She chewed her lip. “No.”

“Of course not. No woman with those assets”—he gestured brusquely toward her breasts and the money strapped beneath them—“need seek employment. How much is there? Two hundred pounds? Three?”

“Nearly six.”

“Bloody hell.” He ran his hands through his hair, then curled them around the edge of the bed. “No one comes by that kind of coin honestly. Who are you then? A thief? A fugitive? Some sort of swindler?”

All of the above. Sophia clutched the blankets around her, as if they could protect her from his angry words. She knew this was a tangle of her own making, but she’d never dreamed it would be so difficult to make straight. Once he embraced her, she’d imagined, he would happily embrace the truth as well. She’d even expected he’d be amused, to hear the full story at last. But now … his obvious displeasure suggested otherwise. Fear built within her, swift and treacherous.

“Does it really matter?” she asked, her voice weaker than she’d like.

“After all that we’ve shared?” She slid one leg toward him, until her thigh grazed his fingertips.

“What we’ve shared?” He pulled his hand away. “What have you shared with me, but lies?”

How could he say such a thing? She’d shared everything with him. Her artistry, her most secret fantasies. Heavens, she’d touched herself in front of him. Now she’d given him her virtue, in a moment of passion and tenderness surpassing anything she’d ever known. And he was rejecting that gift, as though it were nothing. Rejecting her.

“Christ.” Hiking his trousers to his waist, he stood and turned to face her. The look in his eyes was not quite revulsion, but rather an expression of utter disbelief. “I told you things. About myself, about my family. I told you things I’ve never told another soul. Now I learn you’re no more than a stranger to me.” He swore again.

“Must you persist in swearing?”

“Yes, I think I must. Damn it, I thought I was done bedding nameless women.”

Now Sophia was growing angry, too. “I see. And now I suppose you intend to continue?”

He froze, arm extended to retrieve his shirt. For a long moment, Sophia stared at him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Finally, he pulled the shirt over his arms and head, tucking it into his trousers with motions that bespoke controlled fury. “You’re right,” he said coolly, buttoning his falls. “After what we just did … it doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?” Sophia swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“The truth? Or me?”

He pierced her with an icy look, one boot poised on the ladder leading up  to the hatch. “How can you even ask me that?”

How can you be so cruel? A sob smothered the question. She hugged her arms across her chest, blinking away tears.

“Sweet.” The slight rasp in his voice tugged her eyes back up. His gaze deepened, made room to hold hers. “Right now, there are dead and dying men up there, and a disabled ship in need of repair. At the moment, they are what matters. Stay here. I will come back.” He mounted the ladder. “We

’ll deal with this later.”

Then he was gone.

Sophia fell back onto the bed, curling into herself like the head of a fern. We’ll deal with this later? How hateful that sounded. How final. She didn’t want to be dealt with. She wanted to be comforted. She wanted to be held. She wanted something she hadn’t felt in so long, she scarcely remembered how to name it—but she dared to imagine she deserved it, just the same. She wanted to be loved.

He didn’t come back that night. Her only visitors were Gabriel, who politely ignored her bedraggled, tear-stained appearance when he brought her evening tea and biscuit, and Stubb, who delivered her trunks to the captain’s cabin. Evidently, the ladies’ berths had been appropriated as a makeshift hospital for the Kestrel’s wounded.

Unfamiliar voices and late-night activity obscured the Aphrodite’s usual nocturnal symphony—bells and creaking wood and the reedy whistle of the breeze. Huddled in the center of the bed, Sophia drifted in and out of shallow sleep, straining her ears to catch any echo of his rich baritone, or the squeaking hinges of the hatch. If Gray did come to her, she wanted to be awake. But she kept watch in vain, and exhaustion finally claimed her with the first rays of dawn.

When she woke, it was to full daylight. Sophia bolted straight up in bed, her heart pounding. An argument was brewing directly above her, near the ship’s helm. Even with the hatch closed, she could make out not only Gray’s voice, but the captain’s, as well as O’Shea’s thick brogue. And a few unfamiliar voices as well. Although he was not addressing her, the timbre of Gray’s voice was as hollow and unforgiving as a bell struck on a winter morning—just the way she’d heard it last.

She rose from bed and went to the tiny round looking glass attached to the cabin wall, realizing with wonder that she hadn’t looked in a mirror since leaving England. The image reflected there was greatly altered. Her skin was a shade or two darker—resembling bone more than porcelain—and lightly freckled from the sun. Some of the curves had sharpened to angles; her features caught more shadows now. When she squinted, faint lines pleated at the corners of her eyes, and even when she relaxed her expression, the lines had the audacity to linger. She was still beautiful, Sophia told herself, with no false or undue modesty. But it was no longer a pampered debutante’s face that stared back at her.

She was a woman now. A fallen woman in truth, alone in the world, responsible for her own choices. She had to pull herself together, be strong. No more tears, she admonished herself, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Gray could not ignore her forever. He would come to her eventually, most likely to hurl further angry accusations. When the time came, she would not weep or make excuses. She most certainly would not beg.

But by God, she would look pretty.

She washed her face and dabbed cold tea under her eyes to relieve the puffiness. Rifling through her trunks, she located her hairbrush and dusting powder. At least her hair, which had grown stiff with salt over the past three weeks, had been rinsed clean by yesterday’s storm. Now dry, it tumbled about her shoulders in golden waves.

She’d washed out her sprigged muslin a few days ago, and it was as clean as it could get. When she reached into the trunk to retrieve the frock, however, her fingers lingered over a bundle at the bottom. Crisp tissue crackled under her touch, sliding over the silk beneath. She was tempted to unwrap the dress, to draw the fine fabric over her limbs and bathe her whole body in elegance as she hadn’t done in weeks.

She resisted the temptation, reaching for the sprigged muslin instead. That tissue-wrapped dress was her best, and she was not yet sure Gray deserved her best. She was not convinced he even wanted it. Powdered and dressed, her hair neatly coiled and pinned atop her head, Sophia peered into the mirror once again and pinched her cheeks to a high blush before mounting the ladder. The sounds of men arguing had grown louder.

She pushed open the hatch just a crack. Enough that she could distinguish the violent words being slung about like daggers and peer out at deck level. She recognized Gray’s fine boots immediately, sooty as they were from the fire. He stood close to the rail, at the ship’s stern. The sun was bright this morning; the men cast long shadows across the deck. A gravelly, unfamiliar voice assailed her from somewhere near the ship’s wheel. “I’m telling you, you bastard, you’re going to pay for that rum. In gold or goods, I don’t care which.”

“Captain Mallory.” Gray’s baritone was forbidding. “And I apply that title loosely, as you are no manner of captain in my estimation … I have no intention of compensating you for the loss of your cargo. I will, however, accept your thanks.”

“My thanks? For what?”

“For what?” Now O’Shea entered the mix. “For saving that heap of a ship and your worthless, rum-soaked arse, that’s what.”

“I’ll thank you to go to hell,” the gravelly voice answered. Mallory, she presumed. “You can’t just board a man’s craft and pitch a hold full of spirits into the sea. Right knaves, you lot.”

“Oh, now we’re knaves, are we?” Gray asked. “I should have let that ship explode around your ears, you despicable sot. Knaves, indeed.”

“Well, if you’re such virtuous, charitable gents, then how come I’m trussed like a pig?” Sophia craned her neck and pushed the hatch open a bit further. Across the deck, she saw a pair of split-toed boots tied together with rope.

Gray answered, “We had to bind you last night because you were drunk out of your skull. And we’re keeping you bound now because you’re sober and still out of your skull.”

The lashed boots shuffled across the deck, toward Gray. “Let me loose of these ropes, you blackguard, and I’ll pound you straight out of your skull into oblivion.”

O’Shea responded with a stream of colorful profanity, which Captain Grayson cut short.

“Captain Mallory,” he said, his own highly polished boots pacing slowly, deliberately to halt between Mallory’s and Gray’s. “I understand your concern over losing your cargo. But surely you or your investor can recoup the loss with an insurance claim. You could not have sailed without a policy against fire.”

Gray gave an ironic laugh. “Joss, I’ll wager you anything, that rum wasn’t on any bill of lading or insurance policy. Can’t you see the man’s nothing but a smuggler? Probably wasn’t bound for any port at all. What was your destination, Mallory? A hidden cove off the coast of Cornwall, perhaps?”

He clucked his tongue. “That ship was overloaded and undermanned, and it would have been a miracle if you’d made it as far as Portugal. As for the rum, take up your complaint with the Vice Admiralty court after you follow us to Tortola. I’d welcome it.”

“I’m not following you anywhere.” Sophia could hear the scowl in Mallory’s voice.

“Then what do you intend to do?” Captain Grayson asked. “Your ship is barely seaworthy. You have wounded men in dire need of a physician, and Tortola is the closest port. We could sink the Kestrel, if you prefer, and bring everyone aboard the Aphrodite. But that would mean forfeiting what cargo remains.”

Someone spat, loudly and wetly.

“I’m not following you anywhere,” Mallory repeated. “I’m not heading in for port, and I’ll be damned if I let you brigands sink my ship. I’m going to repair my vessel and continue on. After I get my compensation, of course.”

“Are ye mad?” O’Shea’s voice rose a half-octave. “You’d not make the Tropic. You’re one mast and at least four men down. Daft drunkard,” he grumbled.

Gray’s voice again. “I’ll tell you why the daft drunkard doesn’t want to harbor in Tortola. He knows I’d be entitled to salvage for saving his miserable craft. If he dared bring me into court, I’d walk away with everything. His rum would still be gone, and what’s left of the Kestrel would belong to me. Isn’t that right, Mallory?”

No answer. Just the light scuffling of bound boots. Sophia advanced one step up the ladder and pushed open the hatch a few inches more.

“Yes, he knows that ship is as good as mine.” Gray’s heavy footfalls underscored each phrase. Nearing Mallory, he continued, “And I’m of a mind to take her.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Mallory punctuated his reply with a spit and a curse, both indescribably crude to Sophia’s ears.

“Gray,” Joss began, “I’m not certain you can simply—”

“Oh, I assure you, it would be simple. As simple as the sixty-odd other times I’ve commandeered a vessel. What would you have me do, Joss? I didn’t save that worthless bucket of timber just to watch it sink or sail off to its doom. The wounded need a doctor, the Kestrel needs a proper mast. I’m going to take her in to Tortola.”