He fingered her chin, where soft curls fell. “The day has a gorgeous sun, cousin. The only thing I liked about being on a ship was the noon sun. It was so warm and broke through the endless skies.”
Her breaths remained loud, lingering like she choked. “You don’t say.”
This was harder than he’d thought. Ruth used to love walks. They’d chatted endlessly as he’d escorted her from the docks to the warehouse. Her face had brightened when he’d described architecture or talked of poetry. That was what they had done, the first six months of their acquaintance—long strolls, all by themselves, no one staring, nothing stopping them or their dreams.
He rubbed his stomach. “Let’s go back inside and enjoy those treats your mother talked about. The dining room will be more private. We’ll talk low.”
She shook her head and tightened her already-tight grip along his arm. “That’s not a problem for you, is it?”
“My voice is terrible. I take it you don’t like it.”
“Very terrible, my lord. But what choice do you have? It’s not like you could sing a wondrous melody. Or whisper my name as if it sounded like a church hymn. Adam sang quite well.”
He freed his arm from her nails and put a hand to her shoulder. “No, you don’t want me to sing. My voice is gruff, quite rough. More suited to bar brawls than a vicar’s homily.”
“Adam wanted to be a vicar. Did you know that? Of course you did.”
He hesitated, then he decided to be bold and place his arm about her, along her middle. “Don’t be scared, Ruth. Let’s go back into the house.”
She put her hands on his, anchoring him in place. “Your hands are rough, too. And it’s Mrs. Wilky.”
So formal even though she let him hold her. “My hands? Too much sea salt. Too many decks needed swabbing. Am I not refined enough for you? It seems I’m losing your tally.”
“What tally, Wycliff?”
“The one for your admiration. I suppose Adam and now the barrister are smooth in comparison to old, grizzled me.”
“You’re not old.”
“But I am losing.”
She lifted her chin high. “You were going to answer questions for me.”
“I was, but we have an audience by the window.”
Ruth squinted and peered around his shoulder. Could she see the ladies staring at them from the large picture frame window of the parlor?
“Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Daly are looking at us. Mrs. Wilky, that dining room sounds as if it could make for a perfect retreat.”
“Mama will get them away. I think you are becoming a favorite relative.”
The curtains closed.
Ruth was right. But someone could still peek. The question was, did he care to hide his admiration of his cousin?
“I think no walk today, my dear, or anything that looks like kissing cousins. We seem rather cozy on this step.”
He tried to turn and lead her inside, but she held fast to his arm.
“Not yet. The roar in my ears hasn’t settled. Please don’t move. Hold me. Be a holding cousin.”
“No begging anything of me.” He pulled her tight against him. “Perhaps this does meet my criteria for privacy.”
“Your standards are low, Wycliff.”
Oh, her sense of cutting humor had stirred. It warmed him to his bones, like the sun on the deck, like a body pressed against his—warm, curvy. All of her hidden in drab, dowdy gray.
“Not so low, my dear. I’m standing in the entry with the right cousin. Not Adam’s cousin Nickie. He’s definitely not one to stand beside.”
