Because he never left my side.

Overprotective idiot.

Exceptional quartermaster.

“Go indulge, then.” I gestured toward the tavern. “I’m not stopping you.”

“I won’t leave you out here unguarded.”

I expelled a sigh. “What do you need? Five minutes? Ten? If it’s been as long as you say—”

“With you, I would take my time and tease it out. Every lick.” His eyes remained fixed on the perimeter, even as his voice turned to gravel. “Every bite. Every stroke. I would make it last long after eight bells of the mid watch.”

Heat rolled through me, arousing a quiver in my thighs. It was potent enough to silence the objection on my lips, to make me pause and actually consider his offer.

Meddling with a quartermaster wasn’t the worst idea. I was Charles Vane’s first mate when he bedded me. I could give Reynolds the same thing I gave Charles. A few blissful hours. Nothing more.

But my quartermaster wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Charles. Intimacy would make him possessive and even more attached than he already was. I couldn’t abide that, and not just because I was emotionally incapable of reciprocating. Our friendship was complicated for reasons neither of us was willing to discuss.

“The answer is no, and you know why.” I nodded at the tavern. “There are some dashing ladies in there waiting to be corrupted by a seductive blackguard. While you’re doing that, I’m going to find a quiet place to sit inside. The crew will keep an eye out.”

I didn’t wait for a response as I breezed around the wagon and strode into the tavern.

The aroma of ale and tobacco teased my nose, and the cacophony of drunken voices smothered my thoughts. The crowd packed in around me, shoulder to shoulder, and my shorter-than-average stature made it easy to slip between the bodies unnoticed.

With a peek over my shoulder, I located Reynolds. He stood taller than the tallest man, the unruly stripe of hair on his head identifiable over the masses as he made his way toward the bar.

I moved in the opposite direction, keeping my chin down and senses sharp. Garments were the best indicators of trouble. I avoided clusters of uniforms and gravitated toward gowns similar to mine, blending in with the wives of thirsty gentlemen.

At length, I worked my way through the tavern and felt reasonably confident no one recognized me. Standing amid a herd of well-dressed patrons, I listened to dull conversations about English politics and the woes of sea voyage.

Just as I began to relax, an ominous sensation moved through me. My shoulder blades twitched. A feverish chill bathed my back, and the hairs on my arms stood straight up.

“Found you.” The dark purr rasped against my nape and reached into the blackest part of my soul.

That growly, toe-curling Welsh accent had haunted my dreams for two years.