Who wouldn’t?
The fog had lifted during the night, and the horizon line was as sharp as a surgeon’s blade. Blue-green water and froth-tipped waves stretched out to that line. The sky was the sort of blue that made her blink, a sky so clear it was as though she’d never seen its like. Then again, she lived in London—she very liked hadn’t seen its like, not since she was six years old.
She breathed in deeply, wishing Thomas were there with her, to share the moment. The beauty of the morning and the pleasure of the memory made her want to reach for him. What was it about the man that had her mind turning in directions it never had before?
She felt something odd then, a subtle shifting of the ground beneath her feet. She took a step backward, and her heart bunched—pounding—against her ribs. She’d been warned that the cliff was dangerous, and though she’d rolled her eyes, she hadn’t precisely ignored the warnings. She’d been careful, after all, to stop several feet from the edge.
Apparently, the edge had other ideas.
As the earth dissolved beneath her, she out threw her hands, screaming, seeking purchase against something. Anything. But her nails clawed naught but mud and rocks. The ground was sliding, tumbling away, and then she was, too, skirts tangling about her ankles, her arms flailing against the air.
And then she slid over the edge toward the sharp rocks below.
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
January 5, 1830
Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.
When I first arrived in Cornwall, I was determined to preserve my solitude. Letting the road to town grow over seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I can’t help but wonder if I have cut off the arm to the very lifeblood that sustains me. It’s been a long, lonely winter and it’s scarcely half over. It has snowed for a week straight, and the icy path has kept me confined to my house and away from the warmth and companionship to be found in town.
This morning, I stood on the edge of the cliff and screamed, as loud as I could, just to see if my voice would reach town. But no one came.
Either they can’t hear me . . .
Or I’ve led them to believe I don’t care.
Chapter 20
The cottage was just rounding into sight when Thomas heard Lucy’s scream.
Immediately, he felt that rush of panic that can only come from knowing you have failed someone you were charged to protect.
He’d felt that way only twice before. Once, when his sister had shown up on his doorstep, frightened and very noticeably pregnant. And then again at her funeral wake, facing the unimaginable loss of her even as he drunkenly questioned her choices that had brought about the necessity of a closed casket.
He’d known the cliff side was unstable, especially with all the rain last night.
And if he’d hurt Lucy with his neglect, he’d never forgive himself.
He tore toward the house, his satchel slapping against his thighs. He could see the raw earth, the new jagged rim, and knew instinctively what had happened, damn her adventurous heart. She’d wandered too close to the water-logged edge and it had given way. He began tossing up prayers for a miracle to a God who’d rarely answered his entreaties these past three years.
Damn it all, why hadn’t he been more specific in his note?
Stay inside, he’d told her.
Stupid, stupid, to not tell the girl why she ought to heed his warning.
“Lucy!” he shouted, his feet sliding on the wet ground, his voice a hoarse knot of terror. “Can you hear me?”
A feeble voice reached up toward him. “I . . . I am all right.” She sounded winded. Frightened.
But whole.
This time the words he muttered to God were words of thanks. He skidded to a halt several feet from the edge and lowered himself to the ground, fearing what was left might shift again. Sliding forward on his hands and knees, he inched forward, trying to distribute his weight so as not to create undue pressure points on the fragile earth. Peering over the edge, he exhaled in relief to realize she had landed on a shelf of rock, some twenty feet or so below.
She was standing still as a dormouse, her arms tucked tight against her, a blue backdrop of sky reminding him just how dangerous a position she was still in.
“Are you injured?” he called down.
She peered up at him, her face white as a bedsheet, blond hair flying about her dirt-smudged cheeks. “Not badly. A few scrapes. I do not doubt I shall be sore tomorrow.” She gestured to the ledge beneath her feet. “Can you get me out?”
“Wait here. Don’t move, not even an inch.”
She pursed her lips. “You don’t have to be so short with me.”
“Christ above, Lucy, there was a very good reason I told you to stay inside, and there is a very good reason I don’t want you to move an inch now!” And that was because he feared she was an inch—or less—away from sending the whole bloody cliff sliding into the surf below and snapping her stubborn little neck.
Battling back panic, he sprinted toward the cottage and returned with a length of rope from the peat shed. Holding his breath, he threw it down. The rough fibers snagged on jagged bits of soil, but it slithered down to gather at her feet. Thank God the ledge was closer to the top of the cliff than the bottom. “Tie it around your waist,” he instructed. That way, if the worst happened she would at least be caught before she tumbled to her death.
She did as he asked, and he was relieved to see she at least knew how to tie a knot.
Miss E would be proud, his mind unhelpfully supplied.
Yes, well, Miss E had known better than to get too close to the edge.
He carefully climbed to his feet and widened his stance. The earth seemed to be holding. Exhaling in relief, he tried to pull her up. But the girl was solidly built, and the rope’s friction against the edge of earth was worrisome, sawing against the tenuous new rim. He cursed beneath his breath as bits of mud rained down. He didn’t know how fragile the remaining earth was, and he didn’t want to risk another landslide.
“See if you can climb up,” he called down, tying the rope about one shoulder and trying to hold it away from the edge. “Do it the way a sailor would, your feet knotting in the rope. Keep your body away from the cliff,” he instructed.
She tried, he’d give her that, but he could see it wasn’t going to work. Her skirts kept tangling treacherously about her ankles, and despite several attempts, she only made it a foot or so up the rope before her grip slackened and she slid back down again. Worse, the shower of rocks and mud raining down intensified, making his gut tighten in worry.
“Take off your skirts and corset,” he directed, cursing beneath his breath.
She frowned. “If you are trying to charm me—”
“Lucy!” he growled.
“All right.” She grinned, the gesture looking out of place against the stark whiteness of her face. “No need to shout.” Her smile was probably meant to reassure him, but her voice trembled a bit, quite ruining the effect.
She untied the rope—making his stomach clench for the half minute’s vulnerability—and pulled off her heavy clothing and corset, leaving them bunched on the ground. Then she retied the rope and tried to climb up again, this time in her chemise. She got a little farther without the burden of all that fabric, but once again made it only a few feet before sliding back down. “I . . . I am afraid it’s not going to work.” She shook her head. “I’m not the most athletic of souls.” Her pale face mooned up at him. “You should know I can’t throw worth a shite either.”
In spite of the fear he felt, he somehow forced a hollow chuckle. “Oh, I don’t know. Your aim last night showed remarkable promise.” He could still smell the snuff on his hair and clothing. “And didn’t you say you climbed out of a window to get to Cornwall?”
She grimaced. “Yes, well, that wasn’t done very gracefully. I usually do these things wearing trousers, you know.”
That, finally, brought a real smile to his face. “Do yo
u want me to take off my trousers and toss them down to you?” he teased, even as he tried to sort out another way to bring her up. If he climbed down, he could boost her from beneath. Carry her up one-handed, if he had to.
He’d go down, and willingly, but would the ledge hold them both? She had a rope tied about her. At least she would be saved if the worst happened.
“No.” He heard her puff of laughter. “You’ll need your trousers on when you explain to the authorities how I came to toss myself over the cliff.” Despite her attempt at humor, she blinked up at him, her lower lip trembling. He focused on that small evidence of fear, feeling glad for it. If she was frightened, it meant she at least understood the precariousness of the situation. “Perhaps you should go to town and find some other people who might help?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Too risky.” He didn’t add that only the oldest, most stubborn souls still lived Lizard Bay. Those who could still earn an honest wage had moved to Marston when the fishing industry had collapsed. There wasn’t anyone left in town with the strength to pull a rope. But that explanation would only frighten her more. Some hundred or so feet below lay a rocky coast. He could see the rocks lying in wait, sharp as an axe blade, eager to greet objects falling from above.
He would not, under any circumstances, head back to town and leave her in such danger.
Sorting through his options, he settled on the only way he could see even a glimmer of success. He wrapped the top end of the rope around a large jutting rock that rested a dozen feet back from the new edge of the cliff. His knowledge of geology told him it was very likely part of a larger underground constellation of granite, and given the barren nature of the landscape, it was the closest thing to an anchor he was likely to find.
But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t prove false if the entire cliff went tumbling down.
With the rope as secure as he could make it, he began to lower himself, one careful hand at a time, until finally he was putting one foot down gingerly, then the other. He exhaled slowly as the ledge held. In a second she was plastered against him, his hands full of soft, trembling skin, his nose filling with the scent of her.
“I . . . I can’t believe you came down for me,” she gasped.
“How could you believe I wouldn’t?” He lowered his lips to her wild halo of hair. Christ, what this woman did to him. Tied him up in knots, then shook him back out. “I would do anything for you, Lucy.”
She pulled back, blinking up at him with a tremulous smile. “Well. It seems you’ve proven once and for all you don’t have plans to kill me.”
He frowned. “You weren’t really serious with that nonsense yesterday about tossing you over the cliff, were you?”
She shook her head. “No. I was only trying to vex you.”
“Ah.” His lips twitched, even as his mind turned itself over to the problem of how he was going to get them out. “A mission you’ve accomplished all too well this morning.”
She stilled. “I am sorry.”
“No regrets, Miss Westmore. And no apologies either. It’s not your style.” He looked up, assessing the twenty foot climb that awaited them. A short enough distance, one he could make easily on his own. With his arms full of Lucy, however, it was going to be a bit trickier. Though he kept one wary hand on the rope and one on her, the ground seemed reassuringly steady beneath their feet. And from this new lower vantage point, he could see the earth had slid cleanly away from the cliff, leaving a wall of newly exposed rock.
“It seems solid enough,” she murmured beside him, echoing his thoughts.
“Yes, it appears to be granite,” he murmured, though the thick, telltale white veins running through the bedrock were something else entirely. He winced as he took them in, his knowledge of the geology of the land far too sharp.
Well. That was one of Heathmore’s secrets that was hidden no more.
But he would deal with that later.
For now, he had a spinster to save.
He pulled her against his chest, one arm wrapped firmly around her, the other still clutching the rope. Given the fact that the remaining bit of cliff seemed made of rock, he could see now that they were probably safe enough from further calamity.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep her close as his own skin.
Just in case, his brain tried to whisper. But it wasn’t the entire truth. He wanted her close for reasons more selfish than her mere safety.
“Thomas,” she whispered, blinking up at him, but not trying to extract herself from his grip. If anything, it felt as though she burrowed closer. “What are you waiting for? We do need to sort out how we are going to get us both back up.”
“In a moment,” he growled, lowering his head. “First, a token. I’ve played the hero today. It’s customary to offer a kiss.”
He claimed her mouth fiercely, savoring the small gasp of surprise and pleasure that escaped her lips. He pulled her flush against him, welcoming the heave of her breasts against his chest. There was no time for murmured pleasantries or acquiescence, no time for second-guessing or planned seductions. He was driven by the same demons that had brought him down that rope: grab whatever piece of her he could, for as long as she would let him, and don’t look back. And through the addled haze of desire, he could see she wasn’t resisting in the slightest.
Finally, he pulled back, his breath an absolute tangle in his lungs. But he didn’t loosen his grip. Could she feel the pounding of his heart, there where their bodies met? It felt absolutely right to kiss this woman on the edge of a catastrophe, the ocean in their ears and the Cornwall sunshine beating down on them. As he stared down into her dirt-smudged face, realization sank in. He was meant to marry this woman. He’d never felt so sure about anything in his life.
But feeling right and being right were not at all the same thing.
And he couldn’t quite shake the worry that she might yet resist, for no reason other than sheer stubbornness.
LUCY OPENED HER eyes as she tried in vain to catch her breath.
Good heavens. What had just happened?
She pulled in a great lungful of air, but did not pull away from Thomas. Her lips still burned from the feel of his mouth on hers, bruising and promising all at the same time. This had been yet another sort of kiss, far different than the last two they had shared. And more than the kiss, she could feel the unmistakable ridge of flesh pressed tight against her belly.
Suffice it to say, she’d never once imagined herself the sort of girl who might inspire such . . . chivalry.
She pressed closer, welcoming the evidence of his desire. He might still be tormented by thoughts of his broken betrothal, but it was clear he wanted her.
Wanted her, short-haired Lucy Westmore, vociferous spinster and climber of trees.
Even as her pulse bounded with the thrill of such knowledge—even as the thought of where they stood made her head spin—Lucy realized with a start she wasn’t afraid. She felt an unshakable faith in the way his arms held her, as though he wouldn’t let go until their feet were back on solid ground. The realization of what that meant began to seep through the pleasure of the drugging kiss he had just delivered.
She trusted him.
And not only trusted that he would save her from a fall. She trusted he was here for the right reasons, that he had her—and Heathmore’s—best interests at heart.
She stared up at him in wonder. His eyes were some shade of the soil, rich brown and green, inviting her back. “Thomas.” She framed his face in her hands, running her fingers across his jaw, reveling in the contrasts to be found there. “I am so, so sorry I ever doubted you.”
“Lucy—”
She pressed a finger against his lips. “You have been honest with me from the start, and I didn’t appreciate it for the gift that it was. There was no reason, none whatsoever, for me to have distrusted you as I did. I have been contrary and presumptuous and naive, but I would be honest with you now. You are an honorable man. You have risked your lif
e to save me.” She hesitated. “And if you would promise to take proper care of my aunt’s cottage, I can think of no one to whom I would rather sell Heathmore.”
He stiffened. “There is no need to make a hasty decision. You haven’t seen the remaider of the property yet in daylight. You may decide you don’t need to sell it at all.”
She shook her head, knowing it was the truth. “I can’t afford the property. It doesn’t matter how much I want it, I can’t continue the repairs you have started. I believe you will be a good steward of the trust I would place in you.”
His arm tightened around her. “We could continue those repairs together.”
“Thomas. Be serious.” She batted him on the arm. “You can’t continue to spend money on a house someone else owns.”
“I am being serious. Marry me, Lucy. It would solve everything.”
She caught her breath, more than halfway tempted to just say yes and be damned the consequences. And not because she’d spent the night wrapped in his arms, or because he presented such a ready solution to the dilemma of what she was going to do about Heathmore.
It was because of how he made her feel.
Before she’d met Thomas, she never imagined feeling this way. Never once imagined her future to be shaped as one half of a pair.
Never once imagined someone she cared about might offer for her.
Last night, when he proposed so awkwardly, she’d worried that he only offered out of some misplaced sense of honor. Worse, she’d frightened herself by actually considering it. She could imagine no worse scenario than finding herself trapped in a marriage where only she felt such things.
She was far more confused on that front this morning, after seeing him climb down to rescue her. He cared for her. He must. But once again her breath felt knotted in her lungs.
What did that mean? Did it mean she was bound for a different path, or just that she lacked the imagination to see the potential in the road he offered? Aunt E’s words—the very first entry in the diary—echoed in her head.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 24
