“Owe you?”
“You don’t understand, do you?”
She shrugged helplessly.
“I deserve to know if you still love another man.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
“Because,” he said quietly, his expression bleak, “I love you.”
For as long as she lived, Archer’s words would merge with the most horrendous Channel crossing of Meredith’s life. The winter winds were at gale force, the waves so high that death by drowning was a very real possibility. Each time the craft climbed a tower, an avalanche of water threatened to sink it to the bottom of the Channel. The wind howled and mast-high waves washed over the decks, the wood beneath their feet pitching and sinking, leaving Archer no choice but to take over the wheel from his small crew and fight to keep the vessel afloat. Punished by wind and pelting rain, he tied himself to the wheel and battled the storm as though taking on his own inner demons. Nature’s fury would not survive his silent, pitiless rage. The harsh winds scalded his skin, robbed him of breath, but no more so than Meredith Woolcott had done. And for the first time, he had a shadow of understanding of what Montagu Faron must have experienced when he thought he’d lost her forever.
The reprieve, when it came, was short lived, the howling of the wind slowing only enough to coat the decks with ice. He handed over the wheel at the sight of Meredith at the deck rail, wrapped in oilskin, insulated against the weather and Archer. “I do not wish to turn back,” she said resolutely, anticipating his question when he came to stand beside her.
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
She paused for a moment. “Thank you for doing this.” Her eyes held a lifetime of pain. “You must be cold, wet and exhausted.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He stared moodily over the rail at the dark, heaving mass of the sea.
Her eyes followed his. It was easier this way, to pretend that they were gazing out into a starless night with no more worries than whether the sun was going to rise in the morning. She was aware of his damp clothing, the hair clinging to his forehead from the sea spray. “You love this in a way, don’t you?”
He turned to look at her, and that piercing, troubling intensity was in his gaze again. “I do. And I know that you somehow understand, despite everything.”
“Thank you for that,” she said. “I believe that I do understand.” There was no anger in her voice or his.
Archer pulled himself up sharply. He shook his head, passing a hand over his eyes. “As do you. We are a fine pair, as it turns out.”
She burrowed into her borrowed oilskin. “When did you know, Archer?”
He didn’t pretend that he didn’t understand. “After the wedding at Montfort, I was contacted by Whitehall,” he said briefly. “But when I saw you again at Rashid, I knew where my loyalties lay.”
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“Perhaps you do not wish to,” Archer said thoughtfully. “At this point, I have no reason to lie. Yes, at the beginning I was working at the behest of Whitehall in their attempt to flush Faron out. But shortly after our meeting, I knew that whether I liked it or not, the nature of the assignment had changed.”
Meredith gave a bitter laugh. She did not look impressed with his choice of words. “‘The nature of the assignment.’ So I was always an assignment to you. Even when we ...” she trailed off. The wind resumed its high-pitched howl. “I think I shall go below.”
It was best to sit on the floor of the cabin with its swinging lantern and bolted-down furnishings. Meredith noted with a faint grimace that her stomach was in an upheaval, her head swimming with the rhythm of the yacht. Archer sat down beside her and put his arm around her and she was reminded of the sandstorm that they had survived, just outside Fort St. Julien. “First sand and now water,” she joked feebly, sensing that he was remembering also. They sat in silence for half an hour when the motion of the boat changed dramatically. Meredith’s stomach dipped and she staggered to her feet, reaching the stairwell just in time. Her clothes were wet from both rain and spray and she lurched as the boat pitched violently, barely holding on to the contents of her stomach. Heedless of the wind and spray, she sucked in gulps of cold, night air.
The light was graying with the approach of a December dawn and she huddled gratefully on the leeside railing. It had been only a twelve-hour crossing, perhaps fourteen with the horrendous weather.
“Meredith.” Archer stood beside her, a small flask in hand. He took her shoulders gently and turned her toward him. “Drink some of this. Brandy,” he added with a smile. “Although I know you prefer whisky.”
This time she gave him no argument, sipping the fiery liquid, which burned its way down her throat and calmed her stomach. “Only a few more hours, I hope,” she said.
“Have more. It will help,” he said, watching as color returned to her cheeks. He ran his hands through her tangled hair, pushing it back from her face, and she didn’t pull away. “We are almost at Calais. You are cold and wet. Come below and change your clothes.” He reached to pull her up and she staggered against him. The contact was both reassuring and magnetic, the sexual current running between them undiminished despite the violent sea and a bout of retching.
Meredith stumbled her way into the main stateroom and swayed toward the bed in the alcove. Holding on to the mattress, she stripped off her wet clothing, aware through the haze of her exhaustion that Archer watched her rummaging through his chest for a fresh shirt. Wearing only her drawers and chemise, she was conscious of his gaze, and her body stirred. It was impossible that he should have this effect on her, even in the grimmest of circumstances when the world pitched and sawed and threatened to come undone, as though offering a fitting end to their tumultuous relationship.
“I shall be at the wheel,” he said abruptly, watching Meredith shake out her skirt and place it in front of the brazier. “We should be landing in an hour or so. There’s a secluded cove behind a small island that we can negotiate safely.” His tone told her that he had done this, and other, more dangerous landings, many times before. She looked out the porthole and spied the ripple of water that marked the opening to a narrow inlet. Unwillingly, she blinked back tears as the cliffs of the Normandy coastline rose into view, gray and forbidding in the winter light. But a bittersweet sight, nonetheless.
An hour later, Meredith was back on deck, her clothes reasonably dry, breathing fresh, restorative air as she considered the approaching coastline. The boat tacked gracefully toward the mouth of the cove. Meredith looked up to see Archer swing the helm, monitor the sail, skillfully pulling the mainsheet to catch the wind at the perfect moment. The yacht obeyed as the wind filled the sail and danced over the line. Meredith caught her breath as she waited for the keel to scrape over jagged rock but the yacht glided silently onward and into the calm safety of the cove.
She stood with feet braced on the now gently moving deck, the wind whipping back her hair, her face lifted to the weak sun. French soil—for the first time in close to twenty years. The leather saddlebag clutched at her side held the gold coins from her reticule and the silk-wrapped kaleidoscope. She held her resolve to her just as tightly.
After disembarking, Archer, in surprisingly fluent French, made quick work of sending a boy to a hostelery, where they secured two horses. They rode hard for the next seven hours to Honfleur and onwards in the direction of Berney, stopping finally in the small village of Orchaise, a few miles outside Blois. Archer helped her down from her horse in front of a small inn, his hands lingering on her waist for an extra moment, and just long enough for her to fight the urge to lean into him. It was important to keep a tight rein on her emotions; the beauty of the French countryside threatened to unleash a tide of memories. She had spent seven years of her life here, and as the soft hills sped by, it seemed as though her life was moving backwards. Her father still lived, Rowena and Julia were mere babes and she was a young woman in love with learning and with a young man who would be hers forever.
The small inn was tidy and warm, with a welcoming scent of red wine and freshly baked bread. Meredith noted how smoothly Archer explained that he and his wife would be requiring a room and simple dinner, all of which the innkeeper, a man with sharp eyes and a neat moustache, was keen to provide.
Dinner was a wonderful pot-au-feu served on a small table in front of a roaring fire in their room, their glasses filled with a rich burgundy. A strange calm had descended over both of them; the stormy seas and the revelations of the past day had stripped both of them of any defenses. He watched her, his eyes taking in her shirtwaist, now open at the neck, her dishabille born of a recklessness that was somehow more daring than anything he’d ever seen in the most decadent gaming dens or perfumed boudoirs. They both shifted uncomfortably in the inn’s hard chairs, their awareness of their mutual vulnerability inescapable.
For the first time in his life, Archer could not keep his thoughts straight, could not form a strategy for the days ahead. He simply sat across from Meredith at the table, trying to come up with reasons that would keep them both in this small French inn forever. If he could stop time, he would, because at the moment, he wanted to forget that the world existed outside their room. Nothing mattered anymore.
“You must be exhausted,” she said, her own gray eyes heavy with fatigue.
“I don’t think I could sleep.”
She took another sip of her wine. “We could talk.”
He smiled grimly. “I think we’ve established it does not do us much good.”
“Perhaps we should give it another try.” She looked at him with her beautiful eyes, and the vulnerability he saw shocked him.
“There is something I must say,” she began. “I think I understand now that what’s happened between us cannot be distilled to simple black and white. I have been unfair in thinking otherwise.” She stared at the glass of wine in her hand before meeting his gaze, reading great hurt and bitterness there. “Please forgive me, Archer.”
He shrugged. “We’ve both made mistakes. We didn’t trust each other enough and maybe with cause, on my part at least,” he added honestly. “Trust only comes with knowing the truth and it’s taken us some time to get to it.”
“I was wrong about you.”
“No, you weren’t,” he said abruptly. “At least not at first.”
She shook her head. “And I think you were wrong about yourself, hiding behind that laconic façade when really, Archer, you care very much. About your friends, about loyalty and doing what’s right. You are far from the rootless adventurer you pretend to be. That’s why you are here right now, beside me, having risked a perilous Channel crossing and so much more.”
Archer was silent for a long moment. “Why the change of heart?” His voice was hard, armor against further pain.
Her eyes softened. “I do recognize love when I see and feel it,” she continued, her gaze never wavering from his, showing courage to the end. “I think I loved you from the moment I saw you standing in the entrance at Montfort,” she confessed. “You were so tall, so large and so damnably distant despite your easy charm. And here I was, a woman well into her fourth decade, and you made me stop and catch my breath like a young girl.” She stopped. “No, not like a young girl because that pales in comparison to what I felt, what I feel ...”
He sat unmoving, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her.
Her fingers playing with the stem of her wineglass, she continued carefully. “You were right. I was married to a past that was keeping me from living, hanging on to a ghostly love that was never right, even in the beginning. I know that now. If Montagu”—she paused, “if Faron had truly loved me, he would never have believed his cousin Jerome’s lies about me, despite his grievous injuries. Nor would he have done those sick, heinous ...” She stopped, placing a hand over her lips.
When she recovered, he was at her side, and her sorrow made his heart clench. He pulled her into his arms, raising a hand to brush a curl away from her eyes. He swept it back, fingers tracing the curve of her ear, trailing down her neck. “I love you and nothing else matters.” There was triumph and assurance in his voice.
“And I love you,” she whispered fiercely. “If you need further proof, when I heard Blythe’s voice in the stairwell at the Fitzwilliam, all I could think about was the danger you were in. I knew then that I would risk anything to save your life.”
He kissed her tenderly, as though for the first time, his hands stroking her hair. “No wonder I love you,” he said, his breath warm on her lips. “My courageous, beautiful, brilliant Meredith.”
She pulled back and laid a finger over his mouth. “You are the courageous one, getting involved with me and my complicated life. The attack in Rashid, the sandstorm and then all the business with Whitehall. And then the night I came to you, using you ...”
He smiled. “The least of my complaints, my love.” He cupped her jaw, ran his thumb along her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin and the tremble of her body in response to his touch. He leaned in, setting a hot kiss on the delicate skin just below her ear.
The breath shuddered out of her. “We do well in that regard,” she said, her voice low.
“Yes, we do,” he said with a slow grin. “Why do you think I never gave up on you?”
“You are a cad after all,” she said, but with a responding smile before a shadow crossed her face once more. “I just wish it were over.”
“It is over,” he said with typical arrogance. “Tomorrow we will go to Claire de Lune and discover who is behind these events, root him out once and for all.” He kept his suspicions to himself, relieved that the painful intensity in her voice had dissipated.
She stiffened slightly, her eyes shuttered. She placed one hand upon his chest and pushed him back a fraction of an inch. “In my heart I wish nothing more than for us to return to England together, rather than traveling on to Blois. And I feel guilty having you by my side, risking you as I have risked the lives of Julia and Rowena, for too long. And yet, I know this is necessary, to end things that should have ended years ago. It is something I must do.” By myself, she wanted to add, but didn’t.
A small lie on her part, but before she could continue, he stopped the words with his mouth on hers, his hands sliding around her body to cup her buttocks, pressing her hard against him until he felt the playful resistance leave her. Her lips were soft and yielding, her body moving on his. He raised his head, his familiar, wicked smile back in place. In response, she grabbed hold of his hand, her grip confident and sure, and pulled him toward the bed in the center of the small room, never taking her eyes from his.
Chapter 14
Meredith waited until well after midnight before she carefully slid out of bed, murmuring to Archer, who slumbered beside her, something about using the privy down the inn’s narrow hallway. Her escape was simple, slipping into her clothes and out the door, her saddlebag gripped in one hand. Taking the servants’ stairway down, she edged out the kitchen door. No cook or proprietor was to be seen.
The cold was a slap in her face, the night clear with a full moon. A groom slumped in the corner of the stables unaware that she led her horse from its stall. She waited to saddle it and tie on the saddlebag until she was a few yards from the stables. She led the horse in silence only moments as the road to Blois appeared
Archer would awaken and encounter cool sheets instead of the warmth of her body. She wasn’t certain that he knew the location of Claire de Lune and desperately hoped that he would understand and not follow her. A hastily scribbled note was all that she had left as explanation. This was the final battle and one that she would fight—at last burying Montagu Faron and the shadow he had cast over her life and those she loved for far too long.
Riding through the night and early morning, she was alone with only her thoughts, a dangerous place to be. She recognized firsthand now that the workings of the mind were as dangerous as those of the heart. Thoughts of Archer intruded, were pushed aside, suppressed. Then th
ey insistently stole back into her mind, more relentless than before. She loved him with the zealousness of the converted, and the acknowledgment did nothing to dispel the hurt of leaving him behind at the inn. Her chest ached with the pain of it and with every mile she came closer to Claire de Lune without him. Even if he managed to follow her to the chateau, he would not know the location of her true destination.
The road was suddenly heart-stoppingly familiar. Claire de Lune rose in the distance, a fortress built in the sixteenth century by Charles I, its four sides centered around a courtyard with a back wall, later destroyed to obtain a better view of the Loire River below. With its hundred rooms, its turrets, graceful arches and mullioned windows, it seemed conjured from a Renaissance fairy tale. But Meredith knew that fairy tales were for children, best outgrown and left behind like toys in the nursery.
Instead of following the curved road to the chateau framed by plane trees arrayed like a regiment of soldiers, Meredith urged her mount onwards. The sun was cresting the horizon, burning off the frost on the pastoral landscape. Here was a moderate climate long beloved of kings, queens and the powerful. Years fell away as she found the narrow roadway outside Blois where the little cottage waited. The trees were bare now yet still graceful, the bowers of shrubs and roses waiting for spring. Even in December, she recalled the smell of blossoms, the delicate scent setting off a small explosion of memories.
She stopped before she could see the cottage. The rosebush was still there, and she dismounted. The ground at her feet was crisp with frosted leaves and the imagined scent of blossoms disappeared. The air was acrid with burning vegetation, a gardener’s bonfire, she reminded herself, starting at the scent. She gathered her pelisse closer, despite the warming sun marching its way across the blue sky above the river.
The Deepest Sin Page 26
