Author's Note: Sorry this one took so long to rattle out. Damn rough week. . . my bf semi-dumped me, and I just haven't been in a writing mood. So much for a fairy-tale. Anyway. . . let's see here. I actually don't have anything to say about the story, except I have some thank yous to dish out. First of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MOLLIE, who helped me figure out how to italicize things, and THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of my reviewers. All the reviews have meant so much to me, and I really appreciate that you guys are loving this so much. Oh, and I forgot-- sorry if I insult anybody with the whole thing with the Sunday services. But who really cares? Please don't tell me the world has gotten THAT politically correct. Enjoy!

FIVE

"Amen."

The chapel (really, the dining hall, just with the chairs and tables moved) reverberated with that single word as we lowered ourselves into our seats for the homily. Thomas and I were sitting together, about two-thirds of the way back. He was looking very fine, in a dark, dark blue pinstriped suit. I was wearing one of Mrs. Peckdash's outfits, a lovely sea-green gown with full-length sleeves, the ensemble trimmed with lace.

As I listened to the homily, I thought back over the rest of the service, to when the opening hymn had been announced. Everyone, of course, sang to the neatly printed words in the service pamphlet-- but it was quite the surprise to hear Thomas singing. He wasn't terrible-- in fact, he was pretty good. It was nice to hear him singing, and somehow a comfortable thought that he and I were of the same faith-- and of faith at all.

But then again, I thought with a small smile. It's hard to find someone in the shipping business that isn't religious in some way. Life with the sea called on faith in more ways than one, the first and most prominent was of course the fact that the sea was made of water-- wet water, in which death by drowning was always a threat. Also, in the shipyards, it was fairly easy to get hurt, and I remembered that at Garrison and Wheeler, there had always been a small prayer service every morning before work started for those that wanted to attend. Finally, how in the world could one look at the vast expanse of ocean, witness a sunset at sea, or take a deep breath of the salt water air without believing in some form of a higher being?

Those were my thoughts as I sat there next to Thomas, fingering the fresh bandage under my sleeve on my arm, one ear on the homily, looking forward to what the day would bring.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"You look like you've been through the mill." Tommy Ryan said, grinning savagely as I dropped into a seat at his, Fabrizio, and Jack's table.

"Thank you for noticing," I said back, knowing there were somewhat dark circles under my eyes. "Uhhy." I put my head on my arms on the table.

"Long night, eh?" Fabrizio joked, digging into his scrambled eggs.

"Shut up." I threw a packet of sugar at him, but couldn't help grinning. "Yeah. It was. We were up until four a.m. looking at diagrams. And we ended up going to the gym, and he taught me a whole bunch of self-defense moves. Then we got three hours of sleep before we had to make it to the eight o'clock, and he took me for breakfast while the other first classers had their services."

"So where is loverboy now?" asked Tommy, biting into his toast.

"Giving the DeWitt Bukaters a tour of the ship." I answered, grinning at him, and then I looked toward Jack.

Jack had been fairly quiet this morning. Currently his head was leaning on his hand, elbow on the table as he stared unseeingly at this strawberry oatmeal. He was still hurting from the fact that he'd gotten kicked out of the first-class services earlier when he'd tried to see Rose. When I mentioned the tour, however, his head perked up. "He's giving them a tour?" he asked me.

"Yeah." I said, wondering what this was all about. "He is."

Jack looked down at his oatmeal, and shifted his weight. Then he looked back up, sharp blue eyes alert. "Back later." he downed a swallow of his coffee, pulled out a cigarette, and was gone out the exit of the dining hall.

Tommy watched him go, then turned back to us, shaking his head. "Th'boy isn't logical." he said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Neither is amore." Fabrizio returned, grinning.

"That fellow-- Andrews, is it?" Tommy smiled at me. "Y've got his heart wrapped 'round your little finger, Carrie."

"Maybe." I said, blushing.

"Maybe!" Tommy exclaimed. "Didn't y'see the way he stared at y' last night, the whole time y'were dancin' with Fabrizio over here?"

"It was like he was looking at an angel." Fabrizio said, spreading his fingers in front of his eyes to illustrate his point.

"I've gotta admit," Tommy said, taking a swig of his own coffee. "You did look lovely last evenin'."

"Thanks." I said, and finished my coffee. "Hey, Fabrizio, who was that girl you were dancing with?"

"Her name is Helga." he said, leaning both elbows on the table, eyelids heavy as he thought of her. "She and her family are going to America to start a dairy farm like the one they had in Sweden."

"That reminds me, Fabrizio." Tommy said thoughtfully. "What was it you're plannin' on doin' in the land of the free and the home of the brave?"

"First things first," Fabrizio said dreamily. "I'm going to look at the Statue of Liberty until my eyes hurt."

"I've heard Lady Liberty's a real beauty." Tommy said, crushing the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray. "Can't wait to see the lass."

"After I do that," Fabrizio said. "I'm going to become a millionaire. I'm going to open a chain of Italian restaurants all around New York, and make millions of dollars, and have a nice house and a nice wife. . . maybe even Helga!" his smile was enormous.

We sat around talking and planning for another hour before I decided to wander on up to the boat deck to see if Thomas was done with his tour. "Hey, guys, I'm gonna take off. You two stay out of trouble."

"Don't worry," Tommy assured me, grinning. "We'll get into as much as possible."

"And that makes me feel oh-so-much better." I told him, standing up. "See you later."

I was heading up the grand staircase to A Deck when suddenly I heard from behind me: "Miss Stevenson!"

I turned, and was surprised to find Mrs. DeWitt Bukater heading towards me. "Hi," I said warily, wondering what this was all about. "Tour over?"

A large, false smile spread across her face as she hiked up her skirts to climb the stairs with me. "Just finished."

"Ah." I said; she walked alongside me. "You didn't happen to see which direction T-- Mr. Andrews ran--"

"Miss Stevenson," she interrupted, her voice tense. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior at dinner the other evening."

Surprised, I looked at her, but the depth of her comment didn't reach her eyes. "Well, thanks, but it wasn't a big deal. I'm used to it."

"It must be hard." she said with a quiet sigh. "Being in steerage. Wouldn't you say so?"

I wondered what in the hell she was getting at. "Well, sure, it can be sometimes. But I'd much rather be there than first class. No offense to you, ma'am."

"None taken." she said silkily, and I knew she was lying. I smiled inwardly. Score one for Carrie Stevenson. "Well," DeWitt Bukater continued. "I imagine it is rather enjoyable. No set rules, being able to say as you please. No one to scold you for spitting or cursing."

"Yeah," I said sarcastically. "We're real heathens."

"I didn't mean it in that context. As I said, I imagine it's rather enjoyable."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Forgive me, Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, but you don't look like the spitting or cursing type."

"I'm not." she assured me. "And neither is anyone else in first class."

I made a face, and stopped, turning to face her. "Look, if you have something to say, just say it. You're really getting on my nerves."

She seemed a little surprised, then calmed down. "This is exactly what I mean. You've no manners, Miss Stevenson. None at all. You could make anyone with you look just as low as yourself."

I stared at her like she was crazy. She was. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Mr. Andrews." she said scathingly.

I'd been ready to start walking, but I froze in my tracks, and slowly turned back to her. "Excuse me?" My voice had taken on a slightly high-pitched tone.

"You and your beloved shipbuilder Mr. Andrews." she snapped, her voice nearly a whisper. "The entire escapade of him bringing you to dinner last night made him look no better than steerage rats like yourself. And you-- half the passengers saw you and him at the eight o'clock services this morning. You are giving him a bad name, Miss Stevenson."

My breathing had quickened in anger; I stared back into her blazing eyes. "That's bullshit." I whispered.

She nearly gasped at my words, but kept her dignity. "It is not." she insisted coldly. "He is being made to look like a fool. His friends are whispering behind his back. They don't believe it's proper for him to be associating with the likes of you. His very status with the highrollers on this ship is deteriorating. The minute we dock in New York, people like Ismay and the Captain will be reporting his miserable antics to his uncle at Harland and Wolff. His occupation is at stake! And do you know why?" her cold eyes swept me up and down. "Because of his associations with you."

I felt like someone had hit me across the face with a sledgehammer. The logic of DeWitt Bukater's words were starting to sink in. God, she was right. I'd forgotten my place. Thomas was first class. . . and I wasn't. But he'd said he didn't care! He said he. . . but that was before we'd been hanging out together, in public. . . did he know? Did he know his reputation was at stake?

"You see?" she said quietly, voice harsh. She knew she'd won.

"Mrs. DeWitt Bukater." My voice was shaking. "Leave me alone. Do not ever speak to me again. I don't want to have to stomach the sight of you once more on this trip."

"Say what you must," she murmured. "But you and I both know that I'm right." Her fine gown whispered after her as she marched out to the boat deck.

I could hardly breathe. Yes, she was right. She was beyond right. I'd been a blind damn fool. How in the world. . . how could I have let myself do that to Thomas!? How could he even stand to be around me!? Was it all a mask, then. . . the gentleness I'd seen in his eyes in the last twenty-four hours, and before that. . . was he faking it all? But why!?

I stumbled to the deck and dropped into a seat near the bridge. One thing was for sure-- I couldn't hang around with Thomas again. We couldn't see each other. I couldn't be responsible for the social downfall of the kindest man I'd ever met.

It took me a moment to realize that my eyes were blurred with tears; I brushed them away angrily on the sleeves of my blouse. I opened my notebook, and stared down at the pages. They fluttered in the breeze that was picking up, somehow stopping at the page where I'd listed my options after the ship docked. I'd just go on with Fabrizio and Jack. My return to Garrison and Wheeler would have to wait until I was over Thomas. . . I couldn't get back into the business with a master shipbuilder still in my heart.


"Miss Stevenson?"

I jumped, surprised, and looked up into the sympathetic but curious face of Mr. Murdoch. "Oh." embarrassed, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, and sniffled to clear my nose. "Hi, Mr. Murdoch."

"May I?" Murdoch motioned to a seat next to me.

"Sure." I said, and did my best to smile at him. "By the way, my name's Carrie. 'Miss Stevenson' is getting a little annoying."

He smiled back. "Alright then, Carrie. You might as well cease the 'Mr. Murdoch', too. I imagine it gets a little tedious to be so formal all the time."

I nodded, glad for his understanding. "Yes. It does. Thanks. . . Will."

"Of course." he said, then his looks returned to the concerned side. "What's troubling you, Carrie?"

"Nothing." I lied, taking in a shaky breath of salty air.

"Come now," Murdoch said gently. "You can't be sitting here weeping for nothing."

"You never know," I said, able to smile now. "I just might be."

He smiled a little as well, but his eyes remained worried. "Well, if you don't want to speak about it, I won't--

"It's Thomas!" I burst out.

For a moment Murdoch's face didn't show any change, then the slightest hint of shock crept into it. "Carrie, what. . . what happened?"

"He didn't do anything," I said, tears again welling up behind my eyes.

"Then. . . what. . ."

"Do you know of the DeWitt Bukaters?" I asked him.

"The name," Murdoch said, looking forlornly at me. "Nothing else."

"Well, Ruth-- the older one-- she's. . ." I bit my lip, and met Murdoch's depressed stare. ". . . she stopped me just a few minutes ago. She gave me this stuff about. . . about how I'm completely ruining Thomas' image, and how his friends are talking about him behind his back. . . she says that by my being third class, I'm making him look just as low as me. She told me that Ismay and-- and Captain Smith even-- they're going to report how he was hanging around me, and he'll get into all sorts of trouble."

For a moment, Murdoch was silent. Then he murmured, "And you believed her?"

I was thrown off guard. "Well, yes-- why shouldn't I have?"

"Because it sounds to me that this Ruth woman is a jealous prick who finds it enjoyable to insult those whom she thinks has a better understanding of society than she does."

I swallowed. "Yes, but Will, she's right. . ."

"Even if she was," he said kindly. "Do you think Thomas would care?"

"Yes!" I said. "He just built the largest ship in the history of man and God and therefore has an image to keep up! And I'm just. . . I'm steerage scum. I'm throwing mud onto that perfect. . ." My voice shook. ". . . that unbelievable. . . wonderful. . . gentle. . ." I could hardly breathe; I looked up to Murdoch.

"A little dirt never hurt anyone." He said knowledgably. "And. . . please. You. . . you're not steerage scum. No one is, except for that foul bugger last week who. . ." he trailed off.

"Will," I said, clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking. "I don't. . . Thomas might not care. But. . . other people care. How's it going to look to everyone else if this keeps up?"

Murdoch was silent, eyes piercingly sad. He didn't speak.

"I've got to let him go." I said, brushing the tears away again. "I--"

"Carrie, no--"

"-- can't let him keep this up. But. . ." I trailed off. ". . . he's the most. . ." I looked up at Murdoch, whose face showed nothing but empathy and sorrow. ". . . he's the best man I've ever met in my life."

"There's still a chance." Murdoch said softly. "If you--" Suddenly he froze, looking past me. His face went from sad to shocked in less than half a second.

I couldn't look. I knew who was there. "He's right behind me," I said dully. "Isn't he."

"Carrie. . ." the familiar voice was quiet, gentle, and so loving.

I turned around, my cheeks burning with a blush. "How long have you been stan--" The look on Thomas' face made the words halt halfway out of my mouth.

God, it was the expression of a tortured soul staring at me. He looked so sad, and yet there was a tenderness in his features. "Long enough to hear most everything." he murmured, eyes locked with mine.

"I'd better--" started Murdoch, climbing to his feet.

"No," Thomas and I said at the same time, and that smile once again tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You stay." he instructed, and moved forward, slowly at first, then quickened his pace until he dropped onto the body of the lawn chair beside me.

All three of us were silent. My stomach churned with butterflies. Then Thomas, who still hadn't taken his pained eyes off of mine, said, "Carrie, did Mrs. DeWitt Bukater really say all that?"

"She did." I told him, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat. "She said I had no manners and could make anyone around me look just as low. Then she got into that whole thing about how I'm making you look bad." Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "Thomas, it's true--"

"Hush." He said it gently, and took both of my hands in his before looking up at Murdoch. "As Will said, Carrie, did you think I'd care?"

"And as I said," I told him, my throat tight. "You've just built the world's largest--"

"My occupation," Thomas interrupted softly. "and my occupation only, has determined where I stand with the society of today, and has created some cock-and-bull image that I'm an arrogant, filthy first-class snob like the rest of them. Their opinion does not matter to me, and will not change anything in my life. Every passenger on the ship could report something foul about me, and my uncle would still let me keep my position."

I swallowed, my hands trembling in his.

"They are insulting you, Carrie, because they've somehow held onto the idea that anyone without money is lower than they. DeWitt Bukater's words were meant to hurt you, and not me." His sincere eyes were glued to mine.

"And I fell for it," I whispered, feeling like a complete jackass.

"You didn't know." Thomas murmured, and to my surprise laid a gentle arm across my shoulders. "And they can do or say whatever they want about me. Their actions have not and never will change what I think."

Murdoch was fighting a smile. "Now I believe I'll go." He stood up slowly, eyes twinkling.

Neither of us protested. I turned to Thomas and took in a shaky breath. "Well."

He was stroking the back of one of my hands with his thumb. "Well." he repeated, then a mischievous gleam came into his eyes. "Come on. There's something we have to do." he pulled me to my feet.

"What is it?" I asked as he offered his elbow; I took it with both hands.

"You'll see." We walked back toward the entrance of the ship. Thomas paused for a moment. "Tell me if you see Mrs. DeWitt Bukater." he murmured.

I stared. "What in the--"

"I know what I'm doing," he assured me, smiling, his free hand coming to rest over mine on his elbow. "D'you trust me?"

I had to smile back. "Of course I--" I suddenly caught sight of his target. "DeWitt Bukater, nine o'clock!"

He looked, and began walking toward her. "Come on." he said, and we followed her at a distance as she went down the stairs, her arm through Cal Hockley's. "Mrs. DeWitt Bukater!" Thomas called, making the name sound lovely.

DeWitt Bukater turned and saw us approaching her. Her eyes widened momentarily, and her mouth froze into a stern line, but then she again smiled that disgustingly false smile. "Mr. Andrews." she greeted coldly. "Miss Stevenson. Cal, surely you remember Miss Stevenson from dinner the other evening?"

"Oh, yes." Cal said, one eyebrow lifted as he stared at me. I smiled sweetly at him.

"Mrs. DeWitt Bukater," Thomas said kindly, smiling. "I was wondering if you could spare a moment of your time?"

"Anything for Mr. Andrews," she twittered.

"Then perhaps you can name me some of the values of the first-class society. Carrie and I were interested-- after all, neither of us have the slightest comprehension of what they seem to be."

Her false smile vanished. "I should think you would know very well, Mr. Andrews."

Thomas didn't falter. "We're in a bit of a hurry, if you don't mind."

DeWitt Bukater stared wide-eyed from Thomas to Cal and then to me. But she said, "Well, I should think that some of the values include honesty. . . respect. . . overall politeness--"

"Excuse me," Thomas apologized for his interruption. "What were those last two?"

DeWitt Bukater was giving him the evil eye. "Respect and overall politeness."

"Ma'am, you've got me confused." he said. "I asked you for values of the first class."

"And I gave them."

"Then there must be a mistake." Thomas said, his voice dropping from kind to cool. "Because I presume that you hold a first-class ticket, and yet respect and politeness are not even in your nature."

"I beg your pardon!" DeWitt Bukater was horrified.

"You have no respect for your peers, Mrs. DeWitt Bukater." Thomas said; I shifted my grip on his elbow, and his hand tightened over mine. "You didn't show an ounce of respect when you approached Carrie earlier."

"You expect me to believe that this--" she looked me up and down. "--this--"

"Yes?" I said calmly, waiting for her to pick out an insult. I looked at Thomas. "You're right-- no respect."

"I've tried to embrace this society for years, madam." Thomas said to Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, words laced with anger. "And it has gutpunched me instead. I prefer to involve myself in the kind of culture that does not require snobbery to fellow human beings." he smiled again. "Good day."

And we marched back down the hall.

"It's like a dream," I said, both of us grinning.

"Real enough to me," Thomas said, and I could feel him trembling. "I haven't stood up to someone like that in. . . God knows, in years."

"Thank you," I said, looking up at him, absolutely sincere. "I really appreciated that."

"You're welcome," he said, repositioning his hand over mine, eyes gentle. "I do what I can."

I didn't know where we were heading, but at this point, I didn't care. "How did the tour go?"

"Oh." the smile faded. "Alright, but we were going through the bridge and one of the lads came in saying that we were getting an iceberg warning."

"Wonderful." I said sarcastically.

"Yes, but that's not it." he bit his lip. Christ on a pony, was it attractive. "Soon as the kid left, Captain Smith told us not to be worried-- he's ordered the rest of the boilers lit!"

"But that means we're speeding up." I said, dumbstruck.

"Exactly." Thomas said with a disgusted sigh. "I mean, I'm sure we'll be fine. . . it's just that you don't order more speed when there's a warning like this. God forbid, if something does happen, it gives you less reaction time."

"I bet it's Ismay again," I said, only half joking.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Thomas said, then let out a long breath. "You want lunch? I'm starving."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I leaned back against the pillows in my guestroom and closed my eyes, smiling. While tired, I still had the energy to think back to the events of this afternoon.

We'd gotten lunch in the Parisian cafe, and then when we were finished we sat around in the cafe and drank coffee while we talked. By the time we left, it was a little after two o'clock, at which point we headed back for the gym to work on more of those self-defense moves.

Thomas had not only gone over all the moves that he'd taught me last night (or this morning), but he showed me several combinations of moves for actual fighting. He showed me how to get the most power out of a punch, how to keep your balance when doing the combinations, how to distance yourself from a target.

Then we'd worked on actual sparring.

We'd somewhat circled each other, and then the attacks began. Thomas went into an entire series of punches at me, and I blocked every one of them-- some more narrowly than others. By the time he drew back from his punching fest, we'd somehow gathered a small crowd of fellow gym people. We hardly noticed. Our eyes were locked as we tried to figure out what the other's move would be.

His next attack consisted almost entirely of kicks; I managed to block those as well. "That was good," he told me when he drew back. "But you can't win any match being on the offensive the whole time."

At which point I started a whole bunch of punches. He blocked them all, and then I switched tactics, throwing a roundhouse. He blocked it, and while doing that, I was able to punch for his right side.

"There you go!" he said, drawing back. "Fantastic!"

Then suddenly, his right fist was flying at my face. I moved quickly, grabbing his hand, pulling forward and down so that he followed, and then my arm was around his neck and he was in a headlock. For a split second I took in how absolutely close together we were standing, and then I remembered too late that he'd try to get out of the headlock by hitting the back of my leg and pulling my shoulder.

"Shit!" I cried as I went down, but I was still half laughing. The crowd cheered and applauded as Thomas stood up and beamed down at me, offering his hand to pull me to my feet.

I took it, the noise of the crowd somehow drowned out in the midst of his twinkling, friendly eyes. "Thanks." I said, trying to get my panting breaths under control.

"You're welcome." he said, his shoulders also rising and falling rapidly. "I think that's enough for today. You did well."

"So did you," I said, pleased at his compliment.

From there, we'd gathered our things and headed back to his quarters, where we'd split up for a nap to get caught up on the sleep we'd missed last night. Now I folded my hands behind my head, grinning at the afternoon we'd shared. Weird-- just hours earlier I'd been so upset over the fact that I'd probably never be able to speak to Thomas again. Funny how things don't always turn out the way you plan.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*


At four-thirty I poked my head out of my room to see the foyer empty of Thomas. I stepped out, and he wasn't on the promenade deck, either. Figuring he was still napping, I stepped back into my room and changed into my denim work pants and a white Oxford blouse. I rolled up the sleeves of the blouse until they were at my elbows, the bandage at my right elbow barely visible. Then I stepped out of the room again. Still no Thomas.

For a moment I looked around, trying to figure out what to do. That's when I caught sight of his desk in the corner, laden with papers and blueprints, the sunshine from the windows throwing white beams of light across it. I couldn't help myself; I stepped over to the desk, and stared down at what was on it.

A large, deep blue blueprint was spotted by small pages of all kinds of handwritten notes. Others were typed, and other papers were checklists. Some were stacked, and others were scattered. Near the top of the desk was a small inkwell, and a heavy writing pen. I looked down at the notes.

I recognized Thomas' handwriting from the little notebook he carried around with him-- which was sitting near the inkwell. And then another piece of paper caught my eye. This one was slightly yellowed, and it was under a stack, so that only a corner of it showed. But that corner held a small patch of black, which had unmistakably come from a charcoal pencil, exactly like the ones that Jack carried around to do his work.

I considered leaving it there, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled the paper from under the mess, careful not to displace anything. I nearly dropped it when I realized what it was. The paper itself seemed to be about two by two feet in length, and was a collection of miniature drawings of what was undoubtedly the Titanic.

One of the four drawings on the paper depicted the grand steamer from the side, set in the water. Another one showed the view facing the stern, and the third one was shown facing the bow. Finally, the last drawing was a slightly overhead view, from the back of the ship, showing Titanic heading into a sunset. There was a date at the bottom: October, 1909. The drawings were incredibly clean and real; there was shadowing and shine where appropriate, the hull looked like it was made of iron as it was. I could practically smell the sweet and bitter smoke that was shown wafting from the smokestacks. The workmanship of it was incredible, and it had to be Thomas'.

Is this what they teach you in the drawing room? I wondered, lowering myself into the chair at the desk to better study the portraits of the ship. I couldn't take my eyes off of the pictures. In them, I could see every little line of rigging, every railing on the ship. Even the churning water kicked up by the very movement of Titanic was shown.

"You've discovered my drawings, eh?"

I jumped a mile and stood up, my cheeks flooding with color as I faced Thomas, who'd just emerged from his rooms. He wore plain gray pants, his vest hanging open, sleeves rolled up. My God, was he handsome. "I'm sorry," I stammered. "I was up, and I just-- just saw the notes out--"

His expression turned slightly puzzled, but kind. "I don't mind you looking, Carrie. What makes you think I would?"

"I. . . I just thought. . . I mean, most people don't like other people hunting through their. . ."

"I don't have anything to hide." he assured me gently. There was a slight pause. "Find anything interesting?"

"Yes," I said, tearing my gaze from his and looking down at the fine drawings. "Did you draw those?"

"I did indeed." he said, moving a little closer, looking at it. "A few months before construction began on the Titanic."

"They're really good," I said, meaning it, looking at him. "I've never seen such fine work."

"I hardly believe that," he told me, blushing. "But thank you."

"I'm serious!" I said. "It's beautiful."

He was still blushing. "Want to look over another blueprint? I dug up one a little earlier that's got the floor plan of each level on the boat, bow to stern."

I grinned. "Sounds wonderful. Count me in."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Our shoulders were pressed together as we leaned over the aforementioned diagram. We'd dragged two tables together on the promenade deck so that we could clearly see the full-sized blue and white blueprint. The orange-ish pink light of sunset was glowing in through the window when the notes of the bugle call for supper wafted through the open window.

"Thomas," I said, feeling horrible all of the sudden. "You're late for dinner. I didn't even realize the time-- you've got to get going--"

"I'm not going to dinner." he told me, sincere eyes meeting mine.

"You're--" I was a little confused. "-- not going?"

He shook his head. "Couldn't stand to face the DeWitt Bukaters again, or Ismay. And this is the grandest ship in the world we're on. I wouldn't have made you a ship that didn't offer dinner services right to one's room."

I grinned. "Good point."

"Would you join me?" he asked, quiet and sincere.

"I'd love nothing more." I said, meeting his now-smiling brown eyes.

We supped together on the promenade deck, going over that diagram. We talked as we ate, and Thomas showed me every nook and cranny on the vessel. I learned my way around the crew passages, through the stateroom corridors, though the boiler and engine rooms, where the main kitchens were. The whole time, Thomas spoke gently, features kind as he taught me about the ship he loved so much, had poured so much work into. By the time it was too dark to see, I could have walked round the ship with my eyes closed, and still would have gotten to my destination.

"After the ship docks," Thomas said as we took our plates back inside to the dinner cart. "I'll be staying in New York a few days, and then it's back to Belfast, and the drawing room. I've got another ship in the works that I'd like to get to work on."

"Sounds wonderful," I said, stacking my dish on the cart and going back to the deck to retrieve our wine glasses and dessert plates. When I entered again, he was pulling open a larger drawer in his desk, the soft lamplight again creating a cozy glow against the wood paneling. It was much warmer in here as compared to the chilly deck. I set the glasses and plates on the cart, and then walked over to Thomas, curious as to the new blueprint he was pulling out. "Whatcha got there?"

"This is her," he said, setting the blueprint down on the desk. "She's not as big as Titanic, but she's a passenger ship, and she'll be just as grand."

I smiled at the wistful look in his eyes as he looked over the blueprint. "Can't wait to see her."

"Tell you what." he said, looking over at me, eyes soft. "When she finally gets afloat, we'll go on her maiden voyage together."

My smile broadened at the words. "Seriously?"

"Of course." he said, smiling back. I wanted to hug him, he looked so sincere and gentle. "We'll go, then when we get to New York, we'll romp around and wreak havoc and get into all sorts of trouble."

I laughed. "You wreaking havoc-- I'll have to see it to believe it."

"I'm quite capable." he assured me, eyes twinkling.

"Got a name for her yet?" I asked, staring back at the diagram.

"Not yet." he said. "Usually one comes to me in the middle of a project. But, look--"

In five minutes we were both sitting at his desk, poring over the unusual aspects of the ship, and the finer points. This one had bulkheads that went up to A Deck and plenty of lifeboats, plus elegant but affordable suites for all classes.

I pulled another sheet of paper from the stack; on this one was a drawing that seemed to match the size of Thomas' new ship. "Wow." I said, staring over it. This one was larger than the others, and more detailed. "This is. . . this is beautiful."

"Thank you." he blushed, but put his left hand on the back of my chair as he'd done the night before. "This is the new ship. See this space here with no windows? I'm hoping I can get a motion-picture theatre installed. Uncle says they'll be all the rage in three or four years."

"I've definitely got to see that," I said, turning to look at him, grinning. I noticed just then how close we were sitting; he was hardly more than two feet away from me. He seemed to notice it, too, because he broke our stare and looked back down again. I did, too, my throat feeling dry for some reason.

"Well," he said, voice a little quiet. "As I said, we'll go together when she first sets sail."

"How will you find me?" I asked. "I could be anywhere."

"My first stop would be Garrison and Wheeler, and if not. . . you'd be surprised at how easy it is to find someone, Carrie. Don't worry." his brown eyes were so gentle, so loving. And Jesus in the manger, did he look handsome. "She won't sail without you."

"Thanks, Thomas." I said, doing my best to meet his stare. "Means a lot to me."

We stared at each other just a little too long. I quickly turned back to the paper, heart pounding. Damn it, I could smell him again. It should be illegal to smell that good. "So-- so you said Titanic can have only four bulkheads breached before she'd sink, what about this one?"

"Same." he said, and swallowed. "Carrie. . ."

I looked back up at him, and saw that he hadn't taken his eyes off of me the whole time I'd been turned away. In fact, he seemed to be even closer than he had been. "Yeah," I said. My voice shook as much as my hands did.

He repositioned his hand on the back of my chair, our eyes locked. He leaned forward, slightly. Oh, my God! He was going to-- he was--

I felt my eyes widen as his lips touched mine, hesitantly at first, and then stronger. I was too shocked to do anything but let it happen, my eyebrows arched in surprise. He pulled back after a moment, struggling to control his breathing. He was beet red.

For a moment we did nothing but stare at each other.

Then I found my voice, and it was husky as hell. "Do that again," I managed. "So I know I wasn't dreaming it."

Our eyes fell closed and we leaned in so fast that our lips didn't just touch, they hit. This time, I kissed him back, heart pounding, blood and adrenaline rushing through my system. It was the most passionate kiss of my entire life. One of his hands cupped my cheek and brought me even closer to him and deepened the kiss; I shifted to the edge of my seat to diminish the distance between us even more. I reached up and my hand was tracing through his hair before I could stop it. Thomas slid his other hand around my waist, pulling me closer so that we could no longer sit; we stood right up and I was taken with him. My other arm went around him and we held each other tightly together, still playing tonsil hockey.

At last we had to come up for air. "Christ," I breathed, both of us nearly panting, but smiling broadly, half in embarrassment at our straightforwardness. Suddenly I remembered something. "Thomas," I said, one of my hands still buried in his hair as we held each other. "Remember last night, when you asked me to give you one good reason for something, and then Ismay came in? What were you going to say?"

I have never seen such a loving expression on anyone's face. Gently, he murmured, "I was going to ask you to give me one good reason why I shouldn't kiss you right then."

I stared at him in wonder. "You-- I--" I gave in. "Well, hell, I can't think of one right now."

We pulled each other close and sank into each other's embrace, lip locked again. Thomas switched tactics and my stomach gave a jolt as he began French kissing me. I cannot and will not even begin to describe the surge of adrenaline that rushed through my veins then. I was half in shock-- my God was he a good kisser! And the other half of me wondered where in the hell he learned how to do this. The back of my knees felt weak, for Pete's sake.

I couldn't stop the tiniest croak from escaping my throat as he pulled me even deeper into his arms. I was lost in the feel of his body with mine, the feel of being so close and intimate, lost in the incredible scent of him. It was unbelievable to kiss this man, this extraordinary man whom I'd met only a few days ago.

When we finally pulled back again, I was buzzing with trembles as we stared in awe at each other. His warm right hand held the left side of my face. "You're trembling like a leaf," he murmured, gentle eyes pouring into mine.

"I haven't done that in a long time," I whispered back. And never with someone that I was so much in love with.

"'Tis been awhile for me, as well." he admitted.

I couldn't help but to reach up and trace the line of his cheek with my fingers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He bent his head slightly again; kissed me passionately. I surrendered under his powerful lips, giddy with bliss. "Love you, Carrie." his voice was choked through the kiss.

I couldn't help it. Tears rolled down my cheeks. "Love you too, Thomas." I managed. I felt his hand catch the tears, and his arm tightened around me. A thought came to me then: All my life, I'd never had a place to go to feel welcome, never had a place where those I loved lived, but I knew it now. . . it was here, in Thomas' arms. . . I was home.