She blushes and he wonders that he has the power to do that, even at this stage - married and with intimate knowledge of each other. But he supposes he is more a suitor than a husband, appearing at infrequent intervals to bask in the adoration that she offers so freely.

He hands her the flowers that he purchased for too much money to make up for the fact that it has been months since he last saw her, and he has arrived well ahead of the letters he sent to assure her he was well. The red darkens on her cheeks and she inhales the sweet, sharp scent, closing her eyes as if to lock the moment away forever.

There is music from up the street in a crowded tavern that grates at his ears as they walk slowly, arm in arm. She is dressed in a pale yellow dress that makes her dark hair seem more dramatic and, through no fault or planning of their own, compliments his uniform quite well.

The streets are filled with revelry - another victory against Bonaparte lauded in the papers, perhaps even his own - and everyone appears to wish to celebrate, the long draw of war taking its toll even on his untouched England. Not untouched, he thinks, glancing down at Maria. Her face is drawn and her eyes are worried when she thinks he is not looking, the worries of a Naval wife etched so deeply.

He stops, her body turning slightly in the instant it takes for her to realize he is beside her no more and she faces him, a question silent in her eyes. He smiles, surprised at how easily it comes to his face, how much, at this moment, he loves her.

The kiss is soft and gentle, sweet and not indelicate. It promises more to come, the flowers crushed between them flavoring the moment with a scent that, for now, is even stronger than the salty air of the sea.