So was my wretched, cheating husband, and look what that got me.

Remember the pain, Bennett? You still feel it.

But Ashley was different. He wouldn’t betray me like that.

“Apples…” He plucked one off the breakfast tray. “They’re a rare treat during long voyages at sea. When I see one, it attracts me, makes me crave that which I don’t need. If there are several available, I always select the prettiest one. I can eat it. Or I can simply appreciate its beauty and toss it back.” He dropped the fruit onto the platter. “Because I know I can live without it.”

My nostrils widened with the seething rush of my anger. “You’re comparing me to a goddamn apple?”

“Was it not an apple that influenced Adam’s fall and introduced evil into human nature? Adam’s apple is…” He pulled down his cravat and ran a finger over the bulge in the front of his throat. “Man’s swelling.”

Forbidden fruit and temptation led to sin. And erections. Understood.

“Point made.” My cheeks rose mischievously. “Challenge accepted.”

26

After we shared a breakfast of fried hasty pudding, molasses, apples, and tea, Ashley strode aft toward the sleeping chamber. With a sigh, I admired the muscles flexing in his thighs beneath the hem of his blue frock.

My attraction to him was a ball and chain. There was no shaking it. His head-to-toe prettiness made seducing him a palatable plan. But what if this became more than a ruse? What if I lost my grip on what was real and what wasn’t?

I needed to remember that I had a violently possessive husband coming for me, and he would rip apart every man who touched me. Ashley could die on Priest’s sword. Or vice versa.

My stupid heart constricted at the thought of either man perishing. How did that make sense? They were both my enemies!

Ashley returned, carrying a comb for dressing hair. Where had that been hiding?

Rather than offering it to me, he stood behind my chair and arranged my curls to hang down my back.

Frozen, I sat upon the cushion he’d provided for my sore backside, bracing for the impending pain from his ruthless hands. But it didn’t come.

He started at the ends, gently working at knots and moving his way upward. Each gentle drag of the comb sent tingling comfort across my skull and down my neck.

Peculiar. He doted upon my hair every night when he thought I was asleep. Like a secret compulsion. But showing tenderness in broad daylight? And combing with a finesse that rivaled a female hand?

“You’ve done this before.” I relaxed beneath his touch and closed my eyes. “Who is she?”

Not his betrothed. A lady of virtue would require a chaperon. And absolutely no touching.

He glided the tool rhythmically through a section of my locks for several minutes before responding.