by Grace Elliot
His carefree mood evaporated. How could she, the author of so much aggravation, have found this—his special place? He watched; she appeared to have removed her shoes and stockings, paddling in the shallows with her skirt hitched above her knees. Her legs were shapely, a well-toned thigh hinting at the delights beyond. An irrational yearning to hold and caress her, to run his hand up the inner side of those thighs, tingled through his body. He reeled, shocked by the strength of the compulsion.
Then a thought slammed against his skull—what if Miss Tyler was here to guide in smugglers? It would be the perfect place—a calm, secluded bay. His training kicked in and he ducked behind a boulder to watch. In one moment of madness, he was tempted to shout, to let Miss Tyler know she had company, and scare off the smugglers. But to warn her betrayed everything he stood for and he would be duty bound to resign. The navy was everything, without honor and action he was nothing…so he waited and watched.
In fact, he watched for so long his legs began to cramp. Miss Tyler's attention remained focused on the sand, picking things up, turning them over in her hand and dropping them in her pocket.
"Well, here's a rum thing. She's collecting shells." He rubbed his calf. "Ouch."
Something in his movement drew Miss Tyler's attention. She shaded her eyes against the sun and stared in his direction. Huntley swallowed his pride and stood.
"Miss Tyler," he smiled, all innocence, "fancy meeting you here."
He clambered over the rocky groyne while she waited on the shoreline, waves lapping around her ankles.
"Captain Huntley, good afternoon."
He felt the tension between them, and made light of it. "Good afternoon."
Her green eyes mirrored the sea and a curl of hair bobbed against her neck, making him want to smooth it between his fingers.
He swallowed and nodded to the sea. "You are a most unconventional woman."
"My ankle was sore after the walk. The water has taken the swelling down." Huntley avoided staring at her shapely legs.
"I expect," Hope added, "you think me immodest…but the temptation was too great."
"Not at all," It took all his effort to string words together. "The water looks most inviting."
"Then why don’t you join me for a paddle?" She stared, as if challenging him. It was such a simple suggestion and suddenly he could think of no logical argument against it.
"Well, I am rather warm from the walk."
Without fully knowing what he was doing, Huntley found himself pulling off his boots and casting them aside. He pulled off his stockings and did likewise. The sand felt good between his toes, slippery and cool, as he made for the water's edge. The first wave was like ice against his skin and he gasped. Miss Tyler giggled.
"You didn’t think it would be warm?"
"Perhaps not quite as cold." He grinned as another wave assaulted his rapidly numbing feet.
"I like it when you smile." Hope said softly, "You look so serious all the time. You should smile more often."
"Smiling isn’t much called for, in my line of work."
Hope merely nodded. "Sometimes you just have to take pleasure where you can. Let's walk."
He nodded. Paddling in the shallows, Miss Tyler with one hand on her bonnet the other raising her hem, Huntley walking stiffly trying to distance his emotions, hands clasped behind his back.
"How did you find this place?" He asked.
Hope cocked her head. "I'm well acquainted with the coastline hereabouts."
Huntley raised a brow. "Smuggling?"
She pursed her lips and nodded. "Not so much here. Tis easy enough to land but difficult to transport the goods inland. This spot is more of a safe haven if the weather turns bad."
They walked on in companionable silence. Something about Hope’s openness had defused his ire. The gentle shush of the sea, the push-and-pull of the water was soothing and he sighed. Having been responsible for uprooting Hope from her family, he really ought to tell her about his reposting. Then he remembered he couldn’t trust Hope not to tell the smugglers and closed his mouth. The disappointment stung and for the umpteenth time he cursed Miss Tyler's effect on his wits—clearly the sooner he left for Plymouth, the better.
By now, the rocky outcrop behind which Huntley had hidden was out of sight around the curve in the bay, and sand gave way to shingle.
"We ought to turn back." Hope said.
"Is your ankle hurting?"
"Not so much now, but it's a long walk back to the house."
"Of course."
They fell in step together, walking in silence except for the shush of waves. Despite the tension between them, Huntley felt strangely at ease. Hope made no attempt to chatter, for which he was grateful. Truly, had circumstances been different, she would make a charming companion, but they weren’t different, and he was in danger of making a fool of himself.
"I love the sea."
"I beg your pardon?" he asked.
"I can’t imagine living anywhere but by the sea."
Huntley risked a glance as she stared dreamily ahead.
He cleared his throat. "Why so?"
"I was raised beside the sea. I used to lie awake at night, listening to the gulls cry. I love the smell of the sea, especially seaweed, the changing colours, the wind in my face, it makes me feel….alive."
"I can’t stand being indoors." Huntley interjected. "Even on a warship, with nothing to see but ocean, it's such a feeling of freedom, of belonging. Most people don’t understand."
Hope breathed deeply, savoring the salt air. "I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes, on a boat with the wind in the sails, it's like flying, free as a bird."
His heart swooped, she was the same as him. "Mother doesn’t understand. Not properly. She says she does but sometimes, at her soirees, shut in with people surrounding me, I can’t breathe. I hate not being able to see the sky."
He glanced at Hope, challenging her to mock him, but instead her eyes shone with understanding. They stopped walking, the water lapping around their ankles. Huntley's heart pounded, aware of nothing but Hope; drawn by a force which dwarfed reason, longing to kiss her and yet somehow he resisted. The waves pulled the sand from under his feet like time ebbing away.
The moment passed. They set off again and Huntley fixed his attention on the ripples in the shallows. Varnished pebbles glistened like gems in the water, tendrils of seaweed reached for Hope's ankle. Then, as Hope lifted her foot, he glimpsed a striped shadow darting beneath it. Alarm slammed through his body.
Huntley pushed Hope aside, their momentum sending them staggering toward the beach. Grabbing her waist, he lost his balance as they tumbled to the sand. Lying full length, Huntley became acutely aware of the press of her lithe body against his.
"A weaver fish," he panted. "You were about to stand on a weaver fish."
Hope paled, her face mere inches from his. "Thank you." Her voice trembled.
Inner turmoil raged. Other women were as nothing, but Hope was different. She affected his body and yet he cared enough not to hurt her. Suppressing a shudder of longing, he tried to sit up but found his legs tangled with her skirts. Hope wriggled, her hip bumped against his groin which sent a shaft of raw desire burning through his body.
"Have a care," he growled, nostrils flared.
Hope felt his growing response and grew still, staring back with eyes dark with desire. Each studied the other, unmoving. In that moment, her breath against his cheek, Huntley knew he loved Hope Tyler. One kiss. Just one kiss, to prove he could conquer this weakness. For who is stronger, the man with no weakness, or the weak man who overcomes? Besides, what did it matter when he was going away?
He cradled her cheek with his sandy palm, drawn to the luscious bow of her lips, those lips which had tempted for so long. Hope smiled, her face dreamy with passion. When he stroked her hair, she relaxed against his hand. She didn’t seem frightened, or even surprised, staring back with those dazzling tilted eyes. He could smell her skin and the s
ubtle tang of salt and it made him giddy.
“Kiss me.” She whispered, arms reaching around his neck.
His last shred of self-control melted away. Her lips felt hot against his, that same sweet taste, of Hope and heat which made his blood shimmy with desire. He kissed her, as if it was his last act on earth, soul deep, worshipping her mouth. This was more than lust, he wanted to give her pleasure, for she was the missing part to his life. The empty hollowness which existed before, now filled by her. In that instant he knew he would die for Hope.....no...more than that...he would kill to protect her.
And yet a future together could not happen. Even as he showered kisses down the arched length of her throat, even as he tasted her honeyed skin, joy turned to sadness. This could not be. His life was founded on honor. Even as a boy, he’d looked down on those that broke the rules—and Hope was just such a person.
Love could not reconcile that fact.
Panting, he pushed himself upright and rolled away to hide his face.
“What is it?” she touched his shoulder.
“I’m going away.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t live like this, it's not fair to either of us. Hope, I’m going away.” In the depths of her opaline eyes he read such hurt that part of him died.
“I’ve requested a secondment to the Southwest.”
“Because of me?”
He owed her the truth. “Yes, and because I have sworn to finish the job begun here. And I can’t do that near you.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Permanently.”
“Forever?” She gasped.
“Yes, this posting was only ever temporary while HMS Swann was in refit. Once my ship is seaworthy again I go back to sea.”
“So I may never see you again?”
“Depending on what the future brings, quite possibly.”
A sense of futility almost overwhelmed him as he jumped up and dusted down his clothes.
"I shall meet you back at the house." He turned away, knowing if he met her eyes he would be undone. He gathered his shoes and stalked across the beach, while Miss Tyler made no protest and watched him go. Even then a small voice whispered in his head that the Southwest wasn't far enough away to break Miss Tyler’s hold on him.
PART TWO
Chapter Ten
Even though Captain Huntley had been gone ten months, Hope still thought of him every day. Sometimes she missed him with a sharp need which left her listless and adrift, other times in a dull achy way like when remembering a favorite childhood pet. Sometimes she stared out to sea, wondering what the Captain was doing and praying he was safe. One time, she came across Jenkins with one of the Captain's jackets, a button hanging off, and she volunteered to mend it—just to touch something that was his. The rest of the day she'd been so distant and distracted, that Lady Ryevale had thought she was sickening for something.
Sometimes Hope dreamed of the Captain and woke with her core thrumming with heightened excitement, and clung to the precious moments when, in dreamland, they were equals and a different future possible. Other days she woke to the emptiness of knowing her love would remain unrequited and spent the day unable to shake the melancholia. The more time passed, the clearer it became that she loved George Huntley, with a longing so deep, and so keen, she resented it.
That first summer at The Grange, after the Captain had gone, she threw herself into estate work, immersing herself in Her Ladyship’s correspondence, working day and night on a new filing system.
Then autumn came, and Hope's thoughts turned to her family on the Island, wondering how her stepfather and Tom fared. She wrote home, enclosing her wages, but when she didn’t hear back, knowing neither could write well, she wasn’t surprised. Deep down she suspected Tom deliberately kept away, lest he be an embarrassment in her new position.
At Christmas time Her Ladyship’s other two sons, Charles and Jack, along with Jack's new wife Eulogy, arrived. Suddenly The Grange was a changed place, injected with noise and laughter. But when George was unable to get leave, Hope understood her Lady Ryevale's sadness; in George they had a common, albeit unspoken, bond. And with the start of a new year, a new temptation presented itself. Hope kept remembering this time last year; the first anniversary of the Captain arresting her, then the time he'd shown kindness by arranging for a hip bath, and when they'd met by accident on the beach—each event filed away as a precious memory of an illusion which could never be real.
With spring's arrival, time did nothing to diminish her feelings but taught her to bury them. Hope could enter the library without a feeling of loss and stand the sight of the Captain's boots without flushing scarlet. She could think of him without tightness in her chest, and she began to wonder if one day she might even be able to say his name aloud without feeling light-headed.
It was on one such spring afternoon, ten months after George's reposting, that Hope was taking tea with Lady Ryevale. The sky was perfect porcelain blue, but the temperature still lacked warmth. Outside on the lawn, the gardener hitched the pony to the grass mower for the first cut of the year. In the distance, the breeze caught the apple trees and blossom drifted lazily to the ground.
Lady Ryevale followed her gaze. "I hope the weather will be better this year than last."
Hope knew Her Ladyship was thinking about the previous poor harvest and the hardship another bad year would cause.
"I swear the blossom is heavier—that's got to be a good sign."
"Indeed."
A polite tap on the door and the footman entered.
"Ladyship, may I announce his lordship, Lord Charles Huntley."
Lady Ryevale looked startled. "Charles? Here?"
Jenkins seemed unusually flushed and Hope felt uneasy.
"Well, this is unexpected," Her Ladyship’s face fell. "I hope nothing's wrong."
Brushing Jenkins aside, Lord Charles Huntley strode past with the same vigor Hope recognised in George. She was however, interested to note that her pulse remained steady despite Charles’s startling good looks. Even those velvet-brown eyes and that darling dimpled chin did nothing to raise her heart rate—quite unlike George's effect on her composure.
Charles Huntley was not a man to be ignored—with his strong jaw, abundance of dark hair and immaculate garb—but most noteworthy was his air of authority which bordered on arrogance. Charles saluted his mother.
"You are well, Mama?"
"Quite, thank you, Charles. But to what do I owe this surprise?"
His face grave, Charles sat.
"The thing is Mother, I have news."
Lady Ryevale regarded him with growing alarm. "And from the suddenness of your visit and serious tone, I gather it's bad news." She clenched her hands.
"Indeed." Charles showed little emotion as he continued. "I won’t beat about the bush—it's George."
Hope's heart catapulted against her ribs.
"Go on."
"The thing is he's been injured."
"How badly?" Her Ladyship’s hands crept toward her heart.
"That's the rub." Charles raked his fingers through his hair. "It's difficult to be sure. He sent this note."
Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out the letter and handed it to his mother. Eyes bright with distress she unfolded it and scanned the page. The paper dropped into her lap.
"This isn't George's writing."
"No. He dictated it."
Hope felt violently sick. "What does it say, Your Ladyship?" Her voice quavered.
"I can’t take it in. You tell us, Charles."
Charles took the letter back. "It says, in the course of his duties George was shot. He sends assurances he is on the mend and requests I tell you the news in person. He also asks I travel to the Southwest in the carriage, to fetch him home."
A low moan escaped the older woman's lips, a feeling Hope could only echo.
"I couldn’t bear it if he died."
"Now, Mother, don’t be so dramatic.
He's not going to die."
"But he had to dictate the letter. Only dying men dictate letters."
"Or those with injured hands."
"Oh, do you think?"
"George is indestructible."
"Or so he'd like to think." Lady Ryevale looked on the point of fainting.
Hope trembled and panic closed her throat, but as was her habit in times of crisis and seeing Lady Ryevale grow paler by the second, she took control.
“He’s not dead.” Hope said firmly, and deep down she knew it to be true. There was a connection to George that was still there—without doubt, he lived.
“But what if..?” Lady Ryevale shivered like a leaf in a high wind. “He might be mortally wounded…dying as we sit here!” She stifled a cry, stuffing her fingers in her mouth.
“Hot, sweet tea, that’s what you need.” Hope signalled Jenkins who nodded and turned on his heel.
With lips as white as parchment, Lady Ryevale appealed to her son. “Please, read the letter aloud. Tell me again he isn’t dead.”
Feeling sick to her stomach, Hope hung on Charles' words. When he finished, he let the parchment drop and something caught her eye.
“There,” Hope pointed to the signature, “isn’t that Captain Huntley’s signature?”
"Indeed."
“Yes….but look, it's dated two days ago," Her Ladyship quailed, "…he might have bled to death by now…or infection set in.”
"That's enough of that sort of talk," Hope said, more to steady herself than Lady Ryevale.
"Quite right too." Lord Huntley seemed to notice her for the first time. "The girl is talking sense. Huntleys don’t give in. George is too stubborn to let a mere gunshot stop him."
It was Hope's turn to whimper.
“Fret not ladies. I despatched a messenger from London for more news—and now I've spoken to you, I will take the carriage to the Southwest. But there's always time for tea—or something stronger.”
Charles relaxed back into the chair, crossing one shin across his knee, the better to admire a particularly fine pair of hessians. His certainty was calming and Hope gathered her wits.
