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9. Because Length Matters

9

BECAUSE LENGTH MATTERS

For the next several hundred heartbeats, they ate silently, sharing the small bounty. Their mouths busy chewing, savoring or sipping ale, all the while speaking all sorts of things with their eyes. Things Leo could not help but hope he heard aright.

When his last bite of beef disappeared and he declined the last few nuts, telling her to take pleasure in filling her belly, she alternated between eating a couple and feeding him a time or three. Did her fingers linger that last time?

Feeling strangely out of his depths, he licked his bottom lip—where she'd touched him—and remarked, "Memorable picnic, eh?"

She beamed at him. "The. Absolute. Best."

"Tell me your name?"

She did, but far too fast.

"Once more?"

Slower didn't do any better. With no context or other, readily familiar syllables and mouth movements to aid him, he remained at a loss.

"Do not frown."

He discerned that clear enough and chuckled. "Forgive me, but I cannot make it out."

"Nothing to forgive. Oh!" A quick smile and swift actions saw her rummaging through her travel bag, only to emerge triumphant with a hastily bundled parcel that appeared impervious to the day's travails. From it, she revealed several smaller (wrapped with more care) packages—gifts, he surmised—and a small case tucked alongside. From this, she liberated a thick stack of folded letters and a pencil, an excited look on her face.

She opened one of the letters and scribbled hurriedly upon an empty space.

He studied her as she wrote. Her chills had abated. While not hot by any means, the ambient temperature in the carriage had risen, with them both in proximity. The lantern aided as well.

She finished with a flourish. Only instead of handing him the paper she'd written on, she crossed to his seat—his side—close enough that the peaceful breath he'd enjoyed moments ago riled back up to not peaceful at all, for now she was close enough to smell. To hold.

To kiss again.

"Here." Cuddling next to his brawny warmth, Susanna held out the old letter she'd written months ago, a silly, nonsensical talisman of sorts she kept with her as a reminder that hoped-for miracles were possible.

If not always for herself (though she did count finally being rid of Mitchell somewhat of her own personal triumph, if not outright miracle), then for those she loved and prayed for.

How fortunate that she had it, and a couple others, with her now to write upon. How fortuitous that she'd stashed these with the gifts for her nieces when the storm refused to abate.

She tapped the edge of the page against his fingers but didn't let go. So they both held it as he read where she pointed.

Susanna Oliver Mitchell.

Then she lowered her fingertip to the one word she'd penciled below:

Yours?

"Captain Leopold Tucker, but I go by Leo now."

"Leo." A strong name for a strong man.

This close to him? Both his heat and scent wrapped her in such a conundrum of comfort and yet unease.

Unease because, for the first time in ages, she wanted a man. Desperately so. Ached to rise up and claim his mouth again, to press her flesh against his, and have him take over.

Somehow, even in his passion, she knew he wouldn't harm her. Wouldn't take more than she wanted to give. And at the moment? Reckless Susanna wanted to give all.

He was so different from any man she had ever spent alone time with. Aye, Captain Leo Tucker was appealing.

Captain , she scribbled, beyond pleased with herself. Knew you were navy.

"You did," he confirmed. "I was. Am. But not… Not…"

"Shhhh." Though she knew he couldn't hear her, she said it as she squeezed the fingers of his nearest hand.

Whatever he was doing, here, had some element of clandestine to it, but not in a nefarious way, she could not believe. Not given how he had rescued her, how he spoke to her with an earnest, steady quality she found beyond attractive.

She sensed his hesitance to say anything untruthful, and after the deception she had lived with for years, she would take far less, information she could rely upon, than rubbish-filled volumes of insincerity.

"Mrs. Mitchell. I…"

Hearing those words leave his mouth, being addressed as such, threatened every modicum of ease she'd gained in his presence thus far.

"Mrs. Mitchell. I—"

From a tender squeeze to sharp talons in an instant, her nails bit into the back of his hand. The piercing panic he sensed halted him as he released his hold on the note they jointly held. He angled his body to watch her face. Which had puckered as though she'd licked the hind end of a goat.

She shook her head in an exaggerated fashion.

Hmm. "You were married? Were Mrs. Mitchell?" An abrupt nod, further puckering. "But no more?" Another nod, an unmistakable look of relief. "Mr. Mitchell treated you poorly."

Not a question.

Her features froze, no acknowledgment of his words. No denial either.

Her gaze fell to the side.

"Then I shall call you Lady Susan?—"

"Nay." Her eyes flew back to his. "Susanna…no lady."

He knew that, for she'd arrived alone, not chaperoned nor surrounded by servants. "You seem young to have been married." The frozen expression remained. "And widowed?"

There was the relief again.

That Mitchell fellow was a bastard. Good thing he was gone—or Leo would have traced the man to ground for behavior unbecoming.

"Children?" Though he thought not given how she wasn't surrounded by any.

To his dismay, her eyes immediately filled with tears. She dashed them away and shook no again. "You are sad because of the lack or…" He waned as the silent tears blame near punched a hole in his middle. "And you do not have to answer this old fellow's prying, busy-headed curiosity?—"

She covered his mouth with her fingers. He kissed them without thinking.

Her watery eyes grew luminous.

"He—James Mitchell"—she spoke slowly and clearly—"was selfish…uncaring…" There was more, a lot more he suspected, beyond "uncaring". He shoved down the thought and concentrated on her lips forming syllables and words he needed to grasp. "…lose the baby…"

"Oh, Susanna." He dropped the folded square and drew her into his arms—and onto his lap. So much he could say. Wanted to say.

But somehow, didn't need to, for the woman simply ducked her head beneath his chin, delved her fingers under the hem of the shirt he hadn't bothered to tuck in after taking care of things outside and fluttered her fingers beneath his shirt until they came to rest on the skin of his torso. Pressing lightly at the top of his stomach, her thumb alone grazing upward toward his chest. She stilled, just like that, resting her fingers and palm not quite against his thudding heart and it seemed, sure as certain, miraculously too, that she managed to "hear" all he hadn't voiced.

The aching wrench of compassion. Of frustration on her behalf. For what she'd endured. Curiosity about her; curiosity that flared like a bonfire.

After a few moments, she withdrew her fingers, bent to retrieve the paper, then floundered by his outer thigh until locating her pencil.

Married?

"Me? No. Never." Which was far and away peculiar for any navy man in his position. "Almost, though," something compelled him to add. "Twice."

Which explained much, how a man of eight and thirty (his age when he officially stopped commanding the Restless ) could have been captaining a ship without a wife. Was beyond unusual, he knew, the navy preferring its officers married and "settled".

Her pencil hovered… Hesitated. Trembled as she glanced up at him.

"You wish to know more?" he asked.

A nod her answer.

"'Twill likely bore you to Bedlam."

Never.

Underlined twice.

"Ahhhh. Let me see…" Let me dither, more like. Never had he spoken to another about his two lost amours. Far easier to pretend he remained single, alone, first by choice, and then by necessity, because of his injury. ( How long might you lie to yourself on that front? ) Far easier than to confess it was fear. Fear that had kept him single nearly the past decade or more. Fear of more pain that bade him to keep to himself?

Admitting it now, he frowned. For it seemed a weak excuse at best.

She stirred against him, scribbled, then shoved the page in front of his eyes.

Chuckling, he grasped her wrist and lowered it a few inches. Need those peepers of your papa's after all?

Smothering a growl, he read.

You need not tell me.

She squirmed upon his lap.

Anxious? Or… "Are you uncomfortable?" he asked, tensing his already clenched thighs; for every muscle he possessed—certainly the enlarged one centered between them—had grown taut from her proximity.

Her scent.

Her compassion and curiosity over his unremarkable life.

Not un comfortable. Uncomfortably curious .

That made two of them.

"I was young," he rumbled, thinking of his hushed voice reaching her in the quiet, after stretching to adjust the lantern as dim as it would go. Did the snow still swarm beyond their carriage-made cocoon? Did the cold night still seep past the straw and mud he'd packed in the plank? Was she truly comfortable?

And there you go, dithering yet again.

"Younger than you are now, I wager. Loved Ann-Marie with everything in me. But we both knew a navy man had to earn his way to a wife." 'Twas foolhardy to marry before his rank warranted it.

"So we wrote and spent every moment together when I was on liberty. Time passed. I gained promotions. Enough so that I proposed—by letter, but I was so excited. Did not want to wait. Knew she would want to join me at the earliest opportunity."

He shifted, curved his arms about her waist and held on. Because he knew what was coming. "Only when her letter finally reached me, brimming with acceptance and delight, it was accompanied by six others. A veritable tome of letters: my mother, two closest sisters, Ann-Marie's parents each wrote, as well as her younger brother. All filled with sorrow and condolences, as she'd fallen from her brother's horse during a mad gallop directly after penning her acceptance, racing to my house, to share the news with my sisters—" He broke off, coughed into his fist. "And damn me if I didn't just tell you far, far too many words. She died."

And for the first time, ever, in the telling of it, in thinking of it, he didn't die inside at the memory.

He hugged the still figure in his arms, rested his chin against her temple. "And there you have it, a once-broken heart makes for a poor suitor."

She held up two fingers, lifted them high, right in front of his face, easily discernible even with the lamp dimmed. She slowly bent one, leaving only the other upraised.

"You wish the rest? The other ‘almost'?"

Her head nudged his chin.

"Shorter in the sharing, I promise. Some years later, I courted a fellow officer's daughter, because she was pleasant enough." And because Leo should have been married by then, according to his superior, the very woman's father. "Courted her for nearly seven months, applied myself to that end, to securing her hand, all the while attempting not to compare her to my love, until one day, I realized how very much I did enjoy her company. Looked forward to the time we spent together. Could actually envision a life together and was ready to propose. No longer out of duty, but from desire—only to have her cast me aside." He could chuckle about it now, but at the time, his heart had ached anew. "She'd fallen for someone else, long before we met, a younger man her father did not endorse and had used my slow advance of a courtship to give her time with him, until they both disappeared in the night.

"'Twas a while before I realized her actions broke my pride, mayhap injured my self-confidence, but affected not my heart. After that? Nay. Nothing. No interest in pursuing another." Not beyond fleeting pleasures of the moment.

Not until tonight. Until you.

"Reaver."

Mikey lowered a bowl. "Fresh water for you, boy. Just melted enough to drink."

Neither of them had been able to sleep. Malease hung in the air. (Or mayhap that was simply the horse stench.)

The canine trotted across the dirt floor and allowed the agile length of his tongue to slurp the cold treat with sloppy abandon, uncaring if clean droplets splattered his face or the floor surrounding.

Was water not used to clean nearly everything ? Why, his impressive tongue was doing the humans a boon! They should thank him for his efforts.

Be appreciative he cared enough to share his water with the dirty floor. And a bit of the wall beyond.

Be impressed that his superiorly long tongue could do so much—and with so little effort on his part.

After drinking—and splattering—his fill, he brushed up against Mikey in thanks and approached the lesser-used exit, the one that led deeper into the woods, ready to keep watch for Tucker's return.

Turning in a circle before settling, Reaver swiped his tongue over his wet, glistening muzzle, gathering up a few remaining drops. Highly satisfied with himself.

Because length really did matter.

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