Part 15 (1/2)

For G.o.d's sake, what had he done to make her cry?

He'd admit that he had little experience with women on an everyday basis, and none at all with a woman confronting the sort of personal upheaval that was now facing Francesca. But he'd never imagined she'd behave like this with him, not at all, and he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before he trusted himself to answer.

He did not wish to become mired in a full-fledged quarrel with her here on the beach in full sight of his crewmen, nor was there time to squander on such folly. But he couldn't let her continue like this without risking out-and-out disaster, both for the success of the evening's mission and for themselves as husband and wife.

Husband and wife: What devil had claimed his senses for him to believe in such a half-witted notion, anyway?

”Miss Robin,” he said firmly. ”Francesca. We will discuss all of this further when we are alone, and when, of course, you will be permitted to speak. I would not wish otherwise for my wife. However, for the sake of your safety, you now must do as I ask, and do it without comment or objection.”

”Your wife, oh, yes, yes, your wife.” She bowed her head and her shoulders sagged, her whole body seeming to surrender forlornly before his order. ”All I want, Edward, is to be myself, the way I always have before. But I don't belong anywhere now, do I? What do I have left to show of my life?”

”Blast, Francesca, you have me!”

”Do I?” Her face was a pale, troubled oval turned up toward him. ”Do I really?”

”Aye, you do,” he answered with more conviction than he'd realized he'd felt. ”You have me, and as for your place, yours is now beside me in the sternsheets of that boat.”

She glanced back over her shoulder as if seeing the boat for the first time, then turned again toward him, hugging her arms around herself beneath her cloak.

”Oh, Edward,” she cried wistfully. ”What am I to say? O, per favore, what am I to do?”

That much he could answer. ”You are to climb into that boat directly, else I shall carry you there and put you onto the bench myself.”

”You would?” She made an oddly endearing sound, a gulp of an anxious giggle. ”I have but this one pair of shoes with me, you understand. They are already quite filled with sand, and I-I cannot afford next to soak them in the sea as well.”

He had an instant, vivid image of her feet in the bright silk slippers that Neapolitan women favored, delicate shoes with high curving heels and flirtatious ribbon bows on the toes. She would wear shoes like that, with the thinnest white stockings that would be as good as transparent if she got them wet in the seawater. He thought of pulling them off for her himself, of resting her little foot on his knee and lifting her skirt to untie her garter and sliding his hand along the curve of her ankle, higher, along her calf, above her knee to the soft, warm skin of her thigh, higher, and higher still....

”If those shoes are your only pair,” he said, his voice strained, ”then we can't get them wet, can we?”

He looped his arm behind her knees and swept her from the sand. Though she gasped with surprise, she instinctively linked her arms around his shoulders to steady herself.

”This-this shall suffice, Edward,” she said breathlessly, holding herself very still in his arms. ”To help me into the boat, I mean.”

”And to keep your feet dry,” he said, though his overeager imagination had already moved far beyond the thought of her little slippers.

He had never carried a grown woman before, and though she wasn't particularly heavy in his arms, he hadn't realized how familiar a position this could be. He had obviously touched her before in small, social ways-offering her his arm, adjusting her cloak-but holding her in his arms intimately pressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his arm and her hips and bottom against his chest. He could hardly ignore how insubstantial her stays and petticoats must be beneath her gown, or how, as a result, he was acutely aware of holding so much soft, yielding, fragrant female flesh so close to himself.

No, not simply female flesh, but Francesca's, the woman he had promised to marry, but not to bed.

d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n.

0=”6”6.

It was, thought Edward grimly, bound to be the next wonder of the entire fleet, and endless entertainment for them all, too. Admiral Nelson's indiscretion with Lady Hamilton would be relegated to old t.i.ttle-tattle, and instead the gossip would be focussed on how exactly Captain Lord Ramsden, who'd always forbidden loose women on his s.h.i.+p, had gone and married one.

”Handsomely now, and mind you keep your petticoats clear,” he cautioned as he lifted Francesca over the side and into the boat. Awkwardly she settled herself on the bench, tucking her feet up to keep those infernal slippers of hers out of the muck in the bottom of the boat.

”Bene,” she announced with resignation. ”I am ready, Edward.”

”Indeed,” replied Edward briskly, all he could think to say. He swung himself into the boat, and when he came to sit beside her on the bench, she didn't s.h.i.+ft away from him as he'd expected, but let her hip and leg remain touching his. Granted, there was no real room for them to keep apart on the narrow bench even if she'd wished it, but feeling that soft female hip pressing gently against him was enough to raise his overeager imagination to a simmer again.