The cold water was a shock. Vidia was a strong swimmer and she struck out immediately under the water toward the shore for as long as she was able to hold her breath, both to evade detection and to keep warm. She emerged cautiously, took a quick breath while she assessed her position, then submerged again. Fortunately the moon was reflecting off the waves and she had already noted where the protruding rocks were located. Still, it was hard work—she hadn’t calculated the effect the receding tide would have, and coupled with the weight of her skirt and boots she knew some anxious moments. She was just beginning to admit that this was—perhaps—not the best idea she had ever had when she brushed up against a moving object and fled to the surface, stifling a scream.
Gasping for breath, she whirled around to see Carstairs, his wet hair plastered against his head, doing some gasping of his own as the waves rocked them about.
“Go away,” she managed.
“Hold on to my back—keep kicking.”
Having made a respectable protest, she willingly grasped his shoulders and hung on to his back while he navigated them through the remaining shoals to the shore. He had removed his coat and boots and his white shirt was like a second skin; she clung to his back and tried not to impede his movements although she occasionally kicked his foot by mistake. The moonlight glistened on the roiling waves and Vidia reflected that if they weren’t in such dire straits it would be an exhilarating experience between the moon, the wild sea, and hoping they wouldn’t be dashed to pieces by the next swell—she always loved a good adventure.
Finally she could feel him find traction on the sand beneath his feet as he began to wade to the shore. The breakers made him unsteady and she dismounted from his back, only to find she couldn’t yet stand upright against the weight of her skirts so instead she scrambled on all fours onto the sand and lay supine for a moment, panting and spent, the sand coarse against her cheek. Carstairs crawled up behind her and roughly grasped a shoulder, pulling her over to face him. He was mad as fire, and rasped, “Don’t ever do anything so stupid again.”
“Va aos diabos,” was her own gasping reply. She pushed at him angrily but instead of the desired result he brought his arms around her and brought his mouth down hard upon hers. She resisted the kiss, keeping her lips firmly closed as she struggled against him. What was this—did he think now was the time to demonstrate his mastery over her? Or was it just the same as Flanders—they had cheated death and now he wished to mark the occasion? As she continued to resist, his mouth moved to her throat and his hands moved to her breasts, her waist, her thighs. She became aware, on some elemental level, that she wanted this as much as he did and she would have to regain her dignity at some later time. When her hands moved up to caress his back in a gesture of surrender, she heard him make a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat as he began pulling up at her sodden skirts.
Cradling his head in her hands, she arched against him, moaning and nearly mindless with the wanting of him. He positioned her hips and drove into her while her legs clung to him as best she could, unaware of the hard beach beneath them or anything but the rightness of their lovemaking and the heat of his mouth upon hers. After a blissfully satisfying space of time he collapsed on her, spent, and she was forced to return to reality—which was cold and uncomfortable. While he recovered his breath, she gently kissed the hollow of his throat, being as it was within reach. In response, he turned his head and kissed the corner of her mouth and then her temple. “I love you, Catalina.”
“Lina,” she corrected on an exhaled breath. “My mother called me Lina.”
He kissed her brow, his fingers stroking the hair back from her temples. “I love you, Lina.”
She said without rancor, “I do not believe a word you say.”
“You will.” He kissed her mouth gently.
“Unlikely. Where is Gaston?”
“He will have to wait his turn,” he teased.
“Is he looking for us?” She hoped they had not had an audience—her reputation for calm composure would be in tatters.
“No. I sent him on.” He tugged gently at her hair in remonstrance. “You gave us both quite a scare.”
“Good.”
He rolled over to fasten his breeches and then helped her straighten her soggy skirts. She began to shiver uncontrollably as he pulled her to her feet, putting his arms around her. As he led her away, he took a careful glance around them. “Leave nothing behind—you have drowned.”
“I have? What fresh hell is this?” She stooped to wring out her skirt and gather it up into her fist.
“We’ll smuggle you into the inn and hide you there until we come up with a plan.”
She brushed her wet, sandy hair from her face. “Are you out of coverage, then? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
With a grim smile, he ushered her onward, his arms around her. “I will keep you out of trouble—so help me God—until you are cleared, one way or another. I was already turning over the idea in my mind when you obligingly abandoned ship.”
Shaking her head, she exclaimed, “Deus—my wiles are indeed formidable. I had no idea.”
“You have never needed wiles—not with me.”
Steering her into an indent in one of the rocky outcroppings, he rubbed her arms with his own cold hands as they walked on the graveled sand. “There is a tunnel which connects to the inn’s cellar; it was used for smuggling in the old days.” He motioned for her to stand for a moment in the sheltered area between the rocks, and she obliged, shivering, as she watched him climb lightly into a sheltered crevice. The area smelled of must and salt, and deposits of seaweed beneath her feet marked where the tide had receded. I am as foolish as I was at seventeen, she reminded herself, but decided there was nothing for it; she loved the man, and apparently—although the matter had not yet been verified—apparently he loved her in return. She watched as he groped with his fingers for a moment, then she saw the outlines of a weathered wooden door appear in the recesses of the rocks as he pulled at an iron ring handle. The ancient door creaked open, the sound echoing eerily off the rocks.
He gestured for her to come to him, but she did not move, instead raising her voice over the sound of the waves. “Give me one good reason why I should not shoot you instead.”
He thought about it, poised with one leg braced against the rocks. “Your weapon is too wet.”
She shook her head. “Not good enough.”
He bent his head, as though seriously considering the question. “You love me.”
Looking away, she fought her emotions and wished she could control her shivering—she hated to appear pathetic.
His voice continued, “My name is Lucien Jameson Carstairs Tyneburne. I hold a Baronet with an estate in Suffolk.”
She assimilated this information, still unable to look at him. “And we are not wed.” Her voice sounded bleak to her own ears, and again she hated sounding so weak.
“We will be.”
She turned then to look at him. “I gave your estupido ring away.”
“I know it—my first clue that we had been twigged.”
With some defiance, she tossed her head. “I knew as soon as I saw Gaston, pretending to scheme with the cook.”
“Lina,” he said gently. “You will freeze to death.”
Gathering her dignity, she relented and climbed up to pass before him into the opening, which revealed a dark, cramped, and musty tunnel hewn from the rock. “You should take the lead,” she offered. “I am too cold to flee, I promise. Pending tomorrow.”
Placing a guiding hand on the wall, he walked forward into the inky darkness. “How did you know that Gaston had changed sides?”
“I am Napoleon’s chère-amie.”
There was silence for a few moments as she followed him. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder.
She spoke, her voice echoing off the narrow walls as they felt their way in the darkness. “I am base-born, and from the wrong side of the blanket. My father was an itinerant gambler and my mother a very headstrong and beautiful woman.”
His disembodied voice echoed back from the darkness ahead. “They produced an excellent product between them and so I can find nothing to criticize in either.”
They continued in silence for a moment, and she decided she was rather enjoying herself, gauging the extent of his foolishness. “At the risk of sounding vain, I am an infamous courtesan.”
But he corrected her in a level tone. “On the contrary—you are minor Portuguese nobility and every now and then your accent shows itself despite your best efforts to be as Anglicized as possible; the lapse only endears you to the neighbors.”
Possibly, she thought, intrigued and turning over the role in her mind as she followed his voice. But he is a madman to even think of it. “I cannot feel my feet.”
“At least you still have your shoes,” he retorted.
“I did not ask you to come,” she countered with some heat. “Do not complain.”
“I cannot complain—the benefits thus far outweigh the detriments.”
She smiled at his back, which was really quite lovely and would probably sport fingernail marks on the morrow. “That may not always be the case,” she warned.
“Too late,” came the answer from the darkness ahead of her. “I’m in.”
“As I am already aware.”
She heard him chuckle. “Mind your step—there is a stair coming up. We are almost there.”