A/N: Thank you again for continuing to read. Spoiler alert: part of this chapter veers toward a soft M-rating, so be warned (rewarded?).

Chapter 6

As promised, William took Eliza for a stroll along the strand. Of course, he had first to insure there was no danger outside in the daylight, so before they went out, he had an impatient Eliza lock the door while he patrolled around the house and took a look down at the beach. Satisfied, he returned to find her wearing her walking skirt, blouse, and coat, but no hat and no shoes. He looked down at her tiny white feet and grinned.
"Did you forget something?"
"If I'm going to walk on the beach, I want to feel the sand between my toes."
She cast an assessing eye upon William, who at least casually wore only his shirt and trousers beneath his overcoat. She regarded his usual dress shoes.
"Those won't do, William. You'll ruin your best shoes and get no enjoyment in the experience.
He lifted an eyebrow. "And won't I look the fool running after a would-be assailant in my bare feet? No, I'll let you find enjoyment enough for the both of us."

She sighed, but followed him out the kitchen door. Once on the beach, the sun shining happily over the water, she forgot all about William's experience and fully concentrated on her own. The wind was brisk, but not terribly cold, and at first she was satisfied holding William's hand and scanning the shoreline for seashells the tide had left. She stopped often to bend and poke through seaweed and kelp with a stick she'd picked up, her face alighting when she found a tiger striped scallop, or a cockle, or a limpet, exclaiming over each treasure that she gave William to put in his pockets. He shook his head and deposited them, secretly having found his own enjoyment in her childlike expressions. He found himself laughing uproariously when she uncovered a crab and jumped back with a screech of fear. His little Eliza, who'd faced down many a criminal with an empty revolver or her wits alone, frightened of a lowly crustacean. He didn't mind a bit when she briefly clung to his side before composing herself and flushing with embarrassment.

"It just took me by surprise, that's all," she explained as she quickened the pace to get past the scurrying creature. He chuckled, and she looked sheepishly up into his eyes before turning her attention to a small sea potato urchin husk, which promptly joined the bulging cache in his pocket. Her search took her closer to the water, and for the sake of his shoes, he let go of her hand. He could have watched her all day, the wind having hopelessly ruined Mrs. MacKenzie's serviceable knot to allow her golden curls to blow about her face in beguiling disarray.

He found a large piece of driftwood and took a seat to better observe the show. He grinned when a little wave caught her by surprise, reveling in the sound of her ensuing laughter as she looked down at her drenched hem. After about a half-hour of this, she trudged up into the dry sand to join him, availing herself of his pockets before sitting close beside him, brushing her hands together.
They stared out at the sea for a few minutes, feeling hot where his hip pressed against hers, while he looked sidelong her face, tinged pink by the sun, the wind, and pure joy. He reached up to catch a blowing curl, fascinated with how it wrapped itself around his finger—much as she had done him all these years.

"What a glorious day," she said, eyes still on the waves.

"Yes," he replied simply, in total agreement, but for a very different reason than the sand and the sea. And then she turned to look at him, her face softening as she regarded him too. She reached out a small hand to lightly touch the unruly locks of his own hair, and a vision of their shared kisses, of her fingernails sliding against his scalp in passion, made him tremble. He was finding it very difficult not to pull her closer and capture those full lips, to taste her once more. He wanted to respect her boundaries, but he wanted her so much he ached with it.

"I've missed those curls," she said, her voice just above the wind. "Whyever did you tame them?"
His pulse leapt at her touch. "Can't very well command respect looking like I just cast off mah leadin' strings."
She laughed. "I would have said you looked more like a romantic poet…perhaps your namesake?"
He looked confused a moment, then it dawned. "Robert Burns?" His hand went self-consciously to his hair, colliding with the feminine hand that was still petting him. He took it, intertwining their fingers, and in a voice deep with the cadence of his homeland, looked deeply into her eyes and recited:

"So fair art thou my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry…"*

He heard Eliza's soft gasp, saw her eyes gloss over with emotion. For his part, he felt shaken, having confessed his love in the guise of a poem, though as he had said the familiar words he'd realized he'd meant every one. She squeezed his hand, cradling it in her lap, his other arm snaking behind her. She snuggled closer, leaning her head against his shoulder. William closed his eyes and pressed his lips lightly against her temple. She didn't complain or call him out, and they sat contentedly there on the beach, the sounds of seagulls and the waves lulling her to sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eliza had no idea how long she'd slept against him, but when she awoke, she felt blissfully warm and a little embarrassed. She felt the rumble of his chuckle when he realized she had stirred. She sat up, releasing the hand she'd still grasped in sleep.
"Sleepy were ye?"
"A bit. Sorry."
"Not at all. My pleasure, in fact."

She heard the affection in his voice and it disconcerted her. William spent most of his time either barking or bantering with her, so when he occasionally lapsed into kind, soft conversation or gentle humor, she never knew quite how to react. She knew how she wanted to be with him, what she wanted to do, but that would step over the line she'd foolishly drawn only that morning. She wondered if perhaps she had been too hasty. Maybe she should damn the consequences and explore what could never be back in the real world, here, where they were literally on an island away from everyone they knew. She would surely end up being hurt, or worse, hurting him, but part of her—a big part—merely longed to know what it would feel like to give in to her feelings for once, to satisfy the innate curiosity he so frequently berated. Somehow she didn't think he would mind so much, at least not in the moment.

It was no secret he was quite the rounder, and she'd heard the gossip over the years. In the ladies' withdrawing room at the last ball she'd ever attended, she'd overheard two older women giggling like schoolgirls about the pleasure he'd given one of them, a widow Eliza had only known in passing. Eliza had flushed in unexpected jealousy, and yes, titillation, and had listened, unnoticed, as she heard mention of a "talented tongue" and how the lady couldn't walk straight the next day. Somehow, it didn't sound as though she were complaining. Those words had come to mind many times over the years, and she'd wondered what all the fuss about. Now, after their hot kisses the night before, she was beginning to understand.

While she'd slept, clouds had rolled in, blotting out the sun and dropping the temperature. She'd been so warm against his side that she hadn't noticed, but now a chill coursed through her.

"It looks like a storm is brewing," commented William. "We should go inside before it rains."

They rose as one, and walked back along the beach toward the path up to the cottage. They'd just reached it when the heavens opened and they were immediately drenched, both of them laughing as they made their way up the back steps and into the house. Eliza was shivering, feeling, and no doubt looking like a drowned rat. William automatically helped her off with her coat before he removed his, draping both garments on the backs of kitchen chairs to dry. Eliza pushed her wet hair away from her face, watching as William did the same, slicking back the beloved curls. Tension suddenly filled the small room, and she found herself reaching out to touch him again, to wipe away the water droplets that clung to his beard. Her thumb inadvertently brushed over his lower lip, and he stilled, both of them holding their breath, waiting to see what she might do. He'd made it clear it was up to her to kiss him again, and she hesitated, meeting his eyes in the dimness of the kitchen.

She'd never initiated a kiss before, and it frightened her more than anything she could remember. All of her recent bravado left her, and she dropped her hand from his cheek. Mutual disappointment replaced the tension, and William audibly released his breath.

"I should change out of this wet skirt," she said, her voice shaking. With one more apologetic glance, she left him to go up to her room, nearly running up the stairs in her bare feet.

When she re-emerged sometime later, the wind and rain were pummeling the windows, and William had stoked the fire in the parlor, had lit the lamps. She smelled something cooking, and, her stomach growling, followed her nose to the kitchen. William was busily heating another can of soup, and he'd set out the remnants of Mrs. MacKenzie's good bread. He dished out their luncheon in silence while Eliza sat at the table. She felt like she should apologize, but for what, she could not articulate. She'd kept to their agreement after all, even though it had left both of them visibly frustrated. William's hair had been combed back into its neat order, but he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves to cook, and he joined her over a steaming bowl of beef and barley soup. A candle flickered between them. To Eliza, it was almost unbearably romantic.

Her damp hair fell its full length down her back, but she'd managed to put on a dry skirt, although the struggle to do it with one good hand had about worn her out, adding to her mounting frustrations. She was sure William must have heard her unladylike swearing, but she wasn't about to give in to temptation and call for his help. So, if she looked less than neat, at least she was fully covered. She ate her soup gratefully, silently wishing for some way to bring them back to their safe, companionable relationship, but she feared that might be long gone now. A rumble of thunder signaled an increase in the rain, and both of them looked up at the window. It was terribly dark for the middle of the day, and the weather (along with everything else) seemed to have dampened both their spirits. It was William who held out an olive branch.
"Would you like to learn how to play poker?"
Her demeanor immediately lifted. "Really?"
He shrugged. "I'll teach you the basics, but we won't use money."
She frowned. "What fun will that be?"
"That's the one condition. I'll still feel like your father is looking over my shoulder and glowering. Or worse, Ivy. You must promise you'll never tell her I taught you. That is the deal; take it or leave it."
Already he could see how she was trying to get him to relent; she was so predictable in that way. Her eyes lit upon the sideboard, where the seashells she'd given him for safekeeping were drying. He'd washed them for her, and her heart melted a little from his thoughtfulness. She got up from her half-eaten soup and went to the shells. "What if we used these? I believe they once used seashells as currency in India…"
"Eliza…"
"Come now, William. How am I to get the true experience if we don't play for stakes? Please?" He blue eyes were wide and pleading, her long curls falling around her shoulder like a golden curtain. He knew from experience it was pointless refusing her anything—she would simply do what she liked anyway. This, apparently, was no different, although for once it wasn't like he was telling her to wait in the carriage, or not to go to a suspect's home, or not to interfere in a police investigation. No one would be killed if they played poker with seashells. Unless Ivy found out, of course.
"Fine," he said, shaking his head at his own weakness. "Finish your soup and I'll teach you. You need to keep your strength up."
"So that I might beat you?" she asked slyly.
He grinned. "To deal with the disappointment when you lose."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
As it turned out, Eliza was a quick study, and he wondered if he had been played the fool. For the rest of his life he would remember her sitting across from him at the little table in the parlor, eyes alight with concentration as she pondered her next move, or filled with glee when she laid down a winning hand. Slowly, her pile of shells increased, while his ebbed alarmingly. She would have scoffed had he told her the reason he was playing so poorly—he couldn't focus on his hand when she smelled of lavender and her lips were so full and ripe and kissable. Finally, when her last hand had wiped him out, he admitted defeat while she reveled in her poor sportsmanship with a loud whoop of triumph.
"I believe you would have owed me several hundred pounds were we playing for real, William."
"So you're familiar with the shell to pounds exchange rate, are ye?" He shook his head. "Go on then…get it all out of your system."
She whooped again for good measure, and William merely grinned.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the day passed quietly inside, as the storm raged on outside. William, concerned about high tide, braved the elements to check on their safety. The dunes would keep the tide at bay, but he came back in, soaked again. He found a towel and dried his face and hair, hanging his wet hat near the fire.
"I doubt Mrs. MacKenzie will make it through this tonight. I'm afraid you'll have to rely on me."
"I believe I'm on the mend. I didn't even need any willow bark tea today. I'm going to try the night without laudanum."
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"I despise the way it makes me feel. And the nightmares are terrible. I will attempt seeing to myself tonight."
William didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed. "I'm here should you need me."
"Thank you."

They read in the parlor for a while longer, until Eliza's eyes began to droop. "I think I'll say good night," she said finally, after staring dully at the same page for too long. He rose when she did, and he bid her a polite good night.
"I think I'll stay up awhile longer," he said.
While she'd dozed earlier, he'd gone into her room and added wood to her fire, stoking it so it would be nice and warm for her. It smelled sweetly of her, even with the woodsmoke, and as his eyes had settled on her empty bed, he'd indulged in a few erotic thoughts before hastening back downstairs.
He was too worked up to sleep now, but of course he didn't tell her that. He watched her go to the stairs, wondering if there would ever come a time when he could follow her to her bed chamber and never leave. He filled a glass with whiskey, reminding himself to send Commissioner Fitzroy a new bottle once they were back in London. It would set him back a pretty penny, but it had been worth it to help him through these torturously long nights.

Since Eliza's blouse unbuttoned in the front, she was able to undress herself with little effort and pain. A glance at her bandage showed that it appeared clean, and she decided that rather than bother William, it likely wouldn't hurt to wait for Mrs. MacKenzie to change it in the morning. She could put on her nightgown, but although she couldn't button the back closure, she celebrated the small victory. Her hair was another story. She managed awkwardly to brush it but couldn't raise her arm to braid it or even tie it back with a ribbon. She didn't look forward to awakening with it wrapped around her body, or the tangled mess that would have to be brushed out in the morning. With a sigh, she washed her hands and face and climbed into bed. Outside, she could still hear the rain, but it wasn't coming down nearly as hard. She lay in the darkness listening to it, suddenly wide awake. Thoughts of William filled her mind, and she restlessly moved to find a comfortable position. She'd nearly kissed him, but had lost her courage, and she found herself regretting that. They were destined only to be friends, she reminded herself. So why did the thought that she would never again be held in his arms, never again feel his hot mouth moving over hers, make her want to cry into her pillow?

An hour must have passed, and she lay abed, wide awake. Sometimes at night, when she couldn't sleep, Ivy would warm a cup of milk and honey for her, and Eliza thought that perhaps she might attempt it herself. How difficult could it be? It couldn't be as complicated as boiling an egg, surely. With a sigh and a plan, she lit a candle and tiptoed into the hall. She nearly ran into William in front of her door, and she stopped short.
"Is there something wrong?" he asked.

Her eyes widened when she saw his shirt was half unbuttoned and pulled out of his trousers, his feet bare, as if he'd begun undressing but had changed his mind. He was brawny and imposing, but instead of intimidating her, it made her feel wonderfully feminine. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, but for some reason, it didn't sadden her as it had when she'd smelled it on her father, or disgust her when a drunken man harassed her. Maybe it was because he'd been drinking the expensive stuff, or maybe because the smell of good whiskey always reminded her of her handsome Scot.

"I-I can't seem to get to sleep. I thought I would warm some milk…"
He chuckled. "Do you plan to set the house ablaze? There's no milk to be had, Eliza. If you're in pain you should have a dram of laudanum."
"I'm not in pain. I just can't sleep."
He took a step toward her, and she felt the familiar pull of attraction. "And why is that, do ye suppose?" he asked, his voice rich and low. It made her feel like she'd been the one drinking whiskey.
But she avoided the question with one of her own. "Did you need something of me? Why are you at my door?"

"I was taking a last turn of the house—for security purposes, mind. All is well, so you may rest assured."
She cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but at the same time she noticed how he was noticing her. She hadn't put on her dressing gown—it had been one more painful sleeve to slip on—and his eyes lingered on her breasts and hips before rising to her face again. He didn't bother hiding his lustful expression, and her shiver was not from the cold.

Before she could stop herself, she heard herself say in a rush: "I—I wanted very much to—to kiss you earlier, but I stopped myself just in time."
If he was shocked by her admission, he didn't show it. Instead, he moved even closer, his movement making the candle flicker and her heart take flight.
"You needn't have stopped," he whispered. "I wouldna hae minded in the least."
"You wouldn't?"
"Not at all."
Seeming of its own accord, her hand rose to the button in the middle of his chest, and she released it from its mooring, then went down to the next, and to the next, while William's breathing became louder in the hall, his chest rising and falling beneath her trembling hand. When she'd finished the last button, she spread open his shirt and indulged her recent fantasy of caressing the springy hair of his chest, noting with a small smile that it wasn't nearly as soft as his beard, though the skin beneath was smooth over firm muscles. She looked up into his face, his eyes dark and holding onto his patience by a thin thread. Her hand drifted lower, to the patch of hair just above the waist of his trousers, his stomach tightening at her touch.

"For God's sake, Eliza," he ground out gruffly, "bloody well kiss me already."

Suddenly, a strange sense of power and confidence suffused her, and she was no longer afraid. She recognized the feeling, having felt it before when she cracked a case, or trounced William at poker earlier. It was heady, addictive, and even more compelling as she heard the plea for mercy in his voice. She blew out the candle and tiptoed up to press her lips against his. He seemed to know that this was her first time taking the lead, and he let her have her way. The candlestick and holder clattered to the floor, forgotten, as she kissed each corner of his mouth, his beard tickling her tingling lips. His hands came up to her waist to steady her, his grip tightening with a jolt when she allowed her little pink tongue to caress his firm lips. He opened for her with a hoarse moan, and when her tongue slipped inside to tentatively touch his, William was lost.

His patience long gone, he bent his head and took her mouth, his hands coming up to bury themselves in her lush hair. While Eliza had found a new sense of control, William found that his control was in danger of completely slipping away. Need overtook him, and he bent to pick her up, his mouth still fused to hers as he walked through the firelit parlor to her bedchamber. He laid her on the bed, and stood looking down at her dark form. He could hear her breath coming in sharp, quick pants, echoing his own.
"Eliza?"
"Yes," she said, granting him the permission he sought. He dispensed with his shirt and joined her on the bed, his body covering hers.
"I willnae take ye," he rasped into her ear, "I just want to touch you…"
"Yes," she repeated, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
He kissed her again, pressing her into the mattress, in a moment of clarity remembering to mind her wounded arm. Her hand came up to caress his back, sliding down to his waist and back up to his shoulders, overcome with the sensation of warm, strong man and the headiness of his hot exploration of her mouth. His lips trailed over to her cheeks, then to her ear, his breath making her shiver with desire. He nipped her earlobe, then laved it with his tongue before kissing his way down to her throat. He realized her nightgown was loose at the neck, and he drew the cotton down over her shoulders so he could bury his face in the soft swell between her breasts. Eliza's hand went to his hair, holding him there as he breathed in the scent of lavender and warm, aroused woman.
He turned his head and rested his cheek against her wildly beating heart, his beard like velvet against her sensitized skin.

Slowly, his hands began to move over her body, exploring her feminine curves and valleys through soft cotton. He stopped at her breasts, gently cupping them, his thumb brushing the budding tips. She gasped—no one had ever touched her there before-and she felt a warm pooling low in her stomach, between her legs. His mouth soon took the place of his hands, and he suckled her, the fabric of her nightgown becoming wet over her aching breasts. She wanted something she could not name, but she knew instinctively it could only come from this man. He found her mouth again, one hand reaching low to draw up her nightgown. His hand was slightly rough as it glided over bare legs, inching upwards until it rested on her thigh. She held her breath, waiting for what, she did not know.

William hesitated, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He tenderly kissed her cheeks, her nose, her lips, before moving his errant hand back down to her knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze before he sat up, pulling her nightgown back down to cover her. He rolled off of her and lay on the other side of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut, praying for control. It had been a very long while since he'd restrained himself. He was used to satisfying his needs with uncomplicated women. Experienced women. Eliza was innocent, of that he had no doubt, and he wanted to make her his wife, taking that innocence only when they were spiritually and lawfully wed.
"William?" she asked after a time, her voice uncertain, almost hurt.
He reached for her hand, bringing it to his mouth. "I want you Eliza, but not like this. Not in a mad tumble we might both regret."
"You would regret it?"
"Not in the way that you think." He turned on his side to face her, straining to see her face in the darkness. "Everything in me wants to bury myself in you, to take you over and over until I cannae move or think. You must trust me that if we were to do this, it would change everything for you, and you might resent me for it later."
"Shouldn't we share in this decision equally? Why must you be in complete control here? It takes two, does it not?"
He rolled his eyes, thankful now that she couldn't see. "Why must everything be an argument between us? It is not a matter of control, Eliza. I have more experience in this regard, and I—"

She sat up, her pulse racing for an entirely different reason. "I'm well aware that you have been with countless women, William. You needn't throw that in my face. Arabella, for one. I'm certain she was more than willing to see to your needs, being a recent widow and all. Maybe if you begged her, if you kissed her like you just did with me, she would take you back, and you wouldn't be put off by someone who cannot please you in the manner you are used to."
"Dammit, Eliza, that is beneath you. Arabella is a fine lady, and this has nothing to do with her."

He got out of her bed, seething now with anger that he couldn't make her see reason, and frustration, well, for obvious reasons. He counted slowly in his head, but before he could reach ten, she was getting up on her side and fumbling for the matches to light the lamp. He blinked at the sudden light, and then he saw her state of near ravishment, her hair a wild mess around her shoulders, her lips swollen, cheeks aflame, and her nightgown still damp in suggestive places. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and forced himself to meet her hurt-filled, angry eyes.

"I think it best you leave," she said.
He nodded, and his eyes dropped guiltily from hers. "For what it's worth," he began formally, "this was ill-advised of me, and I'm that sorry for it."
She turned her back to him.

He wanted desperately to tell her that he wasn't sorry, not for the intimacies they'd shared, not for being hopelessly, deeply in love with her. But once again, he seemed to have mucked everything up. Was there some weakness in his makeup, some barrier that prevented her from fully understanding him?

"Good night," he said. "We'll talk further in the morning."
She didn't respond however, and he had the sneaking suspicion she was crying. He almost made it out the door before he had second thoughts and turned back to look at her, ready to run back and comfort her, damning the consequences and taking her back into his arms to finish what they'd begun.
"Eliza, I—"
"Just go, William. I'm suddenly very, very tired." He could hear the strain, the sad weakness in her voice, but he knew she was in no mood to talk more to him.

And so he went.

A/N: I hope you are continuing to enjoy this roller-coaster ride. Do not despair, however—I almost always write happy endings. Thanks for reading and here's hoping for your kind reviews.

*from "A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns