She gave him a long look. “I do know, but it’s hard to shake old habits. I was my father’s equivalent of the ship’s first lieutenant in the surgery, I suppose, for all those years.”
“As soon as those blasted, mysterious passengers show up, we’ll be on our way. I’m afraid I get too antsy waiting in port to set sail.”
Willa squeezed his hand and was rewarded with a heated look she was surprised didn’t melt through the chill morning air and wisps of fog.
Because of the early hour, the streets were fairly empty, save for farm carts delivering goods to the Portsmouth shops. They paused to sniff at wafts of warm bread smells coming from a corner baked goods shop. They looked at each other and without the need for words, walked through the open door. Cullen paid for four still-steaming raisin buns. When they stopped to cross the street toward the modiste’s shop, he cast a look around before pulling a piece from one of the buns. He popped half into her mouth before finishing his half in one bite.
“We’re behaving like naughty children,” Willa chided.
“And why not?” Cullen used the pad of his thumb to wipe a bit of crumb from the side of her mouth. “We will not enjoy nearly so fine a treat as this for at least a year.”
Cullen stopped so abruptly, she nearly walked past him. A small, white dog had flung itself at his knees. He knelt and grabbed the creature, giving it a vigorous rubbing behind its ears. Small yips of pleasure erupted, and the stubby tail made frantic waves of recognition. A familiar young woman raced toward the dog, a Royal Navy officer in close pursuit.
“Sophie,” Willa called out.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, kneeling close to her runaway pet. “Bad dog, Lancelot.” When she shook a finger at him, he began mad licking of her soft kid gloves, accompanied by profuse drools rolling out the side of his mouth.
Her husband, Captain Bellingham, gingerly lifted the creature, obviously attempting to avoid gathering more slobber on his gloves. He firmly tucked the dog beneath one arm.
Sophie gave the small creature one last pat on the head before turning back to Willa and Cullen. “After I saw the beautiful gown you wore from Mrs. Butterworth’s shop, I decided to have her adjust some frocks for me. I had them sent over yesterday. I’m going in to be measured this morning.”
Willa had not had a female friend since she was a little girl, and enjoyed Sophie’s company more than she would have thought.
“Mmmm,” Sophie said, taking a deep whiff of the contents of the bag Cullen carried. “That smells wonderful.”
Arnaud Bellingham chuckled and pointed at Cullen. “You’d better give it up before she takes it from you.”
Cullen immediately opened the bag and displayed the contents.
“Well, maybe just the smallest one,” Sophie said, and made quick work of transferring one of the hot buns to a handkerchief before whisking the warm package into her reticule.
The glow in Sophie’s cheeks this morning in contrast with her wan appearance at the wedding breakfast, having her gowns let out, cravings. Everything made sense. By the time Captain Bellingham returned from his tour of duty, he would be a father.
Or a widower.
Chapter Eleven
Cullen watchedthe rapidly changing expressions on his wife’s face. For all her pragmatism and stubborn outlook, she was no good at hiding her feelings. He knew she was thinking about the babe Sophie carried. The firm line of Willa’s mouth softened into a smile. The expressions after that ran the entire gamut from happiness to dread. Willa feared the idea of bearing a child.
She was the daughter of a skilled physician after all. Of course, she’d know the risks and might have been present or assisted at a birth.
By now, Cullen viewed his marriage as a slow march toward an ending he could not predict. Some days they seemed to understand each other better and move ahead. Other days, he felt as though they’d lost most of their forward momentum.
He watched her now. Her dark curls had grown out more since that fateful day they’d argued in the dust and heat of the stable yard. Her thick, glossy hair hung down and framed her face when she leaned over to pet Sophie’s naughty dog in Arnaud’s arms. Her gray eyes softened, and crinkles formed at the edges of her eyes while she laughed at the pup’s antics. Cullen longed to lean over and kiss that long, patrician nose. How had he ever mistaken this warm woman for a man?
Arnaud gave him a sharp jab in the ribs after their wives disappeared inside the shop. He put Lancelot down on the sidewalk where he circled a few times before settling into a curled, gray-white heap, staring out from a black spotted face.
“The little bugger is calm now? What kind of trick is that? He doesn’t even seem like the same dog.” Cullen gestured at the currently quiet dog.
“He knows Sophie will fuss over him if he makes a cake of himself.”
“What does he think about you?”
Arnaud patted one of the pockets in his uniform jacket. “He knows I keep ginger biscuit crumbs in here. “You might want to think about how to keep your wife happy in the same way.”
“What?” Cullen exploded in laughter. “Keep treats in my pocket?”
Arnaud pointed to the paper of warm raisin buns Cullen still held. “Looks like our wives are inordinately fond of those.”
