“What happened?” he repeated. “What do you mean? He wasn’t one of the lost crew members, I know that.”

She turned to look at him again. His expression was just as intent, but it was far more somber than before. “Wattings returned to London three years ago. I set him up with letters of reference, and I thought he was headed south.”

Della exhaled. At least this behemoth hadn’t said Sarah’s husband had been lost at sea, as they’d feared.

“What is this about?” he continued. “Why is a lady such as yourself interested in the fate of a black seaman?”

Disappointment flooded through her. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hoping for a miracle—Mr. Henry Wattings? Oh, he is currently in the prime of health aboard my ship now, even as we speak. Allow me to take you to him.

“Thank you for your time,” she replied, not answering his question.

She rose, and he leapt up also, meaning they were a bare six inches apart from one another. She addressed him midchest. “I was hoping you could help me find him, but since you apparently were last aware of his whereabouts three years ago, you can offer me no assistance.”

She dipped her head in thanks. The feathers on her hat likely poked him in the eye. Serves him right, she thought. Although why she had such a visceral reaction to him she couldn’t say—or wouldn’t say.

Because she knew damn well it was because he was so large, handsome, and forceful. Entirely everything that had gotten her in so much trouble before. Everything she had promised herself never to fall for again.

So much for not saying.

“Hold on a moment,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “If Wattings is missing, I want to help you find him. But I have obligations. Obligations,” he repeated, as though to himself.

His expression shifted, and she could see when he arrived at some sort of conclusion in his head.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. He was grinning down at her, as though he knew how she might interpret his words. She felt her cheeks heat, and quickly returned to staring at the knitting. Much safer. With the added bonus that the knitting needles would make an excellent makeshift weapon, if she needed to defend herself.

“I need a woman,” he continued.

So . . . was her initial interpretation correct?

She began to move toward the knitting, but his grip tightened. “Wait, I’m explaining this all terribly,” he said in an amused tone. How could he find any of this humorous?

“You certainly are,” she replied as she shook his hand off. “If you will excuse me?”

“I will help you find out what happened to Wattings if you do something for me.”