He stopped an arm’s length away from her. “Mr. Carstairs,” she bowed, as though they were in a drawing room.
His expression unreadable in the lantern light, he regarded her for a long moment, then nudged the prone Joseph with his toe. “You are unkind.”
“He could not hold his role—next time someone less kind will kill him.”
They stood, the three of them in a strange tableau, with no one speaking. Vidia could feel Gaston’s misery—it was not an easy thing to betray one’s friends.
“She wished to go to London, instead,” Gaston told Carstairs in a quiet tone. Although Vidia appreciated his attempt at a defense, she didn’t feel she needed to explain her actions, and so remained silent.
“You twigged us,” Carstairs concluded.
Vidia returned no response.
His chest rose as he took a deep breath. “How did you know that Gaston now works for the Home Office?”
There was a pause while she weighed her options, pulling her shawl tighter around her in the unending chilly breeze. She decided that she, at least, would hold up her end of their agreement to be honest with each other. “I would rather not say.”
He turned to Gaston. “Did you tell her—give her any hint?”
“No.” The other man shook his head, not meeting Vidia’s eyes and obviously uncomfortable.
There was another long pause while Carstairs ducked his chin to his chest. “You do not make this easy for me,” he finally said to Vidia.
As this comment seemed patently unfair she did not deign to reply, and waited.
Having come to a decision, he lifted his chin and offered, “Let’s take you back to London and sort this out—we’ll take the schooner.”
She thought about it. “Do I have a choice?”
Turning his face to look out over the ocean, he did not answer directly. “I will tell them you did not implicate yourself—and that you are truly pregnant. I will vouch for you.”
At the mention of her pregnancy, she saw Gaston glance sidelong in her direction, hiding his surprise. In a wry tone she warned Carstairs, “They will only believe you have succumbed to my wiles.”
Stepping closer to her, he touched her arm and the contact made her catch her breath—foolish, to allow him to have such a hold over her. He continued in an intense tone, “Vidia, please come. I will not let them hurt you.”
“Would you hold a pistol to me if I refused?” She was genuinely curious—she doubted she could do the same to him.
He thought it over. “I don’t know.”
She sighed. “I’d rather not find out.” Moving forward, she allowed him to assist her into the boat so that she was seated in the stern. Gaston hoisted the hapless Joseph and dumped him onto the floorboards as Carstairs pushed the boat off the sand and into the water, leaping in beside Vidia and then rocking the boat from side to side as he moved to the bow. Once they were settled, Gaston began to ply the oars while Carstairs pointed out shoals and other hazards as they navigated through the inlet to head out to the open sea. Progress was slow; the swells among the rocks created a chop that tossed the boat about, and Vidia was forced to brace herself with her feet and hands against the sides of the rowboat as they made their way toward the cutter. Vidia chose her moment when Gaston and Carstairs were preoccupied with avoiding a shoal, then slipped off the stern of the boat and into the water.
Chapter 29
The cold water was a shock. Vidia was a strong swimmer and she struck out immediately under the water toward the shore for as long as she was able to hold her breath, both to evade detection and to keep warm. She emerged cautiously, took a quick breath while she assessed her position, then submerged again. Fortunately the moon was reflecting off the waves and she had already noted where the protruding rocks were located. Still, it was hard work—she hadn’t calculated the effect the receding tide would have, and coupled with the weight of her skirt and boots she knew some anxious moments. She was just beginning to admit that this was—perhaps—not the best idea she had ever had when she brushed up against a moving object and fled to the surface, stifling a scream.
Gasping for breath, she whirled around to see Carstairs, his wet hair plastered against his head, doing some gasping of his own as the waves rocked them about.
“Go away,” she managed.
“Hold on to my back—keep kicking.”
Having made a respectable protest, she willingly grasped his shoulders and hung on to his back while he navigated them through the remaining shoals to the shore. He had removed his coat and boots and his white shirt was like a second skin; she clung to his back and tried not to impede his movements although she occasionally kicked his foot by mistake. The moonlight glistened on the roiling waves and Vidia reflected that if they weren’t in such dire straits it would be an exhilarating experience between the moon, the wild sea, and hoping they wouldn’t be dashed to pieces by the next swell—she always loved a good adventure.
Finally she could feel him find traction on the sand beneath his feet as he began to wade to the shore. The breakers made him unsteady and she dismounted from his back, only to find she couldn’t yet stand upright against the weight of her skirts so instead she scrambled on all fours onto the sand and lay supine for a moment, panting and spent, the sand coarse against her cheek. Carstairs crawled up behind her and roughly grasped a shoulder, pulling her over to face him. He was mad as fire, and rasped, “Don’t ever do anything so stupid again.”
“Va aos diabos,” was her own gasping reply. She pushed at him angrily but instead of the desired result he brought his arms around her and brought his mouth down hard upon hers. She resisted the kiss, keeping her lips firmly closed as she struggled against him. What was this—did he think now was the time to demonstrate his mastery over her? Or was it just the same as Flanders—they had cheated death and now he wished to mark the occasion? As she continued to resist, his mouth moved to her throat and his hands moved to her breasts, her waist, her thighs. She became aware, on some elemental level, that she wanted this as much as he did and she would have to regain her dignity at some later time. When her hands moved up to caress his back in a gesture of surrender, she heard him make a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat as he began pulling up at her sodden skirts.
Cradling his head in her hands, she arched against him, moaning and nearly mindless with the wanting of him. He positioned her hips and drove into her while her legs clung to him as best she could, unaware of the hard beach beneath them or anything but the rightness of their lovemaking and the heat of his mouth upon hers. After a blissfully satisfying space of time he collapsed on her, spent, and she was forced to return to reality—which was cold and uncomfortable. While he recovered his breath, she gently kissed the hollow of his throat, being as it was within reach. In response, he turned his head and kissed the corner of her mouth and then her temple. “I love you, Catalina.”
“Lina,” she corrected on an exhaled breath. “My mother called me Lina.”
He kissed her brow, his fingers stroking the hair back from her temples. “I love you, Lina.”
She said without rancor, “I do not believe a word you say.”
“You will.” He kissed her mouth gently.
“Unlikely. Where is Gaston?”
“He will have to wait his turn,” he teased.
“Is he looking for us?” She hoped they had not had an audience—her reputation for calm composure would be in tatters.
“No. I sent him on.” He tugged gently at her hair in remonstrance. “You gave us both quite a scare.”
“Good.”
He rolled over to fasten his breeches and then helped her straighten her soggy skirts. She began to shiver uncontrollably as he pulled her to her feet, putting his arms around her. As he led her away, he took a careful glance around them. “Leave nothing behind—you have drowned.”
“I have? What fresh hell is this?” She stooped to wring out her skirt and gather it up into her fist.
“We’ll smuggle you i
nto the inn and hide you there until we come up with a plan.”
She brushed her wet, sandy hair from her face. “Are you out of coverage, then? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
With a grim smile, he ushered her onward, his arms around her. “I will keep you out of trouble—so help me God—until you are cleared, one way or another. I was already turning over the idea in my mind when you obligingly abandoned ship.”
Shaking her head, she exclaimed, “Deus—my wiles are indeed formidable. I had no idea.”
“You have never needed wiles—not with me.”
Steering her into an indent in one of the rocky outcroppings, he rubbed her arms with his own cold hands as they walked on the graveled sand. “There is a tunnel which connects to the inn’s cellar; it was used for smuggling in the old days.” He motioned for her to stand for a moment in the sheltered area between the rocks, and she obliged, shivering, as she watched him climb lightly into a sheltered crevice. The area smelled of must and salt, and deposits of seaweed beneath her feet marked where the tide had receded. I am as foolish as I was at seventeen, she reminded herself, but decided there was nothing for it; she loved the man, and apparently—although the matter had not yet been verified—apparently he loved her in return. She watched as he groped with his fingers for a moment, then she saw the outlines of a weathered wooden door appear in the recesses of the rocks as he pulled at an iron ring handle. The ancient door creaked open, the sound echoing eerily off the rocks.
He gestured for her to come to him, but she did not move, instead raising her voice over the sound of the waves. “Give me one good reason why I should not shoot you instead.”
He thought about it, poised with one leg braced against the rocks. “Your weapon is too wet.”
She shook her head. “Not good enough.”
He bent his head, as though seriously considering the question. “You love me.”
Looking away, she fought her emotions and wished she could control her shivering—she hated to appear pathetic.
His voice continued, “My name is Lucien Jameson Carstairs Tyneburne. I hold a Baronet with an estate in Suffolk.”
She assimilated this information, still unable to look at him. “And we are not wed.” Her voice sounded bleak to her own ears, and again she hated sounding so weak.
“We will be.”
She turned then to look at him. “I gave your estupido ring away.”
“I know it—my first clue that we had been twigged.”
With some defiance, she tossed her head. “I knew as soon as I saw Gaston, pretending to scheme with the cook.”
“Lina,” he said gently. “You will freeze to death.”
Gathering her dignity, she relented and climbed up to pass before him into the opening, which revealed a dark, cramped, and musty tunnel hewn from the rock. “You should take the lead,” she offered. “I am too cold to flee, I promise. Pending tomorrow.”
Placing a guiding hand on the wall, he walked forward into the inky darkness. “How did you know that Gaston had changed sides?”
“I am Napoleon’s chère-amie.”
There was silence for a few moments as she followed him. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder.
She spoke, her voice echoing off the narrow walls as they felt their way in the darkness. “I am base-born, and from the wrong side of the blanket. My father was an itinerant gambler and my mother a very headstrong and beautiful woman.”
His disembodied voice echoed back from the darkness ahead. “They produced an excellent product between them and so I can find nothing to criticize in either.”
They continued in silence for a moment, and she decided she was rather enjoying herself, gauging the extent of his foolishness. “At the risk of sounding vain, I am an infamous courtesan.”
But he corrected her in a level tone. “On the contrary—you are minor Portuguese nobility and every now and then your accent shows itself despite your best efforts to be as Anglicized as possible; the lapse only endears you to the neighbors.”
Possibly, she thought, intrigued and turning over the role in her mind as she followed his voice. But he is a madman to even think of it. “I cannot feel my feet.”
“At least you still have your shoes,” he retorted.
“I did not ask you to come,” she countered with some heat. “Do not complain.”
“I cannot complain—the benefits thus far outweigh the detriments.”
She smiled at his back, which was really quite lovely and would probably sport fingernail marks on the morrow. “That may not always be the case,” she warned.
“Too late,” came the answer from the darkness ahead of her. “I’m in.”
“As I am already aware.”
She heard him chuckle. “Mind your step—there is a stair coming up. We are almost there.”
Chapter 30
Lina sat before the grate in a servant’s garret under the eaves of the Mermaid Inn, wrapped in a blanket and leaning in so as to allow her hair to dry while Maisie collected her sodden clothes, muttering under her breath. Frozen feet and fingers had been thoroughly thawed out in a hot bath that was equal parts pleasure and pain, and now Lina sat content by the fire, fighting to stay awake and fully aware that the night was far from over.
Once she and Carstairs had gained access to the cellar, he had wrapped two burlap sacks around her and instructed her to wait while he reconnoitered; there was a crude stairway hidden within the walls that led to the attic, but he had to ensure it was not currently in use. This meant, Lina surmised, that their Home Office superiors used the place for other purposes throughout the year—she had noted there had been no cobwebs in the tunnel and the cellar had been swept clean recently.
Upon his return, he had rubbed her cold hands between his. “We’ll tuck you in the servant’s quarters under the eaves for the next few days while I enlist some local men to conduct a search. You will have to lie low for a bit.”
“To what end, Lucien?” she had asked through chattering teeth.
“We’ll discuss it later—after you are warmed and fed.”
As this seemed a good plan, Lina asked him to send Maisie to her but he had balked, perhaps thinking of Maisie’s ties to Brodie. Lina had insisted and won the point, probably because he was as aware as she that Maisie would be harder to fool than the local residents. Indeed, her maidservant did not appear to accept Lina’s explanation of a boating mishap and was uncharacteristically cross as she bustled about, tidying up after the bath.
“A female in yer condition; flailin’ about in the sea in the dead of night and puttin’ yerself in danger without usin’ a mite o’ the sense God gave ye.”
Slightly alarmed that her normally unflappable henchwoman appeared to be undone, Lina made an attempt to soothe her, “It was indeed foolish, Maisie—I do not know what’s come over me.”
But Maisie was not to be mollified as she cast an eye toward her mistress. “I knows ’xactly wot’s come over ye, and ye’ve got to think serious-like about gettin’ out from under ’im, if I may say so.”
Thoughtfully, Lina turned back to face the fire. “It is not easy to explain, Maisie, but it is not Mr. Carstairs’s fault and it is not my fault, either—we are each trying to sort out our loyalties, I think.”
“I knows wot I know and I sees wot I see,” intoned her unhappy maidservant.
Thinking to divert her thoughts, Lina teased, “Then know that I am starving, and this baby is starving, so best shake your stumps and see what you can see in the kitchen pantry.”
With a final, disapproving sniff Maisie left to forage up a meal while Lina sat, arms around her knees, staring at the fire. I hope I can eat whatever Maisie brings me and I wish I knew what was best to do, she thought. And I wish I knew whom to trust—or more properly, whom to trust most. And I mustn’t be dazzled by the prospect of living in Suffolk and having this fine man make love to me every night. That is, if he doesn’t plan to do me in, first.
As if in answer
to her thoughts, Carstairs slipped silently through the door and leaned against it to assess her in the candlelight. He had bathed and was dressed in clean clothes, which she thought was considerate as it created the illusion they wouldn’t wind up in bed together even though they both knew this was not at all the case.
“Better?”
“As you see,” she responded with a smile. “Maisie is downstairs finding food. I have not yet thanked you for coming to my rescue.”
“Because you are not yet certain that I have.” He approached and sat across from her on the edge of the cot that served as a bed, his hands clasped between his knees. The blue eyes glinted in the candlelight; his hair was damp and there was dark stubble on his chin. He was a lovely, lovely man.
She pulled up one corner of her mouth. “I am willing to concede that our sea adventure was not part of the trap and seizure plan.”
“I beg of you,” he said in complete seriousness. “Don’t ever do that to me again—I thought my heart would burst from my chest.”
“You have little right to make any demands of me, my friend.”
He ducked his chin, contemplating the wooden floor. “Forgive me. There are competing interests.”
“I know.” It was true, she did. And as he was an honorable man, his love for her would always take second place to those interests—she could not hold it against him. “Are those competing interests planning to hang me?”
He tilted his head, unwilling to answer directly. “They saw our situation as an opportunity to expose your hand and arrest you—away from London and without Brodie’s knowledge. They are certain you are tainted.”
“And you?”
He thought about it, seriously. “I don’t know.”
She appreciated his honesty. “I see. And if I were?”
His jaw hardened as he met her eyes. “I would keep you out of trouble, one way or another.”
She laid a hand on her abdomen. “Because of the baby.”
Shaking his head, he gave her his half smile. “In part—but mainly because I cannot seem to help myself.”
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