A Journey to Port

         Ephraim’s eyes traveled the arm’s trajectory in slow motion as it sailed in an angry arch toward the table.

“You, arsehole! Beat that!”

His friend Arthur’s face contorted in scarcely controlled rage. “How many workers get that kind of wage, eh? Or are the strikes just—”

Ephraim, used to Arthur’s passions, saw him rekindling last evening’s noisy row with Lord Leinster. He tuned it out and glanced away, seeking a different, more pleasant visage. And there she was, seated on his right. Honey-colored hair swept up in some complicated coiffure. Her eyes were waiting for him, and she seemed to be more amused than annoyed at the confrontation before them. The longer she held his eyes, the more his heart beat against his chest. He could feel her closeness and tried to think of a way to innocently let their hands brush.

Florence Leinster was the most exquisite woman of his acquaintance, and goddamn him, but the way she looked at him sent his blood racing. Unfortunately, she moved her gaze to study her fan of cards. Soft silk gloves picked a card as she bit her lip endearingly.

Blast it all, he was at it again. He needed to stop if he was going to win this hand. Win anything. Function. Speak. Christ, he had it bad. Lord Leinster grunted, trying to draw his attention. The man had no practical skill whatsoever. Florence, on the other hand… 

The chilly April sunset kissed the train windows as they sped towards Southampton. The four of them had met at the inn in Inverness and had struck up a friendship of sorts as they had booked the same itinerary: a modern marvel, the “wonder ship” ocean liner to New York. At least, he desperately hoped that the friendship would last for the journey. With how Arthur and Lord Leinster bickered, he was beginning to fear. 

Florence leaned towards her brother and tapped the spade she played last turn. Lord Leinster stewed for a bit and grunted again; in affirmation or disapproval, Ephraim didn’t quite know. After reorganizing his cards yet again, he slammed one onto the table with sudden force.

“Ha! I’ll raise you two crowns for that mouth alone. You speak without authority nor a mind for business. If I raise the coal miners’ wage, then I have to raise the wage of the loaders and the dispensers and so forth and etcetera, you irritating imbecile.”

Florence placed her cards facedown with a snap, drawing Arthur’s attention away from the bait.

“That’s enough. You both will dispense with this bickering so that some of us can enjoy the rest of the night. We’ve still a long way to go. It’s my turn next, and I’d like your attention as I beat your hands and raise you—” she made a show of calculating, her gloved finger ticking against her cheek, “four crowns.” 

Ephraim almost laughed because that got Lord Leinster’s attention. 

“Sister—”

“Hmm, what were you saying? That I’m going to win? Yes, thank you, brother, for that assessment.”

The way she’d diffused the argument charmed Ephraim. He couldn’t stop thinking about unpinning that ludicrous hairstyle and letting those luscious curls slip between his fingers. Then he’d tip her chin up and—

“Er, Ephraim, mate,” Arthur’s ruff brogue broke into his fantasy.

Ephraim blinked, then shifted in his seat uncomfortably, trying to ease the sudden hardness, and cleared his throat.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“It’s your turn,” Lord Leinster drawled in annoyance. His green eyes, like his sister’s, narrowed in suspicion as Ephraim shifted again.

“Percy, please be nice. Our Mr. Osian is thinking about his next play.” Then she added teasingly, “And is just debating on how worth it it is to lose so much money to me.”

She smiled, and her big eyes seemed to stare right through him, not reacting to a scowl from her brother nor a snort from Arthur.

Nervously smiling, Ephraim studied his cards once again. He realized he actually had a decent hand—more than that, a good hand—a winning hand.

He glanced back up at Florence, staring at him now, her head tipping in curiosity. He should let her win. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. And if he got her in a jovial enough mood, maybe she would take a stroll with him along the train…

He heard Arthur and Lord Leinster arguing again but couldn’t make out their words because Florence was biting her lip, and his eyes were drawn—

Wack!

Lord Leinster toppled out of his chair, pitching the table, throwing money and cards everywhere. Arthur stood breathing hard, his fist curled.

“That’s what ye get, you lording prat!”

Lord Leinster got up growling, and threw himself at Arthur in a tackle.

Instinctively, Ephraim whisked his arms around Florence and pulled her to the side. They ducked into the corner of the train car, into their own seemingly cut-off world. Despite the altercation, almost in defiance of it, their bodies pressed close, and their breaths mingled. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to take her luscious bottom lip and suck on it until she gasped, giving him access. Florence was staring at him, her big green eyes wide and pleading. She nodded her head slightly, giving him his answer. He bent, brushing his lips over hers, and stole the kiss he’d wanted so badly since they’d met.

Then, he was wrenched away from her.

“You scoundrel! Don’t you dare touch my sister!”

Lord Leinster was angrier than he had ever seen him. He breathed savagely hard through bared teeth. A black eye was already forming over his left eye.

“Don’t you even think about continuing this acquaintance on the Titanic, you—you—”

“Blackguard, I would say,” chuckled Arthur, now standing beside him.

“Come, Florence.”

“Percy! Honestly, stop overreacting—”

Ephraim watched, still dizzy from the kiss, as Florence was led away. It was fine. Better than fine. He’d have plenty of opportunities to see her on the voyage to New York.