“So clothing won’t bribe my Sophie. You seem oddly unaddicted to fashion, given that you are considered the next best thing to a Frenchwoman by the London ton.”

Sophie resented that. “I adore clothes!”

“Well, you don’t spend hours getting dressed,” her husband retorted. “And you don’t talk endlessly about points of lace and such things. How about kisses as a ladder-bribe?”

“I seem to be getting those for free,” Sophie pointed out saucily.

“That’s true.” Patrick’s voice had deepened to liquid velvet. His lips were still caressing her ear. “Perhaps I shall bribe you with actions. They say that actions speak louder than words, or dresses. Ask me for something, Sophie, and I’ll grant it.”

Sophie didn’t know whether she trusted herself to enquire exactly which actions he was referring to.

“All right,” she said, ignoring the warm tongue caressing her ear. “I am very fond of …” But she couldn’t think of anything that she could say aloud. Whenever Patrick touched her, her mind seemed to go hazy.

“The French miss is about to flash her hash, sir.” The sailor who had been leaning over the railing was now pointing down to the skiff.

Sophie peered over the railing. Sure enough, Simone was wailing miserably and leaning over the side of the boat. Sophie moved toward the seaman, but again a strong arm caught her.

“Wait here, Sophie.” Patrick swung his leg onto the ladder, hooked an arm around the rail, and held out his other arm.

“I can certainly climb down that ladder by myself,” Sophie said with some annoyance.

He shook his head. “No.”

She looked at her husband’s unyielding expression, handed her muff to the seaman, and then hesitated again. In Patrick’s eyes there was a command, not an entreaty.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t climb down the ladder,” she grumbled as the seaman handed her into Patrick’s waiting embrace. Patrick effortlessly held her small body against his chest as he made his way down the ladder.

“Sorry,” he said. “You’re my Sophie.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the sailor in the boat said as Patrick placed her in the skiff. Simone was retching over the side.

Sophie made her way over to her maid. “Shouldn’t the crew be joining us?” she asked Patrick.

“Crew stays with the ship,” Patrick replied. He didn’t add that it was the first time he had deserted the Lark during a storm. “The rowboat will make one more trip and bring Floret over to the shore. He’s threatening never to pick up a soup ladle again if we don’t get him onto solid ground.”

By the time the small boat made its way to the dock, the wind had picked up and icy nibblets of rain were beginning to lash against Sophie’s face. Patrick jumped out of the boat and held out his arms for his wife.