She was wary of him. Could he blame her? After he had told her they had no future? A better man would bunk elsewhere. Still, they had been one wave short of being buried in the ocean. She had been one wave short of being buried alone in her cabin.
He shoved a hand through his hair. "Christ, Anne, I need you too."
Her eyes widened, and she stared at him.
He waited, counting the rises and falls of her chest. The boat rocked to and fro, the sea settling after the storm.
She scooted to the left, opening a space for him. It was twenty inches of linen and down. It was the best gift he had ever received.
Groaning, he stretched on the bed, muscles melting over the mattress. Anne hid her face on the pillow, the tip of her ear cherry-red. At least a hand separated them. Pulse racing, he scooped her close, pillowing her head on his chest. She startled, a weightless butterfly fluttering on his side.
"Sleep, nothing more." His voice was husky.
After a moment’s hesitation, she acquiesced, her cheek settling on his chest, her weight covering him like a blanket. Pedro moved his shoulder and adjusted her head away from the old wound at his collarbone. Sharing a bed made his sword arm useless. Her chin poked his ribcage, and her hair was all over him, tickling his neck. He buried his nose in the fragrant strands, inhaling her essence, now merged with his. It was new, but good. They fit. Her shivering stopped and her heart slowed, soon matching his rhythm.
"I didn't know you were alone." He sifted his fingers through her hair, the strands still damp. "If I had known—"
"The cabin was dark. I couldn't find the lamps. I rattled the door, but water hit the hatch. Over and over. As if I was inside the clipper again."
Pedro stilled. "When were you inside a clipper?"
"A long time. But the memories... they haunt me still."
"Tell me."
She exhaled. "When we left London, I was six. Our cabin was way below. There were no windows. One night, I woke up to screaming, wood groaning, thunder. I called my mother, my brother, but no one came. I tried to open the door, but I couldn't. Later, Mother said I locked myself inside. I screamed and got sick all over the floor. Afterward, I couldn't sleep alone until we arrived in Oporto."
Had her family traveled in steerage? When Pedro had uncovered Maxwell's past, he had found only his success in turning a small trading firm into one of the largest in Oporto. He had assumed they had been born in wealth.
"Why did you come to Portugal on such a ship?"
She stiffened. "It's too painful. I—"
"Shh. Say no more." Pedro rubbed her shoulder, and she relaxed again.
"Thank you." She lifted her hand to his cheek.
The movement was too sudden, and he jerked, unable to restrain the instinctive reaction.
She yanked her hand back as if he had burned her. "I'm sorry."
She shifted to the side. It was only an inch, but he felt it on his chest, on his legs, her absence, the skin now cold. She didn't ask for an explanation, and her silence was somehow worse. She didn't feel he owed her anything. Not even words.
"I never could bear it." He exhaled. "Others touching my skin."
"Not even someone close? A caregiver?"
"My father forbade it. He thought touch would make me weak." All his adult life, he had blamed his aversion to a physical condition, but the truth had always hovered within his grasp. "Only for punishment."
"I wish... I wish you didn't despise my touch."
Didn't she realize her voice caressed him?
"Anne." Her name tasted like a quiet prayer. He should warn her away from him, not encourage her. "Your touch. It singed my skin, but not with pain."
He kissed her hand and placed it over his heart. Pedro waited for his skin to crawl, but the aversion never came. Not with her. There was nothing erotic in her touch. No pain, no desire, no greed. Just warmth.
Water dripped on the hatch, punctuated by the hissing gas lamps.
