The hold was certainly not a quiet place, not at this late hour and full of snoring sailors, but the maid lying next to him seemed to have little problem falling and staying asleep, despite the noise. John lay on his back, fingers laced together over his belly, awake and trying to ignore the tempting, warm body to his left.

It was dark in the space where most of the crew hung their hammocks, save for a lone oil lamp which was kept alight so men could rise in the dark, if need be, and not stumble about and disturb their mates. The air was close, as could be expected from a space full of unwashed men, and he was unsatisfied with the notion of bringing the young woman along to bed down there, but there were no other acceptable alternatives.

The only other woman aboard was surely sleeping in the captain’s stateroom, so there would be no sending Brigit O’Creagh to sleep with her. If he left her to make up a bed in the galley she’d be left alone, and that would never do. He knew there were members of the crew who would sneak into the kitchens with an idea that they were being so very clever, to pilfer a midnight ration, and he wouldn’t leave her in there to be alone for one of them to come blundering in to find something other than the normal fare available for their perusal.

His sudden protectiveness for the girl made him screw up his face in the dark.

What is she to ye, John Bone? Ye met her only this morning, and now ye worry about protecting her honour? Who protected her from you?

The thought made him cringe, but only for a moment. She’d hardly seemed unwilling. In fact her kisses told quite the opposite story. And the way she’d said his name …  Again his breeches were becoming unnecessarily tight. She shifted in her sleep, her back to him, and he fought off the urge to roll onto his side and cover her in greedy hands and pent up lust. That seemed the way to treat a whore and he was beginning to realise he didn’t think of the young Brigit that way.