I gesture for him to do the same with his hands, and we huddle there, perhaps the most intimate embrace I have ever shared, the two of us entwined. While I’m sure I will look back on this later, right now, it is devoid of any sensuality. We are freezing—quite literally freezing—and this is survival.

When he can finally speak, his teeth still chattering, he says, “I was attempting to haul you to shore, crécerelle, but you insisted on doing it yourself, and it is most vexing. If I cannot save you, however will I make you swoon for me?”

“I am certain you will think of a way or two.”

I say it simply, no double entendre intended, but his face lights in a grin. “Oh, I am certain I can think of a way or two as well.”

“Excellent, but at the moment, my only interest is in getting warm.”

“That is what I mean, crécerelle. A way to make you very warm.”

He waggles his brows, mock-seductive, and I can only sputter a laugh that turns into a full fit of the giggles, spurred by the overwhelming relief that we have survived. We are off the ship and safe on shore and alive.

He leans over and gives me a kiss, his touch cool but not horribly so, and when I kiss him back, his lips part to the most delicious warmth. I wriggle closer, kissing him deeper, drinking in that warmth. His hands slide over my waist, beneath the soaked shirt and along the skin under my corset. Heat trails in their wake. His breathing picks up, fingers traveling up my corset to the ties before stopping himself.

“That is enough of that, Nico,” he murmurs. “There are more appropriate—and efficient—ways to warm a lady in serious danger of freezing.”

“I am not the least bit concerned about appropriate,” I say. “But, in this situation, efficiency may be called for. Other warming methods may follow at a more suitable time.”

His grin sparks again. “I will remember you said that, crécerelle.”

“I am relying on it, sir.”

He laughs and embraces me one more time. Then he rises, his legs still wobbly, and peers about.

“I see a sheltered spot in the cliffside, perhaps a hundred feet that way, if we can manage it. If we see driftwood—or dried seaweed—we ought to gather it for a fire.”

“And rocks to spark the fire?”

“Chérie, I am a sailor.” He lifts a pouch on his belt. “I have waterproof matches.”

“Perfect.”

We find not only a nook carved into the rock but, just a few feet away, a cave that will provide complete shelter. Nicolas starts the fire at the opening to let the smoke escape. Then we hunker down beside it.

Nicolas clears his throat. “I realize that I was being playful earlier with my flirtations, and in light of that, my next suggestion may seem more of the same. I make it with the assurance that it is not. We have been exposed to a dangerous cold, and we are warming ourselves now, but as long as we continue to be clothed in cold and wet attire . . .”