“Gloriana,” he whispered softly, still enchanted by the sweetness of her kiss. “I’ll have you yet.”
Chapter Four
The cold rain beat down on Gloriana’s hooded cloak, chilling her to the bone. A fierce wind whistled up from the sea far below her, tangy with salt. She reached forward and gave Black Jack’s mane an encouraging pat. The poor beast was as drenched as she was, and surely weary from fighting the ceaseless wind that had long-since bent the scrawny trees that dotted the edge of the cliff.
“You be daft, my girl,” she muttered, tempted to turn around and return to her cozy cottage. But she was more than halfway to Whitby at this point, following the road that overlooked Robin Hood’s Bay. Better to stop for a tankard of warm mulled cider at The Eagle when she reached Whitby, and wait out the storm. Black Jack would welcome a dry stable for an hour or so.
Foolish jade! She should have known when she left her cottage that the storm would grow worse. No passing shower, but a savage assault of wind and rain from the northeast. But she had been desperate to get out, breathe deeply of the sea air, clear her head. She hadn’t really needed a new sack of flour, but it had served as a convenient excuse. She knew she wasn’t merely escaping from her cottage. She was running from a disturbing memory.
The man. Tall and strong, with a beautiful face, and a body that made her mouth water. And his kiss—she shivered, and not from the cold. Never in her life had a man’s touch so shaken her. She could still recall his scent, that intoxicating mix of manly sweat and tobacco, of fine soap and pampered living. His lips had been soft, yet firm and burning, demanding her passionate response. She’d yearned to drag him to her bed upon the instant.
And now? Regret gnawed at her. Perhaps she should have hired him.
No! She needed a man who wasn’t afraid of hard work, a man of strength and courage. Time enough for kisses and such if she became a successful tradeswoman—let the countrymen woo her when she’d made her mark in the parish. She was mad to keep thinking about him. He was so far above her, so clearly refined. She cringed, recalling her gutter language, her crude insults. Surely he had kissed her only out of anger. She scarcely needed scorn from his sort.
She glanced down at the sea, then reined in Black Jack. Bloody hell! Far below her, a ship seemed to have foundered, dashing against the rocks of a narrow cove. She saw men running across the sand, bodies bobbing in the surf, small boats fighting the undertow and relentless wind to reach the ship.
Perhaps she could be of help, she thought. There was no way down to the sea from this vantage point, but the village of Robin Hood’s Bay had been built on the sides of a jagged cleft in the mountainside. She turned Black Jack around and headed back toward the road that led to the beach. The rain had almost stopped, but the cobbles would be slippery, and the headwinds would be difficult to buck. She dismounted and led her horse down the steep path, passing ancient stone cottages on either side. Several men raced ahead of her, carrying coils of thick rope.
She reached the end of the village and moved onto the beach, leading Black Jack and swinging around a spit of land to get to the cove where the ship lay. All was chaos here. Men running, shouting. Fishing boats pushing toward the sinking vessel, fighting winds, currents, the merciless sea. Several small fishing boats had overturned, and frantic groups of men dragged fresh boats into the water to rescue their comrades.
One of the boats had managed to reach the large ship; someone had thrown down a line, and the sailors were scrambling down the rope toward the small vessel. As the last man descended, the large ship seemed to groan—one last cry of defeat before it split in two and sank beneath the raging waves.
Gloriana, standing near a group of womenfolk, watched in helpless dismay as the boatmen struggled against their oars to reach the shore. Above the wind, she could hear the sound of one man shouting orders, calling out the stroke to maintain the oarsmen’s rhythm. As the boats reached land, the women rushed forward to help the stricken men, lead them to the village, embrace the friends who had been miraculously saved—and briefly mourn the ones who hadn’t survived. Gloriana helped as much as she could, wading into the shallows to pull men to the beach.
One by one, the boats made it to shore, until there were only two still bobbing on the tide. As Gloriana watched in horror, the farther boat capsized, sending the men into the roiling water. Several of them managed to climb on top of the capsized boat, but the others were washed away or dashed against the rocks.
The last boat had nearly reached the shore, with no room aboard to go back for more survivors. One of the men—the one who seemed to have been shouting orders—leaped out into the shallow water. He motioned for the others to follow. They formed a human chain—joined by others on land—and waded through the pounding surf until they were close enough to the capsized boat to urge the survivors to come to them. Slowly, hand to hand, they passed the sailors along, until the beach was littered with exhausted, gasping men, grateful to be alive.
The man who had led the rescue was the last to come ashore. He staggered toward the beach and collapsed in a heap on the edge of the sea. While the townsfolk comforted their friends and family members, he seemed to be ignored, his head buried in his arms, his dark hair soggy around his face, the rough current lapping at his legs.
Gloriana clutched at the sleeve of a woman hurrying past. “What of that cove, there? Don’t he be worthy of attention?”
The woman managed a tight smile, reflecting a small town’s hostility to newcomers. “You be Mistress Cook, what lives in the dingle, ain’t you?”
“Aye. But what of that man?”
“An outsider. Just come to town. But welcome, the Lord knows. First man out when the ship foundered. Hours ago.”
Gloriana shook her head. “He must be plumb wore out! Will no one care for him?”
The woman shrugged. “We has our own to care for first, and take ’em home. Mebbe you could get ’im to the church. A stranger, after all.”
As though that should matter, thought Gloriana, remembering the open friendliness of the London streets. “Aye. I be doin’ that.” She hurried toward the stricken man, managing to enlist the help of a passing fisherman. Together, they dragged the man out of the water and onto the beach. He shook back his hair and looked up at them, his eyes unfocused and glazed with fatigue.
Gloriana gasped in recognition. “Bloody hell!”
The fisherman scowled at her. “Be this a friend o’ yourn, mistress?”
It took her a fraction of a second to decide. “This be my manservant, John Thorne,” she said with pride. She thought quickly. She could never get him back to the cottage on her own. But with Black Jack…?
She turned to the fisherman. “I be askin’ a favor o’ you, mate. That be my horse yonder. I’m Mistress Cook, livin’ in the old Wickham cottage in the dell. You know the place?”
“Aye.”
“I can run on ahead, and get a fire goin’ in the grate. If you can get him on my horse and bring him to the cottage, it would be a blessin’, upon my oath.”
He hesitated. “I be needed here.”
She fought to keep her temper from exploding. “There’ll be a half-crown waitin’ for you when you gets there.”
His mouth quirked in a sly smile. “And a tot of rum?”
“Burn and blister me! Will you do it, or no?” She glared at him, daring him to refuse.
He dropped his own gaze. “No need to get raspish with me, mistress. I’ll get ’im there.” He bent to help Thorne to his feet.
“Wait!” The word emerged as a croak from Thorne’s throat. “My shoes. My hat and coat.”
Gloriana was surprised at his urgent tone. “What matter? I’ll get them tomorrow.”
“No! I must have them.” He sagged in the fisherman’s arms and rubbed his hand across his face. “Christ Jesus, I’m tired.” He pointed to a small shack hugging the edge of the cliff. “I left them there.”
Gloriana turned toward the shack. “I’ll get th
em.” She turned back to the fisherman. “Mind he don’t fall from the horse, my gallows-bird, or I’ll have your ears as a keepsake!”
She fetched his belongings, then raced up the steep path of the village, grateful to have the wind at her back. She had left a small fire in the grate and was pleased to see it was still burning when she reached her cottage. She tossed an armload of fresh wood on the fire, watched it catch and burn, and warmed her cold hands for a moment in front of the flames. She stripped off her cloak, then her soggy skirt—her petticoat was fairly dry, except for the hem. But her shoes and stockings were a ruin; better to go barefoot than squish with every step she took!
Wait a moment. She might need to go outside to help with Thorne. She slipped into a pair of old mules—far from comfortable, but they would serve.
“Now what?” she said to the empty room, placing her wet clothes on a chair near the fire. There was a small trundle bed tucked under her own bed upstairs, but it would take time to drag it down and place it near the fire. “Towels, my girl, and a coverlet or two. That be the ticket.” She fetched the bedding and spread one of the quilts on the floor as close to the fire as she could. Then, noting that it would soon be nightfall, she lit a few candles around the room and nodded in satisfaction at her handiwork.
At the last moment, she remembered what she had promised the fisherman. She wasn’t about to let him see where she kept her coins! She lifted her strongbox from its wicker hamper in a corner of the room and pulled out a half-crown, then placed it on the table along with a bottle of brandy from her pantry closet, having decided that rum wasn’t strong enough after what Thorne had endured.
She shook her head, still finding it hard to believe his bravery. First man out, the woman had said. Who would have thought it? Clearly, he was more a man than she had given him credit for.
“But there’ll be no more kisses, my fine jack-a-dandy,” she said with determination. She wasn’t about to tolerate another insolent servant, as she had at Baniard Hall. Best he understood that from the beginning!
She heard Black Jack’s whinny outside the door and rushed to throw it open. Thorne sagged on the horse, holding the saddle with lax fingers. She jerked her head toward the coverlet and scowled at the fisherman. “Put ’im on the floor, next to the fire. I’ll stable the horse. There be your reward on the table. And some brandy. Mind you take a swig, not the bottle. I be needin’ it for him.”
By the time she had seen to Black Jack’s comfort and feed, the fisherman had gone. She closed the door and crossed to the fireplace, kicking off her muddy mules as she went, and noting with distaste as she passed the table that the scoundrel had taken a very healthy gulp of the liquor. “Welladay,” she muttered. She had scarce known a man—except Da and Grey Ridley—to be anything but selfish at his heart.
Thorne sat hunched on the coverlet—his arms around his body, his knees drawn up to his chest—shivering violently. Gloriana fetched the brandy and held out the bottle, urging him to drink. She had to steady his hands as he brought it to his mouth, so fierce were his tremors.
“Thank you,” he said, through chattering teeth. “Did you find my shoes and things?”
“They’ll be dry by mornin’. Never you fear.” She tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his breeches. “Out of these wet clothes, now.”
He groaned, attempting to lie down on the coverlet. “Just let me sleep.”
“Be you quarrelin’ with me, caitiff? I’m not of a mind to nurse you with a fever!”
He glared at her, but allowed her to strip off his shirt. She reached for a towel and began to vigorously rub his wet hair, then moved on to his muscular back, noting—in spite of herself—the smooth perfection of his flesh. She next toweled his hairy chest, grateful to see that his trembling had stopped. But when she began on his arms, he pushed weakly against her hands.
“Leave me be,” he growled. “Just let me sleep, woman.”
“I be doin’ what needs to be done!” she snapped. “And you mind your manners, or I’ll throw you out into the night.”
His gray eyes were like cold steel. “My manners? By God…” They stared at one another for a long, angry moment, then he dropped his gaze and ran his hand across his face. “I forgot. Forgive me, mistress.” He sighed. “Do your worst.”
She pushed him onto his back and pulled off his soaked knee-breeches and stockings, drying his feet and working her way upwards. By the time she reached his knees, she saw that he was half asleep. She leaned back on her heels and took a moment to scan his form.
He was beautiful. From his shoulder-length black hair to his broad chest and narrow hips, he was everything a man should be. She stole a glance at his groin, the dark patch of curls cradling his considerable male parts. Everything.
Afraid to disturb his sleep, she toweled him more gently, stroking his hips and thighs with tender hands. She returned to his chest and arms, her movements like a caress. She felt her own body growing warm from his seductive presence, the familiar ache in her lower regions.
He moaned softly in his sleep, a wisp of a smile curling the full lips that she could still taste.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered. His manhood was now quivering, stretching to its full height. She watched in fascination, her desire growing to a fever pitch.
Did she dare? Her own hunger conquered common sense; lifting her skirts, she straddled him and slowly lowered herself onto his body. She gasped at the hard fullness of him inside of her, then glanced hurriedly at his face.
Though his eyes were still closed, his smile had grown into a quirk of pleasure. He gave a contented grunt, his hips rising eagerly to meet hers. His hands circled her waist, holding her in a firm grip as she moved up and down on his shaft with an ever-increasing need. She had never felt such satisfaction in her life. He was large and hard—so unlike Charlie, whose prickle had been as shriveled as his soul. She felt an urgent tension rising at her very core, like a line stretched tight; then the line snapped, bringing blessed release. At the same moment, he gave a strangled cry; she could feel his seed flooding within her. He sighed and grinned in his sleep.
She rolled off him, and then stood, moving quickly to reach for the towel and clean herself. She wiped the telltale signs from his own body, praying he wouldn’t notice in the morning. Time enough to figure out what she would tell him when he awoke—she wasn’t about to let him know what she had done.
“Not if I can help it, my fine cove,” she whispered, knowing she should feel remorse for taking advantage of him, but unable to erase the warm glow of satisfaction that filled her body.
He opened his eyes, momentarily alert. “What?” he muttered with a frown.
She covered him with a blanket and stroked back the hair at his forehead. “Hush,” she murmured. “You be dreamin’. Go back to sleep.”
She laid out his clothes to dry, picked up a candlestick and mounted the stairs to her bedroom. No need for a fire. The storm was already passing—it would be warm by morning. She unlaced her stays, pulled off her petticoat and lay down in her shift, wrapping herself snugly with a coverlet.
“For what you just did, my girl,” she said to the empty room, “you should suffer the pangs of Hell.” But she couldn’t keep the contented smile off her face as she drifted off to sleep.
• • •
Thorne awoke slowly to the sunny morning, every muscle aching. Then he remembered the shipwreck. Christ Jesus! What had he been thinking yesterday? What mad impulse had driven him to risk his life, his own safety, for a bunch of sailors he wouldn’t have noticed if he passed them on the High Street? But Gloriana’s words had touched something deep within him. Soft? Not a man? He had wanted to prove to himself that she was wrong. And surely he felt an unfamiliar glow of satisfaction, knowing that he had helped to save so many lives.
He was suddenly aware of his surroundings. Naked—except for a thin coverlet—in front of a cold cottage fireplace. Gloriana! He felt at his groin, stunned to discover the signs of something he onl
y remembered in fragments. It was true, then! The brazen hussy had had her way with him. He grinned. It would be damned easy to win his wager, and then some.
He stood up and stretched, easing his tired muscles. He heard Gloriana’s voice outside the cottage. Talking to someone? He reached for his shirt and breeches, pleased to see they were almost dry. He carried them to the half-open door and surreptitiously watched her.
She was alone. She stood with a rake, scraping at the downed branches and leaves in the yard. “Burn and blister me,” she muttered. “Stupid storm.”
He smiled. Sweet Gloriana. She talked to herself. He found it charming. He dropped his clothing to the floor. After last night, there was no need for modesty. He waited for her to turn away, then strode quickly toward her, grabbing her around her waist and kissing the back of her neck. “Where the devil are my shoes, woman?” he murmured in her ear.
“Bloody hell!” She spun around and swung at him with her rake, holding it in two hands like a weapon. He dodged the blow and reached for her arms, managing with some difficulty to twist the rake from her grasp. They wrestled for a moment—he was stunned to discover how strong she was. But at last he managed to kick at her ankles and bring her to the ground, falling on top of her and pinning her arms at her sides. He felt his manhood hardening at the feel of her lush body beneath his.
She shook her head from side to side. “Let me go, villain!”
“Not yet, my sweet Glory,” he said, remembering at the last moment that that was the name she used here. His mouth slashed down on hers, stilling her frantic movements. This time, she didn’t respond to his kiss as he had hoped. She bit down on his lip and he jerked his head up in pain, grunting and feeling for the spot with his tongue.
She took the opportunity of his surprise to roll out from under him and leap to her feet. “Be you daft, man?” she cried. “I’ll set the Watch on you!”
My Lady Gloriana Page 5
