He almost missed the subtle change in the air. At first, he thought the cold wind a sudden sea breeze, but the air had gone oddly still. The strangeness had him pausing. He glanced at Talent. The man’s eyes narrowed as he peered out over the sea. He felt it too, then. In the next moment, distinct cold surrounded Winston. Colder and colder, until his breath came out in a puff.

Talent backed up a step. “What the bloody hell?”

Winston opened his mouth to answer when a faint crackling sounded. Before their rather shocked eyes, a lacy ribbon of frost began to race over the rail. Winston snatched his hand back as white fingers of ice spread out in rapid fire, covering everything in its path. Around them came the sound of confused murmurs.

The crackling sound grew as the temperature dropped to frigid. And then the great ship groaned and shuddered. Winston and Talent both leaned over the rail and looked on with fascinated horror as the water about the ship turned to thick, unimaginable ice, and the bloody ship began to rise, trapped as it was within the ice’s clutches.

Talent’s mouth fell open. “Bugger me.”

Winston was inclined to agree. “Come.” He plucked Talent’s sleeve to get the man’s attention. “To the port side.” Something was coming. He could feel it.

Stumbling and treading with care along the slick, icy deck, they made their way to the port side, shouldering past gawking passengers, most of whom milled about in a frightened and confused state. Crewmembers called for order, stumbling along much like Winston and Talent, as they tried to figure out what was happening.

“Look,” said a young girl. “Someone is boarding the ship.”

Several people shot to the rail and craned their necks to see.

Winston and Talent followed suit. The gangplank, which had been in the process of being removed, had been frozen in place. A woman strolled, pretty as you please, up it. Winston’s heart flipped over in his chest. He drank her in, the steady clip of her legs beneath a fetching gown of black and white stripes, the determined set of her shoulders. A matching parasol obscured her face, but he’d know that walk anywhere. Christ. His body hardened painfully.

As if she felt his eyes upon her, the parasol tilted back, and she lifted her head. Even though he had to be a mere dot among the throng from her vantage point, she found him immediately. Those severe red brows, that dark, knowing gaze. A bolt of pure heat and lust shot through him, strong enough to make him suck in a draught of air. Bloody. Buggering. Hell.

An old gent beside him scowled beneath white, shaggy brows. “Who the deuce is that?” he asked no one in particular.

“Trouble,” muttered Talent, his glare fixed on the young lady walking at Poppy’s side. Winston recalled her as Mary Chase, assistant to Daisy Ranulf.

Winston did not know how Poppy had found him, or what the devil she was doing here. The only thing that he knew with absolute certainty at that moment was that Talent had been correct. Here came trouble.

Getting onboard had been a bit of a… spectacle. It could not be helped. Poppy wasn’t about to watch the blasted ship sail away. Upon meeting a very harried looking first mate, who wanted to know what the devil was going on, she handed him Archer’s card and letter of introduction, which simply told the captain that Poppy was to have carte blanche while aboard, bless her brother-in-law.

“Bring this to your captain and have someone see to my trunks. They are to be placed in Mr. Winston Lane’s cabin directly.”

Her little show had taken almost all of her energy. And she would need so much more of it before the day was out. The first mate’s befuddled gaze went from her to the ice surrounding the boat and back. With an inward sigh, she addressed him once more. “Yes, it is rather strange weather we’re having. Now,” she nudged him with the tip of her parasol, “you’re dawdling, sir. I suspect your captain will want an update.”

Twitching as if coming out of a trance, the man finally glanced at the card. As it belonged to the owner of the ship, he started before giving her a curt nod. “Yes, madam. Of course. Welcome aboard.”

He promptly left. As soon as he did, Poppy pulled in a long, deep breath and closed her eyes. The air about her warmed, and with a final pull of power, the ice that held the ship captive dissipated, causing the air to mist. The ship shuddered and swayed a bit, and a good many of the passengers shouted. Gods, but it hurt more to rein in her power than to set it free.

Miss Chase caught her elbow as she wavered. “Very well done, Mum.”

“Child’s play.” Poppy straightened her spine. “Now to the real task. My husband.”

Poppy found Winston as the ship left the harbor and the throngs of people dispersed, happy now to have gained something to speculate over for hours. He was by the rail of the first class deck where she’d initially spotted him. Waiting for her. The sight of him in the flesh was too much. He was the sun on a cloudless day, burning bright, making her vision blur. Would he speak to her? What would he say? Three months. Three months of not seeing him, not hearing his voice.

He stood, not in his usual straight-backed manner, but slouched against the railing in indolent repose. Watching. Like a leopard lazing in his perch.

The man she knew as Winston Lane had been lithe of form, his wheat blond hair swept back and neat, his mustache always trimmed and a point of pride. She remembered the day he started to grow one. It had been the same day he’d joined the CID. Most Yardmen wore mustaches, and thus, he announced, so would he. And while she’d missed the smooth feel of his upper lip, it had looked quite distinguished so she did not complain. But that elegant man was gone.

The man who faced her now had much broader shoulders and arms swelling with muscles evident even beneath his loose-fitting sack coat. His once short and orderly hair was a shaggy mess, hanging about his face, which she surmised had been in an attempt to hide his maiming. It hurt her to look at those four parallel scars that ran down the left side of his face. Archer had done a neat job of stitching, but the scars were still vivid red and taking up the whole of his cheek, the cruelest one tugging the corner of his upper lip into a permanent sneer. His beloved mustache was gone, the scar obviously making wearing one difficult now. Poppy wondered if he mourned the loss.

The wind shifted, and she caught his scent, a mix of clean wool, fragrant smoke, and him. For a moment, she was dizzy with it. His scent hadn’t changed. She hadn’t realized how very much she had missed it.

Their gazes clashed, and it was like a physical blow. She knew this man. She knew the texture of his skin, where it was silky smooth just above his collarbone and where it was rough along the length of his thighs. She knew the cadence of his breath, deep and even in sleep, and how it rasped in passion. She knew that a little furrow would form between his brows and he would bite his bottom lip just before he came. And he knew her. For a moment, the ghost of his voice was in her ear, whispering words designed to take her to the brink, “Spread your legs wider, sweeting. Show me how much you can take. Come for me.”

It took a supreme act of will not to blush beet red.

Winston settled more comfortably against the railing as she came close.

“Poppy.” His voice was a shadow of itself, smoky and faint. Her eyes went to the thick scar at his throat, just visible above his collar. Archer hadn’t mentioned the possibility of permanent damage there, but the wound clearly affected him.

“Win.”

The corners of his eyes tightened. She’d used her private nickname for him. A name that had never failed to soften him in the past. She clutched the handle of her parasol harder. Ye gods but this was awkward. The well-thought-out explanations she’d planned flew from her head, and she blurted out the first inane thing that came to mind. “You’re here.”

Blast.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and she might have thought him amused were it not for the hardness of his expression and the bunching of his shoulders. “Astute as always, my dear.”

Heat washed over her cheeks, and the air about her turned a shade colder. The bloody obnoxious… At his side, Jack Talent made a coughing sound and wisely looked down at his feet.

Poppy decided to take the high road as it were. “May I introduce my assistant, Miss Mary Chase.”

At that, Talent’s head lifted, and his mouth flattened. Winston, however, sketched a graceful bow. “We’ve met before at Ranulf House. Miss Chase, a pleasure as always.”

Poppy had expected him to say more, but her errant husband was uncharacteristically abrupt. Pressing her lips together, she gave a nod to Talent. “Good to see you, Mr. Talent. I trust you are well.”

“As well as can be expected, madam.” His dark green eyes cut to Winston. “Given my pleasant travel companion.” He ignored Winston’s raised brow and smiled unexpectedly. The action transformed his usually dour face and lit him from within. “You make a welcome addition, Mrs. Lane. Unfortunately, you must excuse me as I have trunks to unpack.” The smile died. “Miss Chase.”

“Mr. Talent.” Mary all but gave the man the cut direct as she abruptly turned and touched Poppy’s elbow. “Madam, I shall go see us settled as well.”

Poppy waited until Mr. Talent was gone then leaned in close to Mary’s ear. “I suspect you might want to take a promenade first or run the risk of meeting Mr. Talent once more.” For they were sure to meet in the suite Poppy had taken over. Wisely, Mary nodded then drifted off, catching nearly every male eye in the vicinity as she went.

One pair of male eyes, however, remained fixed upon Poppy. She forced herself not to fume under Winston’s stare. After he was attacked and realized that she was one of the SOS, he hadn’t even waited for an explanation. That more than anything made her livid. To simply turn his back on fourteen years without a word. But on the heels of fury came a deep, writhing guilt. She’d lied to him all those years. Lying to a man who despised falsehoods and trusted her above all others was a recipe for disaster. Now they were worse than strangers, and she had no idea how to begin the conversation.

“You look well,” he said, surprising her. His cold gaze traveled over her dress, and she felt the urge to fidget. “Different. Did you always dress as such?” His jaw tightened. “When you weren’t with me, that is?”

The accusation made her spine stiffen. “Of course not. I detest fancy gowns, as you well know. It is Miranda’s gown. She and Daisy tossed a pile of her things together for my use. I am to appear a refined lady on holiday.” “Refined” was so far from Poppy’s true self that even she could not say the words without wincing. “Try to accept the farce.”

“I’ve come to accept many farces where you are concerned. One more will do no further harm.”

“You are determined to make this difficult.”

“I am determined to speak the truth. If the truth proves difficult for you, that is no fault of mine.”

A ribbon of ice crackled along the railing. Win glanced at it, and speculation crept over his features but, when he turned back to her, his expression was once again implacable and righteous.

With effort, she reeled in the need to freeze over the entire deck. “It shall be no difficulty. Indeed, I relish the opportunity to face the truth, not turn from it and hide away.”

Oh, but that got him. His chin lifted so that the light fell directly on the ruined side of his face. Had she thought he was hiding behind his over-long hair? She’d been wrong on that count. His blue-grey eyes, so like deep ice on a winter lake, held hers. He was waiting. Waiting for her to remark upon his scars. And so she studied them ruthlessly.

He did not flinch, nor look away, but a slight tightening of his mouth betrayed his unease. Poppy ignored that mouth. She had to or she would want to touch it with her own. She had always admired Win’s lips, the neat line of them and how they could be at one moment so very hard and unyielding, and in the next, utterly soft and beguiling. Instead, she looked at the scars.

The middle scar was slightly puffy, puckering his cheek, while the innermost one bisected his left eyebrow and the corner of his lip before ending at his chin. How it must have hurt. Her heart turned over at the memory of him ripped open and bloody. She had feared she would lose him then, never realizing that she already had.

The moment stretched. When his eyes narrowed in irritation, she shook herself out of maudlin thoughts and spoke. “You’ve healed well.”

The scars pulled as his brow knotted. “Yes.”

“Are you pained?” She didn’t know what else to say.

Again came the slight twitch in his jaw and the tensing around the corners of his eyes as if he were perplexed. “At times. It is more discomfort than anything.”

“I would expect as much.” Gathering her parasol—ridiculous accessory as it was neither sunny nor raining—she moved to go.

“That is all?” His scowl was growing.

Poppy stopped. “What were you expecting? Pity? Scorn? Tears?”

He made a sound. “I never expect tears from you.”

How wrong you are on that count.

“Nor do I want your pity.”

“Good. Because you don’t have it,” she said.

The scars on his face whitened, and though she loathed admitting it to herself, this new Win, slightly wild and angry, stirred her blood. Her voice was not as steady as she would have liked when she spoke again. “Your face is ruined. And what of it? Those who judge you for it are fools. You are alive, which is more than most of the others who met your attacker can say. Why then should I have cause to pity?”

His expression closed down, giving her nothing of what he might be feeling. “Right, then,” he said. “Enough about me. Have you come to do the pretty?”