Page 16 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Ethan narrowed his eyes in her direction when she faltered.

“I don’t have my sea legs,” she lied.

“Hmm.” That sound again.

He pressed his palm to her lower back, and she knew it must look as though he was shoving her forward, but in reality it felt very much as though he was steadying her. The silence of the captain’s cabin welcomed them, the water whispering below. Ethan peeled his bloody shirt away from the punctures. She tried not to care.

Instead, she muttered, “I need water and comfrey. And honey if you have it.”

He looked amused. “It’s barely a wound.”

Affronted, she made her own sound in the back of her throat. Let him decipher it this time.

His grin, while fleeting, suggested he had no trouble whatsoever. “The apothecary chest is in that corner.”

It was a heavy wooden chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl and abalone-studded handles. It was beautiful and very well stocked. He rose slightly higher in her estimation. She nearly said as much. And then she turned around.

He’d pulled his lawn shirt over his head, revealing a sculpted chest, thick with muscles. Two swallows were tattooed on his pectorals, with dark hair curling between them. He was sun-kissed, suggesting that shirts were not generally required. His pants hung low, exposing more muscles, more sun-browned skin.

She almost forgot she was trapped. Almost. Just for a moment.

She struggled not to blush. She had no business blushing. Doctors did not blush. Nor did women who found themselves taken by pirates and then stabbed them. As they deserved. His smile was slow, knowing. She deserved it, really. Who let themselves be distracted by a bare chest, by corded arm muscles, by—

Briar Foxglove, get yourself sorted.

“Turn around,” she ordered him briskly. Not at all breathily.

He turned, still smirking. The fork had left three deep holes, bleeding sluggishly. She pressed her lips together.

“Don’t apologize,” Ethan said. How was it he saw her so clearly when he did not even know her? “You’ll ruin the effect.”

“Well, I am from Haven,” she allowed. “And we do like an effect.”

He smiled faintly and it was different, softer. More real, somehow. She slapped a wet cloth over his punctures with more force than was strictly necessary. It took no time to wash them clean. She added the comfrey and then a layer of honey. “You’ll need a bandage,” she said. “Or your shirt will stick.”

“Then I suppose I won’t wear one.”

Of course not. There was another tattoo, just below where she’d stabbed him. A nautical star, carefully shaded. She resisted the urge to brush her fingertips over it. Tattoos were not uncommon among witches, however rare they might be among mundane society. They held magic, sometimes in the ink itself, sometimes in the symbolism. “What does the star mean?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

“The star guides a sailor home no matter where they might be,” he explained, facing her again. “Although not through Lyonesse’s bleeding shields, apparently.”

She smiled weakly. “And the swallows?”

“Every swallow marks five thousand miles traveled.”

She couldn’t help a wistful little sigh. “This is as far from Lyonesse as I’ve ever been.” She’d never made her curtsy to the queen—she was a shopgirl, after all, not a lord’s daughter.

He raised an eyebrow. “How do you like it so far?”

She raised her eyebrow right back. “It needs work.”

His laugh was quick and rusty. “I’ll bet it does, at that.”

She wiped her hands on her skirt to rub away the honey. “Now what will you do with me?”

“I was just wondering the same thing.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I suppose it was too much to hope there would be an easy solution. I forgot how this island can pack a punch.” His dark eyes pierced her. “We’ll need that charm after all.”

“I don’t know where it is.” That was mostly the truth. She didn’t know where Petal was. Had she made it back to the cottage? Had Bramble found her? Were they even now hiding somewhere? There was no one better suited to hiding than a rabbit witch. That was a comfort, at the very least.