Part 27 (1/2)

”I'd rather have you here than let him say you sleep apart from your wife, which you know he will,” she countered. There'd be no secrets like that on a s.h.i.+p as small as the Antelope. ”We can sleep together in this bunk, can't we?”

Now he stared at her, his expression incredulous. ”We can?”

”I mean if we remain dressed, of course,” she said quickly, her cheeks burning. Her imagination was jumbling all sorts of wicked thoughts and memories together, how his mouth had tasted when they'd kissed, and how her body had responded with a will of its own the minute he'd touched her, and how standing this close to him in this tiny cabin was making her long to do it again. ”With our clothes on. And only to sleep. Sleep. We could bear that, couldn't we?”

He made a rumbling growl of doubt deep in his throat.

”Well, I could,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster, which wasn't really very much, considering. ”I can.”

”And I'd rather take my chances in a duel than lying with you like that,” he said. ”You're a temptation, Francesca, a powerful great temptation to my weak old soul. How much longer are we going to go on like this, eh?”

”Until-until London,” she said, for that was true.

But Edward, of course, couldn't know the truth. ”Oh, aye, London,” he said, his expression darkening. ”You wish to wait until I've word from the Admiralty, don't you? Wouldn't want to be shackled for life to some poor disgraced b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'll sleep elsewhere, my lady, thank you.”

”No, you won't, you great fool!” she cried unhappily, shoving at his chest with both her hands. ”You belong here, with me, because-because you are my husband, and I won't have anyone say anything ill about you, and-and because I would be frightened to stay in this place alone at night, without you with me!”

He caught her wrists, holding her hands against his chest. ”You, frightened, Francesca? I don't believe you're frightened of anything.”

”Then I'm a far better actress than I ever dreamed, Edward, because right now I'm frightened nigh to death.” She smiled unsteadily, knowing that if she'd any sense left she'd lift her hands from his chest and move away from him as fast as she could. ”And so, I think, are you.”

”Am I indeed.” He slid his hands down her arms, pulling her closer until her face-and her mouth-- was directly below his. A perilous place to be, she told herself sternly, yet she didn't move away.

”Oh, yes,” she said softly, swaying closer into him, her cloak falling open to include him inside. ”We're much alike, you know. We've both lost our moorings, and now we're adrift, aren't we?”

He frowned down at her, more bemused than antagonistic now. ”Adrift? Moorings? Where'd you learn to speak sailor-talk like that?”

”From you, mio marinaro,” she said, and when he bent down that last inch to kiss her, she welcomed him gladly, closing her eyes to let the desire build and simmer between them. She loved the way he kissed her, almost as much as she loved kissing him in return. Yet there was a bittersweet melancholy to this kiss as well that would be impossible to explain to anyone else, a sense that they shared more than longing alone.

”My charming Francesca,” he whispered gruffly, running his thumb along her cheek. ”What in blazes does marinaro mio mean, anyway?”

”My sailor,” she answered with a little squeak in her words as he trailed another few kisses along her jaw. ”Which you are. And I didn't misspeak, did I? About the moorings and such?”

”The moorings?”

Saints in heaven, how had he forgotten so soon? ”About us both being adrift, Edward,” she prompted, refusing to be as distractible. ”You have lost your Centaur, and I have lost my Napoli, and I cannot imagine a better description of cut moorings and being adrift than that.”

He fell silent, his mouth becoming a hard, harsh line of grief, and she knew he was dwelling on all that had befallen him these last twenty-four hours.

”Ah, sweetheart,” he said finally. ”At least we've been set adrift with each other, haven't we?”

”With each other, caro mio,” she echoed sadly. ”With each other.”

But only, alas, until London.

0=”10”10.

It was beginning once again, the same way it always did, and with the same dread certainty Edward knew he'd be as helpless to challenge and change fate as he had every other time before.

Seventeen French s.h.i.+ps, Napoleon's great fleet, attacked by twelve English under Admiral Nelson, yet the English were winning. Even through the disorienting smoke and fire that filled the night sky over Aboukir Bay, Edward had been able to learn that much from the messages read by his lookouts as, one by one, the French s.h.i.+ps of the line began to strike their colors and surrender, their masts shattered, their sails and rigging in rags, their crews slaughtered by the merciless English guns.