shook her head. “No, I knew they’d be able to track me.”
“Smart girl.”
Pride swelled and bloomed at his praise. She didn’t even know him, and after this she’d never see him again. It didn’t matter what he thought of her as long as he got her to the States.
“He’s going to linger there for the next twenty minutes, and we have to get aboard and down in the cargo hold before any of his crew sees us. So I need you to do exactly as I say when I say it. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” she agreed easily.
He maneuvered the boat up next to the cargo ship, and the sound of the small motor was drowned out by the idling growl of the giant engines of the ship. A rope ladder had been left hanging down the side for them.
She grabbed hold of the ladder, the rope abrasive on her palms. For all of her training, she still had the hands of a princess. Damara wouldn’t complain; instead she would just do as he instructed. She tried to be as quiet as she could, remembering her ballet lessons and balancing her weight so she didn’t flail and clang against the side like some alarm alerting everyone to their presence.
When she pulled herself to the top, she heard voices and she ducked her head, still clinging to the rope ladder. She looked down at Hawkins.
What’s wrong? he mouthed.
She made a talking motion with her hand, and then held up three fingers to indicate the number of voices she’d heard.
He put his head down for a moment, and then he began to climb. She would have shimmied back down the ladder and into the boat, but she saw it had already been set adrift. They were well and truly stuck.
Damara made herself as narrow as possible while still holding herself steady, and he started moving up the ladder behind her, his feet and hands on the outside of hers.
Even though Damara was used to warm temperatures and to heat, she wasn’t used to his heat. His body was so hard and hot—even with the layers of clothes between them, his skin seemed to burn her.
She tried not to think about it—the way she fit against him, the way the hard planes of muscle pressed against her, how small and safe she felt, even dangling off a rope ladder hanging over dangerous waters.
As he moved higher, she became very aware of another part of his body that was just as hot, hard and insistent as the rest of him. Her cheeks ignited, and she knew that even in the dark, her face would be scarlet.
He didn’t stop to apologize or make excuses or even acknowledge all the intimacies that were now between them. This was just a job to him and his arousal was just another bodily function.
Damara didn’t know him, but she knew his kind. He may be there to help her, but he was still a mercenary. Still a man paid to kill. She rather imagined a man like him would have to be cut off from attachment to anything. Even himself.
She exhaled heavily and pushed all of those thoughts out of her head. She didn’t have the time or the luxury to think about anything but escape, if the muffled sounds of a struggle were any indication.
Damara bit her lip to keep from calling out to him.
Every second dragged on for what felt like hours as doubt and fear filled her until he reached over the side and grabbed her arm to help her up. His knuckles were bloody, but he was otherwise unharmed.
The image of his hands, though—it burned itself into her brain like a brand. They were broad and strong, scarred, purposeful. They were the hands of a man who’d had to fight for everything he had. The way he moved, helping her, still using those hands even though he’d split his knuckles open, it was as if he didn’t even notice the pain, if there was any. It was as if he’d simply chosen not to feel it.
Damara found that impossibly noble.
And it made her blush hotter.
She had to stop thinking of him as a man and think of him as what he was—a means to an end.
Another echo of voices spurred him to action, and he lifted the cover off a lifeboat so they could crawl inside.
She could barely see him in the darkness, but the moon was bright enough overhead that a tiny bit of light shone through the canvas tarp. He held a finger up to his lips to indicate she should stay quiet.
Something sharp needled her back and hip. Damara wanted to stay still and silent, but it quickly became agony. Hawkins seemed to know and he pulled her tight against his body.
Time stopped again, just as it had on the ladder. She was stiff and frozen, but this time his fingers pushed her hair out of her face.
Those same bloody, damaged hands touched her gently, soothed her. This man said so much without saying anything at all. It was all there in that one simple gesture.
You’re safe.
I’ll protect you.
And she believed he would.
There was a part of her that didn’t want him to protect her. Part of her that wanted him to be a bastard. She didn’t want to get caught, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. What they’d feel like on the rest of her body, what they’d look like on her skin.
Her face was so hot now she was sure that her cheeks would explode. She was embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts. It was all just fantasy anyway. She’d read too many forbidden books and been denied reasonable human contact for too long all in the name of purity. Her body might be untried, but her mind certainly wasn’t.
Damara shifted carefully to make herself more comfortable, but she was at a loss for what to do with her arm. If this was a lover’s embrace, she’d have clung to him, but he was a stranger. It was as if her own arm was this awkward part of her that didn’t belong on her body.
“It’s okay.” His breath tickled against the shell of her ear. “You can touch me. There’s nowhere else to go.” His voice was so low, she could barely hear it.
Heart hammering against her chest, she did as he suggested and wrapped herself around him.
The hard length was still there and it occurred to her that it might be a gun instead of— She was such a silly girl. She’d been so caught up in the fairy tale of being a princess he had to save, she’d imagined this whole attraction between them like some stupid movie. She’d even romanticized his indifference. Another reason why she had to get her head back in the game. She couldn’t afford to be a princess now. She had to be a leader. Damara had learned there was a big difference.
Except, he went through the motions of pushing her hair out of her face again. It was a caress, a touch for the sake of touch.
“Sleep, Princess. It’s a long ride to Marseille.”
She didn’t bother to tell him that there was no way she’d be able to sleep. Not with his nearness, his heat, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the events of the day. Or the possibility of being discovered.
Damara tried not to notice how strong he was, tried not to think about how good he felt under her hands, his strength wrapped around her. No, she was certain she’d never sleep. Especially when he’d said, It’s okay, you can touch me. It made her think about touching him. A lot. Being touched by him.
What if his hand strayed just a bit, and what if she arched into his touch. What if— No, there was to be no sleep for her.
But she was wrong, because it was some time later that she was startled awake by gunfire.
THE SOUND OF SEMIAUTOMATIC gunfire launched Byron into high alert. He’d been enjoying the feeling of holding Damara in the dark and the quiet. It was as if there were no other people