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His brows knit together. “’Twasn’t so bad. I just ain’t comfortable with ’er. She ain’t…” He blew out a pent-up breath, seeming to think better than to finish his sentence.

“She ain’t, what?” she pressed, if only to see his ears turn as red as his cheeks.

“’Tis none o’ your business.”

“Ah, I see. I s’pose that it also ain’t me business to wonder why ye be allowed to flirt with Mary—”

“I wasn’t flirtin’.”

“—when Poppy ain’t allowed to flirt with Lieutenant Harris.”

In a flash, his eyes hardened, indignation replacing the discomfort in his expression.

She wasn’t surprised by his reaction. After all, any man would be defiant when the attention was being drawn toward the poor decisions he’d made.

But poor Poppy deserved vindication. She had looked absolutely mortified when Mr. Honeysett had interrupted her time with the lieutenant. How would the girl feel now, knowing she wasn’t allowed to flirt with whomever she pleased when her brother was?

Morvoren looked away, watching the water’s movements before them, the subtle shifting of the waves changing the color from dark blue to light. “I do wonder what Poppy’d say if she discovered what be goin’ on ’tween ye and Mary.”

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on with…” He paused again, letting out another exasperated breath. “Ye really be a wicked sea-maid, ain’t ye?”

A genuine smile spread across her lips. “Did ye ever doubt it, sir?”

For a single, brief moment, she thought she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he turned away before she could be sure.

“Ye can tell Poppy whate’er ye like,” he said. “It won’t change the fact that she oughtn’t be fallin’ for that sailor.”

Morvoren tipped her head. “Why? Be there somethin’ wrong with sailors? ’Tain’t as if they be fishermen.”

He raised a brow. “I be well aware of ’ow ye feel ’bout fishermen, thank ye very much.”

She shrugged. Her feelings could not be helped.

“What I don’t know,” he continued, “is if ye feel that way only ’bout drifters, or if your dislike do extend to seiners, as well.”

She tipped her head back and forth, as if she didn’t know her answer already. “Ain’t they the same?”

He scoffed, turning to stare out at the sea, the wind tugging playfully at his shirtsleeves. “’Ow be your memory, Miss ’Ollow?”

“Same as before. Why?”

“Only wonderin’ ’ow ye seem to remember a great deal ’bout some matters, while in others, ye forget the simplest o’ things, like where your ’ome be.”

She didn’t like the direction the conversation was going. She didn’t like it one bit. “Dr. Kent said selective memory be more than normal,” she said.

“Selective. In that, ye choose what ye remember and what ye forget?”

Her shoulders tensed. “His words, not mine.”

He fell silent, his dark eyes boring into hers as if willing her to admit the truth. But she wouldn’t. There was too much at stake. Nor would she ever allow him to receive the upper hand with her.

After a moment, he sighed. “Well, I ought to be gettin’ back to me work. I’ll leave ye now to get back to yours—singin’ and callin’ ships to their deaths.”

“Thank ye,” she stated, unruffled by his teasing.

He walked away, and the tension in her neck eased just a moment before he turned back toward her. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, as if hesitating to speak. Was he debating whether or not to pursue further questions?

“Did ye really injure your foot again?” he eventually asked.