He hates that he blushed when she touched him, sisterly or not. A man, a real man, doesn't blush. But as she said, he is but a boy. Bailey doesn't want that. He dreams himself grand, and older, and experienced.
Sad as it is, the closest he had to a real kiss was with this Mercy servant. It was awful, taste and texture and everything all wrong. Whatever he took from the girl's innocence is wrong, wrong, wrong. He himself wasn't that much of a seducer, despite what he had been ordered to do. Maybe they imagined him more, or they didn't find anyone who could do it. Which says a lot about Jamestown. It is unnatural, this woman-less village. Artificial, life-less, immoral even. There are rumors, in the militia even. War brotherhood turning into tender friendship turning into… He stays away, hard as it is sometimes. He will get ahead in the world, he hopes at first, and this can only happen without disgrace. Later, he grows cynical, but still.
He had been so desperate that he pretended to be committing the worst sin of all, with a married woman. Yet either because it admittedly went nowhere, or because no one on the colony was believing him, nothing came of it and he wasn't punished. Even she wasn't which was quite telling. Women are always punished.
Verity Rutter, he deserved her much more than her drunk, old husband. Somehow even her, seemed to prefer the innkeeper. Ignorant as she was she saw through his lies. Little boy. Lost. Pretends to be grown up. Afraid. Soon dead.
He almost faltered, at her insistance that he wait, that he would meet someone. A real kiss. Love. Life. But no. Death holds more appeal. It mocks or rejects no one. There is no way to fail at it. He is a soldier. He will go down in glory, and righteousness, and honor. Alone.