Page 12 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

But it also was inappropriately curious.

Blast.

She did not acquiesce. But she could imagine it all too easily. The way he would crowd even closer, closing that tiny fraction of space between them. His palms closing around her shoulders, running down her bare arms, thumbs stroking under her breasts. Moving up her leg, between her thighs. That twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he might smile. For her. While touching her. All while she was bound, with no choice but to let her body react and react and…

She bit her bottom lip when she was afraid she might gasp out loud.

Ethan’s eyes flared, before narrowing on her with deadly focus.

It did not dissuade her imagination. Or body. Her brain.

Not one bit.

Someone should remind her that she was kidnapped and tied to a bloody ship’s mast.

Clearly that sleeping spell had muddled her—possibly even caused irrevocable damage. She would have to seek out a doctor as soon as she was able to.

“You are a surprise,” Ethan murmured, low and deep. Still watching her, he motioned to Anais. “Check her.”

Anais was brisk and efficient and surprisingly respectful for an Iron Crow. More respectful than the very respectable Charles Bloody Aster, for one. She checked all of the pockets of Briar’s apron, as well as the heavy knot of her hair coming loose at her nape. Her shoes. Her petticoats.

She did not find the gold fork. It was lodged too firmly along the padded boning of Briar’s stays and clearly had no magical aura to give it away. They weren’t worried that someone like her carried a weapon or that she might best them with it. She wouldn’t have worried about it either, were she them. Plus, they were looking for a charm. A weapon did very little when you were tied to a mast.

“What’s this?” Anais demanded, pulling a small glass vial from Briar’s pocket.

“Dandelion fluff.”

“It stinks of magic.”

“They’re for wishing.”

“Wishing,” Anais stated, shaking her head. After a few minutes of searching, she stepped back. “Nothing,” she confirmed. “Flowers and seeds. No moon charm.”

Ethan shook his head. “I can’t sense it either. Fucking hell.” The whip of his voice was soft and quiet, and it had every member of his crew standing at attention. Someone’s mouse familiar scurried into a nest of coiled ropes.

“Where is it?” Ethan asked Briar. He still did not raise his voice. His very presence was threat enough. “Eyes on me,” he demanded, gaze hardening when Snapdragon fluttered his wings, suddenly sharp as knives. “No spells.”

She didn’t need eye contact for her magic. But she did need plants, flowers. A seed. Moss. She did not think the felled and polished wood of the mast behind her would respond. She pushed a little power into it, searching for a hint of acorn or ash leaf or pine needle. She closed her eyes, trying to picture a tree that could hear her. They weren’t as chatty as flowers or herbs, but they usually responded, if in their own time.

Ethan gripped her chin, forcing her head up. “I said, eyes on me.”

She felt his gaze all the way down her thighs.

The mast had been uninterested in having a conversation with her anyway. The wood had too long ago been cut, soaked in salt water and whatever else sailors used to seal the deck.

She struggled uselessly and only succeeded in chafing her skin. The rope was sturdy and scratchy and unlikely to give way. She already knew that. She pulled again anyway.

She was well and truly trapped.

“We want to go home and you’re going to help us,” Ethan said. “One way or another.”

She paused. “I don’t understand any of this.”

He studied her face. He was close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jaw, at the side of his throat, as though someone had tried to cut it. Moonlight and torchlight gleamed over the knives strapped to his chest. “You might even be telling the truth,” he said finally, quietly, so only she could hear him.

“I am.”

“More’s the pity.” He released her. “It doesn’t matter if you understand it or not—magic is magic.”