Page 146

B y midday, the sun beat down relentlessly, casting long shadows over the deck. Matthew had stripped down to his shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows, his body thrumming with exhaustion.

A strange hush settled over the sea, the air thick with something unspoken. He glanced toward the horizon, where heavy clouds loomed, their edges tinged with gray. Then, from across the deck, he spotted Beatrice tucked away near the railing, her sketchbook resting on her lap.

Before he could stop himself, his feet carried him toward her.

She did not notice him at first, her hand moving deftly across the page, eyes narrowed in concentration. He took a moment to observe her—the delicate slope of her nose, the way the wind tugged at the stray tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid.

"What masterpiece are you creating now?" he asked, his voice light, teasing.

Beatrice startled, her head snapping up. A flicker of something—reluctance, perhaps—crossed her face before she hesitated, then slowly turned the sketchbook toward him.

Matthew’s breath stalled in his throat.

It was him.

Not in the way society might have captured an aristocrat, all polished grandeur and false refinement. This was real—sleeves pushed up, sweat glistening on his brow, hands wrapped around a rope mid-tug, his body taut with effort. She had drawn him as he was, not as the world expected him to be.

Something tightened in his chest, an ache so unfamiliar that he did not know how to name it.

"I thought you only drew beautiful things," he murmured, his voice unexpectedly rough.

Beatrice tilted her head, eyes locking onto his. "And what makes you think this is not beautiful?"

The question unraveled him.

She saw him—truly saw him—in a way no one ever had before. Not as an earl. Not as a rogue. But as a man.

Matthew swallowed hard, emotions crashing over him like a rising tide. He could not move, could not look away.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered—if he kissed her now, would she welcome him?

The wind curled around them, the ship rocked beneath their feet, but the real storm was here, in the space between them, in the silent challenge her green eyes presented.

And for the first time, Matthew felt utterly unmoored.

The moment broke when the wind shifted, a gust cutting sharply across the deck.

The sea had changed.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, and the once-gentle waves had taken on a restless edge.

Matthew forced himself to tear his gaze from her. "A storm’s coming," he muttered, scanning the waters as the first drops of rain splatted against the deck.

The crew responded swiftly, hauling ropes and securing cargo. Beatrice was not idle either—he caught glimpses of her assisting the quartermaster, moving with quick efficiency despite the chaos around them.

Every time their eyes met across the deck, an unspoken promise lingered in the air.

But there was no time for promises now.

The storm hit with a sudden fury, rain lashing down in sheets, the ship tilting sharply against the rolling waves. Matthew worked alongside the men, his body moving on instinct, shouts swallowed by the roaring wind.

Matthew threw his weight against the ropes, his body moving on instinct. The wind howled, rain slashing at his skin. Then—a crack, sharp as a pistol shot.

A barrel broke loose, careening across the deck—Straight toward Beatrice.

“Beatrice!” Matthew lunged, fingers closing around Beatrice’s waist a heartbeat before the barrel struck. They crashed to the deck, air forced from his lungs, her body pressed to his, the world tilting wildly around them.

She was shaking, her fingers clenched in his shirt, rain streaking down her face. "That was?—"

"Too damn close," Matthew finished for her, his arms tightening around her reflexively.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their bodies tangled together, the storm raging around them.

Matthew’s heart pounded—not from fear, but from the raw, consuming need to hold onto her, to shield her from more than just stray barrels and raging seas.

But then the ship lurched again, and reality returned with it.

Matthew forced himself to loosen his grip. "Are you hurt?"

Beatrice shook her head, still breathless. "No. Just—thank you.”

“You should seek shelter in the cabin,” he said, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. “The storm is dangerous.”

Another moment stretched between them before she pushed herself up, breaking the contact. She nodded her agreement.

Matthew let her go—but damn if he didn’t feel the loss of her warmth like a physical wound.

Night fell slowly, the storm finally retreating into the distance, leaving the ship battered but intact.

Matthew found Beatrice in their cabin, seated at the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

For once, she did not meet his gaze with sharp words or teasing remarks. She just…looked at him, something unreadable in her expression.

He exhaled, raking a hand through his damp hair. "Are you sure you are alright?"

She nodded slowly. "It was not the storm that shook me."

Matthew went still. "Then what?"

Her gaze locked onto his, her voice barely audible, "You."

The word hit him like a blow to the chest.

He took a slow step closer, then another, until he stood directly before her. "You terrify me too, Bea," he admitted, his voice low, rough with truth. "And God help me, I do not know what to do about it."

Her breath caught at his admission. She gazed up at him, her eyes searching his face as if seeking confirmation that she had heard him correctly. The air between them crackled with tension, thick and heavy.

"I..." she began, but the words died on her lips. How could she explain the tumult of emotions warring within her? The fear, the longing, the guilt that gnawed at her conscience?

Matthew knelt before her, the blue of his eyes intense as they locked onto hers. "Tell me," he urged softly. "Tell me what you are thinking."

Beatrice's hands trembled in her lap. She clenched them tightly, willing herself to maintain some semblance of control. “I am thinking," she whispered, "that I do not know how to reconcile the man I thought you were with the man you have shown yourself to be."

His brow furrowed. "And what man is that?"

"Someone..." she hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "Someone brave. Honorable. Kind, even when you have every reason not to be." Her voice dropped even lower. "Someone I find myself caring for, despite my best efforts not to."

His eyes widened, a flicker of vulnerability passing across his features before he schooled his expression. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over her cheek. "Beatrice," he murmured, her name a caress on his lips.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering mere inches from hers. Beatrice's breath caught, her heart thundering in her chest. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the flecks of silver in his eyes.

"Tell me to stop," Matthew whispered, his voice rough with need.

Her fingers tightened around her skirts, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the warmth of his nearness. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to push him away, to remember why she had brought him here. But the walls she had so carefully constructed were crumbling, leaving her bare.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her breath shuddered between them, her body frozen between reason and longing.

"Bea," he murmured, searching her eyes.

Her pulse thundered. She should end this. She had every reason to.

And yet— "I cannot," she exhaled, barely a whisper.

The last of his control snapped.

Matthew’s lips found hers, a desperate collision of heat and hesitation, of longing restrained for too long.

Beatrice gasped, hands fisting in his shirt, anchoring herself against the storm breaking between them.

The kiss was everything she had imagined and nothing like she had expected—a clash of longing and fear, of desire and uncertainty.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she surrendered to the sensations coursing through her. His hands roamed her back, pressing her flush against him as if he could somehow merge their very beings.

Every touch, every caress, sent waves of pleasure through her. It was a dance of desire and longing, a symphony of sensations that left her breathless and wanting more.

As they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, Matthew cupped her face in his hands. “I can’t—” Matthew broke off, his voice raw. “I cannot fight this.”

Beatrice’s fingers brushed his jaw, trembling. “Then don’t.”

His lips parted slightly, breath unsteady.

She tilted her head, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Stop fighting, Matthew. Accept my surrender."

He could fight a storm.

But he could not fight this.