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 trap 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.