Elsie swallowed. “If I die, tell Naples I tried.”
Marguerite continued alone. The way narrowed ahead. The ship breathed around her in creaks and groans, ropes straining somewhere above, water dragging against the hull with a steady whisper. Marguerite lifted one hand to keep her balance against the wall.
A man stepped into the passage. His coat was rough, his jaw unshaved, and the sour warmth of rum reached her before his smile did. Not an officer, then. His gaze fixed first on her face, then her mouth, then the fall of hair over her shoulder with a slow astonishment that made her skin tighten.
“Well, now,” he said. “Captain kept the prettiest cargo below decks.”
The passage narrowed around her at once. Wood at her back, wall at her side, him before her. No Elsie now. No open deck. No witness. No graceful retreat.
“How fortunate, then, that cargo does not speak,” she said, giving him a cool smile that cost more than it showed. “I am a passenger, and you are a gentleman who will no doubt step aside and allow me to pass.”
His smile widened. “Gentleman, am I?”
“For the moment.” Her pulse hammered at the base of her throat. “I find men often improve when one gives them a title to live up to.”
He laughed and came close enough for the sour heat of rum to touch her face. Her palms dampened inside her gloves. Only half a step, she told herself. In a ballroom, it would have been nothing. Here, it stole her air.
Before she could retreat, his hand lifted and caught a strand of her hair between thumb and forefinger.
“That all yours?” he murmured.
Her scalp prickled where he held it. Cold opened beneath her ribs. The touch was light, and that was what made it worse. Light was how men began when they wished to discover whether a woman would make a fuss.
“It is a wig,” Marguerite said at once, too brightly. “And infested.”
His fingers paused. Confusion entered his face. It lasted only a second, and then his grin returned, slower and uglier.
“Don’t look infested to me.”
He let the strand slide through his fingers, then planted both hands against the bulkhead on either side of her head. His body crowded the passage, his sleeve scraping rough wool across her cheek, his rum-soured breath stinging her throat until she swallowed against a gag. Marguerite’s back struck the bulkhead, and her lungs seized.
“Give us a kiss, pretty bird,” he said.
No! The word formed inside her and found no road out. He was leaning closer. Shutting her eyes, she jerked her head away.
Just then, a hard impact struck the passage beside her. The sailor’s breath vanished from her face. Wood cracked. A rough cry broke off in a grunt, and Marguerite’s eyes flew open.
Tristan slammed the sailor into the opposite bulkhead, then drove his forearm across the man’s chest and pinned him there, high against the wall, feet nearly leaving the floor.
She dragged one breath into her lungs.
“Lorenzo,” Tristan said, without taking his eyes from the sailor.
“Yes, Captain.” Lorenzo appeared behind him.
“Put this bastard in irons.”
The sailor sagged. “Sir—”
“Now.”
Lorenzo seized the man’s arm and hauled him away with a look so cold and un-Italian that Marguerite almost failed to recognize him.
Then Marguerite was alone with Tristan. He touched the nape of her neck and, with his other hand, lifted her chin. His gaze swept over her as he searched her face.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
His voice was thunder. She swallowed. He was angry. Of course, he was angry. She should have known better. She had stepped out of her cabin in daylight with her hair unpinned, her dress too fine. She had caused disruption. A scene.
