Shipwrecked with a Suitor (Ravishing Regencies Book 3)

by Emily Murdoch

“English,” he repeated under his voice, and then stronger, “Pardon mademoiselle, my English is not strong, but it should be enough. Please help me – take me inside, and warm me! I have friends, I have money, s'il vous plaît…”

  Helena stared at him, and bit her lip. With her father gone to the Anchor – and then to goodness knows where – she would be alone in the house. Well, alone with him. Even soaked to the skin, exhausted, and what looked like stabbed, this Frenchman was still devilishly handsome. To be alone with him for a few hours would be…uncomfortable.

  And what if anyone found out? An unmarried woman alone in a house with a man – and a Frenchman!

  “S'il vous plaît,” he said faintly, and she saw the pallor on his face grow. “Mademoiselle belle, s'il vous plaît…”

  It was not really a decision, after all. How could she leave this poor man, for all he was a Frenchman, to freeze, or drown, or die of his injuries?

  “Try to stand up,” she said moving quickly, pulling under his arms and struggling with all her might to raise him up. “‘Tis not far.”

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  Helena gasped at the weight of him, and tried to concentrate on exactly where she was placing her feet on the slippery rocks. The rain that was now sheeting down did nothing to aid her, and neither did the constant muttering and jerking of the man each time he stepped with his injured leg.

  “J'ai mal,” he garbled in that strange tongue Helena was almost sure was French as she clutched at his gold brocade sleeve to steady him. “Ah, mademoiselle, if you only knew…”

  “Tell me all about it later,” Helena panted, affixing her eyes on the candle and finding to her dismay that, thanks to the pouring rain, she had been veering a little too much to the left.

  A foot stumbled, and for a moment she was unsure whether it was her own or one of his; it did not matter really, for they both came tumbling down onto the slick wet rocks, and Helena felt the dull pain in her knees through her gown.

  “Ah, mes excuses, I did not mean to – ”

  “Yes, well,” Helena interrupted, now starting to regret her initial kindness that had so far led only to discomfort and actual bodily pain. “Least said, soonest mended. Here, let me help – ”

  The last word caught in her throat. Now that they were closer to her home, the little candlelight that her meagre candle created pooled across the man’s face: and for the first time, she could see him clearly. What a specimen: what a man was this! Handsome, more handsome than any man that she had ever before beheld.

  Short cropped hair, dark but that could have been the rain confusing the tint. Dark eyes, darker and richer brown than she had seen in this land. He was tall, undoubtedly, if he had not been crouching over his injured leg, and there was a haughtiness to his face that was not unbecoming. It said, I know my worth. It said, you are fortunate to see me. It said, I am nobility.

  “Mademoiselle?” His voice broke through her thoughts, and she blinked at him. “Mademoiselle, are you well?”

  Helena flushed in the freezing rain. “Quite well, thank you sir. We just need to get you out of this rain.”

  She had not thought to ask his name, and it was getting more difficult to hear each other as the storm railed down and brought heavier and heavier rain. Instead of more conversation, she thought, we need more movement.

  Leaning down to heave him up once more, Helena was suddenly very conscious of just how close she was to this handsome man – closer than she had been to any man, come to think of it, fair or foul.

  Her cheeks burned as she felt the taut strength of him, even though it was at this moment weak and uncontrolled. His feet slipped across the rocks as she bore him purposefully towards her door. It was so close now, and all she had to do was concentrate on that, and not the arm that was around her neck, and the hand whose fingers were now reclined in hers…

  Her other hand reached out, and touched the safety of the sodden wood door. She had done it. They had made it, and not a moment too soon, for the gentleman – for gentleman he undoubtedly was – looked ready to pass out and collapse on her floor.

  “Here we are,” she said, thrusting him through the doorway. “Now, there is no bed for you I am afraid, sir, but we can – sir!”

  She had let go of him for a split second to turn and shut the front door, and it had been a struggle as the gale had got up, and was fighting against her. In that short time, the man had keeled right over, and crashed his shoulder into the table as he sank to the floor.

  “Giselle,” he murmured, “is that you?”

  Helena’s face flushed at the sound of the woman’s name. Who did he think she was – his lover?

  But as she leant over him, a new focus for her attentions caught her eye. The wound in his thigh looked bad, as though he had been – well… stabbed. Helena was no expert in such matters, as there were very few duels fought in these parts, but she knew fish knives, and that looked like a stab with a dagger.

  Its jagged edges left raw red skin around the wound, and the struggle that he had surely suffered to sail here, perhaps from France, and the short journey he had just taken from shipwreck to safety had torn again at the injury.

  There was nothing for it. Helena grimaced, and took off her greatcoat as she realised just what she needed to do.

  “Sir,” she began, pulling up her sodden blonde hair with a few extra pins that she took from the side. “Sir, your injury is very bad, and if it is not cleaned and patched, then it could become infected.”

  Nothing but a groan was her reply. Helena rolled her eyes. Never before had she acted as a Good Samaritan, and now she could see why.

  It took almost five minutes to heave up onto the sofa, and another two to rid him, and here she could not but blush, of the britches that he wore. She was forced to cut them off as her fingers hesitated to reach towards those buttons that a young lady always saw, but never touched. He did not prevent her; from the fluttering of his eyes, he was bouncing between conscious and unconsciousness anyway.

  Helena moved around the house almost silently, collecting the items that she would need: the bottle of rum that they kept for emergencies, a fishing wire, a curved embroidery needle. This had been a skill, sadly, that Helena had learned from a young age and which had come in useful more than twice a year. A fisherman’s life was precarious, after all, and a slip on the boat or an unplanned flick of the wrist, and many a man had come to Mrs Thatcher, and then to her assistant, Miss Metcalfe, for help.

  “Now then, sir,” Helena murmured in what she hoped was her most comforting voice. Usually she knew the name of the man she was to help, and they knew what she was about to do. It helped steady the nerves. Tonight, as the gale stormed around her little house, her father miles hence at the Anchor, rum would have to suffice.

  “Pierre,” came a faint voice from the man, and for a moment his eyes opened and looked directly into hers.

  Helena almost flinched at the intensity of that gaze: simultaneously both warm and cold, a deep and serious look. It made her feel as though she was the only woman on earth.

  “H-Helena,” she replied finally, and smiled weakly. “Well, Pierre, I am going to knit back together this wound you have, to help with the healing. I will use a little rum to clean it, and then a little down your throat to keep you still. Do you understand?”

  He had not moved. There seemed to be no strength to raise his head or even shake it, but he did whisper, “Oui Mademoiselle Helene, je comprends.”

  Helena swallowed. The men she usually worked on were old, old before their time, but at least twenty years older than herself. This gentleman was in the full flush of youth, and could not be more than five years older than herself, and she barely twenty. His legs were long, strong but shaking now with the pain.

  All she had to do was think of him as a patient, nothing more. Even a leg, just a leg. That was all she needed to do.

  The candle was brought down from the windowsill, a little rum was poured down Pierre’s neck, a little around the wound, and Helen
a threaded the needle. She was ready.

  To his credit, he barely flinched as the needle went in. Helena worked as quickly as she could, murmuring slowly under her breath as though it were a spell to keep him quiet and still: “There we are, almost done, you are doing well, thank you Pierre for remaining so still, and I am coming back round, and soon it will be finished…”

  It felt like an age. Her feet were still damp and her stomach growled at least once from the hunger that had sent her out into the dark in the first place, but she concentrated hard. Never before had she done a bad job, not since Mrs Thatcher had trusted her to take the needle, and she was blowed if she was going to be overwhelmed by these slightly strange circumstances.

  And then it was over, and she was saying, “There, Monsieur Pierre, it is all done. I will just get some britches of my father’s for you, and we can…I mean, you can change.”

  Her face flushed. She knew very well that under that scanty piece of cloth that she had left after cutting the britches away was…well, that private part of a man. Undergarments were rarely worn by men of any social standing, and that meant that mere inches from her fingers had been –

  “I will get them now,” she said hastily, and almost ran to the narrow stairway.

  Halfway up them, she stopped, and leaned against the wall for support, hand clutched to her breast.

  What had she done? What was she doing? If anyone came to call at this moment – unlikely as that was, considering the weather and the time which must be gone nine o’clock – then what would they find?

  A half-naked man in her house, and her father away, that is what. Helena’s face burned at the thought of it. And not just a half-naked man: a half-naked, handsome, Frenchman.

  Helena closed her eyes, and tried not to remember the feeling of that strong, hairy muscle underneath her searching fingers. She had concentrated on the injury, yes, but she could not help her mind wandering further upwards to what was hidden from her. He was so handsome, there was no denying it.

  He had remained still and quiet as she had worked, and those lips had barely moved. To kiss those lips, to have that jaw pronounce her name –

  Helena started, and found herself still standing halfway up the stairs, leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Her cheeks burned, and they were still burning as she made her way back down the stairs after retrieving a pair of britches from her father’s room.

  But before she walked into the parlour, she stopped. She could hear a voice: it was Pierre, and he sounded wretched.

  “…Giselle…Giselle…”

  A flare of something that tasted like jealousy rushed through Helena’s body, and she started at it. What right did she have to be jealous? This gentleman was a stranger to her, and she had no claim on him. He belonged to this Giselle lady, and she should think no more of him.

  Mind resolved, she strode through into the room and smiled briefly at him.

  “Well, Pierre, I think it is best if you try to sleep here tonight. I do not think that it is a good idea to attempt the removal of you to my father’s room.”

  He smiled at her, and her heart thumped. And then he said, “I am a criminal, you know.”

  The heart that had been thumping came to an abrupt stop.

  Pierre nodded lazily, though that could have been the aftereffects of the rum. “Mais oui, a criminal of France. I have escaped, petite mademoiselle, and you are hiding me, and for that, I thank you.”

  For a moment, Helena thought that she would be unable to find her tongue. Eventually, she said, “I am not hiding you, I am sheltering you.”

  At once she felt the foolishness of her words: did it make any difference, really?

  And Pierre was smiling at her, and she could not help but notice how it brightened his face and gave it even more strength and beauty. “Nay, mademoiselle Helene, you are my saviour, mon sauveteur. You have my thanks.”

  She stared at him, in equal measure repulsed and intrigued. What had he done, this handsome Frenchman who evidently was born of one of the noblest families? What brought him here, fleeing his country – fleeing justice?

  And what was she to do with him?

  Pierre almost grinned when he saw the reaction on the lovely woman’s face: a mixture of horror, awe, and interest.

  Well, so it always was. We simply cannot help it, he thought hazily as he watched the woman attempt to find something to say. We are curious – and the English far more so than the French, naturellement.

  “I will…I will let you put on your britches,” were the words that Helena, that was her name, eventually spoke. “Sleep well, monsieur Pierre.”

  Her accent was light, and yet the strong English tint flowed through it. Pierre wanted to smile at it, but his body seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  “Thank you, mademoiselle, but you have forgotten my drink,” he said, looking at the little table that was empty, save for the end of the fishing wire.

  Helena’s beautiful mouth became a taut line. “I have forgotten your drink?”

  Pierre nodded, and then stopped quickly as it started to make the room tilt a little to the left, and spin. “Oui, mademoiselle, I must have a drink. Perhaps the rum?”

  He had half meant it as a joke, to tell the truth, but when he saw the way that her eyes widened, he said hastily, “Or some tea, or coffee, anything really, for I am – I think the word is, parchet?”

  She stared at him for a moment. By God, but she was beautiful: the English rose that he had heard so much about, but had barely believed when those who had travelled to this isle had returned. The earrings that had dazzling his eyes were shimmering now in the candlelight. White blonde hair, shimmering in the little light the candle created, soft white skin, pale now due to fear if he were any judge, and that rosebud mouth, pink and pert and just ready for him to –

  His whole body flexed, and that was when he realised that his britches were gone – and certain parts of him almost open to the air.

  “Mon pantalon!” He cried, glancing down and then glancing back at her, furious. “What have you – you witch, those were fifty francs!”

  Pierre stared at her in dismay, and attempted to ignore the way her dripping hair was starting to make her gown damp. He had not noticed that before; but then, who does notice these sorts of details in a mere servant?

  “I think I just saved your life,” the woman said coolly. “If I had left you out there,” and here she paused, glancing at the window for effect which was still being lashed with rain, “then there is every chance you would have drowned come morning, or died of exposure, or infection to your leg. You should be thanking me on bended knee – at least, when you can.”

  His stare widened. How dare she speak to him like that: like they were equals, like she had any claim to his better nature! There was a heady mixture of gentleness and fire within her, and he watched the struggle of it in those perfect features until gentleness won out.

  “My…my apologies, sir,” she said stiffly, and she moved through a door which he assumed was to a kitchen, and was proved right when she returned with a glass filled with a cloudy golden liquid. “Here is your drink. I think the rum would go a little to your head, but that is cider, and will perform the twin roles of keeping you from thirst, and take you towards sleep.”

  Helene – for that was how he thought of her, he could not help it – kneeled by his head, and gently tilted the glass to his lips, bringing her other hand to his head to raise him up. Her touch was soft, gentle, caressing. Perhaps he was imagining that last one. She was very pretty, almost glowing now that he was this close to her.

  “I shall place it here,” putting it down on the little table that occupied the middle of the room. “‘Tis but a short distance from you, and if you require it in the night, you should be able to reach it. Now, goodnight.”

  Pierre stared at her. So, despite thinking him a criminal, and a French one at that – he was not ignorant of the way the English taught their daughters – she had brought him a drink. H
ad wished him a goodnight. What did that mean?

  Before he was able to open his mouth to say anything, she had gone.

  No matter. He was not going anywhere fast, if the ache in his leg was any indication, and he would speak with her in the morning.

  Sighing, he stretched out on the sofa and attempted to ignore the twinge in his thigh each time he moved. He would have plenty of time to explain things in the morning, after all. When you are Pierre d'Épiluçon, a nobleman of France, no matter what any revolution said, you learned to bide your time.

  And in any case, he would rather have a little more strength the next time that he saw mademoiselle Helene. She intrigued him as no woman ever had before. Every other lady of his acquaintance between the age of fifteen and fifty had preened and prattled at the mere sight of him, back home in France.

  Pierre smiled ruefully as he slowly removed the ruined britches, and placed the borrowed ones on – rough and poor quality though they were. He had always thought that the simpering and the sighing had been due to his features: his handsome face, his tall strength, the wit of his tongue.

  But place him for five minutes with an Englishwoman who knew naught of his name nor his riches, and it was plain that those were the true attractions that he had waved under the noses of so many eligible young ladies.

  He sighed, and pulled the blanket that had been placed beside him over his body. He was no longer cold, but strangely cold and shivering. The coarseness of the blanket startled him as he drew it up to his face; never before had he suffered through such mean quality. To think that this time yesterday, he was asleep in his own bed with silk sheets, and not a care in the world.

  Well, almost none. He had known his wealth had been considered a crime by French society for a while. He had been foolish not to expect this. but he could explain that in the morning to the gentle and yet fiery mademoiselle Helene. Perhaps there was even more to her than already met the eye.

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