Chapter Thirteen
Miranda was wrapped in Jago’s sweatshirt. Funny, she didn’t remember him wearing one at the pub. Even funnier – ha ha ha – she didn’t give a toss! She also didn’t remember how his arm had crept around her shoulders but she cared about that because it felt warm and strong and very right.
The sky was now inky blue, the lights shining in the village and beyond from the cottages that scrambled up the hillside until they stopped at the edge of the moorland. A few lights also winked on the yachts in the harbour, swinging gently from side to side as the masts rocked in the night breeze. However, the lane from the pub to the water’s edge was dark and silent. There was no one about. Why would there be? It was almost midnight.
Miranda vaguely remembered a conversation with Karen about a room for the night and her giggling. She heard the bolts on the door of the Pilchard locking behind her and felt Jago holding her hand as they walked down the steep lane towards the sea. The Mount seemed to float above her, its battlements and towers silhouetted against the moon, a few lights still strung along the distant quayside like fireflies tangled in a net.
Oh, how romantic. She giggled again now and Jago’s arm tightened around her shoulders. ‘You can stop laughing, my lady, and start working out where the hell we’re going to get a boat from at this time of night?’
She blinked into the darkness at the myriad boats bobbing up and down in the harbour. ‘We could use that,’ she said, pointing at a rowing boat tied up near the end of the slip-way.
‘That one belongs to the rowing gig club.’
‘So? They won’t mind. We could have it back in the morning before they find out.’
‘Tide’ll be out by morning.’
Miranda considered for a moment, although she was way past the stage of considering anything and onto the stage where jumping off a cliff sounded rational. ‘You’re right; bugger the gig club, our need is greater than theirs.’
Jago climbed down the steps into the boat and held out his hand to her. Miranda looked down at the stone steps, slippery with weed. She stood on the top one and held out her hands. ‘I feel like Louisa Musgrove. Whee!’ She wobbled deliberately and made as if to leap into the boat.
‘For God’s sake, no. Be careful!’
‘Only joking but I had you going, didn’t I?’
His face, pale in the moonlight, stared up at her. ‘Just get in the boat, wench.’
‘How dare you call me a wench?’
‘Because I’m his lordship. Now, come here.’
Taking Jago’s outstretched hand, she let him help her down into the boat and sat on the thwart. Jago clambered back up to the quay, untied the boat and sat opposite her. He took the oars in both hands and pulled away from the harbour wall, grunting with effort.
Miranda giggled. ‘Put your back into it, St Merryn.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that? I’m the captain and I’m in charge.’
Miranda wagged her finger at him, insanely happy. ‘I think not. You’re incapaciiattated. I’m the one who’s driving.’
The harbour wall glided by them and they were out in the bay, with the Mount ahead of them. ‘I think you mean rowing,’ said Jago.
‘Driving, rowing. What-evahh,’ said Miranda.
‘If you’re going to be criticise the skipper, you can take over.’
‘I could do better.’
‘OK then.’ Jago let go of the oars and tried to stand up. The boat swayed precariously.
Miranda let out a squeal. ‘Whoaa! Sit down, St Merryn.’
He plonked back down and she had to grab the sides for support.
He gathered the oars in his hands again. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘If this was the Navy, I’d have you thrown on the brig for insubordination.’
The boat wobbled as Miranda gave him a cheeky salute. ‘Do you know what Winston Churchill said about the Navy?’
‘Funnily enough, no.’
‘He said,’ Miranda declared, ‘that the Navy was “nothing but rum, sodomy and the lash”.’
There was a pause. Miranda saw Jago’s eyes sparkle wickedly. ‘Well, we’ve had the rum, but if you fancy trying the other two, I’m willing to oblige.’
Oh er. Her skin burned like hot coals. Even in the half-light, even with the boat swaying and her swaying too, she recognised her trembly feeling as pure lust. Filthy thoughts rampaged through her mind, fantasies she’d never dare acknowledge and that, even through a groggy haze, both scared her and drove her wild.
‘I think we should get a move on while the moon’s out.’
Someone said the words and it must have been her because Jago said, ‘Aye, Cap’n.’ He then pulled on the oars and the boat bobbed forwards. Miranda gripped the thwarts as wavelets buffeted the boat. Lights from the quayside windows flickered on the water as the Mount grew closer. Miranda wrapped her arms around her trembling body as they reached the open sea and passed the halfway point between mainland and the harbour. She’d opened herself up to him in every way and yet it felt good. He’d made her cry and it had hurt and yet she felt as if part of a weight on her shoulders had been lifted. She hadn’t realised that she’d been carrying a burden at all. Perhaps he was right; perhaps she should try to contact her mother again.
He stopped rowing and watched her. Did he know what she was thinking? Impossible but …
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
His face broke into a grin. ‘I feel a sea shanty coming on.’ He opened his mouth wide and sang.
‘Oh-hhh, there was a young lady of Kew who said as the curate withdrew, The Vicar is slicker and quicker and thicker and two inches longer than youuuu.’
Miranda clamped her hands over her ears.
Jago took a deep exaggerated breath then let rip. ‘There was a young lady called Alice …’
‘Nooooo!’
‘… who used dynamite for a phallussss!’
‘They’ll hear you in Penzance!’ Her stomach hurt. Tears of laughter rolled down her face.
‘They found her – Arghhh!’
The boat hit a wave head on, Jago overbalanced and collapsed into the bottom of the boat on top of her. It swayed violently from side to side and Jago landed on her, taking her breath away.
‘Shit. Have I hurt you?’ he asked.
‘Don’t. … know … yet. Ow.’
His face above her was horrified. ‘God, I’m sorry. Call me a drunken tit.’
She opened her eyes and through her laughter, said, ‘You’re a drunken tit, my lord.’
He kneeled above her silhouetted against the moonlight, gazing down at her. ‘Oh, there once was a girl called Miranda …’ he sang, out of tune, softly.
‘And?’
‘And nothing would rhyme with her ridiculous name.’
Her heart sank in disappointment. ‘Oh.’
‘And so there was only one thing to do.’ His mouth came down on hers, gentle, warm and smelling of Tinner’s ale and bittersweet smoke. Miranda almost passed out, partly from the grog but also from shock and the sudden and wonderful realisation that that Jago was snogging her, deeply and tenderly. A real hero, she thought, would have tasted of minty fresh toothpaste but Jago was never going to live up to expectations and that drove her even wilder. He braced himself with two hands either side of her body. The wooden seat dug into her back painfully but she kissed him back. She explored his mouth with her tongue, seeking – who knew – just losing herself inside him.
When the kiss finally ended, she found herself inches from Jago’s face. ‘We’re drunk,’ she said, slowly.
He smiled. ‘So?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Come here.’ Did she really just say that? Was she really pulling his head back down to her and snogging his face off. Was he really joining in with just as much enthusiasm?
She shoved her hands up inside his T-shirt, desperate to touch him the way he had her in the armoury, only this time, without restraint. His skin was hot beneath her palms in contrast to the cold nig
ht air and she longed to press the whole length of her against his naked body. As she ranged her hands over the muscles of his back, his spine and shoulder blades, Jago explored her with his tongue. She gave a soft moan as he, Jago, trailed his tongue down her throat and her cleavage. The breeze left a trail of cool sensation where his tongue had been and her nipples stiffened.
She pushed her hands down the back of his jeans. For a heartbeat, she thought he might protest and pull away but felt him arch against her.
He settled himself between her thighs, pressed himself against her and let out a groan. ‘God, Miranda …’
Shouldn’t we? Her words were carried away in a gust of wind or maybe she hadn’t really said them at all, she was so lost in the feel and taste and smell of making love to the real Jago, not some fantasy figure. The real flesh and blood man, whose weight was pressing between her legs, whose fingers were popping the buttons of her dress and pushing aside the lace of her bra to suck her nipples, was a thousand times better than any figment of her imagination.
No matter how crazy, it seemed so exactly right that she was making out with Jago in a rowing boat in the middle of the ocean. It seemed right when he slid his hand under her dress and over her stomach. She shivered with pleasure as his fingers skated lower over her knickers and lingered at the nub of her as he kissed her.
His voice murmured in her ear, ‘Yes?’
‘Oh yes, yes, yes please.’
‘Your wish is my command.’
Jago broke contact and the space between them was instantly cold. She gasped as spray flew from the waves and spattered her half-naked body. Jago loomed over her in the half-light, fumbling with the buttons of his jeans.
‘Lie back, my lovely.’
She shuffled down into the bottom of the boat, not minding the puddle of seawater soaking through her thin dress. Her knees were bent and her thighs were open. She must look like a slut. She felt like one. She was as high as a kite and quivering with excitement. Jago tried to tug his jeans and boxers down his thighs, struggling and wincing as the boat wobbled alarmingly.
He cried out in exasperation. ‘Give us a hand, will you?’
She laughed but reached up and yanked his jeans and boxers down. Her mouth gawped.
‘I don’t think there’s time for any niceties,’ he said.
‘What about … you know?’
‘In my wallet.’ He tried to reach down to his ankles and the boat swayed dangerously.
‘I’ll get it,’ she said, unable to bear the frustration and ready to burst. She sat up and groped in his jeans pocket for his wallet. Above her, Jago’s cock jutted proudly like the prow of a ship and she laughed out loud.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘Your … thing … it looks like a figurehead. A phallic figurehead.’
‘Why, thank you on behalf of my “thing”. Now would you please find the condoms before I explode?’
Dying with lust, she fumbled through the cards and notes for the condom. ‘Sorry.’ Her fingers slipped. The cards concertinaed into the bottom of the boat, landing in a pool of water.
‘Sorry.’
‘Forget it,’ he said, briskly, and took the condom from her fingers and tore open the packet. How he rolled it on with the boat swaying, Miranda would never know. Or was that her swaying?
He smiled gently down at her. ‘Miranda, my lovely, you need to take off your knickers.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’
The boat bobbed as she shimmied out of her pants. Jago tugged the knickers over her feet and managed to get his knees between her legs as the boat bobbled alarmingly.
‘Wind’s getting up,’ he said. ‘Better be quick.’
He shuffled forwards and the boat lurched. He toppled into her, brushing against her thighs as he did so. ‘Sorry. Bloody boat.’
Miranda felt his erection nudge her inner thighs. The wind howled and the boat lurched again. She felt her stomach turn over. Oh God, don’t say she was going to be sick.
Jago’s eyes were intent on her. ‘Right. Ready to board, captain?’
The wind howled again. The boat rolled from side to side as a wave slammed into the bows.
‘Shit!’
Water sloshed over the side. Miranda shrieked as a wave of cold water drenched them both. She shook her head to clear water from her face but another wave crashed over the boat, soaking them once again. Jago grabbed the sides of the boat as Miranda battled to sit up. A dark shape loomed ahead by the harbour wall, growing larger by the second. The moon came out from behind a cloud and a jagged mass appeared a few yards beyond the bows.
‘Watch out! The rocks!’
‘Bollocks!’ Jago scrambled for the oars.
‘Quick!’
He pulled hard on one oar, trying to steer them away from the rocks at the side of the harbour. Miranda paddled like crazy with her hands, heart thudding like mad. They were going to hit the rocks. ‘Oh my God!’
She threw herself to the other end of the boat. Jago pulled on the oars but it was too late. The boat connected with the rocks with a sickening crash. Wood splinters flew into the air.
‘Jump!’ Jago grabbed her hand.
‘No!’
He yanked her arm, hurting her and then she hit the water and went under into the cold blackness. The shock took her breath and froze her body. She gasped and burbled then bobbed up, gulping in air. She heard the boat cracking apart as it ground against the harbour wall. Frantically, she trod water and flailed her hands.
Jago bobbed up a few feet away. ‘All right?’ he spluttered.
She burbled in reply, her throat and eyes stinging from salt water, and struck out for the slipway. Her clothes weighed her down but suddenly her feet sank into the slimy weed on the bottom of the harbour. She floundered a few more yards to the slipway and hauled herself out of the sea, coughing and retching. She heard Jago behind her, splashing out of the water. The crushed and splintered boat began sinking rapidly.
Jago reached out a hand and pointed. ‘Christ. Look at that.’
In the moonlight, she saw his wallet and one of her ballet pumps floating on the surface near the boat. She planted her hands on her knees and tugged in lungfuls of air like she wanted to suck up the night itself. Her dress was pasted to her thighs and she realised she had no knickers on. Shivering with cold and shock, she stood on the slipway and covered her face with her hands. What a disaster, what a bloody stupid, monumental disaster.
‘Are you all right? Come here.’ Jago touched her arm and tried to take her in his arms but she shoved him off her. ‘No I’m not all right! We stole and wrecked a boat. We almost drowned! What are we going to do?’
He glanced at the boat. Full of water now, it hung gracefully on the surface. ‘Nothing for tonight.’
‘But look at it!’
On cue, the boat disappeared beneath the surface of the harbour.
‘I’ll sort it out tomorrow. The most important thing is that you’re safe but you need to get warm. Come on, let’s get you back to your cottage.’
Miranda stared at him. Her lips were numb and she felt stone cold sober. She was also speechless with anger at her own stupidity. How could she have got so drunk that she’d been about to let Jago make love to her in a rowing boat in full view of the Mount? Lights twinkled now in some of the cottages.
‘Oh God, people must have seen and heard us crash the boat.’
‘Maybe, so let’s get inside before they come out.’
Miranda stared at him in disbelief. ‘Let us get inside? No way. I’ve made one huge mistake already tonight. I’m not going to make it worse.’
‘But you’re wet and cold. So am I.’
‘Go and warm up in your castle then!’
She ran off, her bare feet slapping on the cobbles. She realised that her bag was in the boat, along with her purse but, mercifully, not her keys. People rarely locked their doors on the Mount after hours, so she hadn’t bothered taking them to the pub with her. She pushed open the
door, closed and bolted it behind her. Water dripped off her dress and down her legs onto the tiles. She went upstairs to the bedroom and closed the curtain. She then went into the bathroom and stripped off her sopping dress and tossed it into the bath. She grabbed a bathrobe from the back of the door and wrapped it round her.
She found a towel and rubbed at her hair viciously as if she could rub away the fact that she’d opened up to Jago in so many ways. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and her pale, wet face stared back at her.
She went back into the bedroom, feeling slightly dizzy, and then heard voices outside the cottage. She dashed to the window and drew the curtain aside. Down on the harbour front there was no sign of Jago but two very large people were now walking along the quayside, one with a torch in her hand. It was Ronnie and Neem.
Miranda could hear their words clearly. Surely that meant they’d heard her and Jago?
‘Shit.’ Ronnie, swamped by Neem’s T-shirt, flicked on her torch and shone it on the harbour. The beam swept over the surface of the water, just a few metres from where the boat had sunk. ‘Can you see anything, Neem?’
Neem, wearing only his boxers, crouched down on the quayside like a huge Buddha. ‘No.’
‘There was definitely someone out here.’
Miranda drew back the curtain a little more. The moon was fully out from behind the clouds, illuminating the whole harbour for a moment. Shivering, she tugged the robe tighter around her body.
Ronnie paced the quayside. ‘I definitely heard voices.’
Neem touched her shoulder. ‘Come back to bed, baby.’
Ronnie turned and kissed him. ‘OK. But I’ll have to report this as soon as the harbourmaster is up.’
Miranda closed her eyes in pure relief. I love you, Neem, she mouthed as he steered Ronnie back to her cottage. In the harbour, the waves rippled gently in the breeze but the water was black and there was no sign of the boat.
But in the morning, it would be exposed for everyone to see.
Miranda's Mount Page 11
