She tried each in turn, while he continued to stare, as only he could, turning a chunk of apple over and over on his tongue, as if he were going to spit it out.

Except he had never ever stared like that in bed. On deck maybe, when presented with some situation he didn't like. Or on the quay when he wrangled over some chiseling supplier who'd wanted more than Flint was ever prepared to pay. But he never stared like this when confronted with the possibility of boarding a woman, ...