was her mind ever at rest? yes, sometimes, when she slept. often augustus stayed up later or woke up earlier just to catch a glimpse of her sleeping, as embarrassing as it was. as obsessed she was with knowing him, the same could be said about augustus knowing emma. but he had grown up and learned to rely on observations rather than asking questions, taught through experience that while mouths could lie, often expressions and body language couldn’t. augustus thought that emma probably preferred to ask questions, for how often she had breached topics normally no one would be allowed to. even now, comfortable in bed, he noticed, her mind was clearly occupied. it didn’t help that the reality of their situation–she was his hostage–didn’t make for a comfortable atmosphere. still, the memory of her forgiving him in that small little church resonated so clearly in his mind.
augustus’s gaze lingered on emma’s face for probably too long. “what makes you nervous?” he asked quietly, her tone making it clear she didn’t mean the evil man he’d fought off earlier. “i would never,” he added quietly, almost shuddering at the thought. he was a pirate, but he wasn’t a beast. augustus’s fingers wandered away from her forehead and down her cheek, avoiding the side with the injuries. he pet it gently with the back of his fingers, knuckles rolling over her cheekbone. “emma,” he prompted softly, still afraid to do anything without her first making it clear that it was alright. he wanted to kiss her, he finally admitted to himself, but he was too careful and cautious a man, and he did not like being made a fool, especially by himself. he leaned down, more or less crouching next to the bed rather than sitting on the edge.
her books taught her heart to bleed; to love fiercely and without prejudice and emma followed its direction to the last period. it never taught her how to cauterise the wound; to steel it, as it were. her parents had tried, vainly, and so did her tutors— but what worth were their words when likened to those spelled by austen or brontë or woolf.sSo what was it that made her so nervous? you, chiefly. though not for the reasons augustus might have suspected. this man, who wore war like an old coat: comfortably and without shame. he wore it in his eyes, on the callouses of his hands, and the scars on his back. there was nowhere on him that war’s hands had not touched— had not claimed his skin as her own; the property of something vile and corrupt and dangerous. he had introduced her to war and the cruel mistress had claimed her hand in the form of a scar and her mind in the hauntings of snake-like eyes.
“augustus…” she’d meant to object, to warn him away, but his name on her tongue sounded more like a plea. how had this man, this strange, ruthless, man, gone from being a face printed in the papers with a bold, heavy-lettered warning to a face she could derive comfort from? that was the source from which her true anxiety stemmed; that naivety had made her a delicate bird in his hand, one that he could crush in his fingers if he so pleased and she would not have the experience or sensibility to fly away. instinct encouraged her to meet him half way, to slip her hand onto the back of his neck and thread her fingers through the dark hair that sat there. but at the last moment, sense steered her head to the side, the bridge of her nose bumping against the cradle of his neck. he smelled of sea water, and of clean crisp air, and she wanted to bury herself in him. a last resort to satisfy the ache in her chest when reason would permit no other.
