“My sister.” He divided another portion of curls and crouched to comb the ends. “She had hair like yours. Tight, coiling curls that bounced around her waist. Except hers were black.”

“The same color as yours.”

“Quite so. She used to cry when the lady’s maid took a comb to it. I was many years younger than her, always clinging to her skirts. Very much the annoying little brother.” Affection softened his voice. “I hated when she cried. So I took over the task and learned how to smooth the stubborn knots without causing her pain.”

I felt my eyebrows shifting from squished disbelief to raised surprise. I was probably the only soul on this ship who’d heard this story. Perhaps I was the only one who knew he had a sister.

He was opening up to me.

But my brief victory didn’t taste sweet, for I detected tragedy in his tone and verb tense. “You speak of her as if she’s in the past.”

He set the comb on the table and proceeded to gather my untangled tresses into a long pleated rope down my back. Deft fingers braided mindlessly and tied the end with a leather thong.

That done, he didn’t move, holding his unnerving stance behind me, depriving me a view of his expression.

“There were complications during the birth of her first child.” His hand clamped onto my shoulder as if to prevent me from turning. “Neither she nor my nephew survived.”

Death. An incurable disease.

I breathed out slowly, achingly. “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, my lord.” My chest squeezed. “What was her name?”

“Arabella.”

“Do your parents have other children?”

“Just me.”

My feelings toward this cruel-hearted man loosened, just a little. I owed him nothing, but my hand moved anyway, reaching back to wrap around the stiff fingers on my shoulder.

He didn’t reject me. Instead, he took my hand in his and pulled me to stand. By the time I turned, he’d erased any sentiment that might have leaked into his countenance.

“Will you tell me about her?” I squeezed his fingers. “Your sister?”

“Another time, perhaps.” With a hard stare, he searched my expression as if expecting to find ill intent.

I stared back, daring him with my eyes to say something mean.

His gaze lowered to my lips. His hand wrapped around my braid. The air quivered.

Then he kissed me.

Deep and drinking, his mouth plundered and claimed. The sudden taste of him stole my senses. My pulse stalled somewhere between utter shock and overwhelming delight before bursting into a gallop. I lifted on my toes and gripped his arms, opening for him, greeting his warm tongue, and moaning against his firm full lips.

His muscles hardened beneath my palms, and I clung, holding him, drowning in the fever that surged between us. His fingers curled around my waist, pulling me close, immobile, tight against his grinding hips.