Centering my bare feet on the rolling deck, I took a quick inventory of my body. Dripping wet, Priest’s shirt hung to my knees. The jade stone still sat against my throat. And that was the extent of what I carried with me.

I staggered toward the uniformed men. Numerous fingers twitched against pistol belts, but not a gun was drawn.

My fate didn’t reside in the hands of low-ranked soldiers.

I searched the sea of blue frocks, looking for the one with jeweled buttons and elaborate embroidery of gold curlicues.

There. Lord Ashley Cutler, the commodore of HMS Blitz, stood just aft from a short raised deck, his hat tucked under an elbow, and a big hand curled around the top rail, confident, patient, cool as rain in the warm sea air under the bluest of blue skies.

Stunning bright blue like his eyes.

How unexpectedly…gorgeous.

The shocking intensity of his gaze pushed against me, rudely, blatantly glaring, so distractingly at odds with the sweetness of his face. Mercy God, he had such an innocent-looking face. All marble-smooth skin, full rosy lips, thick heavy lashes, with the wind ruffling the black as ink strands of his short hair.

That sweet look, however, didn’t disparage the unsettling aura of his presence. He regarded me as if he didn’t care a whit if I lived or died or sprouted wings and clucked like a chicken. Apathy formed an impenetrable shield around him, and perhaps that explained why his face gave the impression of youthsome innocence.

With ordinary people, exhaustion sagged the eyes. Anger carved between the brows. Triumph etched around the mouth. But Lord Cutler showed none of that. No emotions. No wrinkles or lines. No expressions. He bore the straightest, smoothest, most polished mien of indifference I’d ever seen.

I wanted a closer inspection.

Soldiers quivered and stiffened down the line, but no one stopped me as I ambled aft, arrowing toward their commodore.

His passionless blue eyes didn’t waver from mine. Unnerving.

Stacks of corded, well-honed brawn composed his tall frame. Intimidating.

Sinews neither flexed nor bounced. Not the muscles in his jaw. Not the tendons in his thick neck. Not even when I stood toe to toe with him, half-dressed, nipples protruding, with my finger poking at one of his jeweled buttons. Unnatural.

Was he even human?

I feigned a toothy grin. His mouth didn’t move. I wriggled my fingers in a taunting wave. He didn’t flinch. Not a tarnal twitch.

No sense of humor, this one. Not that I was feeling amorous or droll by any means. In fact, dread was rising faster than I could push it down.

As a titled nobleman, he’d been bred to hide his true feelings and intentions beneath an air of pomp and pageantry. But this level of impassibility couldn’t have been learned. He was heartlessly detached by nature.