He strode to the stern windows, looking out into the night. Maybe he was saying goodbye to the Venatrix himself. “Thanking a privateer, you mean.” Taking a deep breath, he threw all the windows open.

Was he trying to say she smelled? Cheeky bastard. “You don’t smell so sweet yourself,” she muttered and lit the lamp that hung from the ceiling.

Stomping about the room, she grabbed the duffle bag from her sea chest and threw it on her bunk.

The space had always been plenty big enough, but with him here, it felt suddenly crowded. He had to duck to walk under the lamp, and his shoulders blotted out her view of the darkening violet sky through the stern windows.

“So,” he said, back still to her, “if not Miss Vice, what am I to call you?”

“Vice. Or Lady Vice, if you’re feeling formal.”

He scoffed, a faint misting of breath hitting the window. “I refuse to call you such a ridiculous name as Vice.”

She shot upright. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Clearly you have a real name.” He leant on the window frame, long fingers tanned dark against the white-painted wood. “No one in the world would call a child Vice.”

That was true, but she wasn’t Avice Ferrers anymore. That girl was gone, and so were Papa’s claims over her, including betrothal to that boy he’d chosen. Papa, Knighton Villiers—she was dead to them and good riddance. Being parted from Mama, Nanny Alder, and her sister gave the thought a sour note, but if that was the price she had to pay for freedom, so be it. Besides, one day she’d return and keep her promise to Mama.

One day.

Frowning, she stripped her blankets and sheets from the bed, rolling them up and packing them. “I call myself Vice, that’s all that matters.”

“I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

Lords, was he flirting? She paused, reaching into her sea chest.

“I”—he turned from the window and let out a quick breath. “Well, that’s a lot of books.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen more”—she shoved a handful of clothes in the duffle—“you officer types all come from the nobility, don’t you?” The home of hypocrisy.

“You didn’t seem entirely out of place in a ballroom yourself. Say, are these all yours or—”

“Yes, they’re mine.” When she turned, he stood at the shelves that lined the partition between her cabin and the Captain’s, a book in his hands. “I may be a pirate—privateer, but I can read, you know.” She snatched the book and returned it to the shelf.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Rubbing his fingertips, he turned slowly. His grey eyes glinted as he took in every detail of her cabin.