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He did not so much as bat an eyelash in acknowledgment that Trinity had spoken.

She tried a different tact.

“My employer, Mrs. Peagilly, has gone below to have ginger tea prepared for you. She vows it will settle your stomach. She drinks it herself. Thrice a day. It works wonders for her. She bid me help you to your cabin, else you become…too…weak.”

Trinity stuttered to a stop.

As was her wont, she’d been prattling in her nervousness.

Poor man.

The last thing he needed was her chattering like a magpie.

She squared her shoulders and firmed her lips.

“Here, I shall assist you.” She sidled closer and slipped an arm around his firm waist. He was taller than she but not as tall or lean as Mr. Compton. Not that he was given to fat by any means.

No, a thick layer of muscles rippled beneath her fingers curled around his ribs.

Having never touched a man in such a familiar way, she could not ascertain if her breathlessness was from discomfit or something a trifle naughtier.

“Awfully forward, aren’t you?” The man managed a lopsided grin as he slung an arm around her shoulders. “We have not been introduced,” he managed in a hoarse whisper.

He cared about social proprieties when he vomited in public?

“Well, there is no one to do the job properly,” she said with false cheerfulness. “So we will have to skip that convention. I, for one, think there are far too many unnecessary and ridiculous strictures in any event.”

“Amen,” he muttered.

Amen?

Trinity grunted as he leaned into her, and they shuffled forth—not an easy task with the swaying ship and the man’s uneven gait. This man was no weak fop or soft dandy either. No, he was sleek, corded muscle, and her stomach did that strange fluttery thing again.

Only this time, it assuredly was not unpleasant.

She tucked that tidbit into the back of her mind to examine at a more opportune moment.

“I am Trinity Ablethorne, companion to Mrs. Eustacia Peagilly. We are on our way to Morocco.”

For pity’s sake.

She rolled her eyes heavenward at her stupidity.

They were all sailing to Morocco.

Supporting his weight disrupted her breathing, and she panted from exertion as she gauged how far the ladder-like steps to the lower decks were—too dashed far with the fellow drooped upon her like limp pastry on a pie. She had no idea how she would maneuver him down the risers without them taking a tumble.

She gave him a side-eyed glance, surprised to see him staring at her, three creases puzzling his brow.

He narrowed those dark eyes.

“Or perhaps…” He spoke slowly and deliberately, the effort costing him much as he paled further. “Perhaps, I have actually died—I have asked God to let me do so for the past several minutes—and you are an angel sent to guide me to heaven.”

Had he been drinking too?

Leaning a fraction nearer, Trinity gave a surreptitious sniff but detected only wind, sea, and a slightly spicy-woodsy cologne but no strong spirits.

His frown deepened, crinkling his eyes to thin slits.