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She moved it in her lip. ‘Probably. And I don’t care if it is.’ Narrow as the bunk was, she still managed to edge over in it. Invitingly. She set her hand to his side and heat seemed to radiate out from it. A shiver stood his hair up in gooseflesh. The hand urged him forward.

He made a low sound in his throat and tried one last time. ‘This isn’t a good idea. It’s not safe.’

‘Nothing is,’ she told him, almost sadly.

His fingers were awkward on the laces of her shirt, and even after she shrugged out of it, there was a wrapping about her chest. He unwound it to free her small breasts and kiss them.

Thin, she was so thin, and she tasted of the salt water, oakum and even the oil that was their cargo.

But she was warm and willing and female, and he crammed himself into the too-narrow, too-short bunk to be with her.

It was likely the cindin that made her dark eyes bottomless, he tried to tell himself.

Startling it was that such a sharp-tongued girl would have a mouth so soft and pliant.

Even when she set her teeth to the flesh of his shoulder to still her wordless cries, the pain was sweet.

‘Althea,’ he said softly into her hair, between the second and third times.

‘Althea Vestrit.’ He named not just the girl but the whole realm of sensation she had wakened in him.

Brash. Brashen Trell. Some small part of her could not believe she was doing this with Brashen Trell.

Not this. Some small, sarcastic observer watched incredulously as she indulged her every impulse with his body.

He was the worst possible choice for this.

Then, too late to worry about it, she told herself, and pulled him even deeper inside her.

She strained against him. It made no sense, but she could not find the part of her that cared about such things.

Always, other than that first time, she’d had the sense to keep this sort of thing impersonal.

Now not only was she giving in to herself and him with an abandonment that shocked her, but she was doing this with someone she had known for years.

And not just once, no. He had scarcely collapsed upon her the first time before she was urging him to begin again.

She was like a starving woman suddenly confronted with a banquet.

The heat in her was strong, and she wondered if that were the cindin.

But just as great was the sudden need she was admitting for this close human contact, the touching and sharing and holding.

At one point she felt tears sting her eyes and a sob shake her.

She stifled it against his shoulder, almost afraid of the strength of the loneliness and fears that this coupling seemed to be erasing.

For so long she had been strong; she could not bear to display her weakness like this to anyone, let alone to someone who actually knew who she was.

So she clutched him fiercely and let him believe it was part of her passion.

She did not want to think. Not now. Now she just wanted to take what she could get, for herself.

She ran her hands over the hard muscles of his arms and back.

In the centre of his chest was a thick patch of curly hair.

Elsewhere on his chest and belly there was black stubble, the hair chafed away by the coarse fabric of his clothes and the ship’s constant motion.

Over and over again he kissed her, as if he could not get enough of it.

His mouth tasted of cindin, and when he kissed her breasts, she felt the hot sting of the drug on her nipples.

She slipped her hand down between their bodies, felt the hard slickness of him as he slid in and out of her.

A moment later she clapped her hand over his mouth to muffle his cry as he thrust into her and then held them both teetering on the edge of for ever.

For a time she thought of nothing. Then from somewhere else, she abruptly came back to the narrow sweaty bunk and his crushing weight upon her and her hair caught under his splayed hand.

Her feet were cold, she realized. And she had a cramp in the small of her back.

She heaved under him. ‘Let me up,’ she said quietly, and when he did not move at first, ‘Brashen, you’re squashing me. Get off!’

He shifted and she managed to sit up. He edged over on the bunk so that she was sitting in the curl of his prone body.

He looked up at her, not quite smiling. He lifted a hand, and with a finger traced a circle around one of her breasts.

She shivered. With a tenderness that horrified her, he drew the sole blanket up to drape her shoulders. ‘Althea,’ he began.

‘Don’t talk,’ she begged him suddenly. ‘Don’t say anything.

’ Somehow if he spoke of what they had just done, it would make it more real, make it a part of her life that she’d have to admit to later.

Now that she was satiated, her caution was coming back.

‘This can’t happen again,’ she told him suddenly.

‘I know. I know.’ Nonetheless, his eyes followed his hand as he traced his fingers down her throat to her belly. He tapped at the ring and charm in her navel. ‘That’s… unusual.’

In the gently shifting lanternlight, the tiny skull winked up at them. ‘It was a gift from my dear sister,’ Althea said bitterly.

‘I…’ he hesitated. ‘I thought only whores wore them,’ he finished lamely.

‘That’s my sister’s opinion as well,’ Althea replied stonily. Without warning, the old hurt lashed her.

She suddenly curled herself smaller and managed to lie down in the bunk beside him.

He snugged her into the curve of his body.

The warmth felt good, as did the gentle tickling as he toyed with one of her breasts.

She should push his hand away, she knew.

She should let this go no further than it had.

Getting up and getting dressed and going back to the forecastle would be the wisest thing she could do.

Getting up in the chill cabin and putting her cold wet clothes back on…

She shivered and pressed against his warmth.

He shifted to put both arms around her and hold her close. Safe.

‘Why did she give you a wizardwood charm?’ She could hear the reluctant curiosity in his voice.

‘So I wouldn’t get pregnant and shame my family. Or catch some disfiguring disease that would let all Bingtown know what a slut I was.’ She deliberately chose the hard word, spat it out at herself.

He froze for an instant, then soothed his hand down her back.

Stroking her, then gently kneading at her shoulders and neck until she sighed and relaxed into him again.

‘It was my own fault,’ she heard herself say.

‘I should never have told her about it. But I was only fourteen and I felt like I had to tell someone. And I couldn’t tell my father, not after he discharged Devon. ’

‘Devon.’ He spoke the name, making it not quite a question.

She sighed. ‘It was before you came on board. Devon. He was a deckhand. So handsome, and always with a jest and a smile for anything, even misfortune. Nothing daunted him. He’d dare anything.

’ Her voice trailed off. For a time she thought only of Brash’s hand gently moving over her back, unknotting the muscles there as if he were untangling a line.

‘That was where he and my father differed, of course. “He’d be the best deckhand on this ship if he had common sense,” Papa once told me.

“And he’d make a good first, if he only knew when to get scared.

” But Devon didn’t sail like that. He was always complaining that we could carry more sail than we did, and when he worked aloft, he was always the fastest. I knew what my father meant.

When the other men tried to keep up with him, for pride’s sake, then work was done faster but not as thoroughly.

Mistakes were made. And sailors got hurt.

None seriously, but you know how my father was.

He always said it was because the Vivacia was a liveship.

He said accidents and deaths on board a liveship are bad for the ship; the emotions are too strong. ’

‘I think he was right,’ Brashen said quietly. He kissed the back of her neck.

‘I know he was,’ Althea said in mild annoyance.

She sighed suddenly. ‘But I was fourteen. And Devon was so handsome. He had grey eyes. He’d sit about on deck after his watch was over, and whittle things for me and tell me stories of his wandering.

It seemed like he’d been everywhere and done everything.

He never exactly spoke against Papa, to me or to the rest of the crew, but you could always tell when he thought we were sailing too cautious.

He’d get this disdainful little smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sometimes just that look could make my father furious with him, but I’m afraid I thought it was adorable.

Daring. Mocking danger.’ She sighed. ‘I believed he could do no wrong. Oh, I was in love.’

‘And he acted on that, when you were fourteen?’ Brashen’s voice was condemning. ‘On your father’s ship? That’s far past the line of daring, into stupidity.’