Isabel became still and turned her head very slowly. Nick was a few feet behind her, clad now in his breeches, and he was staring at her legs, his expression full of appreciation. Isabel’s heart quickened. She lowered her skirt a few protective inches. A breeze swirled about her, pushing the material to mould round her legs and show off their perfect shape.
He raised his eyes and looked right into her. His body glistened, his hair hung wetly at the nape of his neck. He looked like a legendary god, utterly desirable. Isabel caught her breath and wondered what it would be like to feel his strong bare arms round her, to be pressed against his broad chest without the barrier of his shirt. She did not want the spell to be broken, but the strength of feeling he was sending across the short stretch of water separating them forced her to speak.
‘You’ll get cold like that.’
He grinned mischievously. ‘No, I won’t. It feels wonderful.’ He bent to scoop up handfuls of water. ‘Try it.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ she laughed.
Cold water lightly stung her face as he splashed it over her. She shrieked and ran from him, dropping her skirt which immediately became soaked to the top of her legs, screaming and laughing as he chased her and sprayed her over and over again. She tried dodging him but it was impossible; she had her back to the sea and he held her captive.
Isabel stopped, turned and fought back, batting water at him, until playfully she begged him for mercy. He stopped splashing and stayed still, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he would come after her and dump her fully into the waves. With a grin he turned and waded back to the shore.
Isabel followed him and when her feet were on the sand he chased her back across the beach. Laughing until she thought her lungs would burst, she stopped at the edge of her cloak and held up her hands in submission.
‘You’re a beast, Nick Nancarrow!’ She held out her wet dress. ‘Look what you’ve done to me.’
‘Well, take it off and lay it over the rocks. There’s plenty of strength in the sun, it’ll dry in no time.’
‘How can I?’ she pouted. ‘I have nothing else to wear.’
‘You have your cloak.’ She hesitated and he winked saucily. ‘Don’t worry, Isabel, I won’t watch. I’ll get the rest of my own clothes.’
Isabel knew the wet dress would be too uncomfortable to insist on wearing. When his back was turned, she hastily struggled out of the wet dress and snatching up the cloak wrapped it tightly round herself. She stretched the dress out over the rocks to dry as Nick came back with his own clothing.
‘Here,’ he said gallantly, laying his jacket on the sand. ‘You can sit on this.’ He dropped the rest of his clothes in a pile beside his jacket and flopped down on the sand. He gulped down a bottle of ale and handed Isabel the water flask.
‘Is it time to eat?’ she asked. ‘I am ravenously hungry.’
‘That’s sea air for you. We’ll have the pasties but I doubt if they’re as good as Mundy Cottle’s.’
‘It’s like being a child again,’ Isabel said as she ate. ‘Running about on the sand and splashing in the sea, eating out of doors. What a pity we put so many restrictions on ourselves when we grow up.’
Nick looked her up and down, wrapped in the cloak from neck to toes. ‘Your legs aren’t like a child’s.’
‘Uncle Laurence used to take me to play on the beach at Gwithian.’
‘I like a good pair of legs on a woman.’
‘Once we walked across the beach very nearly into Hayle.’
‘And you’ve got the best pair I’ve ever seen.’
‘We took a picnic basket and although we had a long rest, the walk back seemed much longer.’
‘Tis a welcome sight to see something like that under a woman’s skirts.’ Nick handed her a piece of cheese.
‘Uncle Laurence picked me up and carried me most of the way home on his shoulders.’
‘They’re your best feature, you should be proud of them. Long smooth legs, shapely ankles, graceful feet and straight pert toes.’
‘Nick.’
‘Yes?’
‘Eat your cheese.’
He chuckled and pushed a lump of cheese into his mouth. ‘I like the colour of your hair too, reminds me of summer.’
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said, glancing at him then looking away hastily.
No man had given her compliments like this, so very personal and said so sincerely. She had been told many times that she looked beautiful when attending balls and other social functions, and once even enchanting. But what lady didn’t look her best clothed in Paris silks, her hair dressed by highly trained maids? Her fiancé, Richard Grenville, had paid her the expected compliments the few times they had met since their marriage had been arranged, the words rolling easily off his tongue. She doubted if he or the other gentlemen she mixed with would give her more than cursory attention in her present state, wearing clothes borrowed from poor people, with no powder or jewels.
She gazed at the sky, the rushing sea, the lazy golden sand indented with their footprints, tilting her head back to look at the overhanging cliff behind them. ‘I wish we could stay here for ever,’ she sighed softly.
Nick moved, edging himself in close behind her with his knees raised. ‘Lean back against me and relax. We don’t have to hurry away, doesn’t matter as long as we reach Crantock by evening.’
Isabel leaned back, but hardly touched him. He seemed not only behind her but all around her. ‘It’s like a summer’s day today. I didn’t realize it could be so warm in February.’
Isabel picked up another of the tiny conical shells and looked at it intently. She traced its orange-red spiral pattern, such a delicate fragile thing in a brutal world; its survival in its complete and beautiful form gave her a feeling of security and hope. It had once been a cosy home for a small creature; it helped her to believe she would find such a place again. But for now she wanted only to stay here.
‘It looks even more beautiful under water,’ Nick said quietly, close to her ear. He hoped his words would not break her contemplative mood. He felt as she did. That the real world was miles and ages away. That they did not belong to it and it could not break in on them here and hurt them. It was as if they had snatched a precious moment of eternity, a gift that belonged only to them.
‘I’ve seen so many beautiful things, so many wonderful sights and views in the past two days.’
‘I always have to come back to it,’ Nick said, his voice huskier than usual.
They slipped into a natural quietness. She felt him move closer and she allowed herself to lean back against him without restraint. It was what she wanted. To be as close to him as she could.
Time passed slowly. Waves ate away eternally at the rocks, pounding and caressing them. The sun gained in strength and moved its position in the sky. A gull scrutinized them from the rim of a rock pool but finding them uninteresting took wing in a white flash and soared up against the slanting blue sky.
Nick pulled at Isabel’s cloak but she held it tightly at the neck. ‘Let the sun warm your skin,’ he said, very softly.
She allowed the cloak to fall back from her shoulders but it was not the sun but his breath that warmed her flesh.
‘Your bruises are healing,’ he said.
‘I had forgotten all about them.’ Isabel reached up and felt the tender places.
Nick kissed her fingers and moved them away to kiss each shoulder. Isabel shivered in delight. It was improper for a lady to display her shoulders in public and the kisses were as intimate as if he had placed them on her lips. She wished he would. She wanted him to hold her in his bare arms and kiss her softly on the lips, gently, understandingly. She wanted to feel the rough stubble of his chin on her skin and his mouth behind her ears. His mouth, wide, moody, sensuous, would be hers. When would he kiss her fully? Should she turn to him, or wait?
He tugged at the cloak again, trying to pull it down further and reveal more of her back. ‘Isabel, let go,’ he murmured into her hair. He lifted the cloak up over her legs. She didn’t like this and fought to hold it down, to keep her dignity. Her body tightened and a thrill of fear ignited inside her, replacing her elation.
‘Nick, don’t…’
‘It’ll be all right, Isabel.’
She did not like the new deepness in his voice; its raw intensity frightened her. There was nothing right any more about being in his arms. She felt sharp, almost angry movements as he pulled the cloak down to reveal the full length of her back. He slid his lips down, down over her spine and Isabel panicked and struggled.
‘Don’t Nick! Please stop!’
‘Why?’ he demanded harshly, letting her go. ‘Tell me why. What have I done wrong?’
She covered herself and scrambled away. Her face was livid red, her body trembling with a mixture of emotions. ‘I didn’t know you were…’ she gasped on the words. ‘I…, I didn’t know you wanted to…’
‘Then what the hell did you think I was doing?’ Nick got angrily to his feet. ‘Asking you for the next dance at a Truro ball? Damn you, woman. How dare you lead me on like that then change your mind!’ His face was as red as hers and Isabel stepped back.
‘It was not me who started it,’ Isabel angrily defended herself. ‘I thought—’
‘Just what did you think?’ His eyes shot bolts of fury at her.
‘That… that perhaps just a kiss—’
‘Oh, now I understand! I’m not good enough to lie with. Too rough for you, am I, Miss Isabel Hampton? Too common? You only give it to the gentry!’
His fury stung her. She was hurt and humiliated. What was he saying? Why was he so angry? What right had he to expect her to give herself to him then become so cruel when she refused? Perhaps it was something deeper than just damaged male pride at being spurned but it was a side of life she knew nothing of.
Holding up her head, she said coolly, ‘I have never lain with anyone. Why do you presume that I have?’
‘I know your sort,’ came the blistering reply, ‘going from one rich man’s bed to another’s to amuse yourself while you wait for a suitable marriage alliance to be made for you. Then taking as many lovers as you please afterwards. And then there’s the company you keep.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Isabel hissed, shocked at his words.
He leaned towards her. ‘Phoebe Antiss, she’ll do for a start. Remember how you and Laurence would go riding while she stayed at Trevennor House with a headache? Oh, she used to have headaches all right. The sort cured by an hour with a good man.’
Isabel was cut to the quick of her soul. She could not smash a hand across his face as she wanted to because she could not deny that Phoebe had been obliging where men were concerned. It was something she had put to the back of her mind, but Phoebe had been her friend.
‘Don’t you dare talk about Phoebe like that. Have you no respect for the dead?’
‘Well, it doesn’t mean that she’s suddenly turned into a saint.’
Isabel stared at him, her face now very pale. She had to know.
‘And presumably… you were one of those “good men”.’
‘Me and every willing stable boy and no-good gentleman, including your cousin, Kempthorne. He followed me one afternoon.’
You disgust me,’ Isabel said, fighting back tears of shame. ‘But all gentlemen are not like you and my immoral cousin. Uncle Laurence wasn’t and I’m thankful to be betrothed to Richard Grenville who is a true gentleman.’
‘Huh, I doubt if you love him or ever will.’
‘It’s none of your business!’
‘No, of course it isn’t. I mustn’t forget myself, must I, m’lady?’
She could no longer bear his spite and hatred and turned away, tears scalding her eyes.
‘Get your clothes on, the sooner I get you to Crantock and off my hands for a few days, the better.’ In misery she pulled on the clammy wet dress. She buried Nick’s jibe at Richard Grenville by thinking of the things she liked about him. She had met him only a year ago and seen him half a dozen times during a month’s shore leave. Her uncle had been staying with her at Truro at the time. He was favourably impressed with Richard and generally in favour of the proposal of marriage he’d issued with the support of his family. Isabel had thought Richard the best suitor she had had. She did not want to be smothered by a husband’s presence and liked the idea of having one who was mainly interested in his naval career. Richard also had good manners, a kindly smile, a good sense of humour. He would make a most suitable husband.
Isabel hoped that Crantock was not far away and she would soon be left there while Nick went about his own affairs. A sour thought besieged her. According to that dreadful man, Gyver Pengelly, there was a whore at Crantock who didn’t refuse Nick her favours and Isabel felt she could wager her life it was to her she was being taken.
The sky was pale blue, the horizon a deeper blue. The waves were still wild and rebellious on the ocean. Except for small patches of short-stemmed primroses, the cliff was stark. The feathered remains of a small bird lay at the mouth of a rabbit hole where perhaps the predator had hoped for a larger victim. Smoke rose in a straight line from a solitary cottage sheltered in a distant nook. Before the shameful, humiliating incident in the tiny cove, Isabel had begun to take an interest in these things.
She tramped along tight-lipped at a good distance from Nick, hating every step that brought her damp dress to rub against her legs, hating the reminders of the reason for the dress’s condition and the remarks, which she now thought of as crass, that Nick had made about her legs. Her emotions had been exposed and felt as raw as the windswept cliffs. The pain of her uncle’s death overwhelmed her again, as did the deaths of the four people on the coach. The horrifying sounds of the shipwreck haunted her too, and so did the encounter with Gyver Pengelly.
She hardly noticed when they left the cliff and passed over the sands of Holywell Bay. Wearily she trudged up and down its sand dunes where marram grass caught at her ankles and stung her flesh. When they reached firm cliff again, she allowed Nick to move further ahead. They walked round the edge of a ploughed field and down into Polly Joke, a deep sandy cove where cattle from common ground, which led away from the beach, had come down to drink from the stream that flowed to the sea. Then up the cliff again, and round a headland where Nick stopped.
He watched the sea racing up to a long beach of golden sand with high dunes behind it. Behind the dunes was the village of Crantock and their journey was nearly at its end. A fresh wind tousled his unruly hair and the few tiny lines around his eyes creased as he took its force. He had looked at scenes like the one now before him innumerable times but he never ceased to be amazed by them.
Long steep banks of waves headed for the beach, spume flying off their tops as they rolled and broke, the water spraying backwards in white lacy flags, making Nick think of knights on chargers riding into battle. One wave rode on the back of another, racing to be first to bombard the black cliff on the far side of the beach, sending up mountains of cascading spray. The water then surged on, filling up the tidal river of the Gannel that snaked its way along the New Quay cliffs. Then the eye was drawn back to the indigo blue ocean to watch the assault begin over again. It was exhilarating and terrifying. A beautiful savagery.
Isabel was stunned by the sight, likening the spray to yards and yards of the most exquisite lace billowing in the wind. She stood beside Nick and they watched, eyes shining, mouths dry, hardly breathing.
A gigantic wave thundered in, crashing on the rocks below them, its spray reaching for the heavens, spreading out and showering them in a fine wet mist.
‘We’d better move back,’ Nick said. ‘The cliff has given way here with the winter rains.’ Mesmerized, Isabel did not hear him. ‘Isabel.’ Lightly he touched her arm.
She glanced up at him and a strange silent look passed between them and they knew they had shared another unique experience on this unwanted journey that fate had handed them.
It was not a simple cottage he took her to. It was not like Charlie Chiverton’s hovel or Mundy Cottle’s small square building. Situated behind the dunes and overlooking the River Gannel, it was a large whitewashed house with a thatched roof, a well-kept vegetable garden, flower verges, a granite rockery and trelliswork waiting for the summer’s rambling roses.
Nick led the way up the straight ash-strewn pathway to a freshly painted green door, either side of which were opened windows with shutters. He rapped once on the door, opened it wide, stooped to enter and called out ‘Kitty!’
‘Don’t look like she’s in,’ he informed Isabel after a moment and beckoned to her. ‘Come on in.’
‘Won’t she mind?’ Isabel asked, burning to know more about this place, who she was to stay with and what they were like.
‘Kitty won’t mind me inviting myself in.’
Isabel eyed Nick coldly. He was boasting again. ‘And will she mind me entering her house uninvited?’
Nick studied Isabel from the doorway. She had undergone a remarkable transformation in the past three days and two nights.
‘Kitty will like you,’ he said huskily.
He ushered her through a hall into a big clean kitchen where a kettle simmered on a hook above a hearty fire. ‘She’s not far away,’ he said. ‘Kitty never stays away from the house for long. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Your walking days are over. If Kitty agrees, and I’m sure she will, you can stay here for a few days while I go back to Gwithian to see if your cousins really mean you harm. You’ll be practically living the life of a lady again.’
‘Where are the servants?’ Isabel asked, taking in the fully-equipped and well-furnished room. Everything was of the finest quality. ‘I assume this Kitty has at least one or two.’
‘Actually, she has none. Kitty comes from humble stock and hates the idea of other people skivvying for her. She does her own cleaning though she sends out things like laundry and dressmaking.’
‘But why should she allow me to stay here? And why did you choose to bring me here?’
There was a marked twinkle in his eye as he answered. ‘Kitty is my friend. She’s always ready to help me out and she’ll take good care of you and if necessary protect you. She’s as strong as an ox and has an evil temper when riled. She also enjoys a challenge. We can tell her the truth about you, but don’t forget that from now on, apart from when we’re with Kitty, you’re Jenna Stevens.’
Isabel sat down beside the hearth in a chair with plush embroidered cushions. It was obvious Kitty lived alone and had furnished and decorated the hall and kitchen in a decidedly feminine and tasteful. There were no bad smells to offend her and Isabel could not detect what her Uncle Laurence would have termed ‘a definite unfriendly feeling about the place’. Would he have approved of this house and its owner? She supposed he would, knowing the way he’d trusted Nick. Anyway, she hoped that whoever this Kitty was, she would indeed allow her to stay.
There was a sound in the hall and Nick went to investigate. Isabel heard every word of the hearty exchange between him and the female who had entered the house.
‘Nick Nancarrow! So the wind’s blown you this way again, has it! About time too, I should say.’
There was a long silence and a bolt of cold steel shot through Isabel’s heart; she knew they were kissing. Did this other woman, a common trollop by the sound of her voice, have her arms about Nick’s neck? The rustle of her dress said she did. Were her lips moving under his, as only a short time ago she had hoped hers would?
Feeling an intruder, she stood up to face the woman who was to be asked to be her keeper for at least the next few days. Barely able to cope with the ache in her heart, Isabel raised her chin and looked squarely at the open doorway.
She heard Nick say, ‘I’ve got someone with me, Kitty.’
‘I know, there are two tracks leading to my door, one a lot smaller than yours,’ Kitty replied. ‘Well then, I suppose I’d better meet her.’