Shipwrecked with a Suitor (Ravishing Regencies Book 3)

by Emily Murdoch

  “My, Mrs Thatcher,” he heard Helena say warmly. “What brings you out here on such a brisk and cold night? I am not needed, am I?”

  The anxious tone that she ended her statement on was not lost on Pierre, who scowled. It was difficult to remember, sometimes, that Helena also rescued others from the depths of that beast of an ocean – and yet how could he claim her all to himself, when he had known her only but a few days?

  The memory of her naked body, covered in the sun’s rays, sprang to his memory, and he grinned. Ah, he would always be her possessor in his heart.

  “…strange direction,” he caught from an older woman’s voice. “But then I could not think where else to go.”

  “‘Tis a strange direction indeed,” Helena’s voice agreed as Pierre stood still on the stairs. “But I think I comprehend its import. My father spent some time in France, oh, above ten years ago. This letter must be from one of his business acquaintance – I will keep it, thank you Mrs Thatcher, and return it to you if I am in error. Good evening.”

  By the sound of it, she did not give Mrs Thatcher the chance to disagree with her decision; the door was shut, and a whispered voice encouraged Pierre to descend once more.

  When he entered the parlour, Helena was holding a letter out to him.

  “‘To the Frenchman’,” she quoted with a smile, indicating the letter. “I can have no doubt as to its intended recipient, though goodness knows why Mrs Thatcher thought to enquire here – ”

  “Or how anyone knows that I am here,” Pierre said with a frown, taking the letter and inspecting the handwriting. “I did not think anyone was aware of my escape from France. Someone must be…watching the house.”

  They both stared at the letter in his hand.

  “Well,” sighed Helena eventually. “You will never know unless you open it.”

  Pierre stared down at the letter. It was written on paper quite elegant and smooth, richly bought, and the writing was elegant and formal. If he did not know any better…

  He sat on the sofa, turned over the letter, and his heart jumped.

  No. It could not be. It simply was not possible.

  His own seal stared back at him: the rampant lion emblazoned on an E.

  Heart now thundering, his fingers tore at the seal and opened up the letter to read the fine handwriting evenly laid across the paper in lines.

  My darling Pierre,

  If you are reading this letter, God be praised! It has reached you at last, and its constant wanderings over this sad globe have been at least as long as our own.

  My brother, it has been with the greatest secrecy that I have been living this past year, and I am sure that you will forgive the privacy that has removed even yourself from my intimacy and insight, but it was a necessary precaution.

  You were being watched, dear Pierre, in France. If you are still there, in our own country, then I beg that you would leave it as soon as you complete this letter. If you have already escaped, then I recommend caution. I have given this to my trusted network, and if it reaches you, then Paendly should not be too far behind.

  Trust no one. Believe nothing. Make no friends save those you need to survive. The tendrils of the Revolution are not confined to the borders of our once great country; they spread far and wide.

  I cannot reveal my location as yet, but I hope to see you before too long. I will know where to find you. Do not attempt to discover me, no matter the temptation, for you would put us both at risk.

  Until I see you again, little brother, I remain your affectionate and loyal sister,

  Giselle

  Pierre hurriedly drew breath, his lungs aching as he realised they had been absolutely still while he had been reading Giselle’s letter.

  Oh, to see her handwriting once more! To know that she was alive, that she was surviving somewhere out there in the world, perhaps not too far away! He scanned the lines again: it would be sensible, indeed, if she had urged him to leave France immediately, to assume that she had already done so.

  His heart leapt. She could be here, in England: there was every chance that he could see her again!

  “Does it bring good news?”

  The casual question broke into his thoughts and stunned him, bringing him crashing down to reality: a small poor house on the edge of the coast of England.

  “Yes,” he managed to say with relative calm. “Yes, I think it is good news.”

  But as he spoke, he stared at the handwriting. Could he be sure that it was Giselle? Could it be a trick, a trap perhaps? But then, and he read the final paragraph hastily once more, she does not ask his own whereabouts, and is coy with her own. If it were to be a trap, then surely his location would be sought?

  Helena lowered herself to sit beside him on the sofa. “Is it from Giselle?”

  Pierre glanced up hurriedly, and hid the letter from her view. “Giselle? Why do you suppose that?”

  Her eyes widened at the sharpness of his tone, but he could not help it. How could she know – did she send it, perhaps? Was this all a conspiracy to –

  “You said that she was your only surviving family member,” Helena said softly, with a frown. “Who else could the letter be from?”

  Pierre relaxed, but kept the letter hidden. Well, that certainly made sense, he could not fault her logic.

  “What does she say?”

  Was he becoming paranoid now? The jewellery, hidden; the letter, so easily coming to him when no one else in the world knew that he was here?

  Pierre smiled, and tucked the letter away. “Nothing of import.”

  8

  Helena awoke the next morning with joy in her heart and excitement in her lungs.

  Well. So it was not only her sister who was to be married: here she had her own shipwrecked suitor, almost deposited in her very lap by the ocean, to have and to hold, for richer for poorer – and here she had to laugh, alone as she was in her bedroom.

  He had been rich, and now he was poor, and she loved him – yes, she could admit to herself that she loved him – no matter the size of his purse.

  After such an incredible day yesterday, baring her very soul to him, baring her body and allowing such sweet pleasures to overwhelm them both, Helena laid back in bed and thought of the life that they were to have together.

  Not here; she did not want to stay any longer. Perhaps in a cottage, on the Duke of Caershire’s estate. They could dine every evening together, and surely the Duke and Pierre would have much to speak of. They were not so different, in their own ways.

  Helena smiled. As long as none of the Duke’s family had fought France in the recent wars, they should be safe from politics!

  A gentle stirring noise could be heard through the wall. He was awake. His strange gentlemanly standards had forbidden him from joining her in her bed last night, and she had to admit that he had looked a little strange. But then, the letter.

  As the memories of the evening before seeped into her consciousness, Helena frowned. The letter, tidings which she had assumed would revive his strangely low spirits, had done nothing but to increase them. He had gone to bed early so low that her kiss and caress had been brushed aside, and she had felt piqued until the thought of such a letter from her own sister would have undoubtedly cast her own spirits down.

  But now, and Helena smiled and rose from her bed, it was a new day. A day in which they could start planning their live together – a day of joy, and merriment, and excitement!

  When would they marry? Helena wondered as she silently dressed. Not too close to her sister, she hoped, otherwise there would be a mighty fine confusion. Perhaps in two months; that would give the Duke and Duchess – and she could not but laugh as she traipsed down the stairs at the thought of her sister, a duchess! – time for their honeymoon.

  “Oh!” She cried as she entered the parlour. She had thought herself quite alone in being awake so early, and yet there he was. “Good morning, Pierre!”

  She crossed the room lightly, and kissed him full on
the mouth – and found to her joy that he reciprocated with a strength of ardour that almost took her breath away.

  When they broke apart, they were both panting slightly out of breath, and Pierre was smiling. “Now that is a wonderful way to greet the morning.”

  Helena laughed. “Well, you may as well get used to it!”

  Bustling through to the kitchen to start the tea, she heard Pierre say, “Ah, it will be a painful thing to leave you, my dear Helena.”

  At first, the words did not entirely register in her mind: so concerned was she with fetching some water, considering what victuals she would need to purchase that day – and if only Mrs Montgomery could be persuaded to exchange some of her mending for eggs, they would have a very pretty meal – that the meaning of Pierre’s words did not sink in.

  “Leave?” She called through vaguely. “When will you be back?”

  Footsteps told her that Pierre had moved through to the kitchen, but she did not turn to face him until he said, “Back?”

  Helena stared at him, and blinked. “Yes, back. It would be much easier for me to ascertain what to tell my father, and exactly how much food to buy, and those sorts of things, if I knew how long you were to be gone for.”

  It was only then that she noticed a strange sadness in the smile that broke across his face, and it caused her heart to twinge.

  “Helena,” Pierre said gently, taking her hands in his. “I am most grateful for the kind attentions that you have bestowed on me, I truly am, and I will happily admit that I probably would have perished, out there on that beach, or here in the depths of my fever, if you had not been my rescuer – ”

  A sense of foreboding crept across her heart, and Helena started to understand his meaning. “Pierre, you cannot mean – surely you are not trying to tell me that – ”

  “ – but as for staying here,” Pierre said gently with a low laugh. “You must see that it is impossible. I need to find my sister – ascertain, I suppose, whether she is truly alive – and then we, my sister and I, will try to see what sort of life we can build for ourselves.”

  “I will come with you,” Helena said immediately, feeling the warmth in his hands and not understanding why he wanted to undertake such a journey alone. “After all, why should a man travel without his wife?”

  There was a moment of stillness in the air that hung between them for well over a minute. Helena did not wish to break it, so delicate it seemed to be, and Pierre just stood before her, open mouthed, her hands still in his.

  Finally, he broke the silence by saying in a choked voice, “Wife?”

  She broke free of his grip, and gathered her hands together nervously. “Of course. I know that we cannot be married overly soon, it will take time – and to be frank, I would much love to have your sister there, so we will need to find her first before we – ”

  “Wife,” Pierre repeated, interrupting her. Helena saw that his cheeks were pale, and his brows furrowed. “Wife.”

  Pierre gazed at her, horrified.

  Helena was nodding, but less certainly than she had but minutes before. “Why, of course.”

  “But Helena – I have made you no promises,” he said hoarsely. “Indeed, I have been in great care to ensure that I do not!”

  The horror in his own heart was now matched on the beautiful face before him. “Great care to ensure? Why, Pierre, you have given such assurances of your affection that I have been slightly overwhelmed by it! How can you tell me that you have made no promises?”

  Pierre took a few steps back, and then turned to walk into the parlour. He wracked his brains hurriedly: had he made any such declaration? Had the word love ever passed his lips?

  “It was not so formally done,” said Helena quietly, just behind him. “And yet surely no one could have believed any differently from the way that we have been together. Why, Pierre, when we made love in your boat – ”

  “I said nothing of marriage!” Pierre interrupted, though the vision of Helena in a pale blue dress at the altar of his family church now flashed before his mind, and it pained him to think how right it was. No, he had nothing to offer her, he could not possibly offer such a union!

  “I gave you myself!” Helena’s voice was slightly raised now, still gentle, but firm, with a grip of iron on her emotions, it was clear to see. “Do you think that I offer such intimacy to everyone that I rescue?”

  Pierre laughed at the very thought of his good Helena doing such a thing, but it did not calm her feelings.

  “Do not laugh at me!” She stepped forward with such intention that Pierre quickly took a step back. “The intimacy that we have shared has been enough of a statement, Pierre d'Épiluçon. Do you think I would have allowed you to make love to me if I had not thought marriage was truly in your heart?”

  Her voice broke at the end of her statement, and a little part of Pierre’s heart broke too. Had he really been so callous as to think that Helena would be strong enough, or cold enough, as he was? To enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without expecting anything in return?

  “Helena – my only, my one, my sweetest Helena.”

  That was what he had said to her – and in that moment of passion and adoration of her body, he had meant it!

  Only now could he see the way that Helena could have heard those words, and heard wedding bells.

  “I…I have made no promises,” he repeated, as though it were a piece of flotsam on the ocean that he was clinging to for dear life. “Helena, you must understand that I have intense affection for you, but to offer you marriage…it is not in my power to do so.”

  There was real pain on her features now, genuine and heart-breaking. He was breaking her heart, and Pierre hated himself for it – but what had he to offer her? A life on the road, in hiding, in desperate looking for a woman that may no longer live?

  “I see,” she said, dropping into a chair with such dull tones that bile rose in his throat. “I see now. I was just a distraction. A way to waste time until you heard from your sister. A chance for you to take your pleasure. Fortunate for you that I have no one to protect me, to fight for my honour here – for if I had a brother, he would surely challenge you, monsieur, to do what is right! And perhaps when my sister is married, Alexander will do just that!”

  A flicker of anger sparked in his soul now as Pierre glared at the woman who both infuriated him and soothed him. “Ah, happy for you that you have such connections!” The bitterness was impossible to remove from his voice, and he hated himself as he saw Helena flinch. “You have a sister living, safe and sound, protected and unafraid of the world around her. Would that I could claim such joy too!”

  “Why cannot you see that you can have both – you do not have to choose between us! ‘Tis not your sister before you, but a woman who loves you!” Helena cried out with tears in her eyes, almost as though she could not stop herself. “Why not think of her, for a moment? We could find Giselle together!”

  “‘Tis too dangerous! And how can I even trust you – where is this father that you keep talking about? Why have my jewels been taken from my possession, why have you been going through my possessions?”

  “My father is a drunk!” Helena shot back at him, her cheeks pink. “You think I would not like to know where he is? ‘Tis no fault of mine if he disappears for weeks at a time, and as for your jewels – ”

  “Yes, you thief!” Pierre shot back at her, hating his own words but seeming unable to stop himself.

  “Do you love me?” Helena asked him urgently. “For I love you – more ardently than I can ever express.”

  Pierre’s heart stopped. She loved him. Of course she did, he had been in no doubt of that since the moment that she had kissed him in the boat. He had known it, and the real question was, why was he hiding his own feelings from her – from himself?

  “Do you love me?” She repeated with eyes pouring out hope. “If you love me, Pierre, please tell me. Do not lose the opportunity to love because you are eager to find another you care about.
”

  Pierre opened his mouth to say he knew not what, just knowing that he had to tell her, he could not leave her without assuring her of his affections – when they were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

  “Pierre?” A man’s voice called out, strong and concerned. “Êtes-vous là, Pierre? Open this door!”

  Pierre stared at Helena, and watched her dash away the tears from her eyes.

  “It is for you,” she said dully. “Perhaps it is Giselle. Perhaps it is someone who can take you away from here. That is what you what, is not it?”

  He wanted to retort that he hated the thought of ever leaving her, but he must be true to his sister who needed him, but another loud knock interrupted his thoughts, and he strode over to the front door and flung it open.

  “It is you – thank God, for I have no wish to travel about hunting for a shipwrecked Frenchman the rest of my life!”

  Pierre blinked in the blinding sunlight, and then saw the shape of James appear before him. “James?”

  His old childhood friend guffawed with laughter. “Goodness, you have certainly taken a beating if you are struggling to recognise me – though I cannot say I blame you, for you have certainly been roughing it if I am any judge. I heard the news from…well, we can discuss that later.”

  James, the Viscount Paendly, had been a part of Pierre’s landscape his entire life; their mothers had been childhood friends. Never before had he been so irritated to see him, and watch him peer into the house where, for but a few days, he had been so happy.

  “My word, what an adventure you have been having!” James strode past Pierre into the room, and gave the woman that he loved a cursory glance. “Did you bring a servant with you, Pierre, or did you pick this one up as you went?”

  For the first time in his life, Pierre realised exactly how he must seem to others: watching James’ well-meaning but rude conduct, seeing how he treated Helena not as though it were her home, but her station to serve him as he thrust his travelling cloak in her arms – he must have been reprehensible.