For a time she thought of nothing. Then from somewhere else, she abruptly came back to the narrow sweaty bunk and his crushing weight upon her and her hair caught under his splayed hand. Her feet were cold, she realized. And she had a cramp in the small of her back. She heaved under him. “Let me up,” she said quietly, and when he did not move at first, “Brashen, you're squashing me. Get off!”

He shifted and she managed to sit up. He edged over on the bunk so that she was sitting in the curl of his prone body. He looked up at her, not quite smiling. He lifted a hand, and with a finger traced a circle around one of her breasts. She shivered. With a tenderness that horrified her, he drew the sole blanket up to drape her shoulders. “Althea,” he began.

“Don't talk,” she begged him suddenly. “Don't say anything.” Somehow if he spoke of what they had just done, it would make it more real, make it a part of her life that she'd have to admit to later. Now that she was satiated, her caution was coming back. “This can't happen again,” she told him suddenly.

“I know. I know.” Nonetheless, his eyes followed his hand as he traced his fingers down her throat to her belly. He tapped at the ring and charm in her navel. “That's . . . unusual.”

In the gently shifting lantern light, the tiny skull winked up at them. “It was a gift from my dear sister,” Althea said bitterly.

“I . . .” he hesitated. “I thought only whores wore them,” he finished lamely.

“That's my sister's opinion as well,” Althea replied stonily. Without warning, the old hurt lashed her.

She suddenly curled herself smaller and managed to lie down in the bunk beside him. He snugged her into the curve of his body. The warmth felt good, as did the gentle tickling as he toyed with one of her breasts. She should push his hand away, she knew. She should let this go no further than it had. Getting up and getting dressed and going back to the forecastle would be the wisest thing she could do. Getting up in the chill cabin and putting her cold wet clothes back on ... She shivered and pressed against his warmth. He shifted to put both arms around her and hold her close. Safe.

“Why did she give you a wizardwood charm?” She could hear the reluctant curiosity in his voice.

“So I wouldn't get pregnant and shame my family. Or catch some disfiguring disease that would let all Bingtown know what a slut I was.” She deliberately chose the hard word, spat it out at herself.

He froze for an instant, then soothed his hand down her back. Stroking her, then gently kneading at her shoulders and neck until she sighed and relaxed into him again. “It was my own fault,” she heard herself say. “I should never have told her about it. But I was only fourteen and I felt like I had to tell someone. And I couldn't tell my father, not after he discharged Devon.”

“Devon.” He spoke the name, making it not quite a question.

She sighed. “It was before you came on board. Devon. He was a deckhand. So handsome, and always with a jest and a smile for anything, even misfortune. Nothing daunted him. He'd dare anything.” Her voice trailed off. For a time she thought only of Brash's hand gently moving over her back, unknotting the muscles there as if he were untangling a line.

“That was where he and my father differed, of course. 'He'd be the best deckhand on this ship if he had common sense,' Papa once told me. 'And he'd make a good first, if he only knew when to get scared.' But Devon didn't sail like that. He was always complaining that we could carry more sail than we did, and when he worked aloft, he was always the fastest. I knew what my father meant. When the other men tried to keep up with him, for pride's sake, then work was done faster but not as thoroughly. Mistakes were made. And sailors got hurt. None seriously, but you know how my father was. He always said it was because the Vivacia was a liveship. He said accidents and deaths on board a liveship are bad for the ship; the emotions are too strong.”

“I think he was right,” Brashen said quietly. He kissed the back of her neck.

“I know he was,” Althea said in mild annoyance. She sighed suddenly. “But I was fourteen. And Devon was so handsome. He had gray eyes. He'd sit about on deck after his watch was over, and whittle tilings for me and tell me stories of his wandering. It seemed like he'd been everywhere and done everything. He never exactly spoke against Papa, to me or to the rest of the crew, but you could always tell when he thought we were sailing too cautious. He'd get this disdainful little smile at the corner of his mouth. Sometimes just that look could make my father furious with him, but I'm afraid I thought it was adorable. Daring. Mocking danger.” She sighed. “I believed he could do no wrong. Oh, I was in love.”