“I’ve explained my concerns to you. My crewmen are not the genteel society you were reared in, I fear. To allow you the freedom of the ship would be to invite an affront, or even an attack of some kind. Many of my crew are former slaves; some were slaves here on this ship. They spent time in her holds, shackled, cold and filthy. Your family put them there. They do not bear Kyle Haven’s kin much fondness. You say you were not responsible for his treatment of them, nor for his treatment of your family ship. But I feat it is difficult to make the crew accept that. Or the ship herself.

“I know that Vivacia is truly what draws you.” He smiled indulgently. “If you were free to leave this chamber, you would rush straight to the figurehead. For I know you can’t believe me when I tell you that Vivacia is gone.” From the corner of his eye, he watched her fold her lips and set her jaw, just as Wintrow did when he was crossed. It almost made him smile, but he kept his demeanor. He shook his head at her gravely. “But she is, and Bolt would not be kind to you. Would she go so far as to threaten you with physical violence? In all honesty, I do not know. And I would prefer not to find out by experiment.”

He met her flinty stare with his warmest smile. Such black eyes she had. “Come. Eat something. You’ll feel more rational.”

A shadow of uncertainty passed over her face. He recalled that feeling. Igrot, the epitome of coarseness, would, after days of harshness and cruelty, suddenly pendulum back to contrived gentility. For a week, Igrot would speak to him with gentleness, instruct him in etiquette, and bestow on him looks of fatherly tenderness. He would praise him for hard work well done, and predict a bright future for him. And then, without warning, there would come the sudden, harsh grip on his wrist, jerking him close, and the roughness of the man’s whiskered cheek sanding Kennit’s face as he struggled in his embrace.

He felt suddenly vulnerable. Had he put himself in danger with the woman? He tried to find his open smile again, but could only gaze at her measuringly. She returned the look.

“I don’t want to eat anything,” she said flatly. “You’ve put something in my food that makes me sleep. I don’t like it. I don’t like the vivid dreams, nor the way I feel when I try to wake up and I can’t.”

He managed to look shocked. “Lady, I fear you were much more wearied than you knew. I think you have been sleeping off not just the effects of near drowning in icy water, but months of doubt and fear. It is natural that now you are aboard your family ship, your body relaxes and lets you rest. But… wait. Let me reassure you.”

He carefully seated himself on her chair. With fastidious precision, he ate one bite of everything on her plate, and mimed a sip of the wine to wash it down. He patted his lips thoughtfully with her napkin, then turned to smile at her. “There. Satisfied? No poison.” He cocked his head at her and lifted one eyebrow. “But why do you suppose I would want to poison you?”

“What sort of a monster do you think I am? Do you fear and hate me so much?”

“No. No, that is… I know you have been kind to me. But…” She drew in a breath, and he could see that she regretted her foolish accusation. “I didn’t say poison. I just know that I sleep too deeply, and awake still groggy. My head is always heavy; I never feel alert.” Her head swayed a tiny pattern of unsteadiness although her feet remained planted in one spot.

He knit his brows in grave concern. “Did you strike your head when you fell overboard? Is there a tender spot?”

“No, that is, I don’t think so….” She set her hands to her head and pressed gravely.

“Allow me,” he insisted, and pushing the chair back, gestured that she should take his place. She moved stiffly and sat very straight as he set his hands to her head. He stood in front of her so she could see his face as his fingertips gently explored her head. With feigned casualness, he loosed her hair, and searched her skull. He frowned to himself. “Sometimes a blow to the back of the neck or on the spine…” he muttered thoughtfully.

Then he stepped behind her and pushed aside the sleek black flow of her hair. He leaned close to her and traced the line of her spine down her neck to her collar. She sat submissive before him, her head bowed, yet he could feel the thrumming of tension in her muscles. Fear? Apprehension? Perhaps, anticipation? Her hair held a trace of some fragrance, but the shirt smelled of Wintrow. The combination was intoxicating. He let his fingers slowly trail down her spine. “Any pain?” he asked concernedly. He halted his fingers at the waistband of her trousers but did not remove his hand.