“Well, I have wanted you to kiss me.”
“Since when?” he demanded.
“Yesterday,” she answered with no embarrassment whatsoever and he rather liked that she was direct.
“Yes, well, that was when I started considering the idea.”
“If we just kissed and got it over with, neither one of us would need to think about it again.”
He chuckled. “You assume that you will not like kissing me.”
“Or you might not like kissing me.”
He found that difficult to believe. “Well, if your theory is correct and we kiss and both hate it, then all will be well.”
“Yes, and we can stop thinking about it and worry about the French.”
“What if we both like kissing?” He asked, because he was certain that they would.
“We will not!”
“If you are so certain then why did you ask if I will call on you, unless you do not want me to.”
“Oh, but I do.” Tempest straightened her spine and turned to face him more fully.
“Why, if we do not like kissing?”
This seemed to perplex her, given she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as if she were considering the matter.
“Then we should determine now before you visit for no reason.”
“I am not kissing you.”
“Why not when you want to?”
“Because you have had too much rum.”
“Why should that matter?”
“Because it happens to matter very, very much.” He turned her and she settled back, her head on his shoulder. “I promise you that when we finally kiss that we will both like kissing each other very much, but it will not be now, and it will not be tomorrow. In fact, it will not be until we are both off this bloody island and when that happens, it will be a very thorough kiss that you will never forget.”
Those had been his last words before Tempest fell asleep on his shoulder, and he had taken her inside and put her to bed.
Nicoll gave him a plate of food, which he enjoyed while sitting on the terrasse. He then took what remained of the bottle of rum and retired to his hammock. However, when he had awakened, what she had told him still lingered.
Not the part about kissing but her guilt and being frivolous. He would have laughed but it was something she truly had taken to heart.
The ship had been sunk because somehow the French had learned that The Francis, captained by Goodard and owned by Tempest’s uncle, was not just a smuggling ship. Had that been all it was, the French would have confiscated it instead of sinking it, and Tempest and her sisters just happened to be aboard it. No doubt, the cutter would have still been in the vicinity because they were due to exchange letters with Rhys the day he had arrived back at the hut or the following day.
As for taking up seats in the ship’s boat that could have been occupied by the sailors, maybe that was true, but it still was not her fault. None of it was.
He also could not blame her for wanting to be frivolous, and wanting something that misses in London enjoyed every Season and summer without thought that others are not as privileged as them.
Tempest had never been allowed the opportunity to dream of balls and courtships and callers. She was too busy managing a household and looking out for her sisters. She became responsible before she should have been out of the school room and it shaped who she was.
And, if the men who had judged her so harshly only saw what he had those first two days, he understood, but it was also a lesson not to judge too quickly because there was much depth to Tempest, and he suspected passion and humor. She had just never been allowed to be free enough to enjoy herself.
Tempest woke to pounding in her head and a disquiet in her stomach.
