Francis’s confession, while clearly uncomfortable for him, did at least endorse Poppy’s decision not to throw him to the wolves. If he was ashamed of how he had behaved toward her and was prepared to make amends, she, in turn, was willing to keep her mouth shut. He had made a mistake and regretted his actions.
But if you try anything else, I might not be so accommodating.
“If I may make a suggestion?” she offered.
There was an expression of uncertainty on his countenance as Francis met her gaze. “Yes?”
“Lay off the brandy for a bit. Give your thick skull time to heal.”
His shoulders shook as he chuckled. “That’s a capital suggestion.”
See? You can laugh.
“I am grateful that you didn’t mention last night to my father. He wouldn’t have taken it well. My sore head would have been the least of my problems.”
Her former nemesis had suffered enough for one day. “How about we take our coffee out into the sunshine? I expect you could do with a spot of fresh air,” she offered.
Francis nodded, and Poppy led the way outside and across the road to the edge of the wharf. She knelt and took a seat on the wooden beam, swinging her legs so that they dangled over the side of it. A bemused-looking Francis joined her. She grinned as his enormous boots almost touched the water.
How strange. I had forgotten that the tide was in. A couple of days in port and I am already losing my touch.
“I don’t expect you come and sit here very often, do you, Mister Saunders? It’s a pity; there is nothing better than taking the time to smell the sea air.”
He glanced over at her. “No, I haven’t the time. Whenever one of our ships is in, I am often down in the hold checking the cargo. The rest of my day is spent on paperwork and haggling over contracts.”
This was encouraging news. Francis actually worked in the shipping company. He wasn’t just here to indulge his father. Poppy could respect a man who made a real contribution to the shared workload. That sort of person was someone she could value.
“And please, call me Francis. You joked about us being friends earlier. I am hoping that we could soon come to share a common regard,” he added.
His formal manner of speech spoke of him having received a quality education. His finely cut clothes marked him as someone who had never known anything other than a life of privilege.
It was a stark contrast to Poppy’s own life of living in foreign ports and at times wondering where her next meal would come from. Or when her father would return. Her own schooling, attained in various places across the globe, had been haphazard at best. She was fluent in Spanish and French. Had a fair grasp of Italian. And her rough command of several other languages meant that Poppy was able to negotiate her way into ports from London to Singapore.
The main things George Basden had taught her were how to read the stars, maps, and strike a fair bargain. His greatest gift had been to make his daughter a first-rate mariner.
At the age of eighteen, she had taken full ownership of the Empress Catherine and for the past seven years, she had captained a crew of, at times, rough sailors. Poppy was her own woman.
With their dissimilar backgrounds, they should have little in common. Any relationship, a distant one. Yet, she found it hard not to like Francis.
There was a certain something about him. One which had her staring into those blue pools of his, long past the point when she should have looked away.
“Poppy?”
She blinked back to the now.
Oh god, I was staring at him.
There was no point in trying to pretend that she had been doing anything else. “Sorry. I just find your eyes to be such an interesting shade. They remind me of the clear blue waters of the Maldives.”
“That’s a new one. I shall add that to the list. People are always trying to come up with comparisons for the color of my eyes. It’s the same with my hair,” he replied.
Poppy tore her gaze away, determinedly focusing on the gold crown which sat on top of the lion masthead of her nearby ship. She had sailed the Empress Catherine for many years, knew every inch of its timbers, but in an effort to avoid having to actually look at Francis, she searched for something new.
A soft, knowing laugh reached her ears.
Don’t look at him. Look at the lion.
“Did you know the tips of your ears have turned bright red?”
