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T he ship rocked gently, a rhythmic sway that might have lulled him back to sleep if not for the inviting warmth beside him. Matthew stirred, consciousness creeping in. His body tensed instinctively before his mind caught up, before he remembered where he was—and who was lying beside him.

Beatrice.

She slept soundly, her dark lashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing slow and even. The tension she carried so fiercely during the day had melted away in sleep, leaving her looking softer, almost vulnerable. He could get used to seeing her like this—unarmored, unguarded.

And the thought unsettled him.

He lay still, scarcely daring to breathe, aware of every point where their bodies shared the same space, where the bed’s narrow confines had pressed them too close. The faint scent of lavender and sea air clung to her, teasing his senses, making it impossible to ignore how much he noticed her now.

He had sworn he would resist, that he would not be drawn into the dangerous pull of familiarity—of shared laughter, of fleeting touches. Yet with each morning beside her, the boundaries between them thinned, like ink bleeding into water.

Bloody hell, he had nearly kissed her last night. He wanted to now.

His gaze traced the delicate curve of her cheek, the strands of dark hair tangled against the pillow. Almost without thinking, he lifted a hand, his fingers twitching with the need to brush a stray curl away from her face. He caught himself just in time, clenching his fist against the mattress.

What madness was this?

This was Beatrice Sinclair—the woman who had schemed, plotted, and stolen him from his life. The woman who had placed him on this cursed ship and upended everything he thought he knew.

And yet…

His eyes drifted lower, to the slight parting of her lips as she exhaled softly, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She shifted then, a small sigh escaping her, and for one breathless moment, she moved closer, her knee brushing against his beneath the covers.

A jolt of heat shot through him, sharp and unwelcome. He forced himself to look away, to steady his breathing, to remember who he was—who they were.

He was an earl, a man of duty and control. And she was the most frustrating woman he had ever known.

He had no business craving her touch.

Just then, Beatrice stirred, her lashes fluttering, her lips parting slightly as she blinked awake. For a moment, there was only silence between them, a heavy stillness as her gaze found his.

Green and bright as spring leaves, her eyes locked onto his, and Matthew felt something deep in his chest tighten.

Then her lips curled into a smirk, and the tension shattered. “You are staring, my lord.”

Matthew rolled onto his back, feigning nonchalance. “Merely wondering how someone so small can take up so much space.”

Beatrice scoffed, propping herself up on her elbow. “Says the man who nearly pushed me off the bed in his sleep.”

“An outright lie,” he countered smoothly, crossing his arms behind his head. “I slept perfectly still. You, however, snore like a bear in winter.”

She gasped. “I do not snore.”

“Like a beast deep in hibernation.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes before kicking him lightly under the covers. “Better a snoring bear than a preening peacock.”

Matthew chuckled despite himself. Dangerous, this easy camaraderie between them. Too dangerous for his peace of mind.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, needing the space. “I should join the crew. They will need me on deck.”

Beatrice didn’t move. Instead, she watched him, her expression unreadable.

Then said, “Matthew,” her voice soft.

He paused, glancing back at her. “What is it?”

She hesitated, a moment of silence stretching between them. “Thank you. For keeping your word.”

Something inside him tightened, constricted. He exhaled slowly, schooling his features. “I am a man of my word, Miss Sinclair. Even to you.”

With that, he stood, pulled on his coat and boots, then strode from the cabin before he did something truly foolish—like stay.

The crisp sea air hit Matthew’s face the moment he stepped onto the deck, bracing and cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth he had just left behind. He inhaled deeply, willing it to clear his thoughts.

He needed to stop thinking about her.

Needed to stop noticing the way she smiled at him when she forgot to be annoyed, or the way she leaned just slightly into his touch when he helped lace her stays. Needed to stop wanting things he could never allow himself to have.

This was all temporary.

With every morning, every conversation, every look, they were treading into dangerous waters. He could not afford to forget that when they reached their destination, they would part ways.

He could not afford to forget what she had done to him.

The thought sat in his chest like a weight he could not dislodge.

“Brooding again, are you?” Captain Harker’s voice cut through his thoughts. The grizzled old sailor leaned against the railing, watching Matthew with something too knowing in his gaze.

Matthew exhaled sharply. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous thing, that.” The captain smirked. “I’d wager you’re thinking about the lass.”

Matthew scowled. “You would be mistaken.”

Harker let out a bark of laughter. “I doubt that.” He clapped Matthew on the back. “You’ve got that look—like a man trying to walk against the tide.”

Matthew ground his jaw. “She kidnapped me, Captain.”

“And yet, here you stand, staring at the sea as if waiting for it to hand you answers. Mooning like a lad who’s had his first taste of a woman.”

Matthew turned sharply. “I am not?—”

But the captain was already walking away, shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Lord Lorne.”

Matthew threw himself into work, hauling ropes, steadying rigging, assisting the crew wherever they needed extra hands. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction, but even as he worked, his mind refused to let go of the morning’s intimacy.

Beatrice had thanked him.

It had been such a simple thing, but the weight of it still lingered. It had felt… real. Uncalculated.

She was not the woman he had once believed her to be. And yet, the memory of her deception still flickered beneath his admiration, like an ember refusing to die.

He had seen glimpses of the fire beneath her careful control, the hurt she hid beneath sharp words. She was not just cunning—she was brave, determined, and fiercely protective of the things she cared about.

And if he let himself dwell on it too long, he might begin to believe that he was becoming one of them—those things she cared about.

A gust of wind swept across the deck, tugging at his shirt, salt spray stinging his face. The sea stretched endlessly around them, untamed and unpredictable.

Much like Beatrice.

And, God help him, he was beginning to understand why he could not turn away.

As he secured the last of the ropes, he glanced toward the stairs leading below deck. His chest tightened. It struck him then, with terrifying clarity—the more time he spent with Bea, the harder it would be to walk away.

And, perhaps, the harder it would be to convince himself he still wanted to.

He threw himself into the work, welcoming the sting of sweat in his eyes, the burn of his muscles, and the rough bite of rope against his palms. He hoped the physicality of labor would provided an escape, a way to silence the thoughts that clawed at him like a beast waiting to be let loose.

But no amount of toil could drown out the memory of her—the feel of her warmth beside him in the bed, the scent of lavender lingering on her skin, the way her breath had hitched when he tightened her stays.

He cursed under his breath, yanking at a rope harder than necessary.

The crew, once wary of his aristocratic presence, had begun to accept him.

They had seen him pull his weight, proving that he was not just some useless lord playing at being a sailor.

They still called him "Lord Lorne," but now it was spoken with camaraderie rather than mockery. He had earned their respect.

And yet, none of that mattered.

Not when his thoughts betrayed him at every turn, dragging him back to Beatrice.

He had started noticing her in every quiet moment—at dinner when her laughter, genuine and unguarded, caught him off guard.

When she sketched with such intense focus, her lips parted slightly in concentration.

And worst of all, in the mornings, when she looked at him with sleep-heavy eyes, her voice husky with the remnants of dreams.

"Oi, Lorne!" a sailor called out, breaking through his reverie. "We need another set of hands!"

Matthew shook his head sharply, forcing himself back to the present as he made haste toward the sailors.