Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

J ack stared at her, his straightforward, divine, keen lover, with as unflinching a stare as he could manage, even as his heart throttled within his chest. “Generally, a man likes to do his own proposing, Flora.”

She rewarded him with a beaming smile. “Does he? So does a woman,” she agreed pleasantly. “And although I will acknowledge that men generally have had the honor of asking, I should like to make it clear that women have generally already made their decision before things get to that point, so who does the asking is merely a matter of tradition?—”

“And pride,” he added. Such a damnable amount of pride.

“Yes.” She nodded solemnly. “And I thank you for recognizing mine. Because I am a prize worthy of a great deal of pride. Now, more than ever.”

He had smiled at her quip—he had always liked how she knew her own worth—until the moment when his brain heard the last part of her declaration. “Now? And why is that?”

“I will gladly tell you why—for I think you will like it—but first, I should like an answer to my proposal.”

The heat that had kindled within him at her first declaration flared anew. But he could not allow himself to hope. It would break his already wounded heart.

So, he shrugged and pulled a face that he hoped was full of amused cynicism. “You haven’t really made your proposal—if you’re going to do it traditionally.”

“Of course.” She came to her knees in the icy water swilling in the bottom of the boat and reached out to him. “My dearest, Jack,” she said as she clasped his hands in hers. “Will you please make me the happiest of women and do me the undeserved honor of becoming my husband, to have and hold, from this day forward, in sickness and in health, for richer…”

“…or poorer ,” he finished for her. No matter what he wanted—and he wanted her more than air or water or life itself—he could not let her forget that choosing him would only be to her detriment. “Very much poorer, Flora. Which is why?—”

“I’m afraid not,” she disagreed quickly, cutting his refusal off. “For I’m quite rich now. My father has died, you see, leaving my sister and I quite full up with shares of the East India Company. Which we have already sold, for ethical reasons, in case that matters to you. But which in any case, has left us quite, quite rich. Rich enough to marry where I want, not where I must.”

“Are you quite serious?” He scowled at her, searching her face for the ravages of grief and pain. But though she did look somehow older, she did not however, look ravaged. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “But I want your agreement far more than I want your condolences.”

“But—” For the first time in the whole of their acquaintance—although calling one’s lover to whom one was proposing an acquaintance didn’t seem quite right—Jack felt entirely at a loss. “When?”

“When did he pass? Some months ago, we assume, for it took a long time for the news to reach us. But I came as soon as I found out. I wasn’t going to tell you,” she confessed. “I wanted you to make your decision based on me, alone. On your feelings for me, that is, alone. But it didn’t seem fair, that you shouldn’t know. So you could choose for yourself. So we could both choose what we want, instead of simply being chosen.”

That she was as insightful as she was beautiful and honest ought not to startle him so now. But still, she stole his breath and his heart away.

“I don’t mind being chosen by you,” he told her. “In fact, I prefer it.”

Her cheeks blossomed with hope. “Is that a yes?”

“Aye,” he confirmed. His heart felt as if it would burst from him. Never had he had such hope. “I will marry you.”

“Oh, Jack—” She threw her arms around his neck, raining kisses down upon his face.

He held her off, gently. “But, Flora, not now.” He forced his head to reassert its dominance over his heart. “Not today. And certainly not for some small while.”

“What do you mean?” She stilled, gripping his coat tight, as if loath to believe him, or let him go. “Why? Why not? Don’t you love me?”

“I do love you. More than you will ever know.” He reached out to touch her beautiful, sweet face because he wanted more than anything to hold her and show her how much he loved her. “But as much as I love you, I also have a duty that I cannot forsake. A ship that I cannot simply abandon.”

“A duty you don’t want,” she was quick to point out.

“No—” he qualified. “That’s not how duty works, Flora. I gave my word. The same as I give it to you. But I will renege on neither you nor the Admiralty.”

“Can’t you just resign?”

“No.” He was adamant. “I have already received my orders for the Jutland Sea, which are made for me and me alone. I must return to my ship and my men and my duty and carry out my orders until such time as those orders are complete.”

“But if you love me, why can’t you simply tell them that you’re done?”

“Because there is a duty that needs must be fulfilled now. The peace is about to break—Napoleon has been secretly violating his own treaties for some time now and is about to begin doing so openly. War must come. And I must be here to either prevent it or fight it. I have my orders.”

Flora’s eyes glistened with tears of frustration. “So, what is to be done?”

“I will return you to the quay and Lady Ivers’s waiting carriage—for I can see her crest upon it, and I am very glad you have her with you. And I will return to my ship and my duty.”

“But what about—? You needn’t—” Tears began to spill down her rapidly paling cheeks. “I have money. We won’t be poor.”

His will began to waver in the sight of her pain. “I shall write to the Admiralty before I sail and see what can be done about our predicament,” he conceded. “And we shall see what we shall see.”

“But we won’t see each other? We won’t be together?” Her voice grew as raw as her cheeks.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “Please, my dearest, do get up off your knees in this bilge. Sit back in the stern sheets until I can row you ashore and kiss you goodbye properly.”

“No,” she refused. She instead leaned forward, reaching for his lapels and pulling his mouth down to hers with urgency and force. As if she could convince him that life with a willing young wife was infinitely preferable to barking orders at British tars.

And she had convinced him. But there was damn near nothing he could do about it at the moment.

So, he kissed her back. He kissed her with every ounce of hurt and hope he had stored away, hidden in the depths of his soul since he had left her. He kissed her with all of the want and attraction and desperate longing within him. With all the lust she had awakened within his body and all the love he felt in his breaking heart.

And she kissed him back with something close to abandon.

He took her up in his arms and in another moment, she was seated upon his lap with her legs crooked securely around his waist and her arms wrapped tightly around his back.

“Marry me, please,” she begged.

“Certainly. Absolutely, I will,” he answered between ragged breaths. “Soon. As soon as possible.”

“Promise me you will,” she demanded rather desperately.

Everything within him was being torn asunder by the hideous division between what he wanted and what he had to do. “I promise.”

“Promise me you won’t get killed,” Flora begged.

“I promise,” he pledged, although he couldn’t promise anything of the kind. To stop her inevitable protest, he laid a cautionary finger across her lips to keep her from disagreeing. “I will promise you to be exceptionally careful. Although, you should know that more lives are lost to dirt and disease than ever are to cannonballs.”

“You are not helping me to feel better,” she cried. “Not in the least.”

“Then I will promise that I will come home to you as soon as I bloody-well can. Because I do love you, and I do want to marry you.” He took her face in his hands and held her away from him for a long moment, imprinting her upon his brain. Beautiful and wracked by the grief of worry, she was a mirror reflection of his own emotions. “I do love you,” he repeated. “And I will marry you. Just not today.”

He kissed her once more and set her away, turning her to sit beside him on the thwart while he tossed a rope to a boy standing by on the quay. “Take my betrothed’s hand and help her ashore, man,” he ordered as he did the same, taking her elbow to steady her way as she stepped from the boat onto the land.

“You’re not coming ashore?” she protested. “Not even to see Augusta?”

“I am not.” He shook his head. He dared not. “You may give her my regards, but only after you give me yours.”

He pulled her roughly to him for one last searing kiss and just as roughly set her away on the uneven stone. “I’ll write,” he said rather tersely, as he sat back to the oars. “I love you. Goodbye.”