Page 44

Heaving a rather hefty, unhappy sigh, Trinity opened her eyes.

No great epiphany had struck her—no clear direction.

After replacing everything in Mrs. Peagilly’s bag, Trinity eyed her cloak.

It must be close to midnight, and Devin had not returned. Given the storm caused the ship to sway and heave like an apple in a tub of water, he had probably sought his cabin. In any event, the nuptials could not occur in the middle of the night during a squall.

That gave Trinity more time to decide.

Decide?

What choice did she have?

Only one.

The rapid, triple knock jolted her from her reverie.

“Trinity? Are you awake?”

Devin.

Jumping up so swiftly that the chair almost toppled, she hurried to open the door.

Hair rain slickened, his coat drenched, Devin stood there, paler than he had been an hour ago. No doubt, the effects of the gale howling outside.

He did not mince words but went straight to the point.

“Captain said we must marry tonight while we are still in international waters. I am sorry.” Contriteness and sympathy softened his contoured features.

Tonight?

“I see.”

“I know you wanted more time, Trinity.”

There had only been one choice all along. Part of her—the part she rarely let show—

silently screamed in rebellion at being compelled to marry under these ill-fated circumstances.

“The storm is worsening.” Devin pointed his gaze upward. “Captain Breckett said he can only spare five minutes to perform the ceremony.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Now? Now?

Trinity shut her eyes and grasped the doorway.

Another roll of the ship had her eyes flying open.

She had never been in a storm at sea—not a severe one that howled and raged, tossing the ship about like a doll.

Devin touched her arm, his gentleness a balm to her soul.

“Trinity, you do not have to marry me. If you oppose our union, I shall figure out something else to keep you safe in Casablanca.”

“Unless we are married, there isn’t a way. Morocco is not England. Our ways are not theirs.”