“Did yougrowlat me, crécerelle?”
“It is rude to speak in a language the other does not understand.”
“Terriblyrude.” He says something else, in French, and then kisses me softly. “Would you like to know what I am saying?”
“I believe that is the gist of my complaint.”
“Then I suppose you shall need to learn my language. It should only take a year or two. By then, perhaps, I will be ready for you to hear what I have said.”
I pull back and glower at him.
He taps my nose. “You are the most adorable crécerelle. So small and yet so fierce.”
“Also strong.”
“Very strong.”
“Strong enough to dangle you over the railing of this crow’s nest if you continue to mock me.”
“I am not mocking. I am provoking you. Just a little.” He leans down, forehead touching mine. “I will teach you French, and until then, you can be certain I shall say nothing you would find insulting. Unless you would be insulted by admissions of admiration, ones I am not drunk enough to say in a language you understand.”
“Mmm.”
“So I am forgiven?”
“That depends. Are you going to keep talking? Or are you going to kiss me again? It is getting cold up here, and if you are not going to warm me, I shall need to descend to the deck.”
“We would not want that.” His mouth lowers to mine. “I will keep you as warm as you like, crécerelle. You need only say the word.”
“You’re still talking.”
A sharp laugh, and then he is kissing me again, his arms around me, pulling me to him. He turns me toward the mast, my back against it.
“Do not worry,” he murmurs. “I will do nothing except kiss you. I only did not want to push you against the railing.”
He lifts me, my back against the mast, and I discover yet another advantage of split trousers. I can wrap my legs around his waist, which feels wickedly sinful, despite the layers of clothing between us. He leans into me, groaning against my mouth, and I adjust my hips, just a little and—
Oh!
Oh, thatiswonderful.
I break the kiss in a gasp, and he buries his face against my neck, murmuring in French as he presses against me and I entwine my hands in his hair, unabashedly enjoying the incredible feel of him—
Something moves on the deck below. Nicolas is returning to the kiss, and I’m shifting to meet him when I look down and startle. I pull back with a very different sort of gasp as I scramble free.
“Miranda?”
“Th-there is someone on the deck,” I whisper.
He wheels so fast I start to fall, and he grabs me with a whispered curse in French, paired with what I presume by the tone is an apology, but he’s too agitated to realize he’s still speaking French.
When he goes to step toward the railing, I tug him back, and he leans instead, scouring the deck.
“I see no one, crécerelle,” he whispers. “Was it one man? Several?”
I can still easily distinguish the figure below, looking up at us.
“One man,” I say. “He is right there. On the forecastle deck.”