To Heal a Heart

by Anthea Lawson

  She donned her clothing, unhurriedly fastening the buttons and twisting up that fall of sun-shot brown hair. Something bittersweet settled in him, seeing the goddess that had shared the cove with him transform back into a proper Englishwoman, down to the pointed toes of her laced boots.

  His own conversion was quicker. Pull on shirt and coat, shake the sand from his boots, run his fingers through his hair. Neither of them spoke, as though by holding their breaths they could spin the afternoon out a few more moments. Words would break the enchantment, and then they would be nothing but two separate, mortal souls, traveling too quickly away from one another.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  England, April 1848

  “Keefe. Come in.” Reginald turned from the rain-studded window of his library and waved the viscount to one of the leather-covered armchairs near the fire. “How kind of you to visit. Would you care for a whiskey?”

  The blond man draped himself into the indicated chair and drummed his fingers on the arm. His green eyes were watchful. “Just wondering if there has been progress on our current project. Your cousin appears to be delayed.”

  Caroline had been due back a week ago. She was spoiling his plans, blast the woman. Keeping the impatience from his face—though the viscount’s restlessness mirrored his own—Reginald poured a tumbler and handed it to his guest. He was not surprised Keefe had paid him a call. The trick was to keep him on the hook until the chit actually materialized.

  “My father received a letter from her. She is almost healed from her foolish accident and will be on her way home very soon. Patience, my friend, and the prize will be yours.”

  The viscount shifted, fingers running back and forth over the smooth leather. “I’ve stretched it damnably far already. I’ve told my family there’s a prospect but they keep demanding to know who she is. And the damned creditors are knocking at my door.” He took a long swallow of his drink. “I don’t know how much longer I can put them off.”

  “Your family is your own problem. What would you have me do? Sail to the Mediterranean and drag my cousin back by the ear?” The man’s whining was tiresome.

  “Surely you can do something?”

  “What we can do, my friend, is lay the groundwork so she drops into your hand like a ripe plum.”

  “Into my purse, you mean.” There was a glint in Keefe’s eye.

  “Hand or purse—we can ensure it. The chit’s weakness is her blasted orphans and that sinkhole of a school. That is the royal road to her heart. Present yourself as another do-gooder with an inheritance coming.” He tilted an eyebrow at the viscount. “Tell her how much you care for the welfare of the despicable little urchins. How much you admire the methods of her school, and how much you admire the woman who sacrifices so much for others.”

  “Won’t she be suspicious?”

  “Hardly. She’ll be too busy scrambling for money. I’ve called in a few favors and managed to have the funding for her newest project cut off. She’ll be desperate, and you will be there to rescue her, handsome and sympathetic.” To think how easily his cousin would be forced onto the path he had made for her. It was a pity he had not thought of it years ago.

  The viscount raised his glass. “It seems a brilliant scheme. What is this project of hers I’m supposed to feign interest in?”

  “A dispensary addition to her wretched boarding school. Very philanthropic. How could she not turn to you?”

  “How, indeed?”

  Reginald nodded. The man had few inconvenient morals to get in the way. He preferred working with Keefe’s sort, the type of fellow who was completely predictable in his motivations. People talked about morals, but it was their hungers that made them act. Like his own hunger to go on living. And Keefe’s inclination for opium. It was the honorable gentlemen who were problematic, capable of throwing months of planning awry by their incomprehensible actions. Men like his cousin James.

  Fortunately, there were no gentlemen of that ilk involved. This would be a straightforward—and profitable—venture.

  “I have something for you to ease your wait.” He smiled at Keefe.

  “And what would that be?” The viscount’s tone was negligent—too negligent. Reginald noted how his fingers had stilled at the first mention of payment. Wonderfully predictable.

  Reginald drew a silk-wrapped bundle from his pocket and placed it on the low table between them. Watching the viscount’s reaction closely, he unfolded the cloth to reveal a black chunk of solid opium.

  Keefe froze, like a setter coming on point. His nostrils flared and a subtle tension seemed to settle over him, a thin mantle of need.

  “Or would you prefer some other pleasure?” Reginald made to draw the opium back, amused by the look of loss that ghosted over the viscount’s features. It confirmed what he had been told: Keefe was more than a little enamored of the stuff and preferred it in a purer form than the tinctures most opium eaters favored.

  “No. This will suffice.” The viscount’s gaze was still fixed on the drug.

  Not until Reginald had pulled a concealing fold of silk back over it did Keefe seem able to look away. He leaned back in his chair and gave a tight smile.

  “So, you are aware of my particular pleasures, Rowland.” His tone was edged with displeasure. “I trust this information will remain confidential between us.”

  “Of course. We all have our weaknesses.” Reginald rewrapped the opium and slid it toward the viscount.

  The man reached for it with fingers that seemed rigidly controlled. “At least it’s not the gaming tables for me.”

  A clumsy allusion to Reginald’s own financial difficulties. Difficulties that would be ended soon enough. He let the remark slide past. After all, he was the one who would ultimately reap the full benefit of their scheming.

  Crete, April 1848

  “This is such fun,” Pen said, lifting her face to the light breeze. “What do you think we’ll find on the island, Caro?”

  Alex bent to the oars of Manolis’s fishing boat, but most of his attention was on Caroline. Caroline. It was impossible to think of her as Miss Huntington now. Good thing this was a group outing. Less chance he would lose his head again, lured by her laughing eyes, her tempting mouth….

  Stop. Just stop it. He dug into the surface of the sea, channeling his desire down through the oars. Little eddies followed the blades as he dipped and pulled, dipped and pulled. She was not for him—she never could be. She belonged in London. He could never return to England.

  If he had spent restless nights replaying her smiles, the feel of her softness under his hands, the taste of her against his mouth, it was no one’s business but his. There were more than enough secrets locked behind his eyes. The fact that he could not help thinking of Caroline Huntington day and night was but one more to add to his sins.

  “Do you think there’s a resident sprite there?” Caroline was trailing her hand in the water, clearly having made her peace with the Mediterranean.

  An afternoon of sunshine and water, two bodies melded close in the sea. He shook his head, willing himself not to think of it. He had recommended she and Pen swim together in the future and had pointed out a sheltered area near the village. Not as warm as the cove, but adequate. According to Pen they had gone there the last two afternoons.

  Once away from her, the memory of who he was, what he had done, had smashed down on him. He had no business—none whatsoever—kissing Miss Caroline Huntington, coaxing sweet sighs from her lips, letting his hands explore her body. Blast him, he should stay away, lock himself up with Legault’s bones, but he was an idiot and could not resist the excuse to be near her. If it meant indulging Pen’s whims and delaying their departure another few days, a week…

  “The villagers say a Nereid lives on the island,” Pen said. “She watches over sailors when storms blow up. Isn’t that so, Manolis?”

  “It is true.” The weather-beaten man adjusted the sail, then nodded toward the little island they were making for. “I bring o
fferings of respect.”

  “Oh,” Pen said. “I didn’t bring anything.”

  “We will sing to her,” Caroline said. “Perhaps ‘Stars of the Summer Night’ if you can remember your part.”

  The girl laughed. “I do better with ‘The Beautiful Flowers of May’ Besides, it is almost May, and the flowers are beautiful.”

  “Miss Huntington is turning you into a proper lady, Pen.” Alex tried to keep his tone light, despite the constant reminders that their departure for England was imminent. He would miss Pen, too, but could only approve Caroline’s plan to take her back to London.

  “I am merely teaching her some of the songs I know,” Caroline said. “Music and poetry are important—for everyone.” Her gaze fixed on him, serious and intent.

  “For most people, certainly.” He excluded himself from that number. It was a torment, having her so close yet knowing she was about to step out of his life forever. No music in that thought. No poetry.

  “Caro provides art classes at her boarding school in London,” Pen said.

  Alex pulled hard at the oars. He did not want to discuss London, or Caroline’s projects. The reality of her leaving would come soon enough.

  “We are close now,” Manolis said. “Stow the oars, iatros. The wind will bring us in.”

  “I hope Mr. Simms does not join us,” Pen said. She looked back across the bay, to where the houses of the village shimmered white along the shore. “Manolis, how unkind of you to tell him the best fishing was out here by the island. I wanted this to be our afternoon alone.”

  Alex agreed wholeheartedly. He did not trust the fellow, although he had caused no more trouble. Their earlier meeting on the beach had been amiable enough. Alex could not begrudge Manolis’s enthusiasm when Simms had inquired about the best places to cast his line—and Alex had been glad to see the man had left his rifle behind.

  “Ready?” Manolis asked. The low island loomed close now, the white crescent of beach waiting just ahead.

  Alex pulled off his shoes, rolled his trousers, then went to stand at the prow. As soon as the skiff tumbled past the breakers he leapt into the surf and, splashing, towed them onto the coarse sand. Manolis joined him in heaving the boat high enough that the ladies could disembark without getting their skirts wet.

  Pen jumped down. “The island seems larger from shore. But it’s just a speck on the sea, isn’t it?” She glanced curiously about.

  “I don’t think you’re going to catch sight of the resident Nereid quite yet,” Caroline said. She caught Alex’s gaze and smiled, accepting his assistance as she stepped over the skiff’s side.

  “This is but a small part,” Manolis said. “The main island is over the rocks.” He waved toward the ridge of stone sheltering the beach. “A meadow also. We call it the island of flowers.”

  “That sounds perfect. Let’s go see.” Pen hiked up her skirts and began clambering up the small ridge that divided the island.

  “Wait for us,” Caroline said, laughter in her voice as she followed. She halted at the top with a small exclamation and Alex hurried to her side. “Oh, look. Isn’t it magnificent?” She turned to him and caught his hand.

  The contact jolted through him, and for a moment he could not focus on anything but the feel of her skin against his. When his senses cleared he followed her gaze to the meadow and was surprised all over again.

  He did not consider himself a plant fancier, but what lay before them was a garden, surely. No natural meadow could boast the swaths of blooms laid out before him. Caroline led him down among the flowers, following Pen, while above them on the ridge he heard Manolis let out a full-bodied laugh.

  Red field poppies, daisies, purple iris—those Alex knew. But the tall flags of brilliant color growing in clumps, the sweet herbs he now crushed underfoot, he had no name for these. Or if he did, their only name was joy.

  It uncurled painfully in his chest as he stood under the clear eye of the Cretan sun, holding her hand. Their fingers were laced together, the beat of his heart captured against her palm. The surf hummed against the rocks as she turned to him, her hair shot through with golden lights, something he did not know how to name in her eyes.

  Awareness moved between them, as heady as the scents thickening the air, the heat that lay welcome across his shoulders. He took a half step forward, uncaring that they were not alone. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except her.

  “Caro, come look at the lilies!” Pen called, and the moment was broken.

  Caroline smiled at him, a brightness that seemed edged with regret, then slipped her fingers free and went to join the girl.

  “Sweet like honey,” Manolis said, coming to join him.

  “And gone just as soon.” Alex cleared his throat. “Is that the shrine?” He indicated a slab of stone at the meadow’s edge, near the rough shore.

  “It is. Come.” Manolis unslung the sack he carried from one shoulder and preceded Alex to the rock.

  Seeing what they were about, the women joined them. Pen’s fingers were busy crafting a garland of flowers, while Caroline carried a bright bouquet. Silently, Manolis unstoppered a flask of ouzo and poured libations, first on the stone, then the ground, then flung the rest out over the rocks—a glittering arc of liquid meeting the waves. He replaced the flask, then set out an orange, a rough wooden carving of a fish, and a blue hair ribbon. Straightening, he nodded once at the sea.

  They stood quietly a moment longer, and then Pen laid her garland on the stone. “Do we…say anything?”

  “It is not needed,” Manolis said. “But what about your song? Now would be good.”

  Accordingly, the two women began, their voices twining in harmony. Caroline took the low part, singing with a throaty warmth that went right through Alex, while Pen’s pleasing, clear tones soared above. The melody was sweet and plaintive, and he felt the words prick against his heart. He turned, looking blindly over the waves, listening.

  But when I saw with sad surprise,

  the garland fade before mine eyes,

  Until the blossoms once so fair,

  Were scattered in the summer air.

  Somewhere near the end, Pen lost the harmony, and to his relief the mood was broken as the song finished in laughter.

  “She liked it despite the ending,” Caroline said. “What sprite would not?”

  Alex shaded his eyes with one hand. “There’s a sail.”

  “Oh, drat, is it Simms?” Pen asked.

  Manolis glanced up. “Yes. I think he is having good fishing. He was wise to listen to me.”

  “As long as he does not stop here.” The girl set her hands on her hips.

  They watched as the small boat rounded the island and drew nearer. It was indeed Simms, the man’s stocky form unmistakable. Alex observed him closely as the boat approached. The sportsman held one hand up in greeting, then bent and hefted a large sea bass, displaying his catch.

  Manolis shouted his approval and Pen and Caroline returned his wave, but Alex merely watched until the man set his fish down and brought the boat around to catch the wind again. It seemed he did not intend to stop, for he turned eastward and soon was out of hailing distance. Shoulders easing, Alex turned away from the sight of that lone sail receding across the water.

  Pen had clambered down to the shore—much stonier on this side of the island—and was peering into tide pools, with Caroline close behind. He went to join them. Though he had grown up by the sea, he still enjoyed seeing odd creatures in their miniature ponds waiting for the next tide to surge up and free them. He was as stranded on Crete as one of those fish in their pools—an unsettling thought. No tide was ever going to rise and float him free.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared out at the horizon, southward toward invisible Africa. A yellow haze hung low in the watery distance. Maybe it was time for a journey to even farther places once Caroline left.

  “Oh my,” Pen said, catching the brim of her bonnet. “That was quite a gust. The wind is comi
ng up, isn’t it?”

  Manolis lifted his head, then let out a cry of alarm. “The souroko is coming!” He pointed to the shimmering air hanging far out over the water. “We must go back to the boat—now, now!”

  Sudden foreboding shivered over Alex. The southern wind came up quickly this time of year. One had blown last spring and everyone had stayed inside, shutters tight, while the hot and persistent souroko raged, pushing dust through any crack it could find. One full day, often two, would pass before the winds died back down. At the first sign, the fishermen brought their boats in to shore. It was perilous to be caught out on the water by that ravening storm.

  He whirled, taking Caroline by one arm and Pen by the other, and the three of them ran after Manolis. They skidded to a halt at the top of the ridge.

  “My boat!” Manolis shouted. “Look what has been done to my boat!”

  A band of fury tightened around Alex’s chest as he looked down at the skiff, Manolis pacing beside it in dismay. The sail lay shredded across the bow, rent into long, ragged strips. The stern of the boat—never completely sound—now gaped where boards had been pried open.

  “Oh dear!” Pen cried.

  On his other side Caroline had gone still with apprehension.

  “Simms.” Alex spit the name out, then hurried down to see the extent of the damage. “He’s a lunatic. Why would anyone do this kind of mischief?”

  “Are you certain it was he?” Caroline asked.

  “Who else? He knew where we were going.” Anger flamed through him, fanned like a brushfire by the approaching winds. “Damn him. He even had the nerve to wave at us after vandalizing our boat.”

  “Are we stranded?” Pen asked.

  “No.” God, no. It would be far too dangerous to stay there, for they did not have the supplies or the shelter to survive two days of the souroko. “We must beat the storm back to shore.”