The words were light, meant to sound like idle observation.
“I…” Gideon began.
The memory rose unbidden. Seven boys—not yet men, at the mere age of six and ten. Reckless. Laughing. The roar of the raging ocean down below, beyond the cliff’s edge. Empty bottles and shards of broken glass glittering in the waning light of the fire.
“I do not care for its effects,” he finished.
“My brother doesn’t mind those effects.”
“No,” Gideon said. Each of them had played a part. Each of them carried their own ghosts. Gideon stared across the water and then blinked. He’d not allow the memory to intrude today.
The boat drifted for several strokes in silence.
Gideon cleared his throat lightly.
“I don’t find fault in those who enjoy it,” he said after a moment. “I simply prefer to keep my wits about me.” He gave a short, self-deprecating huff. “Someone must.”
Beatrice smiled faintly at that. “No, I understand. You keep watch over them—your friends, my brother. I can appreciate that. I think it’s admirable that you would take on the task with such consistency.”
Merely practical, but— “If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
“Well then, who am I to question such wisdom?”
“Exactly.” Her lip twitched, betraying her serious expression. “Observant man.”
And he was.
Observant enough to realize, after another exchange of nonsense and a laugh she tried poorly to hide, that he was enjoying himself.
Not enduring her company.
Enjoying it.
Beatrice Beckman, he was discovering—not for the first time—could be remarkably entertaining.
Which was something he had failed to consider when deciding her safety would be his responsibility.
He looked toward the water.
“Keep to the left. That way we’ll avoid the main channel.”
With a glance over her shoulder, she nodded, and they drifted into a companionable silence, marked only by the dip of the oars and the quiet slip of the river along the hull.
“Now look at this,” he said after a moment.
Beatrice glanced up. “At what?”
“This.” Gideon gestured lightly to the empty stretch of water around them. “Two people, unchaperoned—and yet nothing at all untoward.”
One brow lifted. “Your point?”
“That not every private moment conceals ill intent.”
“I know.”
He stilled. Her easy answer surprised him.
