“You love England.”
“I love you,” he said hoarsely, the very veins in his wounded temple throbbing.
“You love your wife,” she insisted softly.
“I love you—you!” A pause, and the moonlight flooding the room—it bathed it, reflected from the great mirrors that brought the sea and sky about them.
She took his hand in hers and they looked at each other. Not a word, scarcely a breath. Slowly, slowly her eyes drew his—their faces were close, her breath was warm on his lips, her lips warmer. They kissed.
Shattering noise in the room. A chair knocked rudely over. Josiah Nisbet, wild with wine.
“Sir, you’re my commanding officer, and I know I lay myself open to court martial, but you’re my mother’s husband, and I swear I’ll die sooner than you shall carry on like this with another woman in her absence, be she who she may. Madam, you should be ashamed for yourself.”
The shouting, the noise, horrible! Emma shrank back against the window wordless—the drunken cub! Nelson caught him with his one arm as he advanced roughly on her.
“Josiah, you’re drunk, give over, or I’ll send you on board under arrest!”
But still he stormed on, shouting, raving, the suspicions of days taking head in mad insults to his stepfather and the Ambassadress.