Yea or nay? A coin toss sent him to Portsmouth instead of Plymouth, which meant a sleepless ride via post chaise to Winchester, stopping once so he could be sick. Odd how the rocking motion of a chaise set him off, when gale-force winds at sea never did.
Winchester exceeded his greatest dream, or maybe nightmare, since he had no idea what Anna would say. The Bishop of Winchester spent a moment in fond reminiscence of the favour Cuthbert Collingwood had rendered him, then issued the licence. The bishop even waved him off from the cathedral. Done and done and John had the licence to prove it.
He slept to Portsmouth, where another Fast Dispatch Vessel got him to Plymouth in mid-afternoon. He was no prize. He needed a bath in the worst way, except that he didn’t care to drown in a tub when he fell asleep, despite the coffee. He reckoned he was a prime candidate for an insane asylum and every woman’s worst nightmare.
He paused a moment before entering the Drake, nodding to a few friends outside, wondering if there was any other way he could ruin Anna’s life. He decided there wasn’t, and opened the door.
There she was at the front desk, smiling at a post captain and his wife, and indicating the ledger for a signature. He was struck by the fact that, despite their brief and harried acquaintance, he’d remembered so much about her, starting with her beautiful eyes, and moving down to her pleasant bosom and trim waist when she turned to get the keys. He noticed something else about her that he wasn’t familiar with, a certain animation in her expression when she chatted and smiled. This was a woman in control of herself, despite all the misery he had heaped on her.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked across the lobby, mere locomotion as terrifying as a fleet action. Anna had turned back to the desk where he knew Mrs Fillion kept the hotel’s strongbox. He patted the common licence in his pocket, the frugal Scot in his head telling the one in his heart that he had wasted three pounds. Still, here he was, and he wanted, no, needed, to see Allan.
‘Miss Fontaine?’
She looked around, gasped, and put her hand to her mouth.
He stood there and let his duffel drop from his shoulder.What should I do?ran through his mind. When Cathy had gasped, it was generally because she saw a mouse in the kitchen. To his utter astonishment, when he held out his arms to Anna, she ran into them with a velocity that made him take a step back.
The only logical thing to do was to hold her tight, which was so easy. She was exactly the right size to fit into his arms. He also knew that Anna could definitely do better than to affix herself to a sorry specimen like himself. And yet… She didn’t seem inclined to release him, and there he was, still hanging onto her like a wet leaf plastered to her face.
‘Miss Fontaine, I owe you an even larger apology for continuing to load my problems onto your shoulders. I…’
She stopped him with a fierce look, holding up her forefinger. She probably would have shaken it in his face, if she’d hadenough room and they weren’t still clinging to each other. He stepped back and released her, startled, yes, but suddenly energized. This was a woman to spar with. The mere idea woke up his tired brain and sent his thoughts in half-forgotten directions all at the same time.
‘Don’t youdareapologise again!’ she declared.
‘Well, I…’
She drew herself up, even though, with her small height, there wasn’t much to draw up. ‘Yes, we’ve had a little difficulty, but it’s smoothed out now. We like living at the Drake.’
‘I would call eviction, shame and fright more than a little difficulty.’ He groaned inwardly.Shut up, John.Listen to her, you dolt. He tried something that had always worked when Cathy was in high dudgeon. He touched her cheek, almost a caress.
To his relief, her frown melted and her eyes softened. ‘Until this happened, I never realised how boring my life was,’ she told him frankly. ‘I like being useful.’
He listened for anger, but heard none. After a glance around the lobby, and then at the room with the Perpetual Whist Game, where a grinning, appreciative crowd had gathered, she took his hand and towed him towards the stairs.
‘Down you go, sir,’ she commanded, but kindly. ‘There’s a fellow in the kitchen who will be overjoyed to see you.’
‘Don’t you mean “see your sorry carcass”?’ he teased, because he’d heard that lift to her voice. He hoped it meant the worst was over.
Anna laughed. ‘I admit I’ve thought something like that once or twice, but no, your life is not your own,’ she said simply. ‘If you stop apologising to me, we can possibly be friends, Captain Beattie.’
He plunged ahead. ‘As to that, Admiral Collingwood has something else in mind.’
‘Whatever it is couldn’t possibly involve me,’ Anna said. ‘I’m not in the Royal Navy, and I doubt the Admiral thinks about anything except ships and war.’
He opened his mouth to say…what, he had no idea. Anna must be even more rare than he’d thought, a woman without guile.
She pointed down the corridor. ‘The kitchen is just beyond. Allan and Pru like to help Pierre.’ She nudged his shoulder in a conspiratorial way that somehow touched his heart. ‘He spoils them with all kinds of pastries. Allan is not so thin now. If you were to stay awhile, you’d become a little less gaunt, too, Captain.’
‘I wish I could,’ he told her longingly.
‘You’re tired,’ she said simply. ‘I wish I could cure that.’
There are ways, he thought, but hadn’t the temerity to say it. Just sharing space with her again told him forcefully that a few nights in Anna’s bed would cure whatever ailed him. He knew that as firmly and solidly in this very moment as he knew anything.
This was obviously not the place for an intimate conversation, not with Mrs Fillion opening the kitchen door then exclaiming how good it was to see him. She turned her cheek for the traditional kiss.
‘I’m going back to the desk,’ Anna said. ‘You’re in for such a surprise when you see Allan.’
