Mr. Burnham's deep, rumbling voice in her ear made her shiver, but now he frowned at her. "A wound you gave me."

For all their convivial exchanges, it seemed that it didn't take much to make them snipe at each other again. "Thank you for the reminder. I shoot so many men it is hard for me to keep track."

She flipped her hands nonchalantly but that drew his attention. "You've blood on your glove," he said, catching her hand in his.

Having her hand clasped in his made her heart speed. "No matter. It will wash out. Most likely."

Before she knew what he was about he peeled off the first one and reached for the other. She clasped her hand closed to stop him.

"We should soak them to make sure the blood doesn't set," he argued.

"It's only on the one glove," she reasoned. "And we should wash your shirt as well."

'You know as well as I do that the gloves should be washed together." He was a stubborn man and set to pulling down the glove where it covered her wrist. He stopped short as she thought he might. "Is that... Do you have a tattoo?"

She knew that he was probably scandalized. What normal woman of British society would have a tattoo? "Yes," she said, her voice thin.

He pulled the glove the rest of the way off, as she no longer resisted, and stared at her wrist for a long time. "A compass rose," he said quietly, tracing his finger over it. "Why?"

She'd never told anyone about it and found that she didn't have the words now. "You could say it's how I grieve."

He looked up at her, his brow furrowed in concern. "Your mother?"

"And my father." She blew out a pent up breath. He seemed more curious than scandalized.

He turned his attention back to her wrist. "The artist didn't quite finish this part." His finger traced where the line tapered off near her hand and she trembled in response.

"It hurts a lot to work there, but I'll finish it yet."

"You did this yourself? No." His grin said more so than his words that he didn't believe her.

"Yes. I read about how it was done in a story about the one of the Pacific expeditions. I started small, just to see if I could make the ink hold."

He finally released her arm and chuckled. "You are, without a doubt, the most endlessly surprising woman I've ever met."

She couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing, but the way her tummy squeezed made her think it was bad. "Yes, well, I'm always glad to entertain."

"Who would expect to find a burgeoning pirate in the middle of Tyneside?"

"I'm not a pirate," she protested.

He leaned back on his hands and gave her an assessing gaze. "Says the woman who shoots first and has tattoos."

"That doesn't necessarily....," she trailed off and looked into his teasing gaze. "I do sound a bit like a pirate, don't I?"

He nodded. "I'm afraid you do. You'd best be careful, Miss Walters, because as a Navy officer it would be my responsibility to punish you for any piracy."

She wasn't sure exactly how, but his tone made the threat sound terribly naughty. "Well," she said a bit breathlessly, "what would you consider to be an act of piracy?"

"Stealing. Violence." He looked over at his shoulder and frowned. "Hmm."

She bit her lip and thought about that wall she'd stood on as a child. She'd visited it later and had to admit that it looked to be a scary fall. But there was bravery in innocence. She would try to capitalize on some of that ignorance of peril now. "Such as stealing a kiss?"

She didn't think she was breathing at all anymore. He tensed at her words and when his gaze returned to hers she felt herself tremble again. His eyes were narrowed.

"That would be a high crime indeed."

The uncertainty of what he meant drove her mad. Did that mean he wanted to kiss her? Or didn't want to kiss her? She decided to throw caution aside. If he thought her a pirate, then a pirate she would be. She put a knee on the settee and moved close to him. He didn't shrink away. She put her hands to his jaw to pull him near, as she'd seen Mama do to Papa from time to time. His skin was roughened with a day's growth of beard and felt scratchy under her palms. She had him, she thought, right where she wanted him. But she had to hope that he would kiss her because she really wasn't sure how one was supposed to go about that. For now they stared in one another's eyes, each breathing a bit harder than they had been before, as though they had just run up the stairs together. She felt his hand settle at her hip.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you going to steal that kiss?"

 

***

 

Reggie had spent the week telling himself, in increasingly difficult circumstances, that he would not compromise Miss Walters. This was, undoubtedly, the most difficult of circumstances. She was in his lap demanding a kiss. His control was very near to deserting him completely. The only thing keeping him in check was that, despite her boldness, her blue eyes had a keen fragility in evidence. As though she were made of fine china and he could easily do something harsh that would destroy her. After a moment of holding his gaze her's fell to his lips. She licked her own, then bit the top one as she seemed to do when thinking. What was there to think about? She was driving him mad with waiting. He was tempted to take control of the kiss, to show her what he wanted, but didn't want to scare her.

She finally leaned closer and settled her lips on his, tasting him so gently that it was like a butterfly wing. His hand tightened on her hip. She brushed over his lips again creating the barest of friction. The third time her lips clung to his and he responded with the same sweet gentleness. When he claimed her lower lip with a nibble she sighed and wrapped her arms behind his neck. He pulled her truly into his lap then, her knees at his hips while his arm wrapped behind her to hold her close. He'd never been so thoroughly seduced. He wanted this timeless moment of sweet kisses to never end. But he also wanted to possess her with an intensity he'd never known.

He deepened the kiss, gaining entrance to her mouth with teasing swipes of his tongue until she opened for him. She tasted of honey and ginger biscuits. This was heaven, she was heaven.

She made an impatient noise and he took that as license to kiss her as he'd been wanting to. She was pressed hard against him and he put one hand in her hair. He angled his head and coaxed her to roughen their play. She was easily tutored and the first time she sucked his tongue into her mouth he thought he would come, as he was already so hard it was a wonder he didn't split his breeches. He wanted to get her damned skirts out of the way so he could feel her pressed against his manhood. His hand was stroking up her thigh when she pulled back.

Gods, she was beautiful. Kiss swollen lips and slumberous eyes. This was what he wanted. Her, like this, forever. He should take her upstairs first. A bed. Their first time should be on a bed.

"Mr. Burnham," she said, her voice husky, "I don't believe you can punish me. I can't steal that which is freely given." She pushed herself to stand on unsteady legs and put her fingertips to her swollen lips. She held his gaze and damn him but she most likely didn't know how blasted seductive she was. It would take one step, precisely one step, to gather her against him again. This time he wouldn't stop until that pretty blue dress was stripped off of her. Until he could kiss every inch of her and claim her for his own. Disaster was so close that it was a heady sensation of its own, a weight pressing down on him as though from the heavens. If he took that one step it would change his life. If he took her to bed, then that was that. He would marry her.  He'd not put up with any excuses from her about wanting her independence. If she let him into her bed it was a completely foreseeable outcome.

He found it was almost impossible to think clearly with a raging hard on while staring at a thoroughly kissed angel, but he could at least see that. Bed meant marriage. Did he want to marry her? Just this moment it seemed a close thing that he might sell his soul for the right to pull down her dress and kiss her lovely bosom. He wasn't sure why at the moment, but that seemed a terrible exchange somehow. Would the pleasure of the moment be worth a lifetime of commitment? He'd hoped that such a question might douse the fire in him, but it showed no sign of abating.

She stumbled away on legs as unsteady as a colt's. "I've most likely burned the sausages."

Reggie thought it best not to follow her immediately. The bedroom was too close to where she cooked.