I am falling for Nicolas Dupuis, and until he sends me off, I am staying right where I am, at his side, drinking in his every word like a besotted maiden.
I am drunk. That is the answer, obviously, because I have known this man for two days, for half of which I was unconscious, and therefore I cannot possibly have fallen into anything approaching love.
Can one fall intolike? Can one fall into fascination? One can certainly fall into lust. Desire fits better here. I have fallen into ardent desire and cerebral fascination and—
And I am drunk. Let us leave it at that.
I am drunk on rum and drunk on Nicolas Dupuis, the music of his words and the wit of his stories and the beauty of his face in the moonlight.
There is indeed a moon now. She has slipped from her cloudy cover, throwing out a carpet of stars for us.
“And so,” Nicolas says, “naturally, I had no choice but to challenge the man to a—” He stops, his eyes going wide. Then he sits up abruptly.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, sitting up, too.
“Non. It is most certainly not all right. I was on a mission belowdecks to fetch you a gift, and I saw the rum and forgot my purpose. Inexcusable.”
He pushes to his feet. “Wait here. I will get it.”
He sets out, staggers and stops to peer around. “Is the sea becoming unsettled?”
“No, you are becoming drunk.”
“Bah. I hold my liquor better than that. It is the tide. Now, wait there.”
He disappears, still walking unsteadily. I’m stretching onto my back when I catch a movement by a hatch. I jump up. There’s nothing there. I watch the spot, squinting, tensed for a rat. Nothing.
Moments later, Nicolas returns with something behind his back.
“I have brought you a gift,” he says. “The thing you want most in the world.”
“Peace and prosperity for all?”
That makes him laugh, music in the night. “Agreed,chérie, but sadly, I cannot grant wishes. This is merely a gift. Earlier today, you asked me for something, and now I am delivering it to you.”
“Uh...” I struggle to corral my tipsy thoughts.
“Think, crécerelle. In the barn. I said I owed you, and you asked for...?”
“Your sword.”
His grin is pure devilry, and it makes my insides quiver.
“Yes, you asked for the gift of my sword. So I am delivering.” His brows shoot up. “Why is your gaze droppingthere, crécerelle?”
“What? No. You are holding something behind you, and I was trying to see what it was.”
“Then how did you know to what I was referring? From that squawk of protest, one would think I had mentioned a certain part of my person, when all I said was—”
“You brought me a sword.”
“You are changing the subject.”
I meet his gaze. “Am I?”
His grin grows. “I should warn you, crécerelle, that the sword may be somewhat more... petite than you hope.”
“It is not the size of the sword that matters, but the expertise of the swordsman.”