A/N: So I'm cutting this chapter in half because how could I not stop on the cliffhanger this chapter ends with? Y'all are not ready for what's about to go down.

Warning: This is the chapter that on AO3 turns this story from an M to an E. See the dirty version on AO3 and the censored on FFN. I strongly encourage you to read the AO3 version to get the fuller picture. Even the FFN version while not explicit does mention some very adult things.

Birds of a Feather

The Curse of the Black Pearl

Chapter Forty-Nine

When Lightning Cracks

A "right one" it did turn into. The next day, March 11th – six days until William Turner was out on the street – was such a miserable day that the Swanns didn't leave the house.

But it wasn't bad at first. True, it was raining on and off all day, but it was that kind of day where it was so inconsistent you really couldn't plan around it. There were occasional attempted trips outside that were quickly cancelled. Elizabeth had made it about halfway down the front steps before she decided that Will would be better off alone in his warm forge than fussing over whether his sort of fiancée had just got a cold trying to see him.

The Swanns were not a folk who liked to be housebound and poor Rosalyn spent most of her day rushing around the manor tending to the fires in what seemed like every room of the house. The Head Housekeeper Mrs. Tomlinson took pity on the girl and said over the next few days while they waited for the storms to pass, Rosalyn could go to bed at dinnertime to catch a few hours of sleep before tending to the fires every few hours all night. After all, your couldn't go giving the Family cold bedrooms.

Rutherford made no visits to the house, which just stressed-out Philip even more. He was thankful that the storms hadn't turned into masses of lightning, but Elizabeth could see the way he held the stair banister with white knuckles.

Syrena took the opportunity to explore the Manor further and when Weatherby found her wondering down a hall of family portraits, he offered to play tour guide.

"Only portrait of Bartholomew Swann you will find on any of our properties," Weatherby showed her the painting alone at the end of the hall far off from where the other portraits had stopped. There was more space down the hall for updated pictures and indeed there had been a great collection of family portraits set in Port Royal. "I keep him away from the happiness of the rest of the family. That happiness was always in spite of him, not because of him."

The portrait looked as stern and angry Syrena would have expected, "Why do you keep a picture of him?"

"Because sometimes I just need to come down here and face him. Sometimes it's to face the ways I let the family fail, but sometimes it's to show him how we found strength as a family, not weakness." Weatherby glanced at her and gave a small smile, "I hope one day to have pictures of Elizabeth and Philip's families hanging on these walls."

Syrena reddened from the unspoken implications, "I'm sure Will will make the most handsome decoration."

"And Philip's wife and daughters. I'm sure they will be lovely… someday."

"Yes, someday."

"Not too soon. They still have a bit of childhood left."

Syrena didn't know why, but in that moment Weatherby glanced towards a picture of Rebecca and sighed.

Elizabeth spent her time trying to make a miracle and somehow make Will's numbers work. They had already discussed their plan of action as many ways as humanly possible.

Perhaps they could negotiate Brown down to 75% of the price Stocks was offering, rather than 80%. Maybe they could get him to agree he only needed 60% upfront. Maybe Rachel could house her uncle for a few months. After all, Will wouldn't admit to Elizabeth why Rachel couldn't do it so maybe it wasn't that bad after all.

As much as Will was determined not to keep secrets from Elizabeth, this was one secret he had absolutely no right to expose. If Rachel wanted Elizabeth to know about Samuel, then Rachel should be the one to tell her. Ex-lovers or not, Rachel was still his friend and Will would never do something so vile as to betray that particular secret.

But Elizabeth had other ideas that didn't involve Rachel. Maybe she could figure out a way to get her birthday money released early. After all, for it to be accessible immediately on her 20th birthday, things must have been in motion to free it up already. Maybe she could get some of it and then used her allowance, combine that with loans from Groves, Ratcliff, Tillstone, Bowden, Kearns, Elliott, Ratlin, and Davidson, could that be enough?

Or maybe there was something she could sell. Of course, none of the high society ladies would want to be known to be wearing Elizabeth's cast-off dresses and jewelry – they had already started making fun of Syrena for that.

There was the family vault. Maybe she could pilfer a few pieces from there? But who would she sell to? And which pieces? There was no way she could take any of the Swann family traditional pieces and not instantly be noticed. If she even thought about touching her mother's pieces, her father would make Grandfather Swann look like a reasonable man and Grandmother Skylark would damn sure cross the Atlantic to get it back.

What about Aunt Becca's? No, any piece that had been Aunt Rebecca's now belonged to Philip. Likely he wanted to give those pieces to Syrena or his future daughters. Not to mention Elizabeth was already repenting the theft of a parent's necklace from one man in her life. She didn't need that with Philip too.

Maybe they could sell those silver candlesticks on the wall of the entrance hall and-

No wait, Elizabeth broke those when she was fourteen. It was a miracle no one had noticed and accused the right person. Elizabeth was pretty sure every guest, staff, and family member thought they had been the one to break it.

Over and over, she ran the numbers and tried to find any possible way to make it work. But she just couldn't do it. Elizabeth didn't have the head for numbers, and she really had no true idea of the Swann financial position. All she knew is she couldn't do anything without her family knowing.

One more day, Elizabeth finally decided. She would give one more day for a miracle, and then she would ask Will if they could tell her father.

Neither conversation was one that she looked forward to.

The next day, March 12th came as drizzly as the last, and while Rosalyn dressed Syrena the next day, she noticed that Rosalyn looked desolate at the thought of spending another night tending to fires.

A knock came at the door, and when Rosalyn opened it, Syrena was surprised to see a rather well-groomed Philip Swift standing at the door with a bouquet of red orchids and hibiscus.

"For you," he held them out to Syrena. As she greatly took them, Philip couldn't help but notice that it looked like Rosalyn was about to swoon. "I thought the rain might be a little stifling, so I brought you a little bit of the outdoors."

"Thank you, Philip, they're beautiful," Syrena wanted to mention that she had spent plenty of time indoors, but present company made things complicated.

As Rosalyn fluttered around getting the bouquet into a vase, Philip took the moment of distraction to sneak a kiss.

"Good morning," he whispered.

Syrena giggled, "Good morning. You're affectionate this morning."

"It's either be affectionate or be stressed."

"Who says you can't be both?"

They laughed together and Rosalyn came back to them with a very nicely arranged vase set bouquet.

"There you are, Miss Finson," Rosalyn beamed at her good work. "All nice and pretty for you."

"Thank you, Rosalyn," said Syrena. "They look very nice."

"Yes, they do," Philip said, "but actually they could be a bit better."

The women frowned, but Philip reached into the vase and picked out the brightest red hibiscus. He stroked back a lock of Syrena's hair, which had unfashionably left down in anticipation they would not have visitors that day, and he tucked the flower into it.

"There," Philip sounded proud. "Now it's perfect."

Syrena leaned in to kiss him, but Rosalyn gave a polite cough and Syrena remembered herself.

Philip however, just offered his arm, "I thought I could walk you down to breakfast and then after that perhaps we could take a stroll in the garden before the rain flushes us out again."

Her smile hesitated, the reason that Philip had offered his arm wasn't out of gentlemanly action but rather than her legs were still rather weak. Strolling in the garden wasn't exactly something that appealed to Syrena.

Philip sensed it, "Or maybe just sit in the garden and talk for a while. Does that sound better?"

Syrena smiled, "Just being with you doing anything sounds like the perfect day. I would love to join you in the garden."

"Then let us off to breakfast and our day."

Unfortunately, by the time breakfast was done, the rain had begun again.

When news of the weather had been brought to them, Elizabeth leaned over to Syrena and asked, "So how well do you do when the water is falling from the sky?"

Syrena whispered back, "Today is not the day I wish to find that answer."

"The newest additions have arrived from Shipman," Weatherby said as he read through the breakfast mail. Walter's books would always be delivered straight to the library, but he would send regular letters to each of the Swanns which had been delivered at the breakfast table with the rest of the post. "Perhaps you could spend some time together in the library? Appropriately chaperoned this time."

Philip reddened and dropped his eyes to his plate.

"That sounds like a fine idea," Syrena said. "I would like to return to my room first though. These shoes are a bit tight for me."

"I'll get Rosalyn to sort out some better footwear for you," Weatherby said. "Your new dresses should be here tomorrow if I recall correctly. Does the library sound good to you, Philip?"

"Huh? Oh yes," he was half-distracted as he read through his letter from his Aunt Lucy – his father's younger sister. "How about we meet in my office in thirty minutes? Pastor Thomas sent over this week's sermon notes and wants me to give a glance over them."

"What's the topic this week?" Elizabeth wanted to prepare her level of boredom.

"The differences in the wives of David. He especially focuses on Michal. Apparently, someone in town was asking about her."

Syrena stifled a giggle.

"Thirty minutes, then," Weatherby said. "Sounds like a plan."

Philip offered a hand and gentlemanly helped Syrena from her seat. As Weatherby went to rise from his seat, a hand caught his arm.

"Father?" Elizabeth had not looked that vulnerable in years, "Can we talk?"

"How much money is it William needs?"

Elizabeth told him.

Weatherby blanched at the number, "That is a fair amount, though maybe not for one of our class."

"So… is that a yes?" Elizabeth asked carefully. She looked over at the portrait of her mother and aunt that sat on the desk of her father's office and had half an urge to put it down flat. She didn't even want to know what they would think of such a request.

The Governor thought about it seriously, "That depends. How soon does he need the money?"

"Five days."

He drew in a sharp breath.

"That bad, huh?" Elizabeth asked.

Weatherby looked down at the desk thoughtfully, "It would be a very tight squeeze. I'm not like Philip who just lets his money do nothing. There would have to be letters sent to our estate managers. I'm not sure if I could liquidate funds that quickly, especially since I just sent the payment for all of Syrena's new personal items as well as paid the bills for your birthday celebration."

"I don't need some fancy party, Father. In fact, I'd rather not have one."

"Regardless, it's paid for and it's not the kind of payment where you get it back if you change your mind." Weatherby hesitated, "Elizabeth, tell me one thing, does William know you are asking me for this?"

"Yes," she answered. "It is absolutely killing him to do so, but we agreed to come to you as a last Hail Mary."

"And you're hailing Mary?"

"I'm hailing the donkey she gave birth next to at this point."

He sighed, "And William has reached out to everyone else he can? Perhaps you could bundle a few loans?"

"Everyone we can think of that has any sort of money, we've asked. Look, if we can't do it, let me know now so we can plan accordingly."

Weatherby rubbed his face, "I'll go through the finances today and write some letters, but it's not looking too hopeful. Not on a five day time limit."

"So if it doesn't happen, what happens to Will?"

"Perhaps you should ask Philip if Will could borrow Swift House for a while."

And it took everything Elizabeth had not to burst into tears.

Syrena was the first to arrive in Philip's office. Being alone, she did the only thing a pirate's daughter knew to do in an unattended room: rifle through his drawers and see if there was anything of note.

In some perverse sense of what is mine is yours way, Syrena didn't feel like it was an invasion of privacy. Besides, Philip didn't seem like the kind of man to hold secrets anyway.

She was respectful enough to put away his financials when she stumbled across them, and his feedback notes on Pastor Thomas' upcoming sermon were of little interest. It was when she pulled open his bottom drawer and found the drawings that she paused.

Some were Biblical scenes brought to life, others were sketches of the family Philip had lost, and there were dozens of moments of daily life that had been captured through his pencil. Elizabeth dancing at a ball, Will bent over his forge, Pastor Thomas at the pulpit, Groves with his son, Weatherby looking at the portrait of Katherine with eyes filled forlornly. There was all a common factor no matter what the subject of the drawing. Nathaniel Swift could see into a man's soul with his eyes, and his son could put it down on paper with his pencil.

"You like my drawings?" Philip's voice startled her.

"Philip!" she gasped placing a hand over her heart. Syrena then frowned as she saw the Head Housekeeper Mrs. Tomlinson standing behind Philip and Weatherby Swann nowhere to be found. "Where is your uncle?"

Philip frowned, "Said something about a financial matter coming up."

"Do you think my presence has become too costly?" she asked nervously.

"Oh no. I think Elizabeth is just up to something. I saw her coming out of his office before he told me he no longer could chaperone. So, he sent Mrs. Tomlinson to keep an eye on us."

She swallowed as she saw Mrs. Tomlinson nod solemnly behind Philip. Syrena hadn't learned much about the staff at Swann Manor yet, but she did know that when it came to propriety, Mrs. Tomlinson made Prudence Gillette look like Elizabeth.

"You are very talented," Syrena turned her attention back to the drawings. She saw an image of Jacob holding Joseph's torn many coloured coat and could feel the raw animalistic sorrow and grief rolling off the patriarch. "I know you told me you were good, but I didn't expect-"

Philip shrugged, "No one really expects it. I think I like it that way. Then when I do draw it can be about what I want the picture to look like and let the image speak the words I want it to whether it be love, hate, sorrow… desire."

Syrena blushed.

"Can I?" Philip suddenly asked, "Can I draw you?"

Syrena blinked, "Me?"

"You're just so perfect," Philip said. "Your eyes speak a thousand stories and I've so badly wanted to put my pencil to page ever since I saw you."

Mrs. Tomlinson cleared her throat, "Mister Swift, I'm not sure that's entirely-"

"I'll keep it appropriate," he said quickly. "I swear."

She hesitated, but ultimately it wasn't her place..

The idea thrilled Syrena; Philip putting her image down with such love and devotion as all the other pictures. How could she say no?

"Only if I get to keep the picture afterwards," she stipulated.

Philip smiled, "Agreed."

He posed her on the couch in the library with Mrs. Tomlinson haunting his shoulder like a ghost.

It took a while for Philip to figure out what he wanted the picture to look like. He knew that he wanted it to be mostly a shoulder up portrait with the hibiscus in her hair and her bracelet in the image. Then inspiration struck and he sent for an apple from the kitchen.

A green apple.

Syrena posed with the apple to her mouth, lightly biting into it as her bracelet hung from her wrist. Her large hazel eyes read both innocence and seduction as they stared deep into Philip's soul and page.

Watching her hold that apple to her lips as darkness and light battled in her eyes, Philip finally understood why Adam had given in to Eve.

It took several hours for Philip to complete his picture. Since Syrena had to occupy her mouth with the apple, Philip entertained her by telling her stories.

Of course, it wasn't easy to concentrate on said stories with Syrena looking like that. He wanted to brush her hair off of her shoulder and kiss that soft sweet skin. He wanted to feel that sensitive under part of her rest that the bracelet hung off of. He wanted to move that apple and close his lips upon her open mouth, curling his tongue inside of her.

"Perhaps you would like to sharpen your pencil again, Mister Swift?" Mrs. Tomlinson's voice cut through his thought.

He hadn't even noticed that he had been pressing the tip of his pencil so hard into the page it had snapped off the tip.

"Oh, right, yes," he went for his pencil knife with a red face.

Syrena laughed, idly playing with the apple as he flustered about.

"Back to posing," Philip ordered with absolutely no air of authority.

She just let him have that and settled back into position. Syrena could see the tension in his knuckles and the burning in his eyes. She didn't want to push him further than he was ready for, but she knew he was so close to being okay with more.

Philip Swift had never agreed with Elizabeth on her rebellion against society, but there in that moment he finally understood her stance. If Mrs. Tomlinson wasn't there-

Syrena's teeth sunk through the flesh of the apple a bit too hard, and a dribble of juice slid down her chin.

Philip had been wrong in Tortuga. Now he knew Hell.

It was a beautiful picture when done, the utter essence of Syrena. Innocence but seduction. Hesitance but strength.

He almost was sorry to give it up to her.

"It's beautiful," she murmured when he handed it over the picture. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. Just ask anytime."

He was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek and a giggle as she bowed her head to his. Philip loved looking into those beautiful hazel eyes and when she had that sweet little smile on her face.

Then they heard the crash.

Philip and Mrs. Tomlinson's heads whipped over to see Jack the Monkey throwing off some of the ornaments from the mantle of the fireplace. Before Philip could make a move, his head was roughly turned back and Syrena's lips were on his.

The kiss was deep and wanting. Passion ebbed between them as Syrena controlled every movement, pulling Philip in deep as if trying to take the breath from his body. Philip melted beneath her and let Syrena take over it all. He groaned when he felt her slip her tongue into his mouth and tried playing with him the way he had grown to like doing to her.

Then her lips were gone, and Philip could only stare at her and pant.

"I had to give you a proper thanks somehow, didn't I?" She held out her arm and obediently Jack jumped up onto it and climbed on her shoulders. Syrena leaned up against Philip and whispered in his ear, "I only wish I could do so much more."

Philip just gaped at her as she sauntered out of the room, the minx having have the gall to swing her hips (which given the state of her balance on legs meant she must have practiced the move.)

Mrs. Tomlinson's stare burned into Philip, and he couldn't help but look at her.

"Close your mouth, Mister Swift," Mrs. Tomlinson said sternly – her years of service giving her the authority to do so. "It's unbecoming of you."

And Mrs. Tomlinson left.

But still Philip Swift couldn't help but gape, his mind locked with the seduction of Syrena.

His head swarmed with inappropriate images of Syrena. Spread out on the floor of her cabin. Atop him on the floor of the balcony. Holding his almost bare body in the mating biting into the apple as the juice dripped down her lips.

Philip couldn't take it anymore. He raced up to his bedroom, locked the door behind him, and unlaced his trousers.

At dinner he could barely look at anyone. Not his pseudo father, not his distracted cousin, and certainly not the woman he had defiled himself with images of earlier that day.

Earlier he had practically squeaked as he told the maids not to put a warmer in his bed that not, and in fact he really didn't think he needed his bed turned down since it was made that morning. He dare not breath word to a soul about how he had used his sheets to clean up and was hoping he could go long enough without anyone seeing his bed that the mess in his sheets could be passed off as an involuntary nocturnal emission.

But if Philip could think he could go throughout dinner without anyone suspecting something was off, he was dead wrong. Everyone noticed the panicked eye flicking, the nervous sweats, the rambled stutters, and the way he would start whenever someone tried to catch his attention.

At first, Weatherby intended to ask Philip what was wrong. He was about to do it, when he knocked his napkin off the table. The footman made a move to get it, but Weatherby just waved him off the simple task.

Weatherby was bent down retrieving his napkin when he saw Syrena's hand reach out under the table and placed itself on Philip's leg.

Immediately his other knee shot up and banged violently against the table.

Weatherby Swann decided in that moment that he didn't want to know.

"Pastor Thomas and Archdeacon Rutherford will be here tomorrow again," Weatherby told the group as they finished up dessert. "Elizabeth and Syrena, they would like to ask some questions of you, so please be on your best behaviour. They don't really need to know anything more than that which we have already told them, is that understood."

"Yes, Sir," the women responded, catching the hidden message to just stick to the agreed upon story.

"Father, has there been any developments with the thing we talked about this morning?" Elizabeth asked.

He warily eyed her, "I've set up a few meetings tomorrow. Hopefully I have better news for you at tomorrow night's dinner. Syrena, your outfits will be here tomorrow. Please make sure you try on everything. Though maybe take it a little easy on Rosalyn. I suspect she'll be up all night with the fires. Perhaps I'll have Elizabeth loan you Giselle tomorrow."

"Or we could just go without fires for one night," Elizabeth smirked.

Weatherby Swann's eyes hardened, "I've already lost one daughter to illness. I'm not about to lose the other to pneumonia because a maid wants a little shut eye."

"Come now, Uncle," Philip was not subtle in the fact he refused to look Syrena in the eye. "Surely the weather isn't going to be pneumonia levels bad. We're in the Caribbean and it's not even the rainy season."

That was when the thunder began.

I'm terrified of thunderstorms and being in my father's presence was the only time I ever felt safe during them.

Syrena tossed and turned in her bed.

To this day I get terrors during storms, remembering that horrible night.

It had been hours since the thunderstorm started, and she could not forget the terror in Philip's eyes at dinner when it began.

She looked over at the little clock in the room and it read one in the morning. She wanted to believe that Philip had finally gotten down to sleep. She wanted to believe he had found peace and comfort to rest.

But she also had the hearing of a mermaid.

"Dad? …Dad? … No, Dad, where are you? DAD!"

It was hard enough to hear his cries, but for it to be about a father nearly destroyed her.

She could feel herself back in the caves of Isla de Muerta mourning her father. She could feel his strong arms wrapped around her, letting her mourn. He understood what it was like to lose a father so suddenly, and Syrena? Syrena knew what it was like to call out for hers in her dreams.

A crack of lightning crashed down and the rumble of thunder nearly shook the house's frame.

"DAD!" came Philip's desperate cry from his room.

Why did they not go to him? They knew how much the storms affected him and yet there he was in the terrors of his dreams and no one went to him.

But no one could hear him but her.

Perhaps to the others they took the perceived silence as a sign that he was alright. Only she knew better. Only she could help, to offer that comfort.

But she couldn't. She was already in so much trouble with Weatherby Swann for pushing boundaries – not that he ever confronted her over it, but she had overheard the warnings. Philip's very future was on the line and going to him now, to his room the most forbidden place in the Manor to her.

"Dad! Please, Dad! Help me!"

She covered her head with the pillow and tried to sleep. She focused on the ticking of the clock, the distant thunder, Jack's tiny snores. Anything but Philip.

"Dad! Where are you? Where are you!"

How could she sleep? How could she not go to him? Hold him in her arms and make it all okay?

"Dad! I need you, Dad!"

Syrena took a deep cleansing breath and focused, not on sleep but of a promise that had been made.

"I get night terrors on nights with thunderstorms and during the day I became numb with terror until they're over. Uncle, Will, and Elizabeth are good at helping me during the day, but at night… At night I have no one."

"You have me now," Syrena promised, fingers experimentally undoing the first button of his vest. "I promise you'll have me."

She promised him.

So, gathering every ounce of courage and nerve she had, Syrena pushed back the covers, grabbed the nightgown thrown over the dressing table chair, and crept out the door.

It was the usual dream. The electricity buzzing in the air. The rain pelting down on his body. The pain in his broken useless legs. The screams for his father to come save him.

Closer and closer the thunder rumbled but still no help can. The trees cracked and fell to the ground with a BOOM! Still no one appeared. He was alone and he was going to die somehow both hot and cold, terrified and panicked.

Then the tree came tumbling down.

And arms enveloped him and he was safe.

Dad.

Philip woke with a start. He panted and sweat, his mind buzzy and blurry as the thunder still boomed outside.

But he was safe in someone's arms.

"Syrena," he breathed.

She looked like an angel. Her chemise was gauzy white, and hair flowed like raven waves over her shoulders. Her arms were soft and safe, strong as she held him tight but touched him with the delicacy of a feather.

Syrena was lying next to him on the bed. She had pulled the covers off him, so not to panic in their tangle. The fire was roaring, making the room swelter, so she had discarded her nightgown on the floor.

The chemise she had on was slim fitting and sheer, Philip could see the shadows of her body so clearly. But the intimacy she offered in that moment was not of the sexual variety. She clung to him, head bowed in his neck, stroking his hair and whispering sweet nothings that everything was alright. He was safe.

Unfortunately, the nature of night terrors was that a simple cuddle could not be a magic cure. The panic and fear coursed through his blood like a shot and the logical faculties were long in hibernation. If he had sense about him, so would have seen the inappropriateness of the situation and kicked her out immediately.

But he needed safety and comfort, and in his muddled brain of fear, all he knew was one thing.

Syrena meant safety.

So he just buried himself in the refuge of her arms and cried.

It took maybe an hour or two for the thunder to cease, and she never let him go for a moment. When he found the strength to stop huddling from safety in her arms, he shifted them to just lay beside each other. One of Syrena's arms was wrapped around his neck and he held a possessive arm locked around her hip. Her head rested on his chest like a pillow while the other idly played with the hairs on it. Syrena silently thanked the Mother Goddess that Philip slept shirtless.

"I could get used to this," Syrena finally dared to whispered.

Philip took a deep steady breath, not one of fear but utter contentment, "As could I."

Fingers brushed against her cheek.

"Thank you for coming to me," he murmured. "These nights are always so awful. I never feel like I can get out of them alive."

"But you do. You always do."

"Only because you rescued me this time."

"Then I shall rescue you always in the future."

"I would like that." Philip stared at her in his arms. He could fall asleep so easily like this. Maybe someday he would. He liked the thought of falling asleep each night like this with her in his arms. And what a beautiful sight would it be if he opened his eyes every morning to this.

Syrena shifted, "I should go back."

"Stay. Please."

"I will fall asleep here. What will happen in the morning if the maids find me in your bed?"

"I suppose it would be bad. Especially if I did this." He pushed down one of the shoulder straps of the chemise and began to kiss the exposed flesh. "You're so soft. So beautiful."

She lulled her head back and recalled a verse from Song of Solomon, "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine."

Philip smiled and quoted for another verse from the book, "Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee."

"If there is a spot upon me, you are more than welcome to find it." Syrena moaned, "Philip, I want you to touch me so much."

He kissed down and down, teasing across the swell where her breasts divided, "Touch you where?"

"Anywhere," she panted. "Please just don't stop."

But he did the opposite. He paused and looked up, watery green eyes filled with a mix of fear and excitement.

"I love you," he told her.

Syrena smiled, "I love you too. I don't want to do anything you won't let yourself do. But if there is anything you want-"

"I want everything. But I… I have to draw a line somewhere."

Suddenly Philip felt himself rolled atop Syrena, her knees bracing either side of his hips.

"The draw the line, My Love." Her lips gave just the faintest of touches to his, "And show me exactly where it is."

Philip lost himself to the moment, touching and tasting her with abandon. Still, it was a constrained abandon. No clothing was shed, nor did hands or lips quest beneath those boundaries. But the skin that was exposed was tended to most reverently. Nothing mattered in that moment except where Syrena began and Philip ended and all the flesh in between.

Philip couldn't find the strength to take his hands off her. In fact, he found himself hooking one of her ankles around his hip, "We can't do this."

"I know," she kissed him. That tender kiss was followed by a second, "We should stop. I will stop. But just for a minute can we please pretend we can? Kiss me, touch me, don't remove another scrap of clothing. But just for a moment, pretend that we can."

"Making love outside the confines of marriage-"

"Don't think of that. Just think about what you would do if society let us. Nothing that would offend God, but how you would touch me if we were free."

The thought was too tempting. Freedom to touch and love the way they wanted. Philip did not want to make love outside of marriage, but he wanted other things. Other ways to touch. To re-enact the images from that images that had left the mess still on the sheet hidden below them.

Syrena kissed him, soft and deep. Her hand held his cheek, loving the feel of that slightly in need of a shave stubble. He deepened the kiss, pressing her hard against the pillows as he drank from the honey of her lips.

She was not his wife, but she was his love and he could touch her and taste her freely in that moment. He may not be able to offer her lovemaking, but he could offer this moment. This everlasting kiss as he laid atop her in the glow of candlelight with a storm raging outside.

"OH MY GOD!" came the loud shriek and clatter.

Their heads snapped up, and horror flooded Philip Swift's veins.

A wide eyed, paled faced Rosalyn was standing in the doorframe, her equipment to tend the fireplace lying on the floor.

"No," he whispered, feeling like the world was suddenly inching by in a slow foggy haze.

He pushed off of Syrena, but it was too late and in fact just made things worse. Syrena's leg caught the sheets and accidentally pulled back the blanket to reveal where Philip had cleaned himself up that afternoon.

"Mister Swift," Rosalyn's voice was a panicked squeak. "I just came to tend the fire! I didn't think you would awake, much less… I should go."

"No, wait! Stop!"

But then the absolute worse thing that could possibly happen, happened.

"Rosalyn, what's going on?" Weatherby Swann's voice came from the hallway. "Is something wrong with-"

The Governor stopped dead at the doorframe, and Philip finally got a clear picture of the scene his uncle saw before him.

Philip Swift and Syrena Finson were alone, in the middle of the night, half dressed and in a compromising position in his bed. And the sheets had the stains from earlier that afternoonon full display.

He had just fucked up big time.