Your Wicked Heart by Meredith Duran

woman, but you still showed kindness to me. If you thought me otherwise—if you thought me honorable—I imagine you’d be a very fine friend, indeed.”
    Still he studied her, his face shadowed. “It would be easier,” he said, “to continue to believe the worst of you.”
    “Likewise.” She scuffed the planks of the deck with one soaked slipper. “Only, as you see, I’m finding it rather difficult.”
    “Likewise,” he whispered.
    She glanced up, uncertain whether she had heard him right. He gave her another smile, lopsided, almost wistful.
    Her breath caught. How young he looked right now—strikingly young, and handsomer than any man had a right to be.
    “How old are you?” she asked without thinking.
    “Twenty-six. And you?”
    Why, he was young. Very young, she thought, to have had his entire family’s cares on his shoulders for—seven years, he’d said. Why, he was nineteen when he became head of his household!
    She cleared her throat. “I’m twenty-two. A confirmed spinster.”
    “Ancient,” he agreed with a wink.
    Her cheeks burned hotter. The room seemed to be shrinking, her lungs growing constricted for want of air. She inched toward the door. “Well, I must be going . . .”
    “Not until the storm passes.”
    “It seems to be dying down.” The sound of the wind had decreased.
    “Yes, they usually pass quickly in these parts. Give it a quarter hour, just in case.”
    Another quarter hour, boxed up with him like this? Such intimacy seemed suddenly unbearable. Her skin felt too tight, and she was painfully aware of how close he sat. How many more temptations awaited in the water still dripping from his hair!
    She cast around nervously for some distraction—anything to keep her from having to look at him, for she could feel his regard on her now like a physical touch, and all she could think of was the way his lips had felt on hers . . .
    “If only you had visited the ship’s doctor,” she said, “I might have made a compress for you. Your knee—”
    “I did pay a visit to the ship’s doctor.” He gestured toward the far side of the bed, where she now noticed a bundle of cloth and a chemist’s bottle. “I can’t say I know what to do with that lot. He promised to come see to it, but I expect the storm prevented him.”
    Here was something to do. She crossed round the bed, uncapping the bottle to take a proper sniff. “Arnica.”
    “How would you know that?”
    “My father was an apothecary.”
    “Was he? Did he have his own shop?”
    He sounded genuinely interested, which at once pleased her and made her feel strangely vulnerable. To discuss her family with him would not help her to regain her composure. Briskly she said, “It’s used to reduce bruising and swelling. It will serve.”
    “Ah.” He considered her closely for a moment. But if he noted her evasion, he made no mention of it. “So I soak my knee in it, then?”
    “Goodness, no. You’ll need to dilute it, first.” She carried the bottle and cloth to the washbasin affixed to the wall, and mixed a few splashes of the tincture with the remnants of the water in the basin.
    A heady, astringent smell filled the room. When she lifted out the soaked cloth, he wrinkled his nose. “That’s wretched.”
    “It’s medicinal,” she said. “Roll up your trouser leg.”
    Eyebrow cocked, he gave her a parody of a leer. “Miss Thomas. I didn’t know you cared.”
    She found herself retreating into her primmest attitude. “Without delay, if you please.”
    With an obliging shrug, he began to roll up the cuff of his trousers.
    Her mouth went dry.
    Fine black hair sparsely covered his skin. His ankle was surprisingly trim, but his calf quickly widened into a solid, strapping shelf of muscle that flexed as he bent his foot.
    She should look away.
    No, she shouldn’t. It was her task to attend to him. Her task, now, was to step forward and confront this long, well-muscled length of leg.
    “If I rip these, I will