He slowly set the hat aside. Then his buckled shoes started moving, carrying him toward me with even, resolute steps. With a sluggish exhale, I set the needle and unfinished skirt on the desk and folded my hands on my lap, my gaze never leaving his.

“Explain this.” He paused beside me and pressed a finger against the plundered fabric of my sewing project.

“Have you forgotten who I am?” I tilted my head, smiling sweetly. “I raid and thieve wealthy arseholes for personal gain.”

“Wretched pirate.” His hand twisted into a fist, and he yanked it behind him, his posture as straight as his face. “You were given more than enough fabric to complete the task.”

“I was given coarse, unflattering worsted.” I grabbed a handful of the itchy wool he wanted me to use and tossed it at him. “I don’t see a stitch of this nonsense scratching your precious behind.”

“You deliberately defied me.”

“I did what you asked. Do you know how difficult that is for me?”

“No.” He bit out the syllable, pulsing his chiseled nostrils. “Tell me.”

I drew my head back, surprised by the command, and recovered quickly. “When I was a child, my mother wanted me to be a harpist. She thought the skill would invite an agreeable betrothal.” I slumped in the chair as ancient guilt crept into my shoulders. “During my first harp lesson, I demolished the elegant instrument and used the strings as fishing line.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to fish in the pond with the stable boy. That was what nourished my child’s heart. Not blindly following orders.” I lowered my eyes to the unfinished gown. “Conforming to the standards of others goes against everything that I am.”

“I shall presume your mother never received an offer for your hand.”

“Unfortunately, she did. Unfortunate for him. I broke the betrothal when I opened his bowels with my knife.”

He regarded me, unblinking. Following an eternal moment, a small crease formed between his eyes. “You’re not jesting, are you?”

“No.” I shrugged. “When we arrive in England, you can add the murder of the Marquess of Grisdale to my list of crimes.”

“This was the lord with the unwelcome prick?”

“The same.”

He drifted closer, leaning over me. His hand lifted slowly, stuttering my breath. Fingertips rested against my neck, so soft, so barely there I strained to feel the ghostly touch.

“Where did you get this?” His hand curled around the stone at my throat.

“I stole it.”

“And this?” He pinched the linen of Priest’s shirt, where it lay against my clavicle. “Who did this belong to?”

“The man I stole it from. I didn’t catch his name.”

I’d come aboard this ship wearing only two things. Something that belonged to my father and something that belonged to my husband. Sometimes I was so accidentally sentimental it was a wonder I’d survived this long.