He swallowed, braced like a man climbing the shrouds in a storm, waves lashing his face and trying to stop him from his work. Necessary work. If that man didn’t get to the yards, he couldn’t trim the sails, and the ship might lose a mast: they would all be doomed.

Traitorous. He’d told himself that word, had heard it in her tone when he’d arrested her, but that did nothing to soften the sound of it from her mouth.

But this was necessary, just like that desperate climb up the shrouds.

Isabel had told him. He had to face this woman before she died, and this was his last chance. He had to get out all the words clogging up his throat, wrapped around his heart, blocking his lungs.

Lifting his chin, he met her gaze levelly. “I told you not to trust me. It was always the plan to—”

“Oh, I know all about your plan.” A tight smile paled her lips. “FitzRoy told me everything. Him”—her finger stabbed towards the city, the knuckles standing out against her bony hand—“I should have expected it from him, but you.” Her throat rose and fell as she swallowed, shaking her head. “I thought we had an understanding. Damn fool that I was, I trusted you—almost trusted you. We worked well together, I thought we were …” Her words dissolved into heaving breaths.

He stared at her skinny fingers. They’d always been strong, but her body was wasting away locked in this iron.

“We made a good team,” she growled and crossed her arms, tucking her hands away. “Or at least I thought we did. All the bloody while, you were just after what you could get before you arrested me. Did you laugh? Did you have a good time swapping notes with FitzRoy?” She chuckled bitterly, eyes bright.

Each word was a sabre driving through him. “I’d never—”

“You’d never what?” Her mouth twisted. “Never betray me?”

No. Damn her. He wasn’t going to apologise—she was the traitor. She’d started this by fooling him into believing she was anything other than a monster. Heat flared in his veins, pumped through his heart.

He was right. She was wrong.

“Oh yes,” she went on, “noble bloody Navy boy, he’d never screw a woman and then royally screw her over, would he? He’d never—”

“You’re a murderer.” He raised his eyebrows at her—let her dare to deny it. She’d said it herself.

She blinked. “What?”