by Sue London
“Excellent point,” he said, back to his usual energetic self. “You have a dress to finish and I need to figure out other ways to help you.”
“You can read to me,” she said.
“Scientific lectures? Really?”
She chuckled. “They weren’t the most exciting thing, no. You could tell me stories from your time at sea.”
He nodded and pointed at her for emphasis. “That I can do. I will gather some lanterns to brighten the work room while you unlock the front door.”
She stood and stretched. “No, I’ve decided to put a sign in the door.”
“What sign is that?”
“Closed to new business. Exclusive clients only.”
He laughed. “If they choose to shun you then you’ll tell them they aren’t good enough for you.”
“Something like that,” she admitted with a sheepish smile.
“I’d thought that London would drive you batty, but I’m beginning to think you would just drive them to their knees.”
He’d thought of her in London? His comment was the most outrageous yet amazing compliment. “If London is lucky they won’t have to find out.”
That made him laugh again as he trotted down the stairs.
What was she to do with him? He could kiss her silly one moment, and then cajole her to chat the next. And was capable of compliments that turned her insides to delighted mush. All while being so, well, so Reggie. Stubborn and pushy and too clever by half.
It had either been a terrible, terrible mistake to kiss him, or the smartest thing she’d ever done.
***
Reggie realized he wasn’t so much setting up her workspace as planning a possible seduction. Hadn’t he just counseled himself what a terrible idea that was? But that didn’t stop him from angling the seating to ensure she would see him clearly each time she looked up from her sewing. And making sure there were plenty of handy cushions available in case things progressed to the floor. It wasn’t so much that he was planning to bed her as he was making sure she would be comfortable if things turned out that way. He reminded himself that bedding led to marriage and his mind swerved away from that line of thinking.
He should really find out her thoughts on it, but he was unaccountably afraid to ask. What if she laughed in his face when he asked if she would consider marriage to him? He wasn’t a particularly callow man, having proved himself in battle a number of times. But what idiot chose a battle, especially knowing that the opponent held all the weapons. If he asked her if she wanted to marry him then everything hinged on her response. Not that he wanted to ask her, not really. Well, if he were to ask any woman it would certainly be her, but he really hadn’t planned to marry anytime soon. But now he was here, and she was here, and he thought he might go mad without her.
He forced himself to stop fussing and focus on reading more of the lectures on fluid dynamics that he’d been reading to her the night before. He actually became so absorbed in the topic he almost didn’t hear her enter the room. He jumped to his feet.
“Miss Walters.”
“Francie,” she corrected breezily while taking her chair.
“Francie.”
She actually closed her eyes when he said her name. “Say it again,” she asked. “I like hearing it in your voice.”
Damn the girl. She knew how to twist him around her finger. Well, two could play at that game. He walked over to her chair and leaned down close to her ear. “Francie,” he whispered.
Her answering sigh was like a siren’s call. “Reggie,” she whispered back.
Bloody hell, you weren’t supposed to be able to seduce a man in a dress shop. Especially after you shot him, berated him, and barely fed him for a week. Gods, she was worse than a gaoler and all he wanted was to taste her lips again. But did he really want to give up his bachelorhood because he’d stumbled upon the one woman in England who seemed destined to make him beg for her kisses? No, he jolly well did not. He’d meant to teach her not to play with fire, but found himself the one pulling back from being burned. After he retreated to his seat he found he couldn’t look at her directly.
“You wanted to hear stories of the high seas?” His voice sounded a bit strained, and he fiddled with his journal as though deciding where to set it down was of utmost importance.
“Yes, please.” Her voice sounded perfectly fine. Well, perhaps a bit breathless, but that was all the more appealing.
He finally decided to tuck the journal under the settee and then stretched out as though he were perfectly relaxed. It was as terrible lie, but one he’d learned to establish at his mother’s receiving hours. Certainly this could be no more taxing. At least here he didn’t have society matrons looking him over as marriage material, much like a gentleman might look over a horse for auction.
He scratched his chin and said, “One particularly amusing anecdote ends with Harry passed out and Wally with the Union Jack down his trousers. Would you care to hear that one?”
She laughed and glanced up from her sewing for a moment. “And what terrible thing happened to you?”
“Oh no,” he said. “I’m the hero of the piece. You’ll see.”
He wove a tale that was two parts reality, and one part things to make her laugh. He left out the sordid bits, of course. The death, the unpleasantness. He found that he enjoyed being able to watch her as she sewed, her face animated in her reactions to his story. He wasn’t quite sure yet what he felt for her, but was concerned that it was something more than simple attraction.
“Then what did you say?” she prompted when his narrative lagged. He’d been so absorbed in watching her that he’d actually lost the thread of what he’d been saying.
“What do you think I said?” he asked to cover for his addled state.
She laughed. “I know what I would have said. They could have the coconuts over my dead body!”
“Well, of course, that’s precisely what I said.” He’d said no such thing, of course. The situation had actually been more dire than he’d painted it for her. But just now, watching her laugh, the sting of the memory lessened. He felt an ease that had been long missing in his life and was unaccountably happy.
Chapter Fourteen
Francie found that spending a day sewing while chatting with Mr. B… Reggie was quite fun. She loved her cousins, she truly did, but the three of them had banded together like injured strays. This was the sort of laughter she remembered from her childhood. Full bellied laughter from outrageous things. She knew that Reggie was making up a good half of the things he was telling her but it was such fun! The rest of the day had flown by. And somehow they had kept from revisiting their kiss from earlier.
When he’d leaned down to whisper her name in her ear. Lud! She could still get goosebumps just thinking about it. She’d thought he would kiss her again. She wasn’t sure quite what she should do. It was entirely impractical to court his attentions, but now that she’d kissed him she couldn’t imagine never doing so again! She knew that made her a bad person, that she now entirely deserved the shunning of the respectable women in town. But looking into his eyes she simply didn’t care. Let them gossip. Let them shun her. Let them do whatever they liked. They could all go hang for all she cared. For now, for this one little island in time, she had Reggie. Frustrating, attractive Reggie Burnham. She would be a fool to push him away, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she regret it for the rest of her days? She’d never met a man who sparked half so much interest from her. Now here he was nearly offering himself up on a plate for her selection. Would she, like at the viscount’s breakfast table, be too shy to take what she really wanted? She’d been bold enough earlier to demand his kiss. The way he responded told her that he found her attractive, too.
But where would it all lead? If he’d felt honor bound to offer for Phoebe simply because a friend’s sister was in danger, what would he do if they were to let their relationship go beyond a few kisses? The answer to that seemed obvious. And frustrating. She didn’t want to t
rap him in a marriage he didn’t want. She wasn’t even sure she would want to be married to him. He was far too autocratic, and Lord knew she would have to get along with his mother and what if his mother was one of those insufferable wealthy women who thought that everything she said or did was the very best thing? Francie had seen enough of that sort in Cleadon to avoid them like the plague. She would hate to be related to one, even by marriage.
She was, she knew, putting the cart well before the horse. He’d not so much as kissed her again, much less proposed soemthing so preposterous as marriage. Was it wise to worry about these sorts of things in advance? What his mother was like, his sisters. Where they would live, what she could find to do in Bermuda. Would the sun bother her overly much? She could wear bonnets and long sleeves. It would probably be best to wear long sleeves as often as she could to cover her tattoo. Certainly an officer’s wife shouldn’t brandish such a mark openly. There she went again. Cart. Horse. And what did she know about being an officer’s wife anyway?
“Do you need the scissors?”
His voice jolted her out of her thoughts. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at that piece of embroidery for better than five minutes. I thought perhaps you needed to cut that section out and start again.”
He noticed her staring? She’d noticed him watching her all afternoon. “No, I think my eyes are just tired.”
“Do you need to go lie down?”
Hearing him talk about her bed, even indirectly, sent a thrill down to her toes. She was a terrible person! Her mother never raised her to be such a trollop! “Perhaps that would be best,” she said, ready to bolt from the room before she did something unwise like walking into his arms again. Was it really just a few hours before that they’d been on that settee kissing as though they were drowning and their only hope was from each other? Her hand fluttered to her throat.
His brows lowered in concern. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“Not exactly. Not really.”
He stood when she did, but only watched her leave the room, his eyes hooded. Every step away from him felt more leaden. Once in her room she truly did feel exhausted, but mostly from the effort required to walk away from him. She knew that magnets could pull a compass dial true north. She imagined they felt just as she did now. Irresistibly drawn. If she lived another thousand years she wasn’t sure she would ever do anything as difficult as walking away from him this evening.
***
Bloody hell. He didn’t know how impossibly hard it could be to watch a woman walk away until tonight. What would he do when this interlude was over? When one of them was expected to walk away for good? Bloody God damn hell. He stalked around the shop, checking the doors and windows. He almost wished that one of the bloody bastards would try to break in tonight. Stitches be damned, he could use a good fight. He wished, really, that he had someone to talk to. Of all his friends and family it was, ironically, only Wally he could have considered confiding in. Harry saw everything as black and white too often. Wally always saw the shades of gray and the absurdities. Faced with this situation he knew that Harry would say, “Then marry her.” But Wally? Wally would sip on his drink, ponder for a while, and then say something insightful. Reggie wished he knew what in the bloody hell that might be right now.
He picked up the bottle of whiskey he’d bought off the pub keep for far more than it was worth. “Maybe this will lure you out, Wally,” he said to the room at large. He shook the bottle of amber liquid. “It’s worth a try at least.”
After pouring some into his mug he took a sip and sat back.
He definitely wasn’t feeling insightful. More than anything he was feeling horny. The age old question was whether he wanted her because he hadn’t had her, or if screwing her would actually make his addiction to her all the worse. He took another sip. Perhaps he should take matters into his own hands, as it were, to see if he could be more clear sighted on the topic of Miss Francie Walters.
By the third sip he was feeling significantly more mellow. Perhaps the whiskey was better than he’d thought? He could almost feel the rocking of the ocean waves underneath him again. Damn fine whiskey, perhaps. He took another long swallow before setting the mug aside and sinking down onto his pallet. As he fell asleep the thought floated through his mind, ‘Try not marrying her and see how that works out. Better yet, watch her marry another man.’
“Wally, you arse,” he mumbled before dropping off.
The nightmares started almost immediately. Some of them merely memories, like a nighttime battle at sea where the ship next to them sank and they had to listen to the screams of drowning sailors while barely able to tend to their own hides. Others were the sort of dreams where you ran through endless corridors desperately searching for something that you couldn’t find. You didn’t know what it was, only that it was important. He woke in fits and starts through it all. He was in a fight below decks when he heard his name. A girl. A mermaid? Her tone was confused at first, but she called out again sounding alarmed.
He awoke suddenly, drenched in sweat. Miss Walters, Francie, crouched over him looking concerned. His breathing was labored as though he’d been running or, well, fighting below decks.
She smoothed his hair back from his brow. “You called out.”
He relaxed back against the cushion and worked on calming his breathing. How long had it been since someone had checked on him in the night? Had felt his brow for fever and fussed over him? He’d been in the nursery. Even when he was sick with dengue his care had been diligent but remote. The last person who tended to him so gently had been his nurse back home. Not even his mother. He stared up into Francie’s sweet face. “Nightmares,” he said simply.
She nodded. “They can be the worst.”
Without further fussing she simply lay down next to him, tucking herself up against his body. Her head fit perfectly against his shoulder, and her arm across his chest provided a lovely warmth. Cleadon was horribly cold at night, even with the spring coming on. He would have thought that having her so close would preclude any further sleeping, but he found himself drowsy within moments. She could not only drive him mad with desire, but comfort him effortlessly. Having her in his arms felt as natural as breathing. Watch her marry another man? He’d sooner face an armada in a row boat.
He drifted to sleep as content as he could remember being.
Chapter Fifteen
Francie decided she knew what heaven was. It was warm, first of all, and it smelled faintly of a citrus cologne. It also seemed inclined to fidget once awake.
“Good morning,” she said, unwilling to open her eyes yet. If she didn’t open her eyes then the day hadn’t really started, and she didn’t have to face the fact that she’d sprawled all over a man she wasn’t married to. Yes, it had started innocently enough with her wanting to comfort him. She knew how terrifying nightmares could be, and that they were all the worse when you had no one to hold close. But the result was that she had slept next to him, was still entangled with him, and she didn’t want to let go. If a friend told her of just such a circumstance she would be shocked and advise the friend to stop such foolish behavior immediately.
“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was husky with sleep and rumbled in his chest so that she could feel it as well as hear it. She loved that. She loved his deep voice, and when he was speaking softly for only her to hear it made her tingle down to her toes. Not that there was anyone else here to hear him, but it still made her feel special.
It was probably time to admit, at least to herself, that she was terribly, madly in love.
She tested the thought in her mind and it made her smile. He was infuriating and at times crass, but somehow he was hers. Her mother had never pushed her at men with an expectation of marriage. On the contrary she would talk about the importance of love and respect. But Francie was at least a little suspicious that Mama decided to try her hand at matchmaking from heaven.
She pushed herself up on her elbows. “W
hen did you decide to bring Wally’s things home?”
He raised a brow. “Decide? It’s not something you decide. We had to wait until we had the proper leave to do so.”
Love was, it seemed, inconvenient as she almost lost the thread of what he was saying. She was distracted from his words as she admired his handsome face and thought how dear he was becoming to her. Sad, addled thoughts! “How does one get proper leave?”
“Well, a number of things need to happen. Honestly we didn’t think our assignments would align until the last moment.”
“And then everything fell into place?”
He smiled at her as though she was being a bit strange. “You could say that.”
She rested her head on his chest again with a satisfied sigh. “You can’t fight destiny.”
His body tensed, the sort of wary stillness seen between predator and prey. Dammit, she shouldn’t assume that her own budding amor meant that he felt that way about her.
She recovered with. “Clearly you were both meant to save Phoebe and Lydie from their father’s terrible machinations.”
His body relaxed a bit and he rubbed idly at her back with his thumb. “I’m glad that we arrived when we did.” He chuckled ruefully. “Well, perhaps not at the exact moment we did. I’d like to think you don’t fire upon every man who enters your shop.”
She had to chuckle as well. “You’re the first.”
“Well, at least I’m your first,” he said in a teasing rumble. “Can we hope your only?”
Even Francie in her innocence could hear the double entendre from his question. Or so she thought. Should she assume? Was he asking to be her one and only in other ways? Her body tingled from the possibility. “We can hope,” she said noncommittally.
“What are we doing today?” he asked, changing the subject. Here she was thinking about kisses and love and he was thinking about how to plan their day.