Page 34 of Go, Rogue

She leans down and picks them up. They are indeed her shoes, remade into something better. Something more.

She knows he did it so she wouldn’t walk around the ship barefoot. That he made them out of necessity more than anything else, but she still cradles them in her hands for a long moment before she slips them on her feet, imagining his large body bent over, solemnly stitching with a needle and thread.

It’s… well, it’s sweet. Almost unbearably sweet.

She feels a kind of blooming warmth in her stomach that makes her smile. He’s good and he’s sweet. She’ll find him now and thank him properly.

She opens the door, still smiling, right up until the moment she finds herself face to face with the first mate, Rogers.

“Good morning, Mrs. McGann,” he says, loudly enough for any passing crew to hear. “If you’ll allow me the pleasure of escorting you to breakfast.” He offers her his arm and lowers his voice, “I believe we are due for a conversation.”

She glances at him sideways, but takes his arm nonetheless. “It would be my pleasure, Rogers,” she says. “What is it you would like to discuss?”

McGann is at the navigation tables when he catches sight of Rogers leading Catherine to breakfast. The man is leaning in close, too close, and whispering something to her in a quiet voice that makes him want to toss the bugger right off the side of the ship.

He scowls and tries to ignore them. Rogers is only escorting her to breakfast. It’s a perfectly normal, acceptable thing for the first mate to do. He should leave it.

He doesn’t.

McGann rises and strides toward them. “Good morning,” he calls out. “Did you sleep well, Madam?”

“I did,” Catherine says, and when McGann reaches them and holds out his arm, she drops Rogers’s and takes his instead.

He can’t help the smile of pure satisfaction that spreads across his face at that. And then she goes up on her toes and whispers into his ear, “Careful, Captain. You look exactly like the cat that stole the cream.”

Her breath, warm against the sensitive curve of his earlobe, nearly makes him dizzy.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he replies, flashing her his best, most rakish grin. “I’ve the prettiest lady aboard on my arm.”

“I’m the only lady aboard,” she counters, though she’s smiling. And he’s still riding that bright, heady rush — the moment sweeping him along, her shoulder brushing his, the lingering tingle in his ear — when he leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek.

Of all the things to have done.

Of all the ridiculous things.

He stills, frozen by his awkward awareness that he’s touched her when he shouldn’t have. That he kissed her when he hadn’t intended to. That if they found themselves alone and she turned her face to his, he wouldn’t stop kissing her.

“Shall we breakfast?” he asks, trying to find his footing again as Rogers departs.

“No,” she says and touches her cheek. “I think we ought to talk first.”

He feels his stomach plunge down to his feet at that, but he says, “Aye,” anyway and leads her to the upper decks where they can take a short promenade without the prying eyes and ears of the other sailors.

In his experience, a crew is a worse bunch of gossips than even a gaggle of hens. And whatever it is she is going to tell him is probably not a thing he wants overheard: that she’s changed her mind. That the slippers are too much. That he is an enormous oaf and a bastard with no right to touch her, much less kiss her. Ever. His mind can come up with plenty of reasons for this discussion, and it hates all of them.

“Alright then, Menace,” he says when they’re alone and he’s resigned himself to whatever recriminations are coming next. “What are your rules?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What are your rules of engagement? For this pretend marriage. Or did you call me up here to tell me you changed your mind completely?” He steels himself for whatever she might say next.

“Rules of engagement?” she asks and even he, in the midst of his embarrassment, can read the confusion in her face.

“Are we at war, Captain? I suppose I’m glad I read that book on naval tactics then.”

He feels that damnable blush begin to heat his cheeks. “Nay,” he says. “I thought, when you wanted to speak with me, I thought…” he trails off, feeling even more awkward and foolish now than he had a moment ago.

She squeezes his forearm then. “Firstly,” she says, “I wish to thank you for my new slippers. They’re marvelous.”