Not after what he’d done.

Her chest tightened.

His hand was still on her, fingers on her pulse point. He’d gone very still. So had the room. His eyes were doing that thing again—saying sorry without any words.

Well, sorry wouldn’t cut it. Not when he’d betrayed her, arrested her, and left her at the mercy of a naval court.

Yes, she was technically guilty of the crimes. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was, he’d shared her bed and said such pretty, pretty words when all the time he’d plotted with FitzRoy to capture her and claim the bounty on her head.

And it was a very sharp point—a lot like a dagger in the back.

Oh, he’d tried to explain. During this trip, he must have made at least half a dozen attempts. But every time he started, rage bubbled up in her, burning and unbearable.

At least, that’s what she thought it was. If it wasn’t rage stinging her eyes and blocking her throat, then it was something far worse.

Something unacceptable. Something powerless and pathetic and broken. Something she would not succumb to.

Anger was stronger.

Lord Pevensey cleared his throat.

Knigh flinched as if he’d forgotten they had company. Vice blinked and snatched her hand away, skin burning where he’d touched it.

“Are we going to play another hand,” Pevensey said, his voice teasing as he raised one black eyebrow, “give us a chance to win back our money, or are you two going to do this all evening?”

Vice smirked. Another hand meant another chance for her to win. She stacked her coins. “Well, if you—”

“I’m afraid not,” Knigh said with a stiff smile. “My wife grows tired. She’s on the mend, but we mustn’t keep her from her sleep. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Vice’s skin prickled, and her hand squeezed around a golden guinea until it bit into her skin. She was still weak from the iron gibbet cage, and she’d spent the first few days of the voyage sleeping, but she’d put on weight and had much more energy now.

Last night, she’d burned another candle low trying to work out FitzRoy’s damn clue. When she’d opened his pouch, she’d found a page torn from what was perhaps a handwritten journal with lines from Drake’s poetry written on one side. Whoever had copied it had broken the lines in strange places, leaving half the page empty. On the back were a few jagged lines, like someone’s pen had meandered across the page. Was that a clue or an accident?

One thing was for certain—it was bloody infuriating and she’d made no progress on working out what it meant, despite not dropping into bed until eleven o’clock.