Her Secret Lover

by Sara Bennett

  She tried to catch her breath, stumbling as the yacht rocked with their movement. “There’s plenty of room below,” Coombe said, proceeding to a hatchway and sliding it open. “Go down and settle yourself while I get her under way.”

  Antoinette stared at him. With every passing second he seemed to be expanding beyond the Coombe she thought she knew. His shoulders were no longer hunched and he was moving confidently about the yacht, unfurling ropes, checking equipment. He wasn’t the same man, and yet how was that possible?

  She looked beyond him, to the jetty and the tavern, but she could hardly climb back up there now. She was stuck on the boat with Coombe, and she no longer trusted him.

  Reluctantly Antoinette went below. In one room—cabin, she supposed it was called—there was a bed built into the wall, with cupboards above and a lantern swinging from the low ceiling. When she peered into the other cabin she found a table with bench seats, more cupboards, and the means to cook and prepare food.

  This wasn’t just any boat and it certainly wasn’t a fishing vessel or a coastal trader. It was clear this was a yacht belonging to a man of means. Hardly a description of Coombe.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  Coombe was a groom, a man of few words and fewer wits. Remembering how he had busied himself on deck, his confidence and sense of purpose, she felt a terrible dread squeeze her chest.

  Slowly she climbed back up the companionway, and popped her head through the open hatch.

  He’d cast off and set one of the sails and was now busy hauling on the ropes as the yacht turned and began to move slowly out through the narrow harbor entrance. He had his back turned to her and he’d stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, the muscles of his arms rippling with his efforts. There was a pistol tucked into his belt at the small of his back. He’d taken off his cap, too, and his hair wasn’t coarse and dark after all, but curly and fair. In fact—her eyes widened—his cap lay discarded on the deck and there were tufts of coarse dark hair attached to the sides.

  As he turned his head to check they weren’t too close to the wall, Antoinette took a hard look at the man’s profile, and she could no longer doubt who he was. The highwayman, and her lover. A sick sensation twisted in her stomach as she understood the extent of his betrayal.

  “You!” Her voice shook with emotion.

  He finished negotiating the boat past the wall before he turned to face her, one hand on the tiller. His expression was watchful, as if he wasn’t quite sure how she was going to react.

  “Sparrow, don’t be angry. If you’d known the truth you would never have come with me…”

  “You tricked me!” she cried. “How could you do this to me? Why did you bring me here?”

  “Because you asked me to help you get away,” he said evenly.

  “You’re taking me to Lord Appleby, aren’t you?” Her hands were clenched into fists.

  The yacht rolled as it hit the swell beyond the safety of the harbor and a burst of spray peppered the deck. “No, I’m taking you away from him. I promised I would. You said you trusted me.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re Lord Appleby’s man. Why would you—”

  “I’ve changed my allegiance,” he said.

  She didn’t believe him. “Let me off.”

  “Too late, Miss Dupre,” he said, and there was that smile she knew so well. “I hope you don’t get seasick. It looks like we’re in for some rough weather.”

  As if to illustrate his warning, another burst of spray came up over the side of the yacht and washed across the deck, all the way to the hatch. It soaked Antoinette’s hair, trickled down her face, and the salt water splashed her spectacles.

  She spluttered and choked, and he laughed at her.

  “Let me off!” she shrieked, just as the boat rolled again. Her feet slipped on the companionway and she fell, landing on her bottom on the steps, and bumping the remainder of the way down.

  As Antoinette sat, dazed and wet, a shadow fell over her. She looked up, and he was peering down at her. “Are you all right, darling?”

  She pushed herself to her feet, clinging to the safety railing on the wall, her hair sopping and sticky. “I think so.”

  “Good.” His eyes narrowed and grew almost cruel. “I wouldn’t want to deliver damaged goods to your duke, now would I?”

  And then he was gone and there was only a square of sky above her.

  Tears stung her eyes. Coombe or the highwayman or whoever he was had planned this all along. He’d tricked her. The rest of them must have known, too; she saw it all now. The Wonicots and Mary, sniggering away at her expense, while she attempted to bribe Coombe into helping her escape. How they must have laughed!

  Remembering some of the things she’d said, Antoinette felt outraged and humiliated by the trick that had been played on her. Oh, he’d been clever, keeping her at a distance, changing his mannerisms and his way of moving, as well as his voice, so that although she might occasionally feel he was familiar, she never actually connected the two men.

  She was trapped. Here she was, on board a yacht, with nowhere to go but into the sea. Even if she could swim, Antoinette doubted she would be brave enough to leap into those cold, deep waters. And she still didn’t know what this man planned to do with her, despite what he said about changing allegiance. It was quite likely that once he had the letter from her he would throw her into the sea himself.

  The tears began to drip faster down her cheeks, and she let them come. There was no one to see her. She was frightened and alone, and her lover had lied to her and betrayed her. She didn’t know what to do or whom to believe, and now the rolling of this dreadful boat was making her feel sick.

  Eventually she began, shakily, to make her way toward the cabin with the bed in it. The boat was rolling even worse now and the movement threw her about. She clung to anything that was fastened down and finally reached the bed. As she lay down she told herself she would rest but she wouldn’t sleep. No matter how weary and miserable she was, she mustn’t sleep. She needed to keep alert and watchful, then if he was going to hand her over to Lord Appleby, she’d be ready.

  Except if he’d been going to do that, then why did he leave Wexmoor Manor? Antoinette hadn’t known Appleby was on his way until he told her. If he was Appleby’s man, then he didn’t need to tell her and he didn’t need to help her run away. So he wasn’t going to give her up. That part of his story must be true at least. He’d spoken of the duke, but that was just something she’d made up for Coombe’s benefit, although now it might be useful to her. She might be able to bribe him by promising him recompense from the “duke.”

  But that still didn’t tell her what he wanted from her.

  She supposed it was possible he’d heard she was wealthy and wanted her money, or perhaps he really did want to own a racing stable and expected her to find him one. It was all too much to take in, and as hard as she tried to keep her eyes open, they began to drift shut. Despite the rolling of the boat and the wash of the waves, Antoinette sank into oblivion.

  Chapter 24

  Gabriel sat back in the cockpit with one hand on the tiller, steering his yacht and breathing deeply of the salty air. The weather was blustery and perfect for sailing, he couldn’t have asked for better, and they were making good progress down the coast. He was enjoying himself and he felt free again, knowing he was beholden to no man out here. It was the first time he’d felt this free since he learned the news from his father and had gone storming to Appleby’s house in Mayfair.

  Where he’d first seen her. Antoinette.

  She’d stayed below since she’d had that soaking as they left the harbor, and the only time he’d ventured down to check on her, he’d found her fast asleep in his bed. She looked so sweet, so peaceful and innocent, he was almost ashamed at the hot imaginings that sprang into his head. And then he remembered the duke and he felt like wringing her neck.

  He shifted the tiller slightly to port, and the flapping sail
filled again as they heeled over, the wind buffeting them along at a cracking pace.

  Of course she’d been very angry when she finally realized who he was. And he’d expected anger, yes; he’d even been looking forward to meeting it head-on. But that shattered expression…he’d wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her and tell her over and over how sorry he was.

  Except he hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact he’d done exactly as she asked him: helped her run away from Appleby. After she’d recovered from her shock he was expecting some gratitude, some sweet, passionate kisses.

  Until she’d mentioned the other man.

  At that moment something inside him had begun to burn, a slow, intense heat that threatened to consume him. Antoinette had lain with him, sighing and moaning, clasping him in her arms, and all the time she wasn’t thinking of Gabriel, and she wasn’t thinking of Appleby. She was thinking of the duke.

  No doubt he was everything Gabriel was not, could give her her heart’s desire and more.

  His hand clenched on the tiller, and it was only as the boat began to shift off course that he realized what he was doing and straightened her up. What was the point in speculating? He’d get the truth out of her. There was plenty of time. Gabriel meant to drop anchor at dusk and spend the night in one of his favorite sheltered coves. They’d be far from Appleby’s reach, just Gabriel and Antoinette…and the letter.

  He knew she’d never have left it behind. It was here, somewhere, and he was going to get it from her. After all, what possible use could she have for it now? And once he’d regained Wexmoor Manor and persuaded Appleby not to pursue any charges against him, he’d be able to live the life of a wealthy landed gentleman.

  Would a man like that appeal to Antoinette?

  Gabriel despised himself for thinking it, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted her, and he’d use all the weapons in his possession to win her.

  Antoinette sat on the edge of the bed, trying to decide what to do. Her stomach lurched. She’d awoken confused and disoriented, wondering where she was. The next moment she made a dash for a bowl she’d noticed earlier. It was probably used for washing water, and fit securely into the top of a wooden chest, but Antoinette found another use for it. The retching made her feel a little better, but as soon as she straightened up, nausea returned.

  Seasickness. Antoinette moaned and closed her eyes. She needed fresh air, and to get that she’d have to go up on deck where he was. No matter what he said to the contrary, she didn’t trust him. Another roll of the boat and her stomach lurched again. With a whimper she headed toward the companionway.

  Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise as her face appeared through the hatchway. It was an interesting shade of green. She swallowed, a hand covering her mouth. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles and her eyes were enormous.

  “I wondered if you might have something to help my stomach,” she said in a stiff little voice, as if she was afraid of opening her mouth too far.

  Gabriel felt like laughing but he bit his lip—he didn’t think she’d appreciate his humor just now. Getting to his feet, he crossed the deck and reached out for her hands. Reluctantly she gave them to him, and he helped her up through the hatchway and, with an arm about her waist, led her back to the cockpit. The sunken space had a built-in seat made comfortable with cushions, and he settled her there before correcting their course again.

  From the corner of his eye he could see her trying to breathe, her eyes closed as she lifted her face to the brisk wind. The air was cold and she shivered, wrapping her arms about herself.

  “Poor sparrow,” he murmured.

  She shot him a suspicious look, as if she mistrusted his sympathy.

  “Do you think you can steer us while I go below and find you a blanket or two? You’ll soon get frozen up here.”

  “Steer the boat?” she croaked.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t capsize us. At least I don’t think so. Here, hold the tiller right here. Remember, you have to push it in the opposite direction to the one you want to go. But you shouldn’t need to do that; just hold it steady.”

  Tentatively she placed her hand on the wooden tiller and he covered it with his, feeling her cold skin and the tremble in her arm. Sweet, bossy Antoinette Dupre was in a bad way.

  “That’s it, keep her steady,” he said gently.

  “Like this, do you mean?” She sat up straighter, concentrating. Above them the sails flapped as the wind gusted and the boat cut through the green water, flying along. It was invigorating, and, studying her face, Gabriel thought she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.

  “Just hold it there. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She looked a bit panicky and her fingers tightened as he removed his. He felt her tension as he left the cockpit and made his way to the hatchway and slipped below.

  He stripped some blankets from the bed, and while he was there also grabbed a flask of liquor and a tin of biscuits, perfect food for the seasick. Carrying his bounty, he returned to the deck. Her nervous gaze was fixed on the hatchway, waiting for him, and when he appeared she couldn’t disguise her relief.

  “All right?” He sat down beside her and began to wrap the blankets around her, tucking them in carefully about her feet.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She sounded stiff and formal, avoiding his eyes.

  “Have a sip of this.” Gabriel unscrewed the flask and handed it to her. She sniffed it suspiciously. “Brandy,” he said. “It’ll help settle your stomach.”

  She looked as if she might refuse, but changed her mind and took a sip anyway. After a moment she took another. He handed her a biscuit.

  “Nibble on this. Nothing worse than an empty stomach when you’re seasick.”

  This time she didn’t argue. “Do you ever get seasick?” she said, after a long pause.

  “Only if it’s very rough.”

  “I thought you said this was rough?”

  “There’s some rough weather coming but not today. This is just brisk, Antoinette.”

  She mulled over his information. “Is this your boat?” she said, watching as he adjusted the tiller.

  “Yes. She’s called Sea Witch.”

  “Oh.”

  He could see the question on her lips and decided to put her out of her misery. “And no, I’m not Priscilla Langley’s son, legitimate or otherwise. And yes, the boat is named after her.”

  “Was she really a witch?” she asked dreamily, snuggling down into the blankets and the cushions, closing her eyes.

  “I wonder that myself. She was an herbalist, and people came to her for help; even the local doctor deferred to her on some matters. She had a way of getting to the heart of a problem that was uncanny, and sometimes she seemed to know what was going to happen before it did.” He smiled, remembering her prediction that a brown bird would be his downfall. He wished now she’d offered him some more advice on how to keep that little bird by his side forever.

  Gabriel glanced at Antoinette and found she’d fallen asleep. Careful not to wake her, he slid his arm about her and drew her closer, so that her head was resting on his shoulder and her body was snuggled into his. She was soft and warm, and a strand of her hair blew across his face, bringing with it her sweet scent.

  He wanted to protect her and look after her. The feeling was new to him, but it felt good, it felt right. The pity was she belonged to someone else. Or claimed she did, he thought, holding her closer. She made a murmur and wriggled against him, a smile on her lips. Gabriel decided he’d have to persuade her differently. Her body already knew she was his; all he had to do was convince her heart and mind.

  With one arm wrapped about her and the tiller in the other, he steered his boat, and for the first time in a long time he felt completely happy and content with his world.

  Antoinette vaguely remembered being carried below deck and tucked back into the bed. At least the boat seemed to have stopped its dreadful rolling, and her stomach was calmer. The brandy had helped, maki
ng her sleepy, and she sighed as Gabriel began to unbutton her clothing. If he expected to find the letter, then he was going to be disappointed—she’d hidden it as soon as she came down there.

  He slipped off her dress and loosened her petticoats and stays, leaving them on her. The bedclothes were warm and comfortable as he pulled them over her, and she could smell the sea on them and him. Then his lips brushed her cheek and he was gone.

  A long time afterward she heard the rattle of a chain and knew he must have dropped anchor, and then his footsteps moving about on the deck and the sounds of equipment being tidied up and stowed away. Eventually he came back down to the cabin and slid into the bed beside her, reaching out to draw her against him.

  Antoinette had planned to reject him, accuse him of all manner of crimes, but her limbs felt so heavy and her eyelids refused to open more than a fraction. So she nuzzled against his naked shoulder and smelled his warm, spicy scent. Her tongue flicked against him and she tasted salt.

  At her touch he slipped a finger under her chin and tilted her face up and kissed her.

  She didn’t mean to return his caress, but before she knew it they were locked in a hot and hungry kiss. He removed her remaining garments, kissing and caressing each new inch he exposed, until she was twisting and gasping and begging him to make love to her. His muscular thigh slid between hers, and she felt the familiar stirrings inside her. It was so easy to lose herself in her growing passion, far easier than trying to think and reason and decide what to do. His lips on her breasts, his fingers finding her most sensitive spots, his body moving inside hers, taking them both to that place where there was nothing but ecstasy.

  But as always she had to come back to earth, eventually, and this time the bump of her landing was harder than usual.