Adrian lay in his bed, his head throbbing in time with the gusts of wind outside, but the pain was a mere distraction compared to the turmoil of his thoughts. His mind kept replaying the events of the morning. The sensation of waking with Oliver's warm, soft body pressed against him.

It had felt too right, too natural, to have her in his arms. As if she belonged there. He could still feel the gentle swell of her bottom nestled against his hips...

With a groan, he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes in an attempt to banish the unbidden memories. This was madness. The impropriety of his thoughts—his reactions to her—was embarrassing. He shouldn't be lusting after his cabin boy, even if his cabin boy happened to be a woman.

And yet, he couldn't deny the pull. The way his heart raced when she was near, or the way his skin tingled at her touch. The more and more insistent daydreams of ridding her of her disguise layer by layer to discover the treasure within.

It was maddening how she refused to break and admit her true identity no matter the challenges he threw at her. Not that he could indulge his desire for her even if she did confess. He was responsible for her as her captain. To take advantage of that would be an unforgivable breach of trust. Not only to her but to Rain, who had entrusted her to his care.

Though the duchess could bloody well have told him the truth. Had she really believed he wouldn't realise?

Would it be so wrong? He tried to ignore the small, traitorous part of him whispering in the back of his mind. Oliver was a grown woman, one who had chosen to embark on this deception of her own free will. Decided to brave the ocean to cross the Atlantic. Surely, she was capable of making her own decisions, of knowing her own mind and heart. If she happened to want him as he wanted her...

No. He couldn't allow himself to think like that. It was a dangerous path that could only lead to ruin. For both of them. He didn't know who she was. If she was an innocent, like he suspected, he definitely needed to steer clear. Maybe if she was a young widow...

Damn it all to hell. He must stop thinking about her.

Determined to distract himself from thoughts of Oliver, he forced himself to focus on the ship. He needed his first mate to give a report on how much damage had been wrought by the storm. Outside, he could hear the shouts of his crew as they worked to make repairs. They needed him out there. What help was he to his crew if he lay trapped in bed?

Frustration surged through him. He was the captain, damn it. It was his duty to be on deck, overseeing the efforts to get his ship back in shape. Not lying here like some pampered lord, waited on hand and foot by his too-attractive cabin boy. And Oliver had gone to fetch some food, so wasn't there to make him remain in bed.

He pushed himself up with a grunt, ignoring the way the room spun around him. There had to be something he could do. Even if it was just to stand on deck and shout orders. He couldn't bear another moment of this forced inaction.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he reached for his trousers, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings. It was a struggle to pull them on, his balance still off from the blow to his head. But he gritted his teeth and persevered, determined to make himself somewhat presentable. He couldn't very well go out on deck bare-arsed.

After he had to pause several times with his head swimming and his stomach churning as he moved, he had to resign himself to only wearing the trousers. Pushing through with a stubborn need not to let his injury best him, he made his way towards the day cabin. The floor shifted beneath his feet, and he had to grab onto the back of a chair to steady himself as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Damn, maybe this hadn't been his best idea.

He remembered the bottle of brandy in his desk. A drink. That's what he needed. Something to fortify him. To steady his nerves and dull the pounding in his skull. Yes, that was exactly it. Lurching across the room, he reached for the drawer with a shaking hand, but as his fingers closed around the neck of the bottle, a fresh wave of dizziness crashed over him.

The bottle slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor in an explosion of glass and amber liquid. The room spun around him and he grabbed for the edge of the desk as his legs gave way beneath him. Pain lanced through his head, sharp and blinding, and his stomach roiled.

Groaning, he slumped to the floor. His head fell forward, and he buried his face in his hands. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Couldn't stop the way the world tilted and whirled around him. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He'd faced down storms and battles. Had weathered injuries far worse than this. And yet, here he was, brought low by a simple blow to the head.

The sound of the cabin door opening barely registered through his haze of pain and nausea. But then a sharp gasp pierced the fog, followed by a cry of dismay.

"Captain! What are you doing out of bed?"

Oliver. Of course it was Oliver. He looked up, squinting against the light that stabbed at his eyes. She stood in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and concern. A tray of food in her hands. Embarrassment flooded him at being caught in such a state, on his knees amidst the wreckage of the bottle. Some captain he was, unable to even cross his own cabin without collapsing.

She hurried over to him and put the tray on the desk before helping him to his feet.

"You shouldn't be up," she chided softly, slipping an arm around his waist to steady him.

A fresh wave of dizziness made the floor tilt beneath him, forcing him to lean on her more than he liked. Had he not been feeling like he'd been keelhauled, he would have enjoyed the feeling of her body pressed against his side. Maybe it was for the better that he was ill, because his reactions to her presence were getting more and more difficult to ignore.

"I have to see what repairs are needed," he grit out as Oliver eased him down onto the bed. "As the captain, I should be out there, not—"

"You are injured," she interrupted, a note of steel in her voice, as she apparently had no compunction about ordering her captain around. "The crew is handling things, and Mr Hawkins appears to have everything in hand. What you need to do right now is rest and heal."

He wanted to argue, to insist that he was fine. But with the room spinning around him, it was a difficult argument to make. And when she leaned over him to probe the bandage around his head, any words died in his throat. The scent of her filled his nostrils. Salt and soap, and the lingering note of what he suspected was rose water. She must still be using small amounts of it when washing her face in the mornings. Having her so close, enveloped by her scent, made his head swim in a way that had nothing to do with his injury.

"Your bandages seem fine," she mumbled. "But your forehead feels hot. I think you might be running a fever. Please stop trying to get up, Captain. Get some proper rest."

"Fine." He wasn't sure he would be capable of getting up right then anyway, so he allowed her to tuck the covers around him.

"I will go clean up the mess you left in the day cabin. I will check on you in a few minutes."

Before he could reply, she slipped out of the quarter gallery, leaving him alone. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds of her moving about, while wishing his head would stop pounding and the nausea would subside. It felt as if his head was wrapped in a wad of cotton, and it was difficult to form coherent thoughts.

He must have nodded off, because the next thing he knew, Oliver was sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass in her hands.

"You should try to drink. I got some fresh water from the barrels because I don't know if you should drink alcohol with a head wound."

It took him a moment to even remember he was aboard his ship. His mind felt jumbled and slow. With Oliver's help, he raised himself on his elbows and took a few sips of water. When he lay back down, he stared up at her, marvelling at how gentle and caring she was towards him. How lush her lips looked and how beautiful she was.

His hand came up to cup her cheek before he had even registered moving it. Her skin was soft beneath his palm. So soft. "You're so pretty," he mumbled groggily, the words slipping out thoughtlessly.

Brushing his thumb over the delicate curve of her cheekbone, he smiled up at her. She stared back at him, her lips parted in surprise, and a flush staining her cheeks.

"Sir...?"

Reality crashed over him like a bucket of ice water. What was he doing? He couldn't say things like that to his cabin boy. Couldn't touch her like this. Quickly, he snatched his hand back as if burned, a hot flush of shame washing over him.

"I..." He hesitated, struggling to think between the embarrassment and nausea. "I apologise. I'm not...I'm not thinking straight. My head feels like it's been screwed into a vice."

But even as the words left his mouth, he could see the suspicion in the narrowing of Oliver's eyes. Damn it. He might have done it this time. Still, she didn't confront him, so she might not be sure yet.

"It's all right, Captain. Your head injury must be worse than we thought."

She busied herself with the blankets, tucking them in around him again with quick efficiency, but he didn't miss the furtive glances towards him. No matter what she said, she obviously suspected he might know her true identity.

Still, he refused to be the one to end this game. He still wanted her to confess who she was first. Once he recovered, he might have to push her harder. Maybe he could still salvage this and make her believe it had been a true slip of the tongue of a man with a head injury.

He would certainly do his best. Because there was no way he was losing this game.

~~~~~~