Page 39 of A Dance with the Wayward Duke
When he drew back, her knees nearly gave way.
He stayed close, his forehead resting against hers.
“While you are under my protection, no one will touch you.” His thumb pressed lightly at her waist, grounding. “No one will harm you. You do not have to negotiate your way out of danger. You call my name.”
Then he stepped back and walked away, leaving her shaking.
She pressed her palm to the bulkhead and watched his back retreat. Then she managed to breathe. Her fingers went to her hair, still loose over her shoulders, then to her mouth, still warm from his.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the empty space he had left behind, her voice still unsteady. “For washing my hair.”
Chapter sixteen
Marguerite paced the narrow length of the cabin, counting her steps. Three to the bulkhead. Turn. Four back to the door. Pause. Adjust the lamp. Smooth the coverlet—again. She had thought about this. She knew what she was offering and what she expected in return.
She glanced at the clock with a soft, incredulous huff. Of all the hours her pirate duke should have demanded . . . Midnight was meant for spells unraveling and girls discovering that perfection came with conditions. It was the hour when illusion ended, and reality demanded its due. She was no princess. She had loved before. Had negotiated affection, accepted its terms, paid its price.
And yet—
Her heart beat faster, traitorous and light, as if it had not been briefed. It behaved absurdly, like the heart of a girl standing at the top of a staircase, skirts gathered, breath caught, as if midnight were not an ending at all, but an invitation.
She stopped by the table and pressed her fingers to the wood, grounding herself. This was not a fairy tale. This was a temporary alliance, entered into with eyes open and clauses clearly defined. She had agreed to joint operations. Nothing more. Her body, yes—she had conceded that. Desire was manageable. Appetite could be satisfied and dismissed.
Her heart, however—her heart was neutral territory.
That was the line. But how did a woman protect herself from a pirate who looked at her with those green eyes, as if the color had some magical ability to unravel her? She would be present. Generous even. But she would not reach for him first. And she would not share her past. Her eyes flickered to the little chest above the vanity, and she quickly averted her gaze. And above all, she would not imagine a tomorrow.
These were sensible provisions. Necessary ones.
Footsteps sounded outside the cabin, and her pulse sped. When had she become this . . . aware of herself? The warmth under her skin, the faint ache low in her belly. Well, then, it was better to feel desire than none at all. Mutual enthusiasm, after all, made for far more successful negotiations.
The clock ticked, each second a knock.
She drew in a steadying breath, schooling her features into calm. When he came through that door, he would find her composed, articulate, and very much herself. She would offer what she had agreed to offer—no more, no less.
The clock struck twelve.
And Marguerite—who had never been a princess, who had cared and lost and learned—stood very still, heart racing, poised not to lose a shoe but to gain what?
The latch turned.
The door opened.
And there he was.
Tristan stepped into the cabin and shut the door behind him. Her hands curled at her sides as if her body, treacherous thing, had already decided to surrender ground she had sworn to defend. He looked . . . freshly claimed by the sea. His hair was damp, curling at the ends. His shirt clung to him in places it had no business clinging.
Both of them stood there, breathless, as if the walk from opposite sides of the room was an ocean.
She gestured toward the small table by the wall. “I . . . I did not know if you had dined.” The words came out far too formal for the way her pulse had begun to misbehave. “So I thought . . .”
He did not look at the food.
“You’re wet,” she said, then winced inwardly at the inadequacy of the observation. “Did you—did you take another bath?”
He nodded once. His gaze was fixed on her mouth.
“For heaven’s sake,” she whispered, “you will catch a cold on my account.”
