“My lifeless, bloated and fish-nibbled naked form? Anyone who admires such a thing ought to be taken to prison on the spot before they commit some horrible atrocity.”
“It seemed much more romantic in my head.”
“Then I fear for your sense of romance, Dr. Dupuis.”
“All right. I would prefer you not to look down because I would prefer you not to die. Is that more romantic?”
“Much.”
While my arm is still giving me trouble, I am determined to reach the crow’s nest, and I do. I am also pleased to know I am not the only one who finds the climb exhausting, as Nicolas pauses for breath. It is not merely the climb but also the wind, her tendrils tugging most insistently.
Nicolas directs me on how to climb into the lookout. Then I am there. In the crow’s nest of a galleon, gripping the railing and gazing out to sea.
“Careful you do not lean against that railing,” Nicolas says as he stands.
“I won’t.” I turn to look east, and from this angle, I see nothing but the ocean meeting the starry sky. A light wind catches a tendril of hair, and I pull off my cap and let my hair catch the wind as I tilt my face into it, the smell of the sea washing over me.
“I wish I were a woodcarver,” Nicolas says. “I would fashion you as a figurehead for the finest ship on the sea.”
I turn my head, hair blowing in my face as I grin at him.
He stares. Only stares, and I’m about to ask if all is well when he says, “You are...”
I know what the next word will be.Beautiful. I have heard it often enough. I would not be so vain as to say Iambeautiful, but rather that I believe men feel honor bound to say it, perhaps in recognition that—despite being plumper than is the fashion—I am still conventionally attractive.
“Remarkable,” Nicolas says. “You are remarkable, Miranda, and I...” He swallows and then shakes it off with a wry smile. “I do not believe I am quite as sober as I thought.”
“Do you only offer compliments when you are drunk?” I say.
“Non. I would say the same sober, but I fear that tonight I may say more than I should and embarrass both of us.”
“Well, then, let us share the future embarrassment as I return the compliment.” I meet his gaze. “I find you equally remarkable.”
He moves closer, hand rising to smooth blowing hair back from my face. “I should very much like to kiss you, Miranda.”
“And I should very much like to be kissed by you, Nicolas.”
He pauses only a moment, gaze locking on mine, as if to be sure I’m not simply playing the flirtation game. Then his mouth comes to mine. It is tender, light as the kiss of the wind, and yet it steals the breath from me, and I stand there, quivering, unable to breathe as I wait in hope of more. His lips part against mine, the kiss deepening once he is certain of its welcome, and...
Oh, this is akiss.
In my novels, my intimate scenes are considered quite scandalous. They are pure innuendo and allusion, with no frank detail—that would be pornography, and while I am quite fond of the sort written secretly by women, it is not the purpose of my stories. I still include great sensual detail on the act of lovemaking... and none at all on the act of kissing. I write “they kissed,” and then I carry on to the more exciting parts. There is nothing exciting about a kiss. I have had dozens, and they ranged from repugnant to tolerable, and so, having clearly experienced the full spectrum of kisses, I could declare them worth no more than those two words: they kissed.
Nicolas’s kiss does not land on that spectrum. I cannot evenseethat spectrum from where it does land. This is a kiss that demands I track down each and every copy of my books and expand those two words to a chapter at least, and yet I cannot imagine how I would put such a thing into words. Simply put, for once, I lack the language.
Perhaps I could find the language, but I will not try. I have lived my life compiling experiences as fodder for my novels, and this is not one of those. This is mine, and mine alone, and I shall only say that I do not believe, before this moment, that I have been properly kissed. Nor that I have properly kissed someone in return, having no model to follow. Nicolas provides that model, and I throw myself into the study of it, and when I break for breath, he is gasping and glassy eyed, and I will take that as a sign of my success.
Nicolas strokes my hair and murmurs something, and I strain to catch the words, only to realize it is not the low tone that makes them elude me—it is the words themselves.
“I do not know French,” I say.
“Good.” He smiles as he brushes my cheek.
“Then I do not know what you are saying.”
He leans in, his lips coming to mine. “Good.”
He says more, the words spilling out, and I make a noise of frustration.