She sat. The chairs here in the cellar were even softer and more welcoming than the satin-finishedchaises longuesin his front parlor. Although the fire was small, its beauty and warmth combined with the chairs’ elegance and comfort to beguile its visitor into sitting and relaxing, and likely having another glass, and another.
“Here.” Jack handed her a crystal glass and poured an inch of thick red liquid. “If this is not the one, say the word, and I will open every bottle I have until we find it.”
She swirled the wine in her glass, marveling at its gorgeous texture and the way it shimmered in the firelight. Then she lifted the rim of the glass to her nose and inhaled.
Cedar and wet clay, as smooth and balanced as she remembered. She brought the glass to her lips and took a sip. The flavor coated her tongue, her throat, her heart. She closed her eyes and let it flow through her. It was not exactly her parents’ vineyard, but it was very, very close. It tasted like a favorite memory: a copy of the real thing, but the best she could have.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
He filled her glass, then set the bottle on her side of the table before reaching for a different bottle of wine.
She jerked in surprise. “You do not wish to drink something so perfect?”
“It’s yours.” His eyes crinkled. “I won’t rob you of a single moment’s pleasure.”
“You shan’t be.” She pushed the bottle toward him. “I cannot share my family’s vineyard with you, but we can share this.”
His eyes met hers. “All right. I would like that.”
She watched him pour a glass. “I suppose there is a funny story about how this wine ended up in your collection.”
“There is an exploit attached to each bottle in this cellar,” he admitted. “Some anecdotes more humorous than others. I obtained this particular bottle during my last voyage at sea.”
“When you gave up being a water smuggler for a land smuggler?”
“When I stopped being a privateer and became a papa,” he corrected. “Well, that and a patron of ethically murky international trade. Which, if you’re interested, pays better than the government pays its privateers.”
“Unless you do both?”
“Exactly.” His eyes closed as he took his first sip. “The war has not been easy on anyone. Many rural villages are shockingly poor. By paying them handsomely to help guide bottles like this one from the coast to whichever corner of England it’s needed, they can subsidize their wages and revitalize their local economy.”
“It is practically a public service,” she murmured.
He nodded. “I should be knighted.”
“You may not have heard this,” she said, “but war also has a demoralizing effect on one’s constitution. Wine, on the other hand—”
“And brandy!”
“—and champagne…theseare the indispensable medicines that can sustain a functioning society in hard times.”
He grinned at her. “After this governess bit, you might consider a career as a privateer. Or in politics.”
“And you might consider purchasing a vineyard.”
“I do consider,” he said fervently. “Every hour of every day. I have an imaginary farm that lives only in my head. I’m forever planting and bottling and labeling and tasting. It’s exhausting, and it’s not even real.”
“Why don’t you start one, then?”
“Besides the exhaustion?”
She nodded. “Besides that.”
“It’s too cold here. Cressmouth is winter half of the year. It’s beautiful and festive and Christmassy, but not conducive to planting grapes.”
“You could move,” she pointed out.
He shook his head. “Not until my children are grown and married. They love it here, and frankly it’s a parent’s delight. Scores of children to play with, without the dangers of crime and traffic. Everyone knows each other and helps each other. There are activities year-round; an entire castle at the village’s disposal. Most importantly, Annie and Frederick have no desire ever to leave.”
