Cutler’s eyes—darker and deeper blue than mine—roamed over me, cutting, calculating. “You’re tougher than you look.”

Seeing him shirtless and shoeless in all his godlike beauty, a woman could misconstrue that statement.

But he wasn’t Priest. He wasn’t vulgar in mind. Wasn’t trying to charm his way between my legs. I guessed he wasn’t even thinking about fornication.

“What are you saying?” I crossed my arms.

“I’ve never met a siren, but you must be of the same ilk or nature. Unchristian, mysterious, dangerously enticing… If you think to lure me with those eyes and enchant me to shipwreck, you have the wrong sailor.”

My eyes? I blinked them slowly, stunned speechless. Perhaps I didn’t know his mind after all.

Sirens were carnal, sensual, beautiful beings. How could he possibly compare me to…? Wait. Sirens weren’t even real.

I glanced at his snug-fitting breeches, the only thing he still wore. My stomach flipped. “Why did you remove your clothes?”

“I know things. I know them before anyone else. What I don’t know, I figure out.”

What an evasive, baffling response. And what did he know exactly?

Did he know about Priest? Or my plan to escape? Or my father’s compass? No, he didn’t know the important things.

My gaze snagged on the bowl of apples on the table, prompting my stomach to growl. I should have eaten the orange I’d rubbed on my chest this morning.

Mother of God, that seemed like so long ago. Even longer since I’d had a meal.

“So…” I leaned against the wall behind me, attempting a casual pose. “What do you know, Cutler?”

“You were born in the colonies, but England is in your blood.”

My breath hitched. “Lots of people are English.”

“Perhaps. But the blood that flows in your veins is beau monde. It’s in your speech, your bone structure, the regal beauty you try so hard to conceal beneath sun-freckled skin and a wild mane of uncombed hair.” He bent over the opposite side of the table, hands braced on the surface, head cocked, studying me too closely. “Nobility has been trained into your bearing, the way you hold your shoulders, your spine…” His gaze centered on my mouth before dipping just beneath it. “The lift of your chin.”

I forced my expression to remain as blank as his, despite the panic pounding beneath my skin.

“As a twenty-year-old lady of breeding,” he said, “you understand the importance of addressing me by my military rank and ennobled title.”

“I’m twenty and one.” I squinted at him. “And I’ll call your thirty-year-old arse whatever I damn well please.”

“I’m four years past thirty.” He regarded the large fit of Priest’s shirt on my body. “You have a husband.”

Ice hit my veins. He guessed this by what I wore? Or had someone exposed my secret?

“Wrong.” My throat constricted and relaxed.