"Ah, Scruffy. What if you hadn't returned?"
The little dog growled in his throat.
"Indeed, you are the master of this house. Why, you had Mrs. Muir, Jonathan and even that moldy oar Claymore all ready to run me off. Over an ugly female dog named Sheila, no less. Or was it Shirley?"
The Captain stirred in his alcove armchair. He guzzled the remnants of his whiskey. Madeira was such a woman's drink, even if it did impress Mrs. Muir.
How could she entertain even the thought he might do anything to harm her or the children in any way? He lowered the glass a little too loudly onto the table.
"Blast."
"I wouldn't stay another minute in Gull Cottage if I did." That's what she said.
Had looks and words finally intersected across their parallel worlds?
Scruffy barked halfheartedly and flopped his head onto the Captain's foot.
Get a hold of yourself, Gregg. She's a woman. Let her find him now, drinking like a real man, or discover his empty glass in the morning. He picked up the crystal piece and was relieved to see he still left fingerprints.
"We'll see how well I hide my deeper feelings after an argument about leaving whiskey glasses lying around. What, no drinking in my own house even after the blasted children are already in their blasted beds?"
Satisfied with the way he'd successfully framed tomorrow's verbal joust, the Captain leant and scratched the little beast's ears. Idly, he wondered if she'd rise to the occasion or throw him out of his own master cabin, so she could write?
Scruffy farted, and rolled over on his back, sighing contentedly.
"Yet, if I defer to her wishes and place this singular piece of crystal in the sink, would that make me a poodle?" the Captain mused. "Even if the fireplace isn't in the blasted kitchen?"
A smile crossed his face. Martha would still wonder about the saintly Mrs. Muir's late-night drinking habits. Surely that would rain a storm of words around his head. Ah, but you didn't need a wall of quarreling to get the better of the ladylike if somewhat contentious Mrs. Muir, he thought proudly. Just a little evidence.
The unceremonious clinking of ice cubes into Waterford interrupted his pleasant reverie.
"Hush," he warned the little dog, then stood, peering slyly around the curtains. Rematerializing just to spy would take the sport out of it.
"If you're watching me, Captain Gregg, I'll thank you to keep your opinions about women and strong drink to your unctuous self!"
He remained hidden in the alcove, delighted by this sudden turn of events and the opportunity to snoop without resorting – in a most ungentlemanly fashion – to his usual tactic of invisibility.
Scruffy growled again, only this time, it was to warn his mistress. He shook himself then ambled into the parlor.
"Cheers to you, Captain Gregg!" She raised her glass and toasted his portrait. "Scruffy knows you're here. You can materialize now. I'm not drinking your precious Madeira. Just your hundred-year-old –"
"Scotch, Mrs. Muir?"
"Well, you've quite driven me to drink." She raised the goblet to her lips. Her eyes never left his. "Over dear, dear Scruffy no less."
"Madame, I thought women wealthy enough to consort with cads like Blair Thompson were classy enough not to pour Scotch into a wine glass!"
"Martha might understand a nighttime glass of wine, but we wouldn't want her to know I drink hard liquor with the invisible Captain of the house!"
Her eyes widened. Instead of the usual heavy woolen robe, she wore a light blue nightgown that displayed the spaghetti straps of her rather insubstantial negligee.
"Sometimes deeper feelings are hidden behind silly arguments over bossy housekeepers," he replied. Two can play this game.
With a single thought he lit a hearty fire in the hearth and instantly admired his handiwork. The flames backlit her nighttime attire more than adequately, giving him full access to the silhouette of her slim, if well-rounded figure.
"My dear, you poured yourself that tall one before you even invited my presence." He cleared his throat. When did his voice become so low or, so husky?
"No, dear Captain Gregg, I invited your presence by pouring the Scotch. And now, you will pour me another, kind sir."
As he crossed the room obligingly, she grabbed him by his elbow.
"I, I, I just wanted to know if I could touch you as you seem to have no trouble picking up Scruffy." Her words were bold, but she pulled away, suddenly shy, and blushed profusely.
He stood, riveted by words that stripped him of his usual verbal veneer.
"Does this make you my Moby Dick?" Blast. Had he really just said that?
"Captain Gregg, you old sea dog." Evidently women could laugh and cry at the same time. "Only if you'll be my Scruffy."
The little dog barked noisily. The Captain beckoned the front door to open, and Scruffy ran into the night, in search of either a bush or another female in, as Jonathan so eloquently put it, "her mating time."
He wiped the tear forming at the corner of her eye and drew her to him.
In the morning, Martha was stumped. Wine and whiskey in the same night? She held the whiskey glass to the window. Those weren't Mrs. Muir's fingerprints, either.
"Doggone it, she certainly could do better than that New Yorker renting that cottage," the housekeeper harrumphed to herself.
"Indeed she has," murmured the ghost invisibly as he opened the door for Scruffy. "Aye, mate?"