by Jane Goodger
Marcus was not a man who swore often, but the words that erupted from his mouth at that moment would have done a seasoned sailor proud.
“I take it you’ve doused the lamp,” came her disembodied voice, sounding entirely too cheerful.
“Yes, my lady, and I do apologize for my language.” Marcus threw the lamp as hard as he could across the chamber and heard a gratifying sound of breaking glass. He was wet and cold and bloody angry that this woman had been foolish enough to get herself trapped at high tide. And he’d been a bloody idiot to worry himself sick about her. Now they were both in the dark, but she was high and dry and probably a bit tipsy from drinking what was likely one of the finest brandies ever created. While he stood shivering and wet and probably more in need of saving than she was.
“I thought I’d wait until the tide went back out. I don’t know how to swim, and the water looks rather cold.”
Shivering, Marcus glared toward where the lady likely stood, warm as toast. But not for long if it were up to him. And it was.
“No worries, my lady. The water isn’t over your head, and if you have any difficulties, I will try very hard not to let you drown.”
A long silence ensued. “You are angry.”
“Angry? I? Not at all. I quite enjoy slogging through ice-cold sea water at nine o’clock at night to rescue a woman who apparently doesn’t require rescuing and who was stupid enough to put her very life in danger. Do you know there are chambers in these caves that are completely submerged at high tide? And do you know that people have died?”
Another silence. “You were worried.” She sounded entirely too happy about the prospect.
“You’re goddamn right I was worried. Do you realize how maddening it is to nearly die from worry, only to find you not only well, but dry and partaking of my brandy?”
“You wanted me to die?” It was obviously a rhetorical question, but Marcus answered it anyway.
“No, I did not. Now, however, is a different matter entirely.”
To his surprise, he heard her giggle. Giggle. Then he heard the obvious sounds of her moving through the water toward the fallen boulders. With a sigh of resignation, he moved carefully in her direction until he felt the first boulder at his feet.
“Would you mind talking to me? I’m quite afraid of the dark, and if you are silent I’ll let my imagination run amok and picture you eaten by some cave-dwelling sea monster who is lying in wait for me as well.” She paused to take a breath. “It’s quite large, you see, with sharp, pointed fangs and great slimy scales and soulless eyes that . . . oh!”
While she’d been talking, Marcus had climbed the boulders and followed the sound of her voice until it was clear she was just inches away. “I’ve got you, my lady,” he said softly, and indeed he was grasping one of her forearms, frail and icy beneath his large hand.
“So you do.” He smiled at the false bravado in her voice.
“I’ll pull gently to guide you over the wall.”
“H-how deep is the water?”
“It’s only chest high. Chin high for you. I’ll carry you, if I must.”
“I think you must. I’ve never been in water deeper than a bath.”
Of course, now all he could picture was her in her bath, her skin soft and rosy. He said a silent little prayer that the frigid water would cool his ardor. Marcus eased her over the boulders, wondering how such a massive amount of weight could have been moved by one small woman. “How did you manage to tumble this wall? I remember my brothers and I trying to remove the rocks. They were all far too heavy for us.”
“I felt a breeze and pushed at the smallest of the boulders, and down everything came.”
“My God, you could have been crushed.” He pushed down stark fear—and anger that she had put herself in such a position.
“I’m quite nimble,” she said as she pushed her way over the wall. “Ouch. I struck my knee. Blasted stone.”
Marcus chuckled and pulled her over the top and directly into his arms. She did the most surprising thing. Instead of going rigid, she folded herself against him, wrapping her arms gently around his neck and laying her head on one shoulder. He breathed in her floral scent and pressed her tightly against his chest, allowing himself the pleasure of holding her against him.
“T-the water is f-frigid,” she said, her teeth chattering near his ear.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed whilst standing several minutes in it. And I certainly didn’t notice the temperature when I fell in over my head and doused the lamp.” He could almost picture the face she was probably making, her nose scrunching up adorably.
* * *
That was precisely what Lilian was doing. Despite the fact he’d been in the water for several long minutes, his body felt so warm compared to the frigid seawater. “Are you very angry with me?”
“Yes.” But his hold on her tightened infinitesimally.
“I’m sorry I worried you.”
He grunted, then said, “After all this, I do hope you found Mabel’s stocking and remembered to bring it with you.”
She pushed the soft cloth against his cheek as proof that she had at least accomplished her task. “I couldn’t let her go without her dolly. And I pictured it down here, cold, abandoned.”
“It’s a stocking.”
“I know you do not believe that any more than Mabel does. Why do you insist on pretending you are horrid when you are not?”
“I am not pretending,” he said, sounding as if he was talking through gritted teeth. He hoisted her up higher, and Lilian draped herself over one solid shoulder, liking the feel of his powerful body beneath her. In her experience, men of the aristocracy were, if not delicate creatures, then certainly nothing like the large and muscular man now holding her. He smelled of the sea and clean hay—not unpleasant smells, to be honest—and Lilian smiled. Never in her life had she been held by a man, and even though Lord Granton acted as if it were a great chore, Lilian decided she would enjoy it. When would she ever be held this way again? Beneath her, he shivered, and she felt a sharp pang of guilt.
“I am sorry for putting you through this,” she said softly, her mouth nearly touching his ear, and he took a sharp breath, as if he’d stepped on something painful. “Are you injured?”
“I’ll live,” he said, again shifting her in his arms.
“Am I too heavy? With my wet skirts I must weigh ten stone.”
He let out a laugh. “If you weigh ten stone, I weigh twenty. And I do not weigh twenty.”
“Still, perhaps you should put me down,” she said, even as she tightened her grip around his neck and allowed herself to press her cheek against the warm crook of his neck. She was just being polite, after all; she truly didn’t want him to lower her to the water. Firstly, it was terribly cold, and secondly, she was rather enjoying the novelty of being held in the arms of a man—even if he did so begrudgingly.
“Yes, I should put you down,” he said, and to her surprise, he dropped her, right there, into the cold seawater. She was only up to her waist, but still. It was cold. And he was the most insufferable man she’d ever met in her life. He gripped her arm firmly and pulled her along until she could tell they had entered the tunnel that connected the caves to the house. Up ahead, she could see the dim outline of the metal door that separated the house from the tunnel. Within minutes, they were walking on dry ground, and Lilian’s great adventure was over.
“I imagine Mr. Palmer has already left for Whitby.”
“Yes.”
Lilian lifted her soggy skirts and attempted to keep up with him. “I do hope my shoes and dress dry in time—”
He spun around so quickly, Lilian let out a small cry. “You are leaving, Lady Lilian, if I have to drive you to Whitby myself.”
He turned and continued walking toward the staircase, his boots leaving well-defined wet prints on the floor. Lilian felt unaccountably hurt. What was it about her that made Lord Granton dislike her so? She did have a habit of getting herself into troubl
e; it was her cursed sense of adventure. Her years living with Weston had been dreary beyond words because His Grace kept a tight rein on the two sisters. Lilian had never complained because she’d feared angering the duke nearly as much as she’d loathed him. What would she have done, where would she have gone, if Weston had forced her out? Her three years at Mount Carlyle had been spent in bored misery, a boredom that was only interrupted by feelings of disgust and terror when Weston showed interest in her. He took a sick pleasure in trying to make his young wife jealous and would constantly compare the two women, with her sister nearly always coming up short.
As cranky as Granton was, he was far more pleasant to be around than Weston, God rest his rotten soul.
Lilian lifted her sodden skirts, taking care not to get Mabel’s dolly too wet in the process. Her shoes squelched with each step, and when she reached the staircase, she realized they were covered in sand. Knocking her shoes against the first step to rid them of the sand, Lilian followed Granton up to the house, grateful that the higher she climbed, the warmer the temperature got. When she reached the top, Granton was there, scowling at her, his arms crossed. As he stood there, his body convulsed with a violent shiver, and Lilian felt another stab of guilt—one she had no idea of letting Granton know about.
“I apologize for being curt,” he nearly growled.
Lilian lifted her chin. “Apology accepted.” Then she brushed by him, her shoes still making soft wet sounds and leaving behind small footprints in her wake.
Chapter 9
It was to be her last day at Merdunoir. For some reason, Granton had let her sleep, so she’d missed Palmer’s trip to town to collect the servants. It was just as well; her dress and shoes were likely still damp, but as she had nothing else to wear, she would have to make do. When Lilian awoke to the furtive sounds of Mabel entering her room on tiptoe, the sun was quite high.
“Are you awake?”
Lilian smiled at the silly question, for her eyes were wide open. “No,” she said, closing her eyes, “I’m quite sound asleep, but I’m having the most wonderful dream about a pretty little girl coming in to my room to wake me up.”
Mabel giggled and climbed up on to her bed. “Thank you for getting dolly. I woke up, and there she was, in my arms.”
“She had quite an adventure, but she was very brave, even in the dark.”
“Dolly isn’t afraid of the dark.”
“I am,” Lilian admitted.
“Me too.”
“What adventure can we have today? Shall we go down to the beach and hunt for treasure?”
Mabel’s eyes lit up. “Could we?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Let me get dressed and have a bit of breakfast, and we can head right down to the beach.”
The previous night, Sadie had knocked on her door quite late and handed her Granton’s robe and asked for her dress so that she could bring it to the kitchen, where it might dry a bit more quickly. After Sadie had left, Lilian had wrapped the soft robe around her and held it against her nose, taking a long breath. It smelled of Granton, and she smiled. Now her dress, looking freshly pressed, lay on the end of her bed, but her shoes were nowhere in sight. They must be still in the kitchen, drying.
Lilian pulled on her dress and grimaced. She was deathly sick of the plain garment, but the seamstress had promised she would have more dresses ready when it was time for Lilian to depart. She need only stop by the woman’s shop in Whitby to collect them. And then she could go . . . somewhere. Soon after she’d received news that the true murderer had been found, Lilian had written her sister, but it was far too soon to expect an answer. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that she would not be welcomed back in her sister’s home; she’d never truly felt welcome there at all.
Theresa had more than once reminded Lilian that she was at Mount Carlyle only thanks to her charity. Lilian had remained only because the alternatives were even more unpalatable, and at that time she’d still hoped that she could marry well. Now, though, that hope was dashed. The scandal surrounding the duke’s murder would follow her to her grave. She must become resigned to the fact that she would never marry, never have children. But at least she could live where and how she pleased. She was truly lost to society now.
Perhaps that’s why she viewed her departure from Merdunoir with such dread. It had nothing, she told herself, to do with a certain man with golden-brown eyes. Or a little girl with a stocking for a dolly.
* * *
Marcus was returning from a ride when he spied Lady Lilian and Mabel walking across the lawn toward the sea. Her hair whipped back in the wind, and her dress was pressed against her slim form, leaving little to the imagination. At least not his imagination. With a determined step, he continued walking toward the house, but he could not ignore her completely when she called out to him.
“Lord Granton, would you care to join us? We’re searching for treasure on the beach.”
No. No no no no no no. “Of course.” Damn, what the hell was wrong with him? He was just a few short hours away from being free from temptation, and there he was, walking headlong into it. The pair waited for him, both smiling, as if his presence were some great gift.
“I thought I saw a set of stairs from my room that leads down. Are they safe?”
Were they? He had no idea, as he hadn’t used them in years. “Let me go in front of you to make certain,” he said, and he couldn’t help but see, with the wind buffeting her dress, that she wasn’t wearing any shoes. Instead, her feet were encased in a pair of woolen socks that looked extremely familiar.
“Those are my socks.”
She looked down, as if she were surprised to find them on her feet. “Oh, yes. My shoes are still a bit damp. I hope you don’t mind.”
Yes, he did mind. Because from now on, every time he donned that pair of socks he would think of her and her untamed hair and her plush pink lips and her extraordinary eyes. “I suppose it’s fine.”
“Come along, then. I’d hate to dally and miss Mr. Palmer again. Really, going back and forth each day must be quite wearing. Aren’t the servants yet convinced the house is not haunted?”
“As a matter of fact, one of the footmen has asked if he might stay overnight. I suppose once he does that without a ghostly incident, others will follow.” He let out an unhappy sigh. “Before I know it, I’ll have a house full of servants and my mother will insist on visiting.” He gave a mock shudder.
“Relatives can be trying, can they not? While it can be convenient to have them, it’s rather nice to have few, as is the case with me.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, Marcus looked down and was pleasantly surprised to see the steps appeared to be in good order. In fact, it appeared as if someone had made a recent repair—Palmer, no doubt.
“Here, I’ll carry the child.” Mabel immediately lifted her arms, and her instant trust in him, that he would not drop her, that he would keep her safe, made his heart give a now familiar lurch. She clung to him much as she had when they were climbing the stairs from the cave, her weight so slight Marcus made a silent promise to make certain the little girl had more than enough to eat.
It was a glorious day, the sort of day that seemed so rare—warm and clear with puffy white clouds dotting the horizon and nothing but blue sky overhead. Kittiwakes nesting in the cliff nearly drowned out the sound of the sea with their chatter as the three of them made their way down to the beach. Marcus breathed in deeply, surveying the scene before him. He’d been living in Merdunoir for months and yet hadn’t ventured down to the beach; he hadn’t bothered really looking at the sea that had once drawn him as a boy. Strange that something that had held such a place in his heart had gone practically unnoticed until this day.
“It’s so beautiful,” Lady Lilian breathed, stopping behind him on the steps where he had paused to survey the scene as if he’d never viewed it before. “It makes me wonder why anyone would live anywhere else in the world.”
“Summer is lovely, but winter
can be rather bleak here.”
“I should think winter would hold its own kind of beauty,” she said, a wistful note in her voice.
He continued down the steps until they reached the golden sand that made up the rock-strewn beach. The tide was going out, leaving behind a narrow strip of wet sand and exposing the shells Mabel was so fascinated by. When he was a lad, his brothers and sister would come down and look for the treasure that came to shore each day. They would always find something, be it a fisherman’s net or a piece of a ship long gone from this world. It was something he missed when his duties became too numerous for him to spend time at play.
“If you’re very lucky, you may find a fossil,” Marcus said, placing Mabel down on the soft sand.
“What’s a fossil?”
“An impression of an animal that lived thousands of years ago. Have you ever put a fingerprint in dough?” The little girl nodded. “A fossil is very much like the mark that is left in the dough when you lift up your finger. It shows the shape of the animal that died all those years ago. When I was a lad, we found an ammonite. That’s a creature that lived in a spiral-shaped shell. It was quite an exciting find.”
“Can we find an ammo . . . ammonanite?”
“Ammonite. We can certainly try. But I think we’ll have more success just looking for ordinary shells.”
“Like this,” Lady Lilian said, walking up to the pair, her palm filled with a large, sun-bleached shell.
“May I go treasure hunting?” Mabel asked, stepping from foot to foot as if she could hardly stand still from the excitement.
“Stay where I can see you. Off you go,” Marcus said, and found himself smiling as she skipped away.
“Are you very certain you want to send her away to school?” Lady Lilian asked, clearly teasing him.
“Very,” he said dryly, but he really wasn’t certain. Surely he could find a nanny and later a governess who could care for the child. It wasn’t quite as imperative that he have her removed from his home as it had been just a few short days ago. She was a quiet child, and she didn’t take up too much space or make too many demands.
