by Jess Russell
Blessed air rushed into her lungs as she scrambled onto the top of the rock. Dear God, she was safe.
Her gown, still clinging to the rock, seemed to wave an eerie farewell, before it disappeared into the black water.
But her victory was short-lived. The water continued to rise at a furious pace. The rock would be submerged all too soon. She could not stay, but she could not attempt to swim either, certainly not in these turbulent waters. Olivia raised her face to the weeping sky finding a miraculous star amid the storm clouds.
The thunder cracked three times in succession directly overhead, but there was no lightning. The storm must be moving off, but even so, it was too little too late. She shivered, lay down on the rock, and closed her eyes.
The water lapping her ankles should have terrified her—it had risen that high—but she only stared as it crept up her laces, now to the edge of her stocking. Death would not be long now.
About to close her eyes for the last time, she saw her star had moved closer, and an angel stood beside it. Rhys. Her angel was Rhys. He would take her to heaven. He called to her. Yes, yes, she would come, but she was so weary. And so cold. Surely one should not feel so cold in death? When she opened her eyes again, her angel was gone; only the light remained. No! But no sound came from her lips. She did not want to die alone. Please, God, let him come back to comfort her in her last hour.
Then he appeared. He was there right beside her. He was speaking to her. Could angels speak? She could not make out his words, but words did not matter. She only comprehended his arms coming around her, sweeping her off the rock and into the swirling waters. She did not care as long as she was in his arms. Safe. So safe.
The small beach was suddenly crowded with men. Where had they all come from? And Rhys seemed very much alive as he shouted orders to the men around him. Someone wrapped her in blankets and hoisted her onto a horse. Warm arms encircled her. His arms. She remembered some of the ride home, mostly the warmth and the smell of him—salt and leather and the faintest hint of gunpowder. The rest didn’t matter.
****
The bed was too big. It made her look so small, so very fragile. Rhys stood in the shadows of the rose bedchamber at Valmere watching Dr. Asher work over her. Her wet black hair was the only contrast to her pale face and the stark white of the linen sheets. Dr. Asher had given her some laudanum, and she slept. Her head was being cleaned and bandaged—another bit of white to cover most of her hair. Her hands were next and then the cover was pulled back and her gown lifted to reveal her left hip. Rhys started forward. The bruise was already black as pitch and huge against her white skin. He reached for her.
Mrs. Wiggins’s gaze found his. Reality crashed in, and stayed his hand. He should not be there watching these private ministrations. He had no right to this intimacy. But she was his Olivia. They did not understand; she was his.
Someone was at the door. Tinsley.
Yes, he did need a bath, and no, he would be no good to Mrs. Weston with a horrid ague. Besides he could do with a brandy—or five—yet another reason to take himself off. With one last look he left the room.
He had almost given up hope when he saw her there in the cove.
His light had caught a flash of white. He had passed the lantern back along the cove and saw what must be her face lifted, almost as if she was looking straight at him on the cliff. What if he had not taken the time to make a second pass?
Oh, dear God, thank you.
As he sank back in his bath, three words rolled over and over in his head. She was safe. She was safe. She was home.
****
He stayed away. Why would he not come to her? It had been four days already. She was almost fully recovered except for some tenderness in her ankle and a small lump on her head. The bruises would be weeks to fade but were not painful.
The hall stretched ahead, deserted. She should not be prowling about outside his study, but she was so tired of being cooped up in her beautiful room with its view of the sea. And when she had quizzed Dr. Asher, he assured her the duke would be gone all day. The knob felt hard and cool in her hand; she turned it and pushed the door open.
The study appeared large and airy despite its walls being filled with shelves containing all manner of things, books among them. A mix of sweet tobacco, wood smoke, old books and something else—oil?—hung in the air. It was so clearly his room, and she an intruder. But once there, she could not resist.
Angled in the corner of the room nearest to her stood a small harpsichord; stacks of handwritten music littered its top. She lifted a sheet. It looked to be his writing. She tried to pick out the tune in her head, but she was never good at sight reading and could not risk the noise to actually play. Besides, there was so much to see. She moved on, trailing her fingers along books on engineering and new farming methods. Books on mathematics, the Pythagorean Theorem, Newton’s works, Descartes, and Aristotle’s Poetics.
A series of bird’s nests filled an entire shelf. Each one impossibly ephemeral yet so perfectly engineered. Bits of straw and horse hair, threaded with sea grasses, and what looked like butterfly wings and the down of some bird. She imagined him finding one, his strong fingers brushing the grass searching for eggs or bits of broken shell. And then, oh so carefully, wrapping the nest in his handkerchief, and putting it in his pocket. There were also bits of rusted metal—maybe old coins or buttons?—a tarnished spoon and several odd-shaped rocks with what looked to be the impressions of tiny sea creatures within them.
His huge desk dominated the room. Less like a desk and more like the kind of table where she used to cut fabric. In the middle of it stood a large magnifying glass fixed to a stand. She drew nearer. Tiny tools lay neat as surgical instruments in a handsome leather case. She imagined his large hands wielding those tools—so careful and precise. Nearby was a tray covered with a silk-velvet cloth. She glanced to the door and, satisfied no one was coming, lifted a corner. Shiny gears and wheels, springs and cogs lay in neat rows. Each had a number next to it attached to the bottom of the tray with a pin. The smell of oil was strong. She bent closer to touch the largest gear.
“It is the works of a rare, late seventeenth-century Tompion pocket watch with a cylinder escapement.”
Olivia jerked, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Or will be when I uncover its mysteries,” he finished.
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. “I am afraid you have caught me snooping.” Her voice trailed off. She would not “Your Grace” him, yet she could not possibly call him Rhys either. He was dressed for riding. His buff breeches and slate blue jacket reminded her of sand and sea. She drank him in, in great gulping draughts.
He frowned. “You are a guest in my home. You may go wherever you wish.”
The image of his bed chamber skittered across her brain and hotness spread over her cheeks. She ducked her head, and randomly pointed to a small S-shaped piece in the tray. “And what is this for?” Too late she realized he would have to cross the room and come to her side to see properly.
He did so and leaned over, his jacket brushing her arm. The urge to pull away was huge, but she made herself stay fixed.
“Ah, that is the cock.”
She flinched away from him, an utter coward. Dear Lord, he could not be serious? She risked a look at him. He was, very serious.
“The cock is vital. It attaches to the movement plate and the pivot wheel.”
“I see.” She saw absolutely nothing other than his liquid gold eyes. “Well, I will not disturb you. No doubt you have much to accomplish.”
“No, please do not leave on my account. I only came to fetch something.” He paused as if he wanted to say more.
“I have no wish to be in your way.”
An odd look came over his face. “You are not in my way. I will only be a moment.” He went to a cupboard below a row of shelves and pulled out an object about seven inches high made of various metal parts. He held it next to his side, almost hiding it. “It is on
ly a toy for our young groom.”
Olivia drew closer.
He hesitated and then held it out as if it were a trifle. “It is meant to be a penguin—a flightless bird that lives in the arctic wastelands.”
Olivia touched its shiny crown. “He is beautiful.”
He frowned again. “It is an automaton,” he said, as if he could not equate science with a thing of beauty. “Made up of old clockworks and scraps of metal. Something I do in my leisure time. I have promised this fellow to young Mathew, our stable boy who is keen on automation.”
“What a lovely gift. It must take infinite patience to create such a thing.” She smiled shyly, and he frowned. “Will you show me how he works?”
Silently he crossed to the desk and carefully moved the tray and some papers aside. She stood across the desk from him. He turned the bird’s head, and the crown sprang open. Ahhh, she thought, but she must have said it out loud because he looked over at her. A small key in the shape of a fish was revealed, which he removed and set into the toy’s now-open beak. So clever. He carefully turned it three or four times.
Olivia held her breath as if she were waiting for an actual birth. Miraculously, the little bird stuttered a step and then two and three and onward across the desk while its beak opened and shut and stubby wings flapped.
“Oh,” she breathed, her gaze finding his. “I am—”
He ducked his head. “Yes, it required some patience.”
“Your Mathew is a lucky little boy.”
The duke straightened, his lips pulling tight. “No, not so lucky…” but he did not elaborate.
“Well,” she said breaking the lingering silence, “I believe I will go rest now. If you will excuse me?”
“Mrs. Weston?” She stopped halfway to the door. Ah, we are back to Mrs. Weston. “I trust you are improved?” He took a step toward her. “Are you well?”
His words spoke of something much deeper than her mere physical health.
“Yes.” She tried to smile. “I am quite recovered. Indeed, I do not see how I could avoid it as I have had every attention possible. Keep this up, sir, and I will never want to leave you.” Oh, had she really said that? The flush sweeping over her assured her that she had.
His face remained unfathomable, but his eyes looked so…yearning.
“What I mean to say is,” she pushed through her embarrassment, “I do not know how to thank you. It seems you are destined to rescue me.”
She ventured a small laugh, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. But his face suddenly contorted, as if a damn had burst. His words came out in a fierce rush.
“Confound it woman, how can you laugh? Do you not perceive how close you were to death? To be out all day with no word to anyone? How could you not anticipate the coming storm and get yourself to safety?”
Astonished by his outburst, Olivia swallowed. “Your Grace, I am heartily sorry to have caused such trouble and worry. Believe me; Egg has raked me over the coals a dozen or more times already. I am very sensible now of my extreme folly. I sometimes tend to get caught up in a moment, in trying to capture that moment with paint.” She gestured toward the window as if it would aid in her explanation. “The light, with the coming storm, was like nothing I had ever seen and the way into the cove was very passable at the time. I say this not by way of an excuse, but only as an explanation,” she finished trying to defray some of the heavy emotion that still poured off of him.
“Why did you not swim to shore? I know that particular cove and, if attempted early enough, one can easily swim to the safety of the beach.”
“Yes, I could see that. It is easy enough if one knows how to swim.”
His head jerked up like a shot. He took a slow step toward her. “Am I to understand you do not swim?”
“I do not, Your Grace.” She met his eyes squarely.
This last set him pacing about the room. She watched him in some awe. He seemed very angry.
Suddenly he stopped and faced her. “You will learn to swim as soon as may be.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And who shall be my teacher?”
He raised his own eyebrow, accepting the challenge. “Why, myself, of course.” And with that, he left the chamber.
Chapter Twenty
Olivia felt light as a feather.
His fingertips miraculously suspended her body as she lay on her back in the soft, shushing water. Her ears lay just beneath the surface, muting the world around her, the sun, heavy and pressing on her eyelids, so warm. Her small cocoon-like world utterly peaceful.
Well, except for her rioting heart.
She dared a squinted look, sure he could see her heart leaping about beneath the wet linen of her bathing costume. He was frowning furiously down at her. Not that she was surprised. This had been his demeanor from the outset of her lesson. She felt like a naughty child who had thoroughly displeased her parent.
When they first entered the waters, her dignity had taken quite a hit; she clung to him like a tenacious sea creature. But he had firmly peeled her arms off as soon as he waded into the small pool that lay within the cove.
It had taken her a long while to trust him with her body, but once that had been achieved, she surprised herself with her progress, treading water, head above the waves, feet kicking and arms pushing back and forth.
“Now flatten out your body, like this.” She swirled around in the lapping waves to see his demonstration. “And reach your arm long, cupping your hand to pull the water back toward you.”
As his arms cut deftly through the sea with such grace and economy, her own stilled. He was so beautiful. She could watch him forever.
Foamy brine closed over her nose and eyes.
But before she could begin to panic strong hands gripped her arm, and he fished her up like a sack of oysters. “Blast you, pay attention!” She pressed her laughter between her lips. “Now reach.”
He stood in the middle of the pool, frowning and barking directions. She did not care. She loved it. As she reached one arm out before her, cupping the water as he had shown her, she felt so utterly free. By Saint Anne, she was swimming.
Olivia caught glimpses of him as his eyes and body tracked her progress. She loved how vigilant he was. Never letting her stray too far from his reach. Her muscles screamed but she wanted so much to please him. Remembering an old tale from her childhood where mermaids and mermen swam beneath the waves, she became bold and dove under. The earthly world disappeared to give way to the muted, tranquil sea world. She became a mermaid.
Once again, vise-like arms gripped her body, heaving her up out of the water.
She came up laughing. But his panicked face made her heart constrict in sweet pain.
“I am well,” she assured him, resting her hand on his cheek. “Truly, Rhys, I am—”
He kissed her.
She pulled back to see the question in his eyes and kissed him back.
Lips still locked, he scooped her up into his arms. His heart beat heavily next to her breast as he cradled her to him. She felt the pumping of his powerful legs against her bottom, and the rigid rising of his penis against her hip as they made their way to shore. Olivia nestled in deeper and he groaned.
He laid her in the cool, wet sand at the edge of the surf and covered her with his body. The foamy brine licked gently at her legs as she dug her heels into the sand and pushed up into him.
They did not speak. They only loved. Simply touching and learning each other. Words were too harmful and too much a source of misunderstanding. Words were for later. Much later. Now there was only love.
****
“Have you always painted?” he asked, breaking their long silence with a safe topic. They had chosen to remain on foot while leading their horses toward home.
“Always.” She looked out over the headlands. “At least for as long as I can remember.” Olivia laughed, ducking her head. “I used to love the color purple. Everything I painted was some shade of purple. I remember painting an old yew tree
near my home and proudly showing the picture to my governess. She was most displeased. ‘There are no purple trees,’ she said. And she tore it to bits.”
She turned when Rhys made no rejoinder. He was looking at her oddly. “Your family employed a governess?”
“Oh—no—I misspoke.” Suddenly finding a bit of sand still clinging to her skirts she brushed at it. Anything to avoid his eyes. “It was only a woman who sometimes taught the village children.” She vaulted onto Opalina, her only thought escape. “Let us race!”
When Valmere was in sight, she could see Lord Bertram and Egg pacing near the stables. Olivia knew the instant her friend caught sight of her and Rhys. Egg stopped abruptly, placed her hands on her hips, and tucked her chin into her chest. Very much like a wet hen with a missing chick.
“Well, you see, Eglantine.” Bertram folded her arm beneath his and patted her hand as Olivia and Rhys rode up. “There is no need to call out the hounds. Did I not tell you Roydan is quite capable of teaching one small female to swim?”
“Thank you, my lord, you did assure me. While I had no doubt of Mrs. Weston’s capabilities, even if she is small and female,”—she gave Bertram a speaking look—“and certainly the duke is very…athletic, I only wondered at the time gone by and how wise it is to…” She frowned. “Swim, so long.” Now that his lordship was put firmly in his place, she turned to Olivia. “How did you get on, my dear?” Egg pursed her lips and looked over her spectacles.
Olivia bit her lip and then laughed. “It was most delightful. I was swimming, dear—Lady Wiggins! I would not have thought I could make so much progress in one short day.”
“Yes,” the duke interceded, “Mrs. Weston is making tolerable progress.” Thinking Rhys finished with his assessment; the two older people began their congratulations. But Rhys cleared his throat, “However, I believe she will need more instruction. I am thinking of one area in particular where more attention is needed if she is to become a true proficient.”
Olivia could hardly look at him. He accomplished his speech without the smallest ghost of a smile. She wanted to shout “Bravo!” and roar with laughter. How could she ever think he was cold and humorless?
