Burning Up

course she didn’t; she was already infected. She didn’t reject sugar out of paranoia, but pride. Apparently, he understood that.
    He ate quietly. She watched his reflection and hope began to rise in her chest. The downward cast of his shoulders told her that fatigue sat heavily on him. If exhausted, surely he wouldn’t want to force her into his bed.
    That hope died when her gaze slid down to his loins. She couldn’t mistake the bulge that had formed behind the flap of his breeches. Though tired, he was obviously imagining what came next.
    He finished the tart and straightened. “It grows late, Ivy. Let’s go to bed.”
    Her teeth clenched. If he tried to force her, she would kill him. And if Ivy killed him, she wouldn’t make it off this ship. Desperate, she cast around her mind for something— anything —that might appeal to him. She only had one thing. Unfortunately, she had very little of it.
    She stood, digging into the pouch tied at the waist of her trousers and withdrawing a thin denier. She held the money out to him.
    He frowned at the coin. “What is this for?”
    “I’ll sleep in your bed tonight. This is to sleep unmolested.”
    His gaze flew to her face. His dark brows drew together, and shadows moved over his expression. Ivy’s hand didn’t shake; the rest of her did.
    After an endless moment, his fingers closed over hers. He took the coin. “Get into the bed.”
    She went quickly, before he could change his mind. Her knees sank into the thick mattress and she stretched out on her side, her back hard against the cold bulkhead. His uneven tread carried him to the bureau, where he snuffed the lamp, and she followed the sound of his steps to the bed. He rolled in beside her, a solid block of heat that almost flattened her against the side of the ship. His hands found her waist.
    Ivy tried to shrink back and couldn’t. “You agreed you wouldn’t—”
    “Crush you? Hold still.” His rough voice brooked no argument. He hauled her against him, her head cradled by his shoulder, her leg over his thighs. “And relax.”
    Her laugh burst out, tinged with hysteria. He truly must be insane.
    But as the minutes passed, the tension did ease from her body. Despite everything, she was comfortable—and warm. So warm.
    Not that she wanted to become accustomed to this. “How long will we be sailing?”
    He didn’t answer for a long moment, and by the heaviness in his reply, she realized he’d almost been asleep. “Fifteen days.”
    She stared into the dark. Fifteen. And she had only eight coins.
    Seven now.
    Mad Machen stirred again. “And twenty days more for the return journey. We’ll be sailing against the wind.”
    Five weeks altogether—and only coins enough for one.
    Smoking hell.

FOUR
    A s always, Eben woke to the first of eight bells signaling the end of the middle watch. Four o’clock. On the deck above, the crew changed shifts, and the muffled thud of their footsteps told him the transition was smooth, with only one hand running late to his post. He listened to Vesuvius , to her familiar creaks and groans. The wind had picked up during the night, deepening each roll of the sea.
    When the next bell rang in half an hour, Duckie would bring his coffee and breakfast, expecting to find Eben up and dressed. In two bells, Barker and Simms, the navigator, would meet with him to plot their course. Meg had pushed them far enough northwest that rounding the top of the British isle and sailing down the west coast might take them to Wales faster than turning back and sailing for the channel.
    But Eben wasn’t in a hurry.
    Ivy had softened against him in sleep, her head pillowed on his chest and her fingers loosely curled beneath her chin. Her leg crossed over his groin. He hoped to God she didn’t wake up. Holding her so close hardened his morning erection into an aching, solid length. If Ivy felt his arousal, Eben had no doubt she’d scramble away, certain he was bent on raping her.
    The night before, he’d seen her terror as she’d offered the coin. It’d been all he could do not to haul her against him and prove that he wouldn’t take her by force.
    But this route was better. When she’d approached him with the denier, Eben had been planning to coax a kiss from her—and two years ago, a single touch of her lips had almost stolen his control. If he’d lost his head again, she wouldn’t be sleeping soundly now, but lying tense and quivering beside him.
    He’d already waited two