Falling for the Pirate by Amber Lin

would bring her something. A trinket, to remember him by.”
    She made a small sound in her throat.
    “Wouldn’t you know, he returned safely from every trip. Even the last one. He was caught by footpads on his way home from the docks.”
    “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
    He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I remember thinking, though, wondering what he’d brought home for my mother that time. They never found it. The footpads stole it, of course.”
    “Oh, God,” she moaned as if she’d made some discovery.
    He drew back. “Julia?”
    “No wonder you hate thieves so much.”
    “Don’t be dramatic. I’m not some tortured soul. I dislike thieves because of their propensity for stealing from me, nothing more.”
    She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the sympathetic set to her mouth, the soulful look in her eyes. And, well, she had good reason to doubt. He may not be a tortured soul, but he was held by old promises, ancient oaths. But it wasn’t because his father had been murdered by street thugs. If it had only been that…
    He needed her to stop looking at him as if she were going to cry. He thought she might already be crying. Her grey eyes glinted in the moonlight from the tiny porthole. It was hard to see. He had started this story to distract her, but he had only made things worse, spinning a web around himself, tighter and tighter, until he was trapped.
    “I’d better get you back to the house,” he said grimly. Before he said something truly idiotic.
    Like the truth.
    “No, wait! Please. We’ll talk about something else. I promise.”
    Absolutely not. You don’t belong on this ship. I don’t want you here. Those were all the things he should have said. Instead he shrugged. Shrugged. He had never shrugged so much in his life. It was as if he’d gone to the continent and spent his days making nonsensical fatalistic paintings and this was what he’d become. The sort of man who could have a conversation with a woman, apparently.
    “Talk, then,” he said, annoyed. At himself, mostly. But also at her, and the way she could tie him in knots.
    She thought for a minute. He thought she might have fallen asleep when, finally, she said, “I wasn’t completely honest with you. I did remember more.”
    He stiffened. “Oh?”
    “I remember my school. Not the specifics of it, its name or what years I attended. I just remember the color of the hallways. The smell of the library. Things like that.”
    “Oh.”
    “Are you disappointed? I am. If I knew where I came from, I might be able to find assistance there. Then I wouldn’t have to rely on your goodwill.”
    Goodwill. It made him sound like that blasted countess who had come to see him. He could be the founder and sole member of the Society for Drowning Girls Dressed as Boys. He shook his head. “The memories will come back. The fact that you have remembered some things already is proof of that.”
    “I hope so.” She sounded doubtful.
    His stomach tightened, imagining her reaction when she did remember. Anger. He could countenance that. Hurt. Betrayal. They were inevitable.
    She remembered her childhood…her schooling…she was gaining back her memory by leaps and bounds, by years and decades. How long did he have until she remembered everything?
    He cleared his throat. “What else do you remember? If you describe it to me, maybe it will help.”
    She flushed a deep rose, from her cheeks down to the tops of her breasts. She had straightened her dress before lying down, but the bodice was still too low. Beautifully low.
    His curiosity stirred at her embarrassed expression. “Julia?”
    He hated saying the name. It felt like a lie. Hell, it was a lie, one she had told him, but one he volleyed back to her.
    Her lashes hid her eyes, and he took a moment to study them. Each lash was a different color, shades of mahogany and butter, a single strand of cacao, striking. An urge overtook him, to kiss her there, once on each eyelid, so strong