Atlantic Ocean near Ireland, 1680s
Faux honeymoon. That was the phrase scurrying around her mind; this time together, sailing, locked in his quarters, lying flesh to flesh in his bunk. Curse him, smirking whenever she called a wall a "wall" not bulkhead, the window "window" not port, and his comfy bunk a "bed."
"Are you listening? Aidan?" He stretched his big body and quirked one drowsy eye open.
"I'm happy and contented, woman, can yah not leave it at that?"
"But I-I know so little about your world, and it is quite a different world, fascinating, all open air and freedom. Granted, I've not been … 'topside,' is it? But…. Oh! What do your men know? Not that I care, as they're not gentlemen, and really, aren't sailors a kind of servant, except those the crown holds in service as virtual slaves, but they'd…. What? Why do you stare at me so?"
"You're quite energetic after bed-ridin', aren't yah?" She shrugged.
"Well, saucy sir, it HAS been a while, since…." Her incredible face saddened, and a part of him
was jealous of her hidden, longing memories of another man.
"You never took a lover, after you were widowed?" She frowned, plainly he'd hit a sore point.
"No. Not 'after' or 'before' nor during. My love, when given, is quite chaste. Surely you understand. I saw the relief on your face when I returned your silver cup."
She saw him wince, then she glanced at it now, it sat across the room in the place of secure honor, where he must plainly be able to see it directly before him whenever he sat to work. Was there another term for a sailor's desk, she'd have to ask, but later, as the cup practically sang in the light that reflected brightly off it like a fierce angel's....http://www.romantic4ever.com/romantic-fiction/becca-04.html
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