“One climbs,” he says, returning his sword to its sheath.
I tug a rope experimentally. “I should like to do that.”
“You are asking to climb my mast, crécerelle?”
I wave my blade at him. “You are a terrible flirt, Dr. Dupuis.”
“Am I? I thought I was rather good at it.”
“You are, which makes it all the more terrible.”
His eyes glint as his mouth opens to say something. Then he stops and shakes his head. “And despite the bracing night air, I am still inebriated and unable to stanch my flow of ribaldry. I will do so, however, if you wish. You have been a good sport about it, but if it makes you at all uncomfortable, you may tell me to stop.”
“Thank you. There have been times when I have laughed at something I did not find amusing for fear of seeming overly sensitive. I no longer do so, and if a man flirts with me and I do not wish it, I will let him know, at first by gentle withdrawal from the conversation and, if that does not work...” I lift the gladius. “There is a reason I am learning sword fighting.”
“I do not doubt that you need such weaponry to beat off your admirers. I can only imagine—” He clears his throat. “Mais oui, crécerelle. You may climb the ship’s mast if your arm will permit it.”
“I believe it will, and I should like to try.”
“Do you require instruction?”
I pause long enough that he waggles his forefinger at me. “Not that sort of instruction.”
“I was thinking of the ship’s mast, Nicolas. Deciding whether I want to be instructed or to figure it out for myself.”
“In my experience, there is an appeal to figuring it out for oneself, but also an advantage to instruction, though the latter can be hard to come by.”
“Not at all, if one knows where to look.”
His mouth opens. Shuts. He lifts one brow so comically that I sputter a laugh, and then he says, “I am endeavoring not to ask for details, as much as I desire details. Are there instructors in such things for young ladies? I know there are for young men, as my uncles introduced me to them at the appropriate age, but I was not aware of any for young ladies.”
“I meanbooks, Dr. Dupuis. That grand repository of knowledge, which one might utilize without significant cost or significant risk of, ahem, disease.”
“There are books on climbing ship’s masts?”
“If there are not, then I shall write the first—a detailed description in my next novel. Now, if you are quite done flirting with me...”
“I do not believe I shall ever be done flirting with you, crécerelle. It is the most delightful entertainment I have had in a very long time.”
“The mast. The ship’s mast. I should like to climb it.”
He looks up. “That is very adventurous of you. Also very ambitious. It is exceedingly big.”
I rap him on the arm. “Enough. The rum’s effect is fading, and I fear when it does, we shall both realize what a dangerous endeavor this is. Now, are you going to show me how to climb a ship’s mast or not?”
He takes hold of the rigging. “Let the lesson begin.”
11
“You are reaching the last of it,” Nicolas says from the rigging just below me. “Whatever you do, do not look down.”
“Why does everyone say that?” I grumble as I pause, catching my breath before reaching for the next rope. “Do they not know that as soon as they say not to do a thing, one will do it out of pure curiosity?”
“Perhaps that is only you, crécerelle.”
“It is not, I assure you. You say not to look down, and I immediately want to look down. It is evil temptation at its worst.”
“All right, then. Look down, my fair Miranda. Look upon the raging sea below, waiting to swallow you and deposit your lovely form on a beach, a mermaid flung from the ocean for all to admire.”