Raising an eyebrow, she pushed her hair from her face. “If there are problems on the road, it’d make more sense to take it around the coast and sail directly into Lunden—keep it on the water.” She snorted and tossed her head. “But what do I know? I’m not bloody captain.”

Bricus gave a bark of a laugh. “No,” he said, eyes mirthless, “you’re not.”

She frowned as he strode away. What had knotted his breeches? Maybe he was pissed off he hadn’t been chosen to captain the Covadonga. She’d wager he’d been expecting it after he’d been invited into FitzRoy’s discussions with Blackwood back when he’d first offered their letter of marque. Well, he wasn’t as good a sailor as Perry and nowhere near as well-liked—she was by far the better choice.

Blackwood stayed quiet, and she gave him a sidelong look. Grey eyes still fixated on their course. Face taut but unreadable. Shoulders ringing with tension that had her fingers clenching and unclenching. Back before, she’d rubbed that kind of tension away, thumbs working loose the knots that formed either side of his spine. Not anymore. Not now he hated her.

She found herself leaning towards him and yanked her hands back down to her sides.

She was meant to hate him, too. Smug. Self-righteous. Uptight. And so scared she’d make a scene when he left that he hadn’t even told her.

Maybe that was what had his shoulders all hunched up again—the fear of what she’d do when he turned his back and walked away into the naval dockyard.

Balling her fists, she tightened every inch of herself, as if her muscles could form a hard wall to keep him out. She’d do nothing. She wouldn’t even blink, just like he watched their course ahead, unblinking.

He couldn’t wait to get home—back to the bosom of his beloved Navy.

With a stiff chuckle, she removed herself from his presence and found more work to while away the last hours of the journey. It wasn’t difficult, a ship was a piece of machinery in constant flux, responding to its course, the sea’s movements, the weather, and crew.

At last, they circled the white cliffs of the Isle of Wights, their ghostly presence making her shiver. That brought them into the Solent, the strip of sea between Portsmouth and the haunted island. The Solent was busy with fishing boats and so many naval ships it prickled the back of her neck. They were almost as bad as the island. She lent her gift to their course, slipping them between the wakes of larger vessels and slowing as they approached the Royal Dockyard.