His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. Pauses a moment before he says, “And so you deliver a breathtaking compliment in such an efficient manner that I am not certain how to respond.”

“As you said, efficiency is the order of the day.” I turn to face the fire again and inch closer to it. “And in light of that efficiency, no response is required.”

“All right, then, let me skip past a response and move straight to my own words of admiration—”

“No.”

“No?”

“The moment has passed. You missed it. I am quite bereft. Now, let us discuss the ship.”

“Wait. Allow me to tell you how—”

“How we are going to warm ourselves quickly—and efficiently—and then see whether the ship has crashed close enough to shore to salvage your goods? Excellent.”

He says a few words in French.

“I do not think that was a compliment,” I say.

“Oh, it is, my crécerelle. A compliment wound in a blasphemy, and my mother would be shocked and appalled, but I stand by the sentiment. As for the ship, at this very moment, I am not overly concerned about my goods.”

“Well, I am. So let us warm ourselves and then go investigate.”

The ship has indeed crashed, about a half mile away, on exactly the sort of craggy shoreline we’d feared. We can see her in the darkness, which remains dark enough that we can be relatively certain no one heard or saw the wreck. She’s at the base of a steep cliff, which will help keep her secret until morning.

It is a very long walk. Oh, the shore is flat enough up near the cliff, and now that our underthings have dried, it is not terribly cold. No, the problem is Nicolas. He does not stop talking the entire way, which would not be a problem if I could understand a word he’s saying. He’s speaking French. From the cadence, I presume it is poetry. Reciting French poetry to me, which would be wonderfully romantic if I had the first inkling what he was saying.

“You can stop that anytime,” I say as I pick my way over a rocky portion of the beach.

“I know.”

“Let me rephrase that. Either switch to English or stop that.”

“It does not sound the same in English. You cannot simply translate poetry.”

“Then try some in English.”

“English poetry? Does such a thing even exist?”

I make a face at him.

“I cannot imagine why you should wish me to stop. Have you tired of men wooing you with poetry? I suppose it can become quite dull after a while. All those odes to your golden hair, your soft skin, your . . . truly exceptional buttocks.”

I glance back to see him gazing at the body part in question. “You’re reciting poetry to my arse?”

“About your arse.” He makes a face. “What a terrible word. Do you see what I mean about the English language?”