It was at least a credit to her storytelling that she had made anyone believe such things about him, for to take a man as hard and stern-faced as MacPherson and convincingly portray him as the hero of a love story was something that took more than an inspired imagination.

Or at least, she thought as much until she heard the steps of two men coming down the stairs, and then the cabin door swung open and MacPherson ducked beneath the lintel while Captain del Rio leaned a shoulder on the door frame for support and said, “I still do not believe you.”

And MacPherson laughed. A sound she’d never heard before. A deep and rich and rolling sound that woke the sleeping dog and made Frisque answer with a happy woof.

For Mary’s part, she could do little more than stand and gape, because the Scotsman looked so different in this mood that she could scarce believe it was the same man she had so long traveled with. Had she looked closely at his eyes she might have seen the quiet warning in them, but she only noticed that his smile had carved creases at their outer corners in a way that really was attractive, so she wasn’t in the least prepared when he advanced without a hint of hesitation and embraced her with the sureness of a man who need not fear rejection. Low, and for her ears alone, he murmured, “Do not strike me.”

And he kissed her.

At the first touch of his mouth on hers she inhaled quickly in surprise and then stopped breathing altogether, having for some idiotic reason lost all knowledge of the way that it was done.

She had read books. In Madame d’Aulnoy’s stories, lovers met in secret, shared languishing looks and sighs, and then the hero kissed his lady’s hands, always with tenderness and passion.

There was tenderness and passion in MacPherson’s kiss as well, but it was nothing like the books. No room for languishing. His hold was firm and solid, and she felt as though she’d suddenly been wrapped within a blanket of sensations. She felt his hand warm on the curve of her jaw, felt the hard calloused strength of his fingers at rest on the side of her neck where her pulse beat. She felt when those fingers slid into her hair, and continued to slide till his whole hand was cupping the back of her head and supporting her, while her own hand, having lifted in reflex, encountered the sleeve of his coat and could do nothing more than to cling to it or be caught tightly between them as his other arm settled possessively into the curve of her back, a secure weight she felt through the bones of her stays. And she felt…oh, she felt—only that, and the other words all fell away from her.

Mary heard Captain del Rio say something she didn’t quite catch and the cabin door creaked and MacPherson released her, a movement she felt but did not see because she discovered her eyes had closed. It took a great deal of focus to open them. And a great effort and one more deep breath to look up.

He stood close, and the gaze angled down to her own was as difficult to fathom as the reason he had kissed her. Yet she knew there must have been a reason. He would never have done such a thing at random.

Mary guessed the answer lay in what del Rio had remarked when he came in, and as the Spaniard’s steps retreated to the upper deck she asked, “Was that designed to help convince the captain we are married?” It heartened her to find she had a voice, although it seemed to lack the force or will to rise above a whisper.

“Aye.”

As someone accustomed to playing a part, Mary had to admit he’d been very convincing. The taste of the wine he had drunk lingered still on her lips, and she had to resist the irrational impulse to touch them, as if to revisit the feel of his kiss. Since that would only embarrass them both, Mary tried instead to show him she had taken it in stride, and lightly asked, “And does he plan to sell me in the marketplace at Tunis, or to keep me for himself?”

MacPherson promised, “He’ll do neither.”

“But he only gave his word he would protect your servants and your wife,” she added, with a nod of understanding. “So if I am not your wife, he’ll not be bound to give me his protection, nor to keep me safe.”

He stood a moment longer, silently assessing her with eyes that shielded all his thoughts. And then he said, “I’ll keep ye safe.” He sounded very sure.

And she believed him.

Mary was not sure when she’d stopped fearing him. She thought it might have started when he’d shot the wolf to save her, though she owned it might have started even earlier. In Valence, when he’d cared to intercede to save the honor of a woman other men would not have valued. Or in Lyon, when she’d watched him reading Madame d’Aulnoy’s books. Or perhaps earlier than that, in Mâcon, when he’d fixed the broken watch.

She pondered this in silence later, while they shared the supper that was brought to them, and after, while MacPherson stood outside the cabin door to give her privacy to undress to her white chemise and shake the dust and wrinkles from her gown and slip into the berth and draw the curtains closed. She went on thinking, after he’d stepped back into the cabin and she’d heard him getting ready for his own “bed” on the floor against the far wall, and the candles had been snuffed to leave the cabin in a darkness so complete she could see nothing but the images that rose within her mind.

Frisque sighed, and stirred, and snuggled deeper in the blankets next to Mary as the ship rolled to the rhythm of the midnight tides.

She kept her voice low as she said, “I do not know your name.”

The Scotsman stirred as well against the far wall, and she knew he was listening.