Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  He erred on the side of speed over care. He just didn’t trust the makeshift roping or her ability to properly secure the line about herself. He had been wrong in the end. Not about the method, but about her ability.

  At the sight of her hands at the ledge, he slowed so she could angle onto the edge.

  She was breathing hard and coughing, but God bless her, she had pluck.

  He dragged her a few more feet forward and then rushed to pull her completely to safety. He had to peel her hand from the reins.

  The damned dog was delirious and dancing all over her. Alex pushed him away and leaned her against his saddlebags.

  She looked like a reclining statue come to life—all covered in gray clay and dust. Her tangle of hair was especially, ahem, exotic. He wasn’t sure if she was five and twenty or five and fifty.

  He left her but for a moment to retrieve his flask. He was at least grateful that Bacchus, amid the fracas, had not reverted to his usual skittish nature. The stallion eyed him with disdain and continued to munch on a thicket of delectable grass.

  Alex removed the top of the flask and brought it to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful only to sputter. “Wha-what is this?”

  “Blue Ruin.”

  “Blue what?”

  “Sorry. Brandy’s all gone. This is all they had at that unfortunate inn in the last village.”

  “No water?” Her voice was all dust and gravel churned together.

  “Water? Why ever would I want that? Dangerous stuff, don’t you know? Tea, coffee, wine, spirits are the only . . .” He stopped. “Care to tell me what happened?”

  She paused. “I fell.”

  He waited.

  “Off the cliff.”

  “Yes, I figured out that part,” he said dryly. “All by myself.” Perhaps she had hit her head during the fall.

  She took another sip and managed not to cough.

  “If you give me directions to your home, I shall go fetch someone to carry you.” There was not a chance of making Penzance by nightfall now.

  “No,” she answered too quickly.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “ ‘No,’ you cannot remember the directions to your house, ‘No,’ there is no one there, or ‘No,’ you have no residence?” Please Lord, say it was not the latter. He might have saved her today, but he didn’t want to be responsible for her tomorrow.

  “Of course, I have a home,” she murmured. “A quite lovely, large one.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” She bit her lip, and then spit out the dust quite inelegantly. “It’s just . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to go there.” She picked at her dirty gown. “At present.”

  “But someone must be worried about you. Must be waiting for your return.”

  She refused to comment.

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t even asked if you’re all right.”

  “Oh, I’m perfect.”

  Her voice had that high keening to it that made men long to go in the opposite direction.

  “Perfectly fine.”

  Uh-oh. These words were the inevitable prelude to every feminine lecture he had heard over the years.

  “Yes. How could I not be? I thought my dog dead. I searched the cliff only to have it give way. I then had the joy of contemplating the merits of death by drowning versus splattering onto jagged rocks. And . . .”

  “Go on. Best get it all out now.”

  “And . . . and I am married to someone who is in all likelihood sitting comfortably in his library drinking wine I purchased, in boots I polished since he likes the way I do it, and reading his horticultural journals, which I took care to lay out for him this morning.”

  “That was very nice of you.”

  “I’m a very nice person,” she insisted. Her eyes, which he now discerned were quite blue, sparked in annoyance.

  “Of course you are.”

  “Stop”—she ground out—“agreeing with me.”

  Yes, this was the way all his conversations went with females. In the past, however, he’d had the pleasure of knowing them a minimum of a fortnight before the ranting began. Well, at least her anger was directed toward another man. Perhaps. It was hard to tell.

  “You must think me mad,” she said, dejected.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Yes, I can tell you do.”

  “You just told me to stop agreeing with you.”

  “Yes, but in this case you should deny it.”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  She looked toward the place from which she had fallen. “He saw me fall and he left me to die.”

  He slowly stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  He repositioned himself behind her and grasped her shoulders to ease the stiffness. “Can you feel your arms? How long were you waiting for him?”

  “I don’t know. I think it all happened about half past four.”

  God, she’d been there for nearly three hours.

  “How far away is . . .” He stopped.

  “At most a quarter hour by carriage. And no, allow me to assure you there is no possible reason for his delay.” Her voice rose. “You see, I’ve had a quiet afternoon to reflect on every possible impediment. And there is only one reason you are here instead of Lawrence.”

  “Lawrence?”

  “My husband. The Earl of Paxton.”

  “You’re a countess?” The moment he said it, he regretted it. Oh, not the words, the tone. He braced for the worst.

  She said not a word. Instead she bowed her head.

  No. Oh, not tears. Anything but tears. Well, the day was all shot to hell as it was. He plucked a handkerchief from his discarded coat nearby and came around to face her, on his haunches.

  She dabbed at the caked gray clay on her face. “I am not crying.”

  “Of course not. There’s a bit of, um, chalk in your hair.”

  She shook her head and a spray of dust flew all about.

  He bit back a smile. It was unkind to find humor in any part of this unfortunate lady’s circumstances. “All right. Here is what I propose,” he continued. “Let us get you to the magistrate of the parish. He will sort this out and mete out the justice your delightful husband deserves. No one is above the laws of the land, no matter what his station.”

  “He is the magistrate.”

  “Then I shall take you to the neighboring parish. Surely—”

  “Stop, I beg you,” she interrupted dryly. “Lawrence has ties to every man of importance in all of Cornwall. They ride and hunt together, dine together, drink to excess together . . . ” She flailed an arm in frustration.

  “But—” He should know better than to press the point. “All right. What do you suggest?”

  “You’d be willing to help me?”

  “Why, you cut me to the quick, madam. Have I not proven myself a prince among men?”

  “Um, well . . . yes. And no.”

  “Explain, if you please.”

  “You did come through in the heat of the moment. But . . . if you’ll pardon me, you have a look about you that speaks the opposite of everything you say. And . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I don’t trust handsome gentlemen any longer.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, madam.”

  She hesitated. “So, you’ll help me, then? Really?”

  “Alexander Barclay—your servant.” That ringing in his head, which always preceded regret, sounded in his ears. “So . . . what precisely did you have in mind?”

  “Do you have a pistol?” She studied him with her big, round blue eyes and a smile that made him nervous. “Or, perhaps, a lovely little dagger?”

  Chapter 2

  It was beyond maddening that this overly handsome gentleman with harshly hewn features had managed to keep any and all lethal objects out of her reach. Actually, it hadn’t been all that difficult. The trial of hanging on the cliff for
hours, and now riding pillion on his skittish, ill-tempered stallion, had left her near to dead as they made their way toward Penzance, twenty miles southwest.

  At first, he’d been reluctant to take her with him, but then he’d seemed even more reluctant to leave her to her own ideas. To his credit, he’d grumbled a lot less than his horse when she’d insisted on bringing her dog, who trotted behind them.

  “So where exactly is this new residence of yours?” she mumbled, her head jostling against his back. She prayed she would not see anyone she knew just yet. She needed time to think. Not that she and Lawrence frequented the seaside town very often; it was just a little too far afield of the Paxton estate and they typically visited the burgeoning port of Falmouth since it was much closer.

  “The Mount,” he replied casually, turning his head sideways.

  She sat up, and stared at his strong profile, with the stubborn chin, long, straight nose, and well-defined lips. “The Mount? You mean St. Michael’s Mount?” The ends of his dark chestnut hair flirted with his collar and shimmered many shades of brown as the last rays of light flooded the sky.

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve inherited one of the cottages at the base of the fortress?” He’d already told her he was traveling to his never-before-seen new residence.

  “It’s larger. But a mostly rotting ruin as I was given to understand.”

  A cool trickle of certainty pooled at the base of her spine. She closed her eyes. Lord, he was the dashing new duke, of course. The one all her neighbors had been yammering about for the last few days. The one all the trade people in the villages were hoping would deign to visit and revive the once magnificent castle gracing the projection of granite in Mount’s Bay. He was also expected to marry one of the chomping-at-the-marital-bit noble daughters in the neighborhood and bring other gentlemen for those young ladies who failed to engage his notice. It was whispered he was half French, but his background and former life prior to becoming a duke was as mysterious as the reason he had agreed to help her.

  “Have no fear that anyone shall recognize you,” he continued. “Thanks to the charming effect of a relation, I am certain any former servants have given notice. My great-aunt has a, um, dislike of this country. Most likely only three or four of her stalwart favorite servants from France or Town are down and in residence now. But . . .”

  “I’m listening, Your Grace.”

  His back stiffened before he relaxed again. “Well, thank God you have brains. You’ll need them if you stay longer than a day or two. A large party of guests from London will descend by the end of the month. So you will have to concoct a plausible reason to be there. My great aunt will provide the first test I assure you.”

  “Why are you helping me?” she suddenly asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You know you do.”

  He paused. “Perhaps it’s because I might know what it’s like to have nowhere to turn. And sometimes, just sometimes, you are given a second chance.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I might not be a long-lasting second chance, but you look the sort who will figure out what to do with a minimum of time and input from me.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” she muttered. “All gallantry, without a hint of charm.”

  He halted his horse and gathered the reins in one hand to turn fully to look at her. His lovely chocolate brown eyes met hers. “Well, at least it can be said I kept a weapon away from you.”

  “I shall pay you for your help,” she said quickly. Roxanne tugged on the ruby and diamond ring Lawrence had given her on their wedding day.

  “It’s not very big, is it?” He examined the dusty ring closely. “I’m not sure it’s enough to repay me.”

  She struggled to smile. “I know, but I don’t want it. And you might need it if any of the neighboring mothers have their way.”

  “So why did he leave you to die?”

  She liked the way he changed subjects as fast as she changed emotions. “I don’t know.”

  “Does he want to marry someone else?”

  “How would I know?” She was just grateful he believed Lawrence had tried to kill her. Many true blue-blooded aristocrats would never take her side. “I’ve always thought he cared about his gardens more than anything or anyone else.”

  “Your husband prefers shrubbery over females?” His raised eyebrows gave away his disbelief.

  “He prides himself on the many flowers he’s cultivated on the vast estate. Spends hours in the gardens.”

  “Now then, let me dismount,” he said when she didn’t continue. “My legs are stiff and I want to walk a bit.”

  She accommodated his nonsensical request and moved forward into the still warm saddle. In one swoop, he handed up Eddie, who was panting, and then he took up the reins and led the horse forward.

  She heard him mutter something in French about women, and relatives, and dogs. Then again, her knowledge of the Gallic language was so poor he could have been talking about puddles and the way his stallion stomped on his foot in an effort to avoid the muddy dip just then.

  “Hmmm. I’d wager it has to do with money,” he said after a moment.

  “Do you want the ring or not?”

  He glanced behind him and then after a pause, grasped it. “All right. I might just put it to good use later.”

  “Later?”

  “To scare off those mothers and daughters expecting a clutch of jewels worn by Marie Antoinette,” he said, laughing. His bronzed skin set off his white teeth and dazzling smile to perfection.

  “I promise I will truly repay you for helping me,” she reiterated, trying not to stare at his startling dimples. He was a Frenchified snake charmer in London fashions, this one was.

  “Yes, well, I shall charge quite a bit for your care and feeding. With interest. I’m more than a little dipped in funds right now.”

  “And I shall pay it.”

  “I shall not ask how.”

  “So that means you’ll agree to hide me on St. Michael’s Mount for as long as I choose?”

  He shook his head. “I must be losing my mind.”

  There was just something about her that made him agree to her ridiculous request. Then again, he was so mired in muck at this point, it was hard to see how one squawking firebrand of femininity in the middle of nowhere could make his life more complicated than it already was.

  He was a good assessor of humanity. And she was either one of the best liars he’d ever encountered, or everything she said was true. The only thing that was off was her accent. She didn’t sound like a countess, or at least any countess he knew. And he knew quite a few. French, English, Russian, they all sounded very much the same—and it wasn’t at all like this tall, thin, scrappy woman who didn’t wither at his blunt assessments. The countesses he knew spoke of the minute vagaries of the weather, the fashions of the moment, entertainments, and gossip. Mostly the latter. And in the bedroom, their words were all the same too: “more” and “again.”

  “So tell me a bit about this Paxton fellow,” he said. “How long have you been married?”

  “Eight years.”

  “How did it come about?”

  “Oh, I knew of him most of my life. I’ve always lived here, or north of here, near Redruth.” She paused. “But Lawrence didn’t know me until eight and a quarter years ago.”

  “I see.” He didn’t at all, but knew better than to risk a question at that moment.

  “My father was the richest copper and tin miner in the south of England, Your Grace.”

  “You can stop that. I’ve had nothing but bad luck since assuming the title—and I think we can dispense with the formalities, considering.”

  “Well, after an extraordinary string of bad financial luck over the years, Lawrence called on my father and asked for my hand along with a large dowry.”

  “So your father chose the old-fashioned method of disposing of females and sold you.”

  “No, he did not sell me,” she enuncia
ted each word sourly. “He knew that I was just like every stupid girl in all of Creation—dreaming of a fairy tale prince or earl who would fall head over ears in love with me and drag me off to his castle. And Lawrence was the most desirable gentleman in Cornwall.”

  “Except for that tiny propensity of his to murder a wife,” Alex said in a dry tone.

  “And I was in love with him.” She stopped. “Or at least I thought I was.” She paused. “It wasn’t until later . . . Until he forbade me to associate with all the people I had known before our marriage that the romantic façade dropped away. Toward the end, I wasn’t even allowed to see my father, except on Christmas and . . . Oh, this is truly the stupidest story ever. I had a happy life. It was not gothic in the least. I refuse to complain. Except for the part where he left me to die.”

  “Dare I ask you to tell me more about this so-called happy life?”

  “I will answer if you promise to tell me your entire life story after.”

  “Well, so far it seems as if you’ve been living your husband’s life story, not your own.”

  He could see her fight to hold back tears from entering her eyes.

  “I rather think you’re right,” she finally admitted. “You’re the first person who ever explained it exactly as it was.”

  “Never doubt me.”

  She laughed awkwardly. “Are you always so cocksure about everything?”

  His lips twisted into a devious smile.

  The only luck of the entire miserable day had been with the tides. They crossed the exposed shingle path at low tide from Penzance to the Mount with only a sliver of moonlight guiding their way. Clumps of slick seaweed glistened against the ridges of wet sand.

  She roused herself during the crossing. “So, what is the plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “Where will I hide . . . or should I take another name?”

  “Look, plans rarely work. Don’t you know that by now? Life never goes according to any grand scheme. Don’t count on anyone or anything, even me. You of all people should know that by now.”

  “Hmmm. I didn’t take you for a philosopher,” she replied. “Well as you’ve no opinion, I’d like to hide in your turret. Seems like the perfect spot for a raving lunatic, which I’m sure to become soon enough, no?”