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A choked sound tore from her as she forced her lips closed. She hated that breathy sob even more than the insecurity that had preceded it.

Had it been Da and not Michael watching her fall apart, he would have pulled her into an embrace and she would have liked it then, safe in his arms, unaware that his sympathy cost her more than it gave. She knew better now, and was grateful when Michael’s expression remained largely unchanged. Still a part of her longed to collapse into his embrace, to rest her heavy head against his chest, knowing, even without the benefit of experience, that it would feel safe and sturdy against her cheek, his heartbeats reassuring in her ears.

Michael’s gaze softened as he watched her, and she felt his careful consideration in every second that ticked past.

“I don’t know the answer to that, Gwen, but I can say this much with absolute certainty. It’s not in you to choose your own advantage if doing so meant harming someone else. Trust yourself.”

She blinked up at him, his quiet, simple reassurance settling somewhere deep inside her.

He hadn’t said anything she didn’t already know. It wasn’t even advice in the usual sense, but hearing it—that he regarded her goodness and loyalty as beyond question—somehow halted the relentless churn of doubt. Her shoulders eased on a breath, and for the first time in days she felt peaceful. Or as close to it as she ever came these days.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I suppose I needed to hear that.”

Michael shrugged. “Even the most steadfast captain knows a moment of hesitation, the instant before his last option is gone.”

She cast a rueful smile down at her boots. “Now you’re simply humouring me. Steadfast was my da. I’m simply… doing my best.”

A lull in the downstairs revelry made her own breathing seem suddenly louder, the rest of the world falling very far away as the moment stretched. When she looked up again, his soulful brown eyes were fixed on her hands, knotted once more in her skirts.

“Don’t do that.”

She shook her head. “Do what?”

“Brush off my praise. You do us both an injustice.”

It was scarcely a whisper, but the earnestness it carried pressed in on her, though he made no move to approach. They seldom touched, yet from the very start Michael had shown little regard for maintaining a polite distance between them. As a result, the space now, given the stark emotion in his voice, felt… intentional. She should leave. There was nothing left to say. It was late. But the intensity of his gaze kept her rooted in place.

“Very well. I am exceptional and deserving of all your praise,” she teased weakly, searching for familiar ground, but Michael, it seemed, had no intention of allowing her retreat. His shoulders straightened, the fine lawn of his shirt stretching across his chest and drawing attention to the strength beneath it—something unmistakably, almost unfairly, masculine in the maneuver.

Michael eased closer then, and she had to lift her chin to meet his eyes. He lowered his to bridge the difference and that slight adjustment brought their faces near enough that she could feel every soft, heated word brush against her skin.

“You are exceptional, Gwen.”

He reached out then. Touched her cheek with his hand, and warmth bloomed over her face and throat. Lower still, that squirmy sensation in her stomach writhed with embarrassing enthusiasm. His thumb dragged a path along her jaw—up once, then down.

Gwen pulled in a shallow, ineffectual breath. “You’re hardly impartial. I’m paying you to think well of me.”

He shook his head, slowly, his gaze hot and heavy on hers. “Not at all,” he said. “Thinking well of you is rather an inconvenient side effect of our proximity.”

“Inconvenient… how?” The question barely escaped before understanding caught up with her. The full weight of his meaning landed, and her pulse began to throb thickly in response. She swallowed.

“Yes, I see you’ve worked it out.” A soft huff of laughter accompanied his rueful smile. “Your cleverness draws rather too much of my attention to your mouth.” His gaze slid from her eyes, tracing the contours of her face before settling on her parted lips. “The way it curls with unexpected delight each time you’ve won at something and you know everyone in the room can see it.”

She felt the brush of a fingertip over her lower lip, gentle and undemanding.

“I would very much like to kiss you, Gwen. May I?”

With his other hand, he tucked a curl behind her ear before his palm, large and warm, settled against her jaw.

“Y-yes?” she stammered, without a trace of the conviction currently singing through her veins.

“Was that a question?”

“Yes. I mean—no. It was not.”

He stared down at her, sober and pensive, his body absolutely still but for the petal-soft stroke of his thumb. “Good.”

Despite the permission she’d given him, Michael moved more hesitantly than she’d expected. Or perhaps not hesitantly, but deliberately. Just getting to the kiss seemed to be an experience in its own right, as if this part were every bit as important as what would come next. The touch at her jaw slid away, his fingers trailing over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm to clasp her hand. He twined his fingers snugly with hers.