. And as she drifted into uneasy slumber, one thought plagued her: she had begun to care for the very man she had sworn to punish.