Francie studied Mr. Burnham surreptitiously. He seemed at his ease, as though in his own home. What was that ability that some had to settle in wherever they were? Francie wasn't certain she'd ever felt that settled here and it was her home. She'd always suspected her itch to move along, to travel, was something she inherited from her father. Even when he had a wife and young daughter to settle him down, he'd traveled for work. At first she'd thought it perfectly normal to have a father away all the time. Then she'd noticed that most of the local girls had fathers who stayed at home. Her mother used to say, 'The sea called him as a lad, and even now he needs to keep his feet wet.' While mum had been cheerful and philosophical about her husband's absence, as Francie grew older she clung to him more and more before he would leave. She would cry until her face was one large red blotch, making her cornflower eyes stand out in stark contrast. When she was eight she cried that one day he wouldn't be able to find his way home and he showed her how a map could always help him find her. She'd been enamored with the compass rose. It had power. It meant those you loved could never be lost. The next trip he'd brought her a map of her very own, with their home marked and his route on the river. Her fingers had traced over the path between so many times over the years that a dark stain showed the way home clearly.

But eventually her father hadn't come home. A letter had come instead, with apologies of an accident and a settlement for his widow. Momma had cried for days, dying all her best dresses black for widow's reeds. Francie had retreated to stare out the window where she always watched for her father's return, finger tracing over the map in a soothing reminder of his path. She'd been eleven years old.

In time momma returned to her normal disposition, sunny and determined. But Francie became obsessed with stories of men at sea. Pirates. His majesty's navy. Privateers. Whalers. Fishermen. Explorers. Whenever she encountered a compass rose in a book she paused to trace her fingers over it. It saddened her that it wasn't as magical as she'd originally thought it. But somehow the stories made her feel that she was still close to papa in some way. Just recently she'd read the account of a crew in the south seas, and their encounters with natives. Had her father ever sailed to a place so distant that a completely different people had been there? It was hard to imagine. She regretted that she'd never pressed him for stories of his travels. It never occurred to her at the time. He was just papa. But now she wondered where he'd gone, what he'd seen.

And, if she were honest, she wondered the same thing about Mr. Burnham. But it wasn't as though she could ask him. For one, she'd never talked to anyone about her love of seafaring stories. It was something she held close, almost as though it were her one surviving relationship with her father. For another, well, what was a man to think if she started asking him questions? That she was interested in him? She most certainly was not interested in Mr. Burnham. Even if her duty to check his healing wounds in Mr. Manners-Sutton's absence meant she saw rather a bit much more of him than any maiden should. And that she'd yet to fail to react to seeing his exposed skin. But, one could admire a horse without buying it. And that was precisely what she was determined to do. If his physique was remarkable, if his eyes were a rather fetching flecked golden brown, if his voice rumbled at just such a register that she could feel it in the pit of her stomach and it set butterflies to tumbling there, then such was life. It didn't mean she had to dangle after him.

Although perhaps that was precisely why she should ask him about his time at sea. He was just another route to the stories she loved so much. Nothing he said would mean much to her.

"Have you been to Bermuda before?" she ventured.

 

* * *

 

Reggie's attention came back to his dinner companion. Prior to this the term companion might have been browning the truth a bit. But now she had an actual question. Six more words, all strung together.

"Yes, we were serving in the war against the colony uprising and our primary station was on Irish Island."

"Irish Island?"

"It's been a key fortification for some time. There are plans to expand it, so I will be serving there after this leave."

"You won't be on a ship anymore?"

"Not often, I don't suppose. It will do my dear mother's heart some good," he joked.

"Were you in danger on the ship?"

He narrowed his eyes as though judging what he should say to her. "We were at war, you know."

Surprisingly, she leaned forward. "There are all sorts of jobs in a war, so I wasn't sure if your vessel saw any action."

He raised his brows, but perhaps he shouldn't be shocked that the little virago was at least somewhat knowledgeable of what war entailed. "Yes, some. I didn't point that out to my mother, of course, but she can read a paper as well as the next woman and recognized the name of our ship in some reports. It was, of course, particularly difficult for her if casualties were not named."

She nodded sadly. "It's terrible waiting for someone to come home, knowing that perhaps they never will."

Her tone had the ring of someone who had experienced it herself. He resorted to the same logic he used with his worrying mother. "But that's true for all of us. Terrible accidents happen every day. Yes, the chances are greater at war, I will grant you that. But the papers are full of those who died trampled by a horse or from an unexpected illness. Hell, it wasn't the guns that killed Wally, it was the same blasted fever I had only just recover from myself."

"You had the fever, too?"

He'd been lost for a moment in his remembrance. "Yes, but don't mention it to my mother."

She gave him one of those saucy smiles again he hadn't seen since his first few days here. "But then whatever shall we chat about over tea?"

That was an image. His mother, the viscountess, taking tea with this country mouse. Not that Miss Walters was without her charms, but her manners were definitely those of a girl raised in a small town. As he recalled, the Misses Walters and Grenard shared relatives on their mothers' side, daughters of a vicar. So the girls were passably well educated in the graces. But quite honestly he didn't think that Miss Walters could stand polite society. One too many veiled insults and the girl would most likely dump her tea down the dress of the minx trying to bait her. If Miss Walters were to go to London it was possible he should sell tickets to the event.

"I'm sure you could think of something other than my health," he observed dryly.

She braced her chin on laced fingers and said, "Perhaps I could if you told me more about Bermuda."

As she seemed genuinely interested he began. "It's quite hot and sunny, in a way that is almost impossible to imagine when you are in England. Even the hottest, sunniest day here is relatively drab by comparison. The water is unbelievably clear, with a pure, intense green like a chip of jade. All of the colors could only be described by comparison to jewels, they are so bright."

"Do you like it there?"

He laughed. "My work is there. I will be honored to serve with Rear Admiral Griffith, constructing a fortification that will serve our Navy for years to come. When I return I will lead the work on the foundations. As you might know, nothing is any stronger than the foundation it is laid on, so I am pleased they thought me equal to the task." He rolled his cup between his hands. "As for enjoying Bermuda itself? You must take the bad with the good. An Englishman is not predisposed to be so hot all the time. You can feel the sunshine burning into you, almost like a weight. But it is also beautiful in an almost shocking way. Some mornings you wake up and wonder how it is all possible, it is so different from where we came from."

"The pirates were reputed to bury their treasures in the islands," she said. "I can only imagine how strange it must have been going to the islands for the first time. As you say, so different from anything we would see here."

"Do you fancy the buccaneers?" he asked.

She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. "I'm intrigued. They are essentially highwaymen of the sea, yet they are romanticized. Why is a man who kills and steals on land to be reviled, but one who does so on water to be adored?"

"Well, first, I think it is more the passage of time that gives the pirate his glow. For instance, there is a highwayman you admire. Robin Hood. In their heyday pirates were hunted and hanged. It's only now, after more than a hundred years since their prominence, that we see them cast as tragic heroes. You can't compare the pirate of the 1600s to the highwayman of 1816. It isn't a fair comparison."

"I should have known that a Navy man would see the problem with pirates." She smiled. "And an Englishman would be able to cite Robin Hood so readily."

"You don't have a problem with pirates?"

She sat back again. "I've yet to truly decide." She grinned. "Perhaps if I met a few."

"That I sorely hope you do not do." He rubbed tenderly at his shoulder. "Although perhaps they will make you their queen."