by Nora Roberts
Thank God!
The nearer she got to the cliffs, the thinner the fog grew, until it shredded on the rocks like old lace. She had never realized that the air could have so many different shapes and textures.
She was still disoriented, but the star led Lily on, away from the increasing roar of the waves. Now and again the star vanished behind the prowlike outthrust of the headland. Each time, her heart turned over. She was terribly afraid that she would lose sight of it for good.
A few more feet, and suddenly she stopped dead. This couldn’t be right. It seemed the star was leading her back toward the water now. That felt wrong at best, and dangerous at worst. She hesitated. Foolish to trust her life to a light that could be far out at sea for all she knew. Changing her direction, she turned back toward the cliffs. She hadn’t gone ten feet when she heard a voice carried on the wind:
“Not that way! Tack around to your former position.”
Lily was startled. The voice was deep, male, and urgent. “What? Where are you?”
“Damn it, keep moving toward the headland! The tide is about to rush in. Hurry, or you’ll be swept away!”
The tide? Jesus! Her teeth chattered in fright and cold. “Where are you? I can’t see you.”
“Waste no time talking! Keep bearing to port, lass. No, damn your eyes! That’s starboard. Turn to your left! Ah, that’s right! Hurry now.”
The urgency in the man’s voice spurred Lily to action. She had to trust him. She could hear the waves roaring as they smashed against the rocky shelf just past the headland. Not much time! Dashing over the loose shingle, she turned her ankle and swore as a line of fire seared up her leg.
“Come on, lass. You can do it!”
Half hopping, half sliding, and swearing fully, Lily followed the voice. The fog was thinning now, and she could see the dark waves coming, row on row, against the foot of the cliffs ahead. She knew without looking back that the way behind her was already under water. Too late!
“Oh, God!”
“You’re there! You’ve made it! Only another step…”
Lily stumbled over a snag of driftwood and pitched forward. Her hand touched something cold and scaly, and recoiled instinctively. Then she realized it was only a rusty metal handrail. There were stairs leading up, barely visible in the mist, and burning like a beacon above them was that single scintillating star.
Catching the rail, she hauled herself up the steps as quickly as her numbed feet would go. They were rough, carved from the cliff itself, but felt wonderfully solid after the shifting surface of the beach. The sea thundered up behind her, and she felt the wave break against the bottom step in a cold spray. Fear gave her the strength to bolt up the next steps. She was almost at the top when she heard the roar of an incoming wave, louder and higher than the last.
Despair and disbelief rattled her: Jesus! I’m not going to make it!
A hand reached out to grasp her arm roughly. “Easy, there, lass. I’ve got you!”
Now a second hand grasped her other wrist, pulling her off her feet and up against the slick granite surface of the rock. Her rescuer let one hand go free. Lily dangled helplessly, a sob lodged like a bone in her throat. The misty world reeled in a haze of vertigo. She smelled wet wool and male sweat. Then a strong arm wrapped tightly about her waist, and she was half hauled, half carried up and over to the top of the cliff.
She sat against a rock, gasping for breath, her fingers digging into the wet grasses. A hand brushed her cheek. “It’s all right, lass. I wasn’t sure for a moment if you’d make it free of the waves. But you managed…barely.”
She was tired and weak with reaction. “Why didn’t you help me sooner, instead of just shouting at me?”
“I would have, if I could.”
For just a moment the fog swirled and shifted. She had a fleeting glimpse of a man in his prime bending over her: thick, dark hair, hawklike features, a firm, sensual mouth. He was dressed in a heavy fisherman’s sweater of ivory wool and leaned on a crutch.
“Oh, God! I didn’t know…I’m sorry!”
His voice was curt. “No more sorry than I. Come with me. Don’t dawdle.”
Lily was too cold and wet and frightened to argue.
She didn’t even ask where they were headed. At the moment she would have cheerfully gone off with Norman Bates, Freddy Krueger, and the entire cast of a Hollywood horror film.
“Wait!” He stripped off his heavy sweater, then pulled it over hers. It came past down her knees. As Lily snuggled into the warm wool, the cold bite of the wind eased.
“Come along. We’ll get you to shelter.”
Her rescuer was strong, despite his limp, and his hand on her arm urged her forward with each flagging step. Shock and cold had taken a toll on her energy, and she stumbled on her injured ankle, but he covered the ground without a misstep.
“How can you see where we’re going in this fog?”
“Fog?” He gave her a curious look, then shook his head. “I know every inch of this godforsaken place,” he said, propelling her onward.
They passed through an iron gate set in a lichened granite wall. Once they were through it, the fog dissipated like magic. It was only then that Lily saw the lighted windows of a Victorian facade. Like the village houses, it was made of local granite and slate; but the lines were softened by porches and bays, gables and spires, and gracefully curved towers.
Light spilled from the far turret’s beautiful and unusual window. Myriad triangles of golden glass radiated from a central diamond-shaped pane. It glowed in the misty haze, looking for all the world, Lily thought, like something from a Christmas card.
“The star!” she exclaimed. “I saw it from below. I thought it was real!”
He didn’t answer.
Lightning shattered the blackness in the distance, illuminating the roiling clouds with orange light. It was a startling sight, as if the night had cracked open, revealing hints of a molten sky. He stopped in midstride and tipped his head back defiantly. Another flash of lightning was reflected in his eyes. Lily thought he swore beneath his breath, but the wind snatched away the words.
His grip tightened on her elbow, and he guided her purposefully toward the house. Lily’s ankle felt better, but she still had to hurry to keep pace.
She had her bearings now. The cliff road picked up at the end of the narrow drive. Just down the steep hill and around the bend, the village of St. Dunstan clung to the granite shore. But—shouldn’t the red lights on the steel communications antenna above the harbor be visible from here?
With every step removed from danger, her survival instincts came more to the fore. There was no reason she couldn’t continue on to her hotel. Even if the threatening rain did materialize, she would be no wetter than she was now, and the brisk walk would warm her.
She hadn’t lived most of her life in Washington, D.C., without picking up a certain degree of cynicism: Compounding one mistake with another wasn’t very wise. Her companion had rescued her, yes, but he was still a complete stranger.
They were almost to the porch when she pulled away. “Words are inadequate, but—thank you. I’m five minutes from my hotel. If you’d be kind enough to let me keep your sweater until morning, I’ll be on my way,” she said firmly.
“Don’t be more daft than you’ve already proved!” he said sharply. “You’d not get far in this weather.”
On the heels of his words a hard rain came rattling out of the night, and the wind tore through the trees. A scattering of twigs and dried leaves blew across the cobbles. He brought her up to the door and turned the handle. It swung wide to reveal a paneled hall with a grand, winding staircase at one side and a thin woman in a dark dress standing anxiously at its foot.
When she saw them she went paper-white, and put a hand over her heart. “Captain Tregarrick!”
Lily was aware of how she must look, with water dripping from her hair and her dress plastered against her body. She started to shiver violently.
�
�The little fool was caught below the cliffs and almost washed away,” he said harshly.
Without another word, the man the other woman had called Captain Tregarrick ushered Lily through the reception hall toward the stairs, past paintings in heavy frames and beneath the light of twin lamps.
The woman gathered her scattered wits. “What a start you gave me! I thought…Well, never mind what I thought. Thank the good Lord, you reached the poor girl in time!”
She hurried to Lily’s side. “Come in, come in, poor dear. We’ll have you set to rights before you know it.”
“Where do you want her, Mrs. Penhale?”
“In the kitchen, of course. It’s warmest there, and I’ve a kettle already on the boil.”
There was something about the woman, with her welcoming blue eyes and concerned expression, that eased Lily’s fears. No harm would come to her here.
As they passed the japanned sideboard by the staircase, she had her first good look at her rescuer in the warm light of the oil lamps. Mist beaded his thick, dark hair and clung to his lashes. His straight brows were drawn into a scowl above an aquiline nose, and he had the stubborn jaw and firm mouth of a pirate-hero from an old MGM swashbuckler.
He tossed his crutch onto a satin settee and snatched up a blackthorn cane from the large majolica vase used as an umbrella holder. Every movement was swift and economical.
Lily studied him. Lean and stern as the granite cliffs of the headland, she thought. His hard-muscled body, beneath the rain-smoothed striped cotton shirt, seemed carved of the same material.
He was, Lily thought, quite simply the best-looking man she’d ever seen.
And, apparently, the angriest. That much was evident in the harsh lines that bracketed his eyes and mouth. He hadn’t once looked squarely at her. Outside, those eyes had seemed darker than the night around them. But they weren’t black at all. His irises were dark gray and blue flecked with white, like a wind-chased sea. She could sense, more than see, the bitter emotion that flickered in their fathomless depths.
“See to her needs,” he told the woman brusquely. “Keep her out of my sight.”
With those kind words of welcome, he handed Lily over into Mrs. Penhale’s care.
2
WITHOUT SO MUCH as a good-bye, Captain Tregarrick vanished through the open door into what appeared to be a cozy study, and shut it behind him. The room seemed vastly emptier without his dominating presence.
Then Lily was whisked away toward the back of the house and through a green baize door. “Is he always so outgoing and friendly?” she asked, barely reining in her sarcasm.
“You’ll not mind his ways,” the woman said as they entered the warm kitchen. “The captain is not used to having strangers about. Nor has he ever been one to pass the time of day. Comes of being off to sea, no doubt. Grew up on the bay, he did, sailing his little boat from the time he was a lad.”
The housekeeper plucked a colorful quilt from the back of a painted rocker and clucked over Lily like a hen with one chick. “Poor lamb, let’s get you warm. Sit here, by the fire.”
The kitchen was all whitewashed stone, scrubbed pine, and shining pots and pans. A fat lamp with a white opal-glass shade hung over the table. The heat of an ancient cooker—enameled a stunningly bright yellow—made the big room cheerful and as warm as toast.
The housekeeper dipped out a hearty serving of soup and took a thick slice from a crusty loaf of bread. “Eat up, while I serve the tea.”
She smiled as she poured a generous splash of liquid from an amber bottle into the stout china mug. “You’re new to St. Dunstan, Miss…?” The woman managed to make the question seem like a friendly comment.
“Yes. I’m Lily Kendall. I’m staying at the Castle Inn.”
“And I am Mrs. Penhale. I keep house for Captain Tregarrick.”
“It’s a big house to keep!” Lily said, stirring sugar into the tea. In its day, the mansion would have been filled with housemaids and parlormaids and scullery girls. “It must be difficult to manage such a large place these days.”
“Oh, aye. It’s been hard since the missus was lost, and I feared for him,” Mrs. Penhale said, leaving Lily more than a little confused. “You finish that up, and I’ll just have a word with the captain.”
“Of course.”
Lily wondered if Captain Tregarrick had suffered his injury in service to his country or if there was a more mundane reason. Now that the adrenaline rush of danger had waned, the warmth of the room and the tot of brandy in the tea lulled her senses. She had such a cozy, contented feeling that she didn’t want to stir. Certainly not to go back out in the fog and rain. By the time the housekeeper returned, she was nodding.
“It’s all settled,” Mrs. Penhale announced. “Mr. Tregarrick has sent word down to the inn. You’ll spend the night here, snug and safe, and Jem will drive you down on the morrow.”
Lily didn’t resist. “Thank you, Mrs. Penhale. And please thank Mr. Tregarrick.”
The strangeness of the situation took on a surreal atmosphere. I am having an adventure! Lily told herself, and was glad that years of rigid routine hadn’t rotted away her ability to sit back and enjoy the unexpected. More than ever, she was glad she’d taken a leave and come to Cornwall. Everything about it was so vastly different from anything she knew at home.
And now the fog, the threatening tide, and the handsome, brooding master of the manor only added to her wonderful sense of unreality.
Or perhaps, she thought belatedly, it’s the brandy.
In any case, she wasn’t about to turn down an offer to spend a night in this marvelous house. And, truth to tell, she was hoping for another encounter with the handsome and taciturn Mr. Tregarrick. Just to thank him, she told herself. That’s all.
The housekeeper took a small lamp and led her up the staircase and down a hall. Lily caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the desk, her blond hair turned mouse-brown with dampness, her fair skin several shades paler with exhaustion. At the sight, she cringed. “Drowned rat” would be too kind a description.
“I’ve put you in the Green Chamber,” Mrs. Penhale said. “It’s at the end of the hall. There’s a fire laid, and to my fancy, it’s the prettiest bedchamber of the lot.”
Lily looked around. “Where is the big window that looks like a star?”
Mrs. Penhale stopped short and turned to her. “It’s at the far end of the corridor and up the winding stairs. But please…don’t think of going up there, lass. Mr. Tregarrick doesn’t allow it.”
“Why?” Lily smiled. “Is it haunted?”
“Only by him,” the housekeeper said sadly. “Ah, lass, only by him.”
She started off again, and Lily had to hurry to keep up with her.
Rees Tregarrick paced the floor of the study. He had been almost happy in his isolation. One by one he’d learned to wind his strong emotions down, furling them like unneeded sails. He’d vowed he would stay at Star House until Catherine sent him a sign that she forgave him. In three years no sign had come.
Until tonight.
It had come with the storm and wind and near violence, in the person of a small, blond-tressed woman, with a heart-shaped face and a softly rounded body. The question was, What was he meant to do? He stared out the window at the slashing rain.
After Mrs. Penhale went off, Lily lay beneath the down comforter in the Green Chamber, in the flannel nightgown the housekeeper had provided. Warmth seeped into her bones as she watched the small flames of the banked fire contentedly. She couldn’t think of a cozier place to be on a night of such wind and rain. The windows rattled in the gale, but the room was exquisite, far nicer than the one she’d taken at the Castle Inn. Light flickered on the white-painted woodwork and the walls hung with pale silk in green and rose to match the bed hangings.
The soft linen pillowcase was edged with crocheted lace and carried faint scents of sun-washed air, of sea lavender and lemon verbena. Lily imagined Mrs. Penhale gathering herbs and flowers from
an old-fashioned garden and making little sachets to tuck among the household linens. As if she’d have time, with this big house to look after!
There was something to be said for the slower pace of the days gone by, Lily thought. In this old house the past seemed very real, just as it did in the village. She wished she could see the rest of the house, but doubted that the taciturn Mr. Tregarrick would invite her back for a guided tour.
An odd man, her rescuer. There was no doubt in Lily’s mind that he’d saved her life. And then, after bringing her home, he’d casually dumped her on Mrs. Penhale, as if she were a bedraggled stray kitten he’d found shivering in the rain. A strange man.
An interesting man.
She wondered what had happened to him. Not whatever it was that had made the crutch and cane necessary, but whatever it was that had made his eyes so dark and angry. Even now she could vividly recall the restless energy he radiated. Walking beside him had been like standing beneath a high-tension wire. Every cell in her body had been aware of every cell in his.
She had to admit that she hoped she would see him in the morning, and at the thought she felt her heart speed up just a little. No doubt about it, Captain Tregarrick was the kind of man to get a woman’s juices flowing.
A log popped in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. As she waited for Mrs. Penhale’s promised return, Lily watched the flames. The peaceful atmosphere of the room fell over her like an enchantment. No ringing phones and faxes, no clacking printers. No muffled sounds of television from some neighboring apartment. Only the wind, the fire, and the settling of the house.
It was like stepping back in time. Surely, she thought, the place had looked much the same: candles in ormolu sconces bracketing the mirror above the fireplace, a tufted velvet slipper chair, even a needlepoint footstool with small gilt feet. It was, Lily decided contentedly, exactly like something out of Jane Eyre.
All it lacked was a madwoman, howling in the attic.
She slid softly into dreams—and was rudely awakened by the fearsome sound of a woman’s screams.
