A/N: warning - this chapter is borderline T... like, a very upper-limit of normal T.

The Water's Edge

Maria was attracted to him. Not just to the idea of him – Georg Von Trapp, captain, baron, Greek-island friend, someone who happened to speak the same language and understood grief as she did.

No, she was attracted to him physically.

That knowledge led to a very fitful night of sleep. Maria was everywhere, and the scent of her tunneled right into his subconscious, confused as it was by the whiff of pine from the cushion she'd leant him that reminded him of home and the Alps; so that one moment they were rambling in the mountains, and the next lying together in the meadow, the wind stealing his breath one moment, the heat of her too warm the next…

It was madness, and more than once that night he woke with a start, breaking through a dream that rushed heedlessly towards a conclusion that was both dishonorable and humiliating when he was spending the night in Maria's very home.

There was no mistaking the way her eyes had lingered, her breathing uneven, as he presented in various states of indecency throughout the evening. Georg hadn't given his appearance a second thought when he'd turned up at her door. He had been intent on laying bare his past, not baring… well, it'd only been his shirt, but that she'd been so affected…

Georg had always thought Maria impervious to him, had never turned the same charms on her he'd used on other women – had been very careful not to, in fact. Their flirtations had been casual, innocent. She was innocent.

To find she might want him – might think of him the same way he'd frequently tried not to think of her… Georg felt like he'd been set on fire. He couldn't help but imagine her curves, under his hands, her soft mouth, her eyes, dark with want. This woman, who'd teased him, challenged him, inspired him even, had awoken something he'd been sure had been buried with his late wife. When, since then, had he wanted a woman with as much certainty, as much clarity, as he wanted Maria? When, since then, had he wanted a woman, without the haze of alcohol clouding his judgment?

But what was he to do? Georg would not turn her into another meaningless conquest. He would not have his way with her as if she were a barmaid looking for a night of fun, to be forgotten the next morning. He would not sail out with the knowledge that he'd taken something from her, when he could give nothing in return. He would not throw away what they had on a night of passion.

Georg thought about all he revealed yesterday; the decision to send the children away, the debacle with Elsa. It'd been a very long time since he'd talked about any of it. He'd confessed more than he'd meant to. Maria seemed to have that effect on him. She made him feel like he wasn't a terrible man, a terrible father. Like he could begin to build bridges with his children.

And where was he to start with the children? He'd have to give it some thought, where he'd go, what he'd do once he sailed out. He didn't want to startle his children, who were still boarding at the school during summer holidays. They'd been doing so well, academically and socially – perhaps they didn't miss him, anymore. Perhaps they considered school more of a home than the empty villa in Aigen. Where was an absent, neglectful father to start?

The door to Maria's bedroom opened. Georg turned to see her standing on the threshold – hair tousled, blinking sleepy eyes at him, and looking deliciously rumpled.

He almost had to force down a groan.

"Good morning."

Georg cleared his throat. "Good morning Maria."

"Did you sleep well?"

Georg couldn't honestly say he had, but he couldn't say he hadn't without telling her what had kept him up all night. He gave a noncommittal nod. "And you?"

"Oh – um, yes, just fine." Maria flushed. The sudden thought of what might have kept her up at night caused a rush of blood to his lower abdomen. If he didn't cool off soon, he might have to sit there all day.

Was she set on destroying them?

Maria shuffled her feet. "It's stopped raining."

Georg glanced toward the window. The morning sun was shining as though it'd forgotten last night's storm had ever happened. Perhaps he too, should try to forget what had happened last night. He gave another little nod.

"It looks like it'll be a nice, dry day," she tried again.

At this Georg had to grin. "I hope the same can be said of my clothes."

"Oh!" Maria's eyes grew round at the recollection. She flew to the bathroom, where he'd hung them last night. "They're dry!" She called to him.

"Thank God!" He called back. While he admired Maria's resourcefulness, he did not much care to wander the island in a set of old drapes. "Should we head down to the harbor to scrounge for breakfast? I don't want my cooking under question, again!" Georg rarely ate breakfast, preferring several cups of strong black coffee, but at least a long outdoors walk and breakfast at a public joint would keep his thoughts firmly in the realm of propriety.

Maria reappeared in the main room, offering him his articles of clothing. Her eyes brightened at the suggestion, all awkwardness forgotten, and he had to chuckle. Her enthusiasm for food nearly rivaled that of his always-hungry son Kurt. "There's a nice little fournos by the docks. They make the most delicious bougasta," she said, naming a traditional Greek pastry filled with custard.

"More delicious than a strudel?" He couldn't help but tease, eyes twinkling. Perhaps in the light of day, there was nothing to be worried about, after all.

She shook her head emphatically. "Especially not the apple ones."

He huffed in amusement. Maria excused herself to get ready, an exercise that impressively took only minutes. Georg was used to waiting up to an hour for women to freshen up in the morning. She found him sitting on the couch, clothes draped neatly over the armrest.

"You're not dressed!"

"I'll wait until you return from the church."

"Oh!" She looked at him blankly for a moment. Then she flushed, her expression one of mixed guilt and surprise. Had she ever forgotten before? "You're right, I – I suppose I should go."

Flustered, she fetched her straw hat, and with an awkward wave goodbye, let herself out of the apartment. After she had departed, Georg finally got dressed, freshening up in the tiny apartment bathroom. He gave her bed as wide a berth as he could – thankfully, it was neatly, almost primly made up, and he managed not to let his imagination get carried away.

Maria was not gone long, and she was pink and breathless as she came rushing back. Georg wondered if her trip up to the hill was a meditative this morning as it usually seemed to be.

Together, they wandered down to the town. The fishing boats in the distance were already hard at work. They passed the Siren, shuttered and closed for the morning. They passed women and men on the streets carrying woven produce baskets, their pace more leisurely than those of shoppers on the mainland. They passed a group of children dressed neatly in white shirts, looking like they were out on a school fieldtrip.

Adamas during the day certainly had a different feel from what he was used to coming up in the evenings – an old-fashioned, friendly little town.

Things became livelier as they neared the docks. The harbor was busy, with deck hands unloading supplies and goods and a steady stream of people coming and going from the boats. Maria showed him to the little bakery she'd gushed about, warmly greeting the store owners, a father and son pair, with a kiss on the cheek. Georg felt a stab of something unfamiliar in his gut as both men returned the gesture.

They sat on the small café-style veranda in front of the store. Maria ordered them both pastries, despite his protests, and he had to admit were quite good, especially paired with the strong, expertly made Greek coffee. They watched the activity at the docks, and Maria amused him by trying to guess what was inside the various cargo boxes. Traffic to the little bakery shop increased steadily during their meal, as the sleek island ferries began arriving with small groups of tourists.

A commotion near the wharf drew their attention – a strange, chime-like musical arpeggio that caused them both to turn. A small crowd had gathered by the side of the road where the dock met the dusty shore path. Georg caught a glimpse of a tall man dressed smartly in black and white formalwear, and a small table in front of him, lined with –

"Glasses!" Maria gasped.

She stood to get a better look, and Georg stood with her. He could see row after row of neatly lined wineglasses, and the man was coaxing a melody from the rims. The crowd clapped as the man finished his song, and took a smart bow. Traveling buskers, he realized, as people tossed coins into an open music case resting on the ground.

The man began another song, a whimsical rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and Maria looked over at him, excited and starry eyed.

Georg couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Shall we?" He offered his arm, she accepted without hesitation, and they strolled over to join the crowd.

Maria clasped her hands together, fully giving herself over to the magic of the glass player. Georg studied the set up, enjoying the performance himself. He had seen a glass musician before, at a fair he had once upon a time attended with his children. But this one seemed as much about performance as entertainment – the water in each glass precisely poured to perfect pitch, the sound of his glasses crisp yet decadent.

At the end of the song, Maria produced a coin and Georg a bill. He looked at her, and had to suppress a chuckle as she verily snatched it from his hand to place into the man's open case, before stepping back to his side as yet another song started. It was another Mozart, this time from one of his operas. True to its nature, midway through the piece a young woman materialized through the crowd, dressed in opera garb, singing over his riff with her polished voice. The man started, looking surprised, then infuriated, although it was plainly part of the act, another piece of this traveling musical ensemble. The crowd laughed, cheering on the woman as the glass player looked on in exaggerated sulkiness as she took over his song.

The woman, too, was exceptional for a street musician. She had a wide range, her timbre rich and evocative. Perhaps he had forgotten, living among the Austrian elite, that true art could be found everywhere. But when was the last time he'd stopped to appreciate it?

He glanced sidelong toward Maria, and was shocked to see her cheeks wet with tears. She had a hand pressed against her lips, as though she was afraid she'd break down into sobs at any moment. Alarmed, Georg reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned to him, damp eyes filled with such pain he almost took a step back. Instead, he slid his arm protectively across her shoulders, leaning her into him, shielding her from whatever in their surroundings had caused her to react so viscerally.

"What is it?" He murmured, barely audible over the singer's trill.

Maria shook her head, the rest of her body shaking with it.

What was this all about? He had seen her angry, had seen her sad, had seen her wistful – but never helpless, never devastated. She had never given any indication that there was a part of her that was so vulnerable, so fragile that some innocuous thing about this sunny day by the wharf would break her.

Maria buried her face against him. Keeping an arm around her, Georg steered her backward, away from the musicians, from the crowd. The docks and roads were loud and busy, typical of a port-town at the height of the day. He glanced at the top of Maria's head with a worried frown, then made a quick decision, and proceeded to guide her through the traffic. Her feet followed unquestioningly, until they found themselves on the gangway leading to his yacht.

Georg led her up onto the deck, keenly aware it was her first time on his boat. She'd never had to reason to be, really, since he'd only ever brought women back to – He shook his head, returning to the distraught Maria at his side. He brought her around to the bow, where there was a small seating area. The Mediterranean sun was so strong his cushions were dry despite the overnight storm. Georg sat, tugging Maria down with him, and wrapped his arm around her. Silently, he smoothed her hair, rubbed her shoulders, while she seemed completely obvious to him and to where she was as she cried – mourned, really – body shaking with silent sobs that occasionally escaped as a muffled cry.

Did this have something to do with Pierre? Or Johannes? Georg racked his mind, wondering what tragedy in her history had triggered such a complete break down.

It was quiet here. There was no crowd, no bustling activity, and eventually, the rhythmic lapping of the waves and gentle lull of the boat seemed to have an effect on her. Her sobs slowed, her shaking stopped. Maria raised her head enough to glance around at her surroundings.

"Are we on your boat?" The question was punctuated with hiccups.

"Yes."

Maria didn't immediately respond, but blinked red, puffy eyes as she took in the yacht. She sniffled, and silently he handed her his kerchief. She rubbed her eyes and dried her tears.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice, not looking at him, busying her hands as she folded the cloth into small squares.

"I wish I could have done more," Georg told her honestly.

She looked up at him. "I got your shirt wet."

His lips twitched. "Don't worry, not wet enough to wring out." Then he paused, wondering if his presence was keeping her from coming to terms with what she had just been through. "I have plenty more here, anyway. I'll just be a moment."

Georg went into his cabin to put on a new shirt, deliberately taking longer than he needed to. He stopped in the galley, before returning to her with two glasses of water.

Maria did look quite a bit calmer. She gazed out toward the horizon as she sipped at her glass.

"That could have been me." When she finally spoke, her voice sounded small and distant.

For a moment, Georg was confused. He thought back to the crowds, the performers. Did Maria harbor secret fantasies of becoming a street musician?

"She had a beautiful voice."

"Maria, you have a beautiful voice."

She looked at him with a sad smile. "I used to sing… a lot."

Georg blinked. Maria did sing a lot. In the hills, anyways, when she felt relaxed and free.

"My parents loved music. Singing was always a part of my life. My father used to tell everyone I learned my do-re-mi's before I learned my a-b-cs."

He smiled at the image of a toddler Maria, but couldn't shake the sense that she was hinting at an idea he was missing completely.

"Music got me through my hardest years as a child. When I had music, I never felt as though I was truly alone. I was drawn to my calling because of music, before I became a governess. In my previous life, I must have been a singer." She shrugged a bit ruefully.

"I believe it," Georg said truthfully. "If you had wanted, there would be a place for you on the grandest stages in the world."

It had been the wrong thing to say. The corners of her lips turned down, and she looked away. When her gaze returned to him, she was pale. "It was not long after we arrived on Milos. We… we were out for a boat ride, with Philip, one of our fishermen. We were going to be married, and Pierre – well, we were both making an effort to get to know each other, I mean, as something more than employer and governess."

Georg nodded slowly, curious but bewildered as to why she was suddenly telling him this. Maria didn't often speak about her time with her employer-turned-fiancée.

"We weren't far off the coast – just around the South bend of the island at the rock caves – but when the storm came, we couldn't make it back to port, and there was nowhere to dock."

Fear had crept into her voice, and Georg looked down to see her hands clenched in her lap. He could see the storm in his mind, perhaps as bad as the one that had descended upon them yesterday, perhaps worse. He felt the gale, could see the waves, and his chest clenched in trepidation for the young woman beside him. He reached over, covering her small fists with his hands, but it didn't feel like enough.

"Philip tried to bring the boat back. I don't know how close we came, tossed in every direction. I'd – I'd never seen waves like that before. Pierre had thrown the life-ring around me, and we were holding on, but I had to – I was going to be sick. One minute I was throwing up, and the next minute I was in the water. I don't know if it was a wave, or if the boat had listed…"

Georg wasn't able to mask his sharp inhale. His hands tightened around hers. He had been there – unable to control his vessel, losing men to the terrifying power of nature. This story didn't end in tragedy, he reminded himself. Maria was here, alive and well in front of him. He pulled her a little closer, but doubted she noticed.

"I – I could swim a little, but the waves were so… so high…" Tears were streaming down her cheeks again. He dabbed at them with his handkerchief, but again, she seemed not to notice. "The last thing I remember is Philip in the water, trying to reach me. Pierre was hanging onto the railing, shouting something, and I – I don't remember anything after that. That was the last time I saw Pierre."

Her voice broke, and Georg gathered her against him. "Oh Maria…" he murmured, stroking her hair. He'd known Pierre had died in an accident. He never imagined it was out at sea, or that Maria had been there – had almost drowned herself.

"I don't know how Philip kept me from going under. He tells me the storm was short, and when it was over, some of the other fishermen spotted us and brought us to shore. He said… he said they thought I was dead. Stavros tells me I was lucky – the doctor and the paramedic were both at the Siren, weathering out the storm, and they rushed to the docks with they heard shouting. They saved me; forced the water from my lungs so I could breathe."

Georg sat there, holding Maria in his arms, hardly daring to breathe himself. He'd had no idea. No idea how close he'd come to never meeting her. How close he'd come to losing her before they'd even met. And the thought felt suddenly terrifying.

Maria sighed, the sound a shudder. "But… I don't really know what happened. The doctor says my body had gone into shock. It had gone without air for so long, it was shutting down. I wasn't able to breathe on my own, and even my heart was giving out. They resuscitated me, put a tube down my throat, and they didn't know if I would make it. But in the end I did. I had some broken ribs, some scarring in my throat, and I was in a lot of pain – but I was alive."

Georg released the breath he was holding in a soft hiss. He thought back to her extensive first aid kit. Now he knew – it had been the leftovers of a tragedy. He wondered briefly why she'd never talked about it with him, before realizing it was because she'd never talked about it, at all.

Her voice was calmer with she next spoke, like she'd made her peace with the inevitable. "I was in the clinic for weeks. I was there when they found Pierre. When they buried him. I was there when they brought Johannes to say goodbye."

"Maria, I'm so sorry…" He had never anticipated the depth of her loss.

"…And I was there when I realized I couldn't speak."

"What?"

"I – I had no voice. The doctor said there was swelling and scarring in my throat, but with time things might get better. It was only for a few days… but I felt that I had died too. That the best part of me was gone. Oh, Georg – I'm so ashamed."

"Oh no – no Maria, no." He shook his head repeatedly, in disbelief, in denial.

"Over time my voice did come back. I don't think I helped it much, at first – I was so… reluctant to speak. I had no one to speak to. But eventually, I could speak. I could even sing a little. But it wasn't the same. It will never be the same."

Georg sat there, Maria still in the circle of his arms, feeling dazed, blindsided by her revelation. It was, he realized, that loss that had first drawn him to her. He remembered the sadness he felt, listening to her play her guitar at the Siren, picking through Edelweiss. It had been a dirge, a tribute, a memory.

And hesitantly he asked, "Has everything been done? I mean…"

Maria shook her head, the movement tickling his shoulder. "I – I don't know. They tried everything." He felt her sigh. "I'm just glad to be alive."

He felt her relax against him. His chest felt tight, an aching pressure, like something within straining to get free. "The sea has been in my blood since I was a boy… and yet, I could hate it for what it did to you."

He felt her nuzzle into him. "Don't, Georg. I don't want you to hate it."

Maria tilted her head to look at him, and her eyes were very bright. "It's in the past, and I've made my peace with it. I don't want it to hurt you."

They stared at each other for a beat, perhaps several, and then, his mouth fell upon hers, and she was pressing back, hard, as though something had broken free, as though they sensed that that life was fragile, uncertain, and they couldn't let this moment go unclaimed.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and his fingers knotted through her hair, tipping her head back, learning the shape of her mouth, the taste of her. A sound escaped her that was part sigh, part whimper, his groan a rumble deep in his throat. He cupped the back of her head to bring her closer. It wasn't close enough. He leaned back into the cushions, pulling her with him so she was flush against his side. The heat of her mouth, the softness of her breasts, the swell of her hips against his – Georg could lose himself in all of her, but of one thing he was certain. He'd wanted her for weeks. Wanted to know how she tasted, how she felt in his hands, how she sounded when she found her pleasure.

All these weeks he'd kept his distance, been a gentleman, ignored the unspeakable ways she'd shown up in his dreams, settled for innocent hand-holding and chaste kisses and almost-kisses… and he was no better than a rakish sailor lusting after a maiden. Even now, as he held her and stroked her back, her sides, her hips, and felt a fierce tenderness for this woman in his arms, he wanted to mark her, claim her, take her right then and there on the bow of his yacht.

She moaned his name into his mouth, bringing all of him to attention. With her hands, she explored his shoulders, his back, his chest, her body yielding, responding, surrendering. There was no reservation, no fear, nothing held back.

Her back arched when he cupped her breasts, her breath a gasp that could have been pain, could have been pleasure, as he took a nipple between his fingers, and then the other. He found spots that made her shiver, the soft hollow above her hips, the dip between her torso and thigh, the delicate spot behind her knee when he brought her leg up over his hip. He ran his fingers along her stocking until he reached the elastic, the place where the silkiness of the material met the soft heat of her skin, and he felt his body burn, felt himself straining for her.

He lingered there, kissing a trail along her jaw down to her collarbone. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, panting, allowing him access everywhere he touched. And Georg understood that she wasn't going to stop him. She would give herself to him. Let him claim her. Let him be the first.

The thought shook him to his core, brought him out of his primal lust with something close to a gasp. His hand stilled, and he propped himself against the cushions with his free arm. She tilted her face up to him, eye closed, seeking more. Her lips were swollen, the swells of her breasts shining with sweat where her blouse had been pulled loose in their frantic touches. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, grazed her jaw. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so inexplicable protective, so concerned as to where things went from here.

"Wait, Maria," he mumbled, breathless, heart thundering at how fast things had gotten out of hand.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Georg? Is something wrong?"

"If we don't stop now – we're not going to stop."

"Stop?" Her gaze was hazy, clouded with desire.

"Maria. I want you."

She blinked, her inhale a hum against his neck.

He freed his hand from her skirts. He took her hand, idly placing her palm against his chest, right over his racing heart. "If we are to continue… I need to hear you say it."

She blinked again, her forehead creasing slightly.

Georg twined his fingers with hers, guiding them to his lips. She watched as he brushed light kisses over her knuckles. "I need you to be sure. I don't want you to regret getting carried away."

There was a moment of silence, his lips continuing to dance across her fingers as their gaze locked. Maria looked down, but not before he saw the first flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It was enough to cool him off, to be sure of the way forward.

"You don't have to say yes," he murmured, gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He didn't immediately push himself away, content to lie next to her, feeling his breathing even and his heart slow.

Eventually, he pushed himself upright with his hands. Slowly, she followed. They were still very close, and when her eyes flickered up to his, and it was a shy, seeking glance – almost more vulnerable, more intimate than it'd been when she let him touch her. "I didn't want to stop." Her cheeks flushed scarlet.

"I know." Oh, did he know.

"That was…I was… I've never felt – " Maria stammered, looking away, clearly embarrassed, "I've never… uhm… wanted – let myself want…"

"You've never let yourself want a man?" He picked through the pieces and finished the sentence for her.

Mutely, she shook her head.

Georg exhaled slowly. This conversation was affecting him strangely - his awareness of just how aroused he'd made her was enough to stimulate him very much, were it not for how gentle he wanted to be with her. He scooted slightly away, putting a little bit of space between them. "Desire is not shameful, Maria."

Her mouth twisted in a half smile. "I was taught that lust is a sin."

Georg couldn't contain his surprise. This fervent, receptive woman, believed carnal pleasure was a sin? "But you were going to be married. Didn't you think that it would one day get… physical?"

"But marriage – marriage is sanctified by God," she mumbled, her head dropping in shame.

His lips twitched, although she couldn't see. It would have sounded prudish, were it not for the very reluctant way she was saying it. And the way she had come alive under his hands, eager and responsive. He was sure that one day, she would make her future husband a very lucky man.

"Maria, you have a right to your beliefs, you don't need to feel ashamed." He pursed his lips. "You've just had the unfortunate luck of falling in with a rake. You know my reputation."

A reputation he'd managed to keep in check around her for fear of losing control as he just had.

"I don't know what I believe," Maria ventured, voice small. "When I was at the Abbey… I didn't expect I'd ever have to think about these things."

"When you were where?" Georg bolted upright, his eyes flying to hers in shock.

Maria blinked uncertainly. "The Abbey. Nonnberg Abbey. Before I was a governess, I was a postulate."

He could only stare. Maria, the untamed, for whom the mountains and the wilderness would always be home – had been a postulate. Maria, the cabaret dancer, the barmaid – had been a postulate. Maria, the nearly-married, had been a postulate. Maria, the passionate, the inquisitive, the playful. How was it possible?

"You were going to become a nun?" He blurted, in the most unhelpful manner.

She nodded. "I thought it was what I wanted. I'd use to go down the mountains near the Abbey, climb a tree, and see the Sisters working, singing on the way to vespers. When I entered the Abbey, it became my home, my family – my life. But the Reverend Mother thought I should… go out into the world for a time, to see if it was really the life I wanted before I took my vows, and so she sent me to work for Pierre. She wasn't certain I was prepared for a life in the Abbey."

Thank God for the Mother Abbess. Georg knew her well, respected her tremendously, and thought she had never made a better call.

"You never told me."

"I haven't told anyone. Who could ever imagine a barmaid who used to be a postulate?"

Was it something the former postulate herself didn't even want to think about?

"Did you change your mind when Pierre – erhm…" It was all too strange to consider.

"I'd already realized by then that perhaps I wasn't a good fit for the Abbey. I couldn't follow the rules – couldn't hold my tongue when I needed to, couldn't stop singing when I wasn't supposed to, couldn't be anywhere on time when I was asked to be… I kept getting into trouble. And I found I… I liked being away from the Abbey. I loved spending time with Johannes, loved being outdoors, exploring new places, trying new things…"

Georg suppressed a sigh of relief. At least she had, in her own time, come to the same conclusion.

"But I still clung to the idea that I could be a nun, and it was almost impossible to give that up when… when I agreed to be married. I knew I could never return to the Abbey. And then working at a place where I entertain men and serve them drinks… oh, I tried so hard not to turn my back on God."

Is that what she did up at the cemetery every morning? Pray to God and try to atone for what she imagined were her sins?

Suddenly, he wondered what she would say to God tomorrow – whether she would ask forgiveness for how much she wanted him. Georg felt no small measure of relief that he had stopped them when he did. If he had taken her virtue, she would never forgive herself.

"Maria." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Your work at the Siren is a testament of your will to live – I don't think God is so unreasonable as not to recognize that." Her eyebrows lifted dubiously, and he continued after a brief hesitation. "You know, I once heard your Reverend Mother say, that when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."

Georg could hardly believe that of all people, he was the one comforting her about God.

But Maria's eyes sought his, hungry for validation. Almost timidly, she laced her fingers with his. "And this is the window?"

He let himself wonder for a moment what exactly she was referring to, before nodding. He was rewarded with a watery smile.

"Come." He kissed the top of her head, briefly and reassuringly. He stood up, pulling her with him, before he could reconsider the options. "Let me make you something to eat."

As Maria followed him into the galley, making no comment about his culinary abilities, a shocking thought entered his mind – a jumble of snippets in time and half-formed images.

If Maria had been a postulate at Nonnberg Abbey, she might have been the one the Mother Abbess sent him (how many requests from widowers did the woman get, anyway?)

Mari could have been his governess.

And then – Georg almost had to pause against the doorframe for support – how differently things might have gone.

Georg found himself back at the Siren that evening.

He had taken Maria home late in the afternoon. She had her second of two nights off, and after the day they'd had, they'd both come to the unsaid conclusion she should spend it alone. Georg joked about getting a good night's sleep, and Maria gave him an easy laugh. He tried not to think about how different things seemed now, from when they'd left together that very morning. How… innocent, how charming, his attraction to her had been.

Before he learned that she had almost died, almost lost her life to the sea that he'd always loved.

Before he learned that she could drive him to madness; that under her innocence was a woman full of raw sensuality, who would give herself to lovemaking with wild abandon.

Before he learned that the woman he'd been about to take right there on his deck had been a former postulate.

Scheisse.

Would he ever be able to spend time on his boat without thinking of her, of what had happened (and what had not) that morning?

Georg didn't want a drink, precisely. He just needed a distraction. And he wanted to speak with Stavros.

Stavros tells me I was lucky – the doctor and the paramedic were both at the Siren, weathering out the storm…

Unluckily for him, the bar was packed tonight. Georg sat at his table all evening, cognizant of how much he was drinking – unable to forget the habit had worried Maria – only half paying attention to his surroundings.

In the wee hours of the morning, the crowd finally thinned. The cabaret had ended and the music had stopped. Sailors were slowly departing, some to spend the night with their chosen women, others back to their boats to sleep off their alcohol. Only a few stragglers remained, and like him, kept to themselves. Workers were starting to clean the tables and mop the floors.

Stavros finally made his way over. He'd been by earlier with a hearty greeting, loud and gregarious, master of a chaotic domain. Now he seemed more genial, without the crowd to bolster him.

"Late night, Captain?" He perched on a stool next to the table.

"Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes it takes this – " he waved a hand around at the bar " – to soothe a troubled mind."

Georg had no idea if he was referring to the alcohol itself or the general tavern scene, and was in no frame of mind to ask. They watched the workers clean for a few silent moments.

"Maria tells me you knew her before she started working here," Georg said abruptly.

Stavros peered at him curiously. "Yes. Is there anyone who didn't know Maria? Fraulein Maria?" He mimicked her girlish, Austrian accent. "She used to come down to the shore all the time with her young charge… what was his name again – let me see…"

"Johannes."

"Yes! That very one. Sweet little boy, with his even sweeter young miss." Stavros chuckled gruffly. "They visited the bakery often, but Johannes was not above charming a lemonade off me every now and then. She was as delightful and happy as a little lark, flitting about everywhere – it was like getting hit upside the head by a little Greek Eros."

Georg couldn't help but chuckle at the imagery.

"She was very musical, your Maria." Georg ignored the adjective, but Stavros needed no encouragement to keep talking. "She went everywhere with that guitar of hers. You could always hear her before you see her… and her voice, O Thee mou!" Oh my God.

What kind of a voice must she have had to have this hardened, gruff man utterly enraptured?

And then Stavros shook his head sadly. "Did she tell you? About the accident?"

Georg nodded, and the two men shared a heavy glance. "Yes. I had no idea."

"I'm glad." The barkeeper didn't seem so cavalier, now. "Maria is very… private. She wasn't always that way – oh no. Only since the accident." He gestured around them. "I have been trying to get her out of her shell for a long time."

They were silent a moment. Georg felt sad on her behalf. Maria had had so much taken away from her. Stavros gave a loud sigh, and Georg glanced at him. Despite his views of the barkeeper, Georg felt grateful that in his own way, Stavros had cared about her, tried to watch out for her.

"You helped her," he said out loud. "You gave her a job. A reason to keep going."

Stavros shrugged. "I don't think there was a person on the island who knew her story that didn't want to help. She wouldn't let them. I think she only accepted the work because she needed the money."

Georg hesitated, then decided not to tell the other man just what Maria thought of working here. "It is hard for her, this job," he ventured instead.

"She is very good at it. Even though she no longer sings as she used to, she is still very musical. And she is able to please my most stubborn customers."

Georg frowned, the idea not sitting well with him in the least.

"When I learned you are from Austria, I hoped she and you would get along." Stavros waved his mug toward him, and he somewhat reluctantly raised his own to meet it. He doubted he would ever fully come to appreciate Stavros' methods, but his heart was in the right place – as Maria had once told him.

"You were not afraid I would take her from you?"

He watched as Stavros downed the last of his drink. He got up, and shrugged a little wistfully, a gesture that looked odd on the man. "I do not expect her to stay forever. In fact, I would hope she does not."

And with that, the bar keeper gave him a small salute, before walking away to the bar.

Georg remained at his table, staring into his empty pint glass. Stavros was right. He had been right, although he had offended her by saying it. Maria deserved more than this – was more than this. She was not a barmaid, anymore than she was a postulate or a neglected child. For her, life was only beginning. She deserved all of it; deserved to be swept away by the worthiest of suitors and the grandest of adventures. He knew she still mourned the loss of her voice, but Georg did not doubt this woman of many talents, who captivated hearts wherever she went.

It was just a shame she had to captivate this old sailor, who had nothing to offer and nothing to give. An old sailor whose time on the island was nearly up – and yet Georg knew that pulling the anchor this time around would feel like an impossible task. Where would he go? Would he be on the other side of the world, and still be thinking of Milos?

Georg stayed at the Siren long past closing – only he and Stavros remained. He nudged his empty glass idly around the table, like a piece in a game of chess where he had already lost. Stavros sat behind the bar, drinking a scotch and periodically scrutinizing him with a weary, knowing gaze.

By the time Georg walked out the door of the Siren, he knew what he wanted to do. Perhaps he did, after all, have something to give.

A/N (2): The idea for the loss of Maria's voice was drawn from Julie's own history - hopefully with the understanding that I am in no way making light of what happened to our beloved actress. (I just found her story so inspirational, both before and after her surgery.)

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far! (I'm sorry I haven't replied to all the reviews - this behemoth chapter really took over all my writing time!) Would love to hear what you thought about this chapter. xx