On the main deck, the crew scurried about, intent on their tasks under the watchful eye of the boatswain, Ben. The topsmen unfurled sheets of canvas, great curtains that captured the wind and billowed with thunderous glee, urging the vessel forward. Fletcher, the carpenter conscripted from the Maidstone, was cutting out new ports in the hull for the new cannon they’d scavenged from the slaver. Despite his early grumbling upon joining the Archeron’s crew, he’d quickly fallen into an easy camaraderie with the men, who admired his skill with a hammer and nail.

The air draped over them, thick and steamy, and Sabine constantly wiped the sweat from her face and chest. She rubbed her hands on her skirt every minute or so to keep the needle from slipping from her fingers while she sewed up torn canvas, her back propped against the thick beam of the foremast. She’d untied the scarf and donned a hat to shelter her face from the sun that grilled them, envying the men who walked the deck shirtless.

She’d never paid mind to a crew’s state of undress when sailing with her father, although he’d kept her tucked away on the forecastle when she’d ventured topside. To a child, the men’s chests were merely an anatomical curiosity, and she was content to let Barth show her how to tie knots. But when Boone crouched next to her to counsel with Fletcher about the alterations to the ship, she found herself sneaking a peek at his chest from under the brim of her hat, as if she hadn’t seen enough in the cabin.

Sweat dripped and swam down the ridges his muscles formed on his arms and stomach. Her gaze took on a life of its own and she stared transfixed at his powerful thighs, only inches from her. The moist air had molded his breeches to his calves and ass. She found it difficult to breathe and wondered if it was possible for the air to grow even thicker.

He turned to her, and her fingers jumped back to life, except she forgot a couple of them held a thick canvas needle and she pricked her index finger. She flicked her head down to hide her scorched cheeks under the brim of her hat and sucked on the fat globs of blood oozing from the small prick.

Boone smiled. “Shall I kiss your finger and make it better?”

She stopped sucking, finger still propped on her lower lip, and watched Boone’s amused stare transform into something that jabbed at her body worse than the canvas needle. He stood, looming over her, sweaty and virile. She resisted the urge to wipe moisture off her neck and chest. Finally, as if breaking free of the momentary spell, he winked at her then made his way across deck.

Damn his eyes. When her heart settled, she resumed her stitching and snuck a peek at his retreating back, his scars standing out in sharp relief with each flex of muscle.

As she watched him, something struck her about Boone other than his lovely but tormented physique. He waded about the deck, joked with the men, took proffered sips of rum, affecting the part of a devil-may-care pirate captain, but he constantly swept his hand along every line, testing its tautness, checked the position of the cannons, studied the canvas looking for small tears or slack. He moved incessantly about the ship, caress- ing her, admiring her, showing distress at any sign of imperfection, not unlike a lover obsessed.

And, she realized with a sinking sensation, Boone might not have been capable of loving a woman, and with that thought came shock at her use of the word “love.” Stop! She knew Boone’s heart, if he had one, belonged to the sea. She’d complete her mission and leave him to his mistress.