“Not so fast. Head injuries can be very dangerous.”
So can the sweetly spiced scent of verbena.
Gently, gently, her hands explored his scalp in slow, circling strokes. Drawing in a gulp of air, he held it in his lungs, letting the sensation wash over him.
“You’re lucky. You seem to have escaped injury,” murmured Sophie.
Her face was hovering a hairsbreadth from his, and though the muzzy gloom hid her expression, his mind’s eye could perfectly picture the exact shape of her cupid’s bow mouth. Dangerous—oh-so dangerous. Hitching a notch higher, Bentley tilted his cheek just a fraction. Flesh kissed up against flesh, and he felt her breath quicken.
“Miss Thirkell, I . . .”
A dog’s sharp bark interrupted the moment.
“I think we had better get moving.”
“Yes, yes, we must. It’s madness to linger here any longer.” Scooting back, she hastily rose and tugged her coat into order. “The tide will be turning soon, and if we don’t catch the ebb, we won’t have a prayer of escape.”
“What about the snapped jib line?” asked Bentley after levering to his feet.
“It will take only a moment to splice,” answered Sophie as they crept along the line of the wall toward the front gate.
“Is there anything you can’t do, Miss Thirkell?” he quipped.
“I can’t waltz, as you so painfully learned in my father’s ballroom. I was clumsy as the cow and must have squashed all ten of your toes.”
“Only nine.” Recalling how grimly uncomfortable she had appeared swathed in frilly silk and satin, Bentley chuckled. “I was sure you were deliberately seeking to cripple me, though I wasn’t quite sure why.” He ducked under a twist of ivy. “Had I offended you in some way?”
For a moment there was only the soft sound of their steps on the soggy grass and a flutter of air ruffling the wet leaves.
“Only by being so impossibly handsome and self-assured. In contrast I felt so awkward and provincial.” Her murmur tightened to a rueful whisper. “Knowing I could never attract your attention through my graces, I suppose I chose the opposite tack.”
Surprise hit him with all the force of an Atlantic gale. Knocked off his bearings, Bentley didn’t notice she had come to a halt at the oaken gate. “I-I—” he stuttered, only to stumble and thump up against her shoulder, pinning her between his body and the unyielding planking. Dark twists of ivy swayed overhead . . . no, no, it was mistletoe, he noted vaguely as he managed to untangle his tongue. “As you see, in reality I’m naught but an awkward ox.”
“Oh, it appears we are a rare pair of bumbling bovines, Lord Leete. How fortuitous that Fate has brought us together.”
Her low, throaty laugh, a sound that seemed meant for his ears alone, sent a lick of heat spiraling through his chest. Emboldened by the intimacy, he added, “I can’t believe that you, who are so attuned to every nuance of the ocean, didn’t sense how nervous I was around you. I found you . . . intriguing. Alluring. Entrancing.”
“Oh.” Sophie swallowed a gulp of air. “Really? But you barely ever said a word to me.”
“I was tongue-tied,” he replied. “You were so exuberant.”
“And you were so reserved.”
“I couldn’t help it. You had so many admirers circled around your skirts, all I could do was stare.”
“And watch me behave like a hopeless hoyden.” Scudding moonlight caught the pinch of embarrassment on Sophie’s face. She bit her lip in momentary confusion, a little quirk that he found endearing. “Lively—ha! I’m surprised I didn’t shock your very well-bred sense of propriety to flinders.”
“I confess, your devil-may-care spirit was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I’ve never met a young lady with your sense of adventure.”
A tiny tremor quivered along the curves of her mouth. “Proper young ladies aren’t supposed to be adventurous. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” repeated Bentley, feeling a clench of lust take hold of his body. “Yes, I can see that.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strangely smoky. “There’s no telling what can happen when one ventures into the unknown.”
“That doesn’t frighten me,” said Sophie. “I suppose it should. But instead, it makes my blood fizz and thrum.” A sigh, soft as the tendrils of mist floating up from the harbor. “No wonder you were so opposed to having me sail in your sloop. I’m the sort of female who tends to cause trouble.”
“I wasn’t worried about what you might do, Miss Thirkell.” Trouble. The word was reverberating inside his skull. Trouble, trouble, trouble. Bentley prided himself on listening to his voice of Inner Reason. But prudence, along with his official documents, seemed to have been swept overboard by the rogue wave.
She shifted slightly, the bump of the Bible tucked beneath her coat a chiding reminder that his intentions were anything but saintly.
To the devil with all the cursed, confining rules of propriety. In that instant, with frigid water dripping down his neck and raindrops freckling Sophie’s delightfully pert nose, Bentley realized the only thing that mattered was her.
“The truth is, I was more afraid of what my own actions might be.” He leaned in, their bodies kissing up against each other as he lowered his mouth to capture hers.
With a rusty snick, the latch popped open and the gate cracked open.
“Oiy! Wot’s that?” A gruff voice pierced through the darkness.
Bloody hell. His hands, already gripping Sophie’s shoulders, yanked her back from the opening. Keeping hold of her coat, he whirled around and sprinted for the back wall.
“Up you go,” he whispered, lifting her off the ground. “And quickly.”
Sophie scrambled to the top and reached down. “Here, grab hold of me.”
Bentley didn’t pause to argue the fine points of gentlemanly deportment. Boots scraping, scuffing against the rough stone, he pulled himself up to the ledge. Below them lay several narrow alleyways, twisting off into a haze of thick fog.
Which way, which way? Bentley hesitated, disoriented by the murky darkness.
“Follow me,” said Sophie decisively. Dropping down to the ground, she chose the one leading off to the left.
He kept right on her heels, dodging piles of crab traps and tangled fishnets. It might only have been a quirk of the wind, but a burble of laughter seemed to echo off the storage sheds. After a quick dip and a sharp turn, the alley opened onto a rutted lane.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” he gasped, as they paused for a moment to catch their breath.
Sophie grinned. “Admit it—so are you!”
“There’s something to be said for adventure,” he replied with an answering smile. “Assuming the residents of Stony Creek don’t shoot escaping prisoners on sight.”
“If we keep moving quickly, we’ll be long gone before the magistrate opens his eyes.”
“Er, any idea of which way we should go to reach the harbor?” asked Bentley after a quick look around. “I’m completely lost.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Good heavens, any mariner worth his salt can navigate by the stars. We’re almost there.” She checked up and down the lane before adding, “Stay close, and stay quiet. Like us, there seem to be a few fishermen up and looking to catch the outgoing tide.”
Keeping to the shadows, they crossed the cart tracks and turned down a sloping side street that led past the back of several shops. Head hunched low, Bentley did his best to mimic her light step and lithe movements. Miss Thirkell might find the steps of a waltz intimidating, but clearly the racing through a strange town as a fugitive from justice held no fear.
The thought provoked a soft snort of laughter.
“Shhh.” She turned and waggled a warning finger.
Drawing a steadying breath, he nodded—and then stopped short.
Frowning, she motioned for him to keep going.
“Wait,” he whispered, inhaling another lungful of spiced air. Gingerbread. The sugary
scent was coming from somewhere tantalizingly close by. Another sniff led him to a window several paces away. From inside he could hear the clatter of copper pots and pans. A bakery, beginning work on its wares for the coming day. Already a tray of nut-brown confections, formed in the shape of little men, were cooling on the sill.
“That’s stealing,” murmured Sophie as she watched him stuff a number of the pastries into the sack of apples.
“Since I’m already considered a criminal, I might as well add theft to my misdeeds,” he replied. “But don’t worry, I will send full restitution once we reach London.”
“I think I’m a bad influence on you.”
“Horrible,” he agreed.
“Thank God.” She flashed a pearlescent smile. “They smell absolutely delicious.”
Bentley quickly retied the bag. “Lead on, Captain. The faster we shove off, the faster we can breakfast on our ill-gotten gains.”
She started off, but no sooner had they turned the corner and slipped between a rack of spars and cordage when a gruff order brought them to an abrupt halt.
“Halt!” A burly figure stepped out from the hanging coils of rope, a wicked-looking eel spear punctuating the command. “Where do ye think ye two are going?”
“Umm . . .” For once, Sophie seemed at a loss for words.
“To London,” answered Bentley. “It’s a matter of life and death that we get there in time for Christmas.”
The fisherman—Bentley recognized him as one of the magistrate’s companions—frowned. “Ye told Hawthorne a different story.”
“Ah, but Mr. Hawthorne did not strike me as a man with a heart, so I did not dare confide my sister’s sad tale,” improvised Bentley. A discreet nudge encouraged Sophie to give a watery sniff. “But you, my good fellow, look like a sympathetic soul. I am sure you are just the sort of man who would wish to aid a damsel in distress.”
“Er . . .” The man coughed. “Well, naturally I’m always happy te help a female. Assuming it’s fer a good reason.”
“Oh, be assured it is for the very best of reasons,” he replied. “Love and family—it’s what the holiday season is all about.”
The man nodded slightly, but the prongs of the spear remained hovering scant inches from Bentley’s chest. “Family is important.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll understand my sister’s—that is, my half sister’s—heartfelt determination to fulfill a deathbed promise to her father. She has traveled all the way from America, braving heathen savages, Atlantic gales . . .” Warming to the task, Bentley launched into a long and admitted greatly embellished story of the perils they had faced.
The fisherman listened in wide-eyed silence. Sophie, on the other hand, was making a series of odd little noises in the back of her throat.
“Don’t cry, my dear,” soothed Bentley. “I am sure this fellow will do the right thing and not stand in the way of love.”
The fisherman shuffled his feet. “The revenue captain should be here by noon. Shouldn’t we wait fer an official te untangle all these misunderstandings?”
“The tide is turning,” he replied. “If we miss it, we could be stuck here until God-Knows-When. After all, there is no guarantee that your messenger will find the captain.”
“Hmmph.” The grunt was as raspy as the rattle of rusty anchor chain. “The thing is, yer under arrest.”
“Not officially,” pointed out Sophie. “We were merely detained until the proper authorities arrive.” Another strategic sniff. “But by then, it might be too late.”
“Hmmph.” The new sound was considerably softer.
“Come now, do we look like dangerous criminals?” pressed Bentley, hiding the purloined gingerbread behind his back.
“Oh, fie.” Swinging the spear away, the fisherman pointed the way to the wharf. “Be off with ye, afore I change my mind. Hawthorne would likely roast my cods along with the holiday chestnuts if he finds out about this, so let’s just pretend I never saw ye.”
“Happy Christmas,” he murmured, taking Sophie by the arm and urging her forward.
“Happy Christmas,” she echoed.
“Now let us run like the devil,” whispered Bentley. “Before we encounter a less soft-hearted soul.”
“Hold the tiller firmly and shift it right or left to keep the bow of the boat pointed north-northeast,” called Sophie as she cast off the mooring lines. “It’s actually quite simple. Just watch the compass. It will only take me a few minutes to splice the jib sheet.”
“Do try to make it quick,” said Bentley. He looked a little nervous at being put in charge of steering the sloop out of the narrow harbor. “I’d rather not run amuck at this point.”
“Ha, there is little chance of that! There are no hidden hazards marked on the chart.” Taking a marlinspike from one of the lockers, Sophie set to work repairing the snapped rope. Her fingers smoothed over the strands, weaving the two frayed pieces together. As a child, she had been amazed to see that two separate pieces could be made into one. It seems impossible, and yet the new was often stronger than the old.
Perhaps relationships are like that too. “At least I hope they are,” she murmured to herself. Could past feuds be mended and her family made whole again? The question was a daunting one, but somehow Lord Leete’s encouragement had her feeling more confident about the upcoming meeting. He had a way with words.
Repressing a laugh, Sophie looked around to tease him about the yarn he had just spun.
“You know, I’ve told some bouncers in my life, but that one was so outrageous that I’m surprised it didn’t ricochet off the wharf and break your teeth.”
He flashed a grin. “In moments of crisis, a good diplomat, like a good mariner, must improvise.”
“Lord Leete, you—” The moonlight grew suddenly brighter as the wind kicked up and blew away the lingering clouds. “You should duck. And do it NOW!”
A block of iron came sailing across the water, struck the stern and then bounced up to land on the deck with a loud thunk.
“Stop them, stop them!” A hopping-mad Hawthorne skidded to a stop at the end of the wharf. “The criminals are getting away!” Grabbing up another piece of ballast from a barrow, he flung it at the sloop.
“Why, the skunk is trying to knock our rudder off its pins so we can’t steer,” exclaimed Sophie.
“Is he?” Taking up the spent missile, Bentley turned around and calmly pitched it back at the magistrate. It caught Hawthorne square on his well-cushioned belly, knocking him head over heels into the shallow, smelly water.
Sophie let out an admiring whistle. “For a frivolous fop, you’ve got an awfully strong arm. And remarkably accurate aim.”
“Cricket,” he replied with a wicked wink. “Now and again, those asinine aristocratic games come in handy.”
“So I see,” she replied. A great many things had come into sharper focus over the last two days. To herself, she added, “Pride and pique tend to distort the view.”
With a few quick twists of the marlinspike, she finished splicing the rope and raised the jib. Wind filled the sail and the sloop heeled over smartly, picking up speed and leaving a trail of white foam in its wake.
“Miscreants! I will see to it that you get your just deserts!” The magistrate’s fast-fading bellowing was nearly swallowed by the surge of the open sea beyond the channel breakwater.
“I rather hope so,” quipped Bentley. “I am very fond of Christmas pudding.”
Sophie laughed as she came back to the cockpit and sat down beside him. “If the wind keeps up like this, we shall drop anchor in the Thames with time to spare.” The stars were diamond bright overhead, and dawn was just beginning to dapple the horizon. After unfolding the chart, she studied the coastline in the shimmery half light. “There is a cove marked here just a few miles ahead. We ought to pull in and wait an hour or two for the tide to turn more favorable for our next tack.”
“An excellent idea,” said Bentley. “Indeed, I was just about to suggest that we
do away with the evidence of our criminal activity, just in case we run into His Majesty’s revenue cutter.”
A short while later they were riding at anchor, the sails furled, the sloop rocking gently within the shelter of the cliffs. Bentley quickly found the bag and untied the strings
The gingerbread was still warm, and as Sophie took a bite, the spicy sweetness melted on her tongue. “That,” she said slowly, “could be the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.”
An odd expression spread over his face as Bentley swallowed hard and went very still. “Actually, I think it’s only the second-most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
She shifted, her hip bumping gently against his. They had stretched out side by side on floorboards of the cockpit to shelter from the wind, a thick blanket from below providing a cozy covering to ward off the dampness.
“Oh?” Her voice turned a bit muzzy as a spun-sugar tickle of contentment teased over her limbs. “I ask you, what can be better than fresh-baked gingerbread?” she challenged, looking up to meet his gaze.
Strange—how had she not noticed those dancing flickers of fire-gold sparks in his eyes before now?
“This,” he said, leaning down to capture her mouth.
He tasted of cloves and cinnamon, tinged with the salt of the sea. And some earthier essence she couldn’t put a name to. A shiver of heat licked down her spine.
In contrast his lips felt blessedly cool as they broke off the embrace to trace a flutter soft of kisses over her flushed cheeks.
“Sweet, tart, tangy,” he whispered. “I am usually good with words, but you defy description.”
“Mmm. Then don’t try to talk for a moment.” With a tremulous sigh, Sophie drew him back and opened herself to a deeper embrace. Her hands slid along the slope of his shoulders, feeling the solid strength of chiseled muscle. “Bentley,” she murmured against his mouth. It was a lovely name—elegant and aristocratic, yet stalwart and steadfast.
He groaned in response, his arms tightening and hugging her close. Their tongues twined, and for a dizzying, dazzling interlude, Sophie felt all rational thought skitter away in the breeze.
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 25
