Chapter Fifteen #3
She stumbled to the rail instead, and clutched the smooth wood, stomach twisting with every lurch of the ship.
Salt stung her lungs as the deck groaned beneath her.
She tried to stand still, focusing on the horizon.
A pirate chase. She snorted. More like a bad dream.
The closest she’d ever gotten to adventure had been in novels, full of silk gowns, clever retorts, and danger that passed long before the risk became real.
This—this swaying nightmare filled with unease and the constant threat of disaster—she wasn’t sure how much more she could bear.
“Trim the foresail.” The familiar baritone voice carried across the deck, breaking through her thoughts.
Mr. Moreau moved across the deck as though the ship were merely an extension of himself. The hum of rigging, the snap of sails, the rush of men obeying him all fell into rhythm with the steady certainty of his steps. As if sensing her gaze, he turned. Her breath hitched as he strode her way.
“Miss Ross?” His gaze swept her from head to toe. “I—you…” He rubbed his jaw and cleared his throat.
Oh God. Her outfit.
“I—” Her cheeks burned, and she twisted her hands together. “I have to wear this while my dress is being washed and dried.”
He chuckled. “Has anyone ever told you how pretty you look when you blush?”
Heat rose higher, traitorous and immediate. She turned back to the rail, willing the wind to cool her cheeks. “I must look ridiculous.”
“Well… you look like you belong on a ship.”
She let out a soft huff. “I’ll never belong here.”
He gave her a small smile. “You may not belong. But you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice sent a strange warmth spread through her chest. For a fleeting heartbeat, she believed it could be true. But the moment passed too quickly. A fresh wave of nausea hit, and she pressed a hand to her stomach.
He took a step closer. “Breathe through it. Eyes on the horizon. Let it do the moving, not you.”
The deck pitched beneath her in a heave that sent her lurching against the rail. His hand came around her arm, firm and steady—the only solid thing in a world that refused to hold still.
She drew a shuddering breath, the salt spray stinging her throat. Her gaze fell to his arm and the gaping fabric where Christian’s blade had sliced him. Her fingers lifted to brush the still damp bloodstain. “Has anyone tended your wound yet?”
He angled his arm away from her. “I told you, it’s just a scratch. There are more pressing things to be done.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s not just a scratch. It’s still bleeding.”
A dark brow rose. “Are you worried about me?”
“Someone has to be.”
Mr. Moreau let out a soft laugh. “Lead me away then, nurse. I’ll submit myself to your care before you scold me in front of my men.”
He fell into step behind her as she guided him toward the cabin. Inside, the noise of the ship and wind softened to a distant hum. Abigail hurried to the wash basin and filled it with fresh water. She picked up a clean cloth and nodded to one of the chairs at the wide desk.
“Sit.”
His eyes glinted with amusement, but he nodded. “As you wish.”
Once seated, he unbuttoned his shirt without a word, the motion unhurried.
The fabric fell open, revealing the breadth of his chest, the smooth muscles beneath tanned skin.
She swallowed. She’d seen marble statues with less perfection.
With a shrug, the shirt fell to the floor.
Her hands trembled as she reached for him.
“Hold still.” Her cheeks burned hotter than ever as she dabbed at the blood. The motion was practical—but every time her fingers brushed against him, her stomach twisted for reasons that had nothing to do with seasickness.
“You’re… very thorough.” His voice lowered, his gaze burning into her.
She forced her attention to the wound, willing her hands not to shake. When she finished, her fingers lingered, tracing along the curve of his arm before she could stop herself. The muscles beneath were hard and warm, each subtle shift beneath her fingertips sending a shiver straight to her chest.
“If I’d known this was my reward, I’d have submitted to your care sooner.”
Her eyes flew to his, the mix of amusement and dark intensity there stealing the air from her lungs. The world seemed to shrink to the narrow space between them, drawn tight as a pulled thread.
He raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might forget I’m injured.”
She froze, every nerve alive, eyes locked on his. The air seemed to thrum, charged with a pull neither dared break. The thought of his lips pressed to hers struck unbidden, and a foreign heat pooled low inside her.
She shouldn’t want it to happen again. She shouldn’t even be thinking it. And yet… she did.
He leaned in slow as the tide, his stormy eyes never leaving hers. Her breath caught—
A creak came from behind them as the door opened.
Abigail startled, water sloshing over the edge of the basin as Josephine stepped into the room. She jerked to a stop, eyes darting between them.
“Oh—I’m sorry.” She backed up a step, a slow smile crossing her face. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” The door shut quickly behind her, leaving Abigail alone with Mr. Moreau again.
Heat flooded her face and she turned away from him. “I should go after her, before she thinks…”
He retrieved his shirt and began fastening the buttons, his expression unreadable. “Of course.”