With one hand on the wheel, Rhystan let his gaze rove the deck, over the handful of men swabbing the wood clear of seaweed and crusted salt, until it fell on one small figure. Sarani sat with Tej and Red, a man he trusted, braiding ropes. A cap was pulled low over her head, and the nondescript clothing she wore made her blend in with the others, but she could be clothed in a burlap sack and he’d still be able to find her.

He wasn’t an enthusiast of her male attire, but Gideon had pointed out that she didn’t draw as much notice from the men. Rhystan begged to differ. He’d prefer to see those slender legs obscured by yards of voluminous fabric, not encased in formfitting trousers. Then again, heaving manure from the livestock pen off the side of the ship while wearing a dress wasn’t ideal. He scowled. The damned quartermaster had had a go at him for that, too.

“Mucking out the stalls, Captain? She’s a lady.”

“There are no bloody ladies on this ship, and it’s a job. Her job for the man she replaced.”

“Get the boy to do it,” Gideon had said. “Put her in the galley instead.”

The galley was a better place for her, true. A kinder place. Rhystan knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t be weak. Not after what she’d done. “Shoveling shit is what she deserves.”

To his everlasting surprise, however, she’d borne the foul task without complaint. Grinning even, when she returned to see to his duties reeking to high heaven of filth and dung and tracking God-knew-what into his cabin. His scowl deepened. If it were up to him, she’d be sequestered in his quarters from sunup to sundown. Or off the sodding ship altogether. Between his marauding cock and his unraveling temper, his patience was at a new low.

Her presence rubbed him raw, mostly because it reminded him of things he needed to keep buried. Like speculating on whether the honeyed taste of her would still be the same. Or wondering if she was still ticklish on the sides of her ribs. That night in his cabin, it had taken every ounce of discipline not to drag her into the bath with him, and all the time he’d watched her, he’d felt like an interloping voyeur.

At first, when he’d come out of the privy, he’d observed her internal debate with amusement, waiting for the perfect moment to announce himself and offer her the bath, but then in seconds, she’d stripped. The power of speech left him, followed quickly by the power of coherent thought. He—a seasoned man of the world—had been knocked senseless by a mere slip of a girl.