The lake adjoining Robin's estate is of moderate size, encircled by countless trees that wind about the shoreline and keep it out of sight. Despite the soft mist gliding over its surface, the water is clear as glass, a shining reflection of all that happens above it. Silence as heavy and encompassing as the greatest cacophony is disturbed only by the occasional calls and chatter of passing fowl.
And in the center, obscured by weeping willows bowing to touch the lapping waves, is a tiny island. This tip of earth protrudes defiantly, daring the water to swallow it whole.
The atmosphere is mythic. Tomes of poetry and stories support her imagination's glorious wanderings while she enters what feels to be a land of magic.
"I am fairly confident that this boat will not leak, though you can never be too sure. You can swim, I hope?"
Confused and almost hurt, Emma glares at Neal. Why must reality cruelly rip her away from her fantasies? "What did you say?"
Rolling his eyes, he offers her his hand again. "I asked if you can swim, Miss Swan. Thrash your legs, wave your arms, keep your head above the water. More preferable to drowning."
Ah, he wants to help her into the boat — made of rotting wood, tilting to its left side, with oars the width of sticks, looking more and more unsafe every minute.
Then she catches him peering at her skirts as if her legs might appear from them at any moment. Her cheeks are inflamed. "Neal Cassidy, how dare you ask a proper lady if she can swim! No gentleman would ever ask such a question."
"I do not consider myself to be on the same level as such like-minded gentlemen," he answers with a chuckle. "Nor do I think it wise to escort one's companion in a vessel like this without determining the practical side of things first. Since you obviously cannot swim, I will be forced to rescue you if any unpleasantries happen. Knowing that in advance is an advantage, wouldn't you agree?"
No need to dignify that assumption with a reply. Pushing back her embarrassment, she scrutinizes the boat again. "Or perhaps this is an ill-fated voyage and we should forget the idea altogether. Isn't such caution wise?"
He smirks. "You're afraid to take a chance. Well, that was to be expected."
Her fear transforms immediately into rage. Chin tilted upward, she stares him down with a sense of challenge and defiance. "I have no idea what you mean. I am mistress of myself and therefore not afraid of anything because I won't let myself be. And that's final." Her cold smile hardens more. "Now move aside so I can climb into the damn boat."
Killian flings himself onto the settee, a deep groan of exhaustion escaping him. His eyes close of their own accord. Manual labor is just as he bloody remembers it to be — painful and draining, leaving a person without bloody words. He is never baking bread again.
Someone pointedly clears her throat in front of him. "Don't tell me that you are tired, Mr. Jones."
He smiles in spite of how boneless he feels. After all, he enjoys their lively banter so much so that resisting an opportunity is futile. "Forgive me, Miss Swan, but I must confess that I do not much work with my arms these days. Aye, I walk a great deal, but I am no schoolteacher — or baker, for that matter. As it happens, I have not used these particular muscles so strenuously as today since my days at sea."
Too late, he realizes the words that slipped from his stupid mouth. He slowly opens one eyelid to gauge her reaction. She is peering down at him, her arms crossed over her chest.
"You were a sailor?"
He throws an arm over his face, blocking out the sight of her inquisitive stare. "Truly, lass, I'm in no mood for telling stories presently."
"Were you in the navy? Or perhaps... perhaps you were a bloodthirsty pirate, stealing and pillaging in search of gold and treasure?"
"Piracy is outdated as a career. And I am surprised, Miss Swan, surprised and hurt that you would think me capable of such malice! Fie, I say, fie!" he cries out with mock energy.
"Hmm... You ignored my first question. Therein must lie the key to your past." There is a soft deflating sound next to him. She must have sat down as well. "To answer your accusation, the only reason I suggested piracy in the first place was—" She pauses. "Well, I—"
"Am I that dashing?" He does not mean to sound caustic, but his voice cuts the air like a sharp blade. "Or perhaps my reputation in town inspired you."
"Come now." Her tone is soft, gentle and insistent. "I was only teasing. I did not wish to offend in any way. Did you choose the sea?"
Memories sweep by, rolling waves and feverish storms and Liam's smile. "More so that it chose me. And my brother."
He suspects she is waiting for him, to tell his story at his own pace. While he would rather avoid the unpleasantry altogether, he cannot help how easily his mind returns to those times. Times when life was joyful and tumultuous and exhilarating.
"I cannot remember a moment in our childhood when Liam and I were apart. Older and believing himself wiser," he lets out a chuckle, "he took it upon himself to watch over me and my upbringing. Our mother died bringing me into the world, and our father had an unhealthy fascination with gambling. He worked hard as a blacksmith, but he rarely spent his nights at home. Liam was both guardian and brother. It was he who prepared our suppers, washed our clothes, and taught me how to read and write. Nonetheless, he never acted ashamed or resentful of his responsibilities. He was patient, persevering, and hopeful. I could not have asked for a more loyal companion or friend."
A surge of grief shakes his limbs, making him long for a full bottle of rum. But she is here and he must finish so that there are no secrets left to hide.
"Then, everything changed in the blink of an eye. I was nine years old when my father took me and Liam on an unexpected sea voyage. He promised our destination meant a new life for all three of us — together. I was still such a child, Emma, and despite his faults, I loved my father. I believed him, believed in him. I was a bloody fool."
Her hand covers his, and when their fingers intertwine, he has the strength to go on.
"One morning, a storm awoke us. My father was gone from the cabin, and as we soon discovered, from the ship. He had fled in the night. The captain ever so kindly informed us our father was a fugitive, running from his debts and a sure visit to prison. But before he left, my father had taken care of our unpaid passage, at least." He hears the rising anger in his voice — the hurt and resentment and fear — and briefly wonders if she can hear it, too. "Aye, he took care of it, he did. He did bloody well by us, selling his only offspring into servitude to buy the captain's silence."
Now her hand is trembling.
"Aye, he did." Brokenly, he clears the strangling inside his chest by coughing out the repugnant words. "For nearly a decade, we slaved on that disgusting vessel. Liam was a beacon of optimism and strength, while I wallowed in hatred. It was hell on earth for us both. That existence seemed an eternity until we saved our meager pennies and scraped our way out of it. We bartered for navy commissions — a lucky wager, I should say — and never laid eyes on that despicable bastard of a captain again. Liam rose in rank over a decade, became a captain himself. I became a lieutenant. And for that short while, God was kind."
She murmurs, "Is that when you met Milah?"
Her breath rustles his shirt and caresses his skin. Warmth washes over his eyelids like rays of sunlight. "Milah? Oh no, that was a tragedy for a later scene, much later." He had not had a single thought or wish for female companionship back then, absorbed by his duties and his devotion to the one person who cared unselfishly for him. Slowly, his arm reaches around her waist. After no sign of protest, it stays there. "As much as I loved my brother, he could be such a stubborn arse at times."
She chuckles, and he joins in. He thinks back to when Liam lectured him, reprimanded him, praised him. He would have all those moments again if he could, even when he was red-faced from shame or anger.
"Liam had a good heart. A strong, honorable heart. He was good, kind, thoughtful. Everything I wasn't. He never said, but I think he was lonely, even homesick. He missed our father more. To ignore that pain, he worked harder and harder, eating little and sleeping less. It weakened him. And I—"
He suddenly is confronted with reliving Liam's death. The loss of his hand. As if in silent answer, phantom pain stabs his left wrist, and his eyes burn.
The hours he waited in his cabin, praying for Liam's recovery. The months he himself spent in the hospital... Isolated in the infirmary ward. Restrained to the bed so he could not make any more attempts on his own life.
When he had nothing left.
"I was a selfish bastard."
"Watch your step, now."
Emma is tempted to jump out of the boat, if only to demonstrate that she is more than capable. This entire journey has been an unwanted lesson in patience — as if they could not have had a simple outing. Holding back her irritation, she gracefully descends while accepting his proffered hand. The momentary contact gives her a flush of warmth she tries to ignore.
The island is as overgrown and tumultuous as it appeared from the lakeshore. Underbrush embraces crooked trees. The odor of decaying manure mixes with the fresh scent of rising vapor, overwhelming her nose. Where on earth are they supposed to have a picnic here? On the dirt?
"Romantic, isn't it?"
The veiled sarcasm in Neal's voice sparks her temper again. "Most landscapes only look so from distance but not upon closer inspection. Are you familiar with this place, that you chose it?"
His easy, casual tone further annoys her. "In a way. I noticed it once when I was bringing Phantom back from one of his escapades. And I thought it looks isolated enough."
"That is why we are here? Because you wanted us to be alone?"
He tilts his head, scrutinizing her. "It was my understanding that privacy is important to you. That you want to keep our affairs to ourselves. This island fulfills such a desire perfectly, wouldn't you agree?"
She will regret the words on her tongue later if she doesn't mind herself now.