The wetness around her feet recalled her to a more immediate danger: the old planking was far from water-tight and water was seeping through the perished caulking. She looked around wildly for something to bail with, but the litter floating in the bottom of the boat contained nothing which would hold water. Desperately she pulled off her stout leather half-boot, thankful that her habit of walking over even the roughest ground meant she had not come out in the dainty footwear usual to a woman of her class. The well-polished boot proved to be an efficient, although small, bailer and, after ten minutes which left her breathless, the water had diminished below the bottom boards.
Helena looked round again, relieved to see she had been carried no further out and was still being swept by the prevailing tide to the south and west. But her relief at being taken towards open water where the chance of rescue was greater was rapidly countered by her dismay at how rough the sea was becoming. From the deck of even a small fishing smack it would have seemed no more than a good swell, but for the small rowing boat, designed only for creeks and harbours, it was dangerously high. Soon Helena was bailing again, water splashing over the sides adding to the seepage from below.
By the time the little boat was swept around the southern tip of Selsey Bill and she could see, distantly, the outline of the Isle of Wight, she was sobbing with exertion from the effort of keeping the water at bay. She slumped over, the breath rasping painfully in her lungs, and almost gave way to despair. But as her vision cleared she saw the red sails of a fishing smack half a mile away to the west. The sunlight caught the little ship and she got to her feet, waving and shouting at the top of her voice. For a moment she had hope as the profile of the sails changed, then she saw it had moved on to another tack and was heading away from her, not closer.
Helena let out a cry of anguish. No wonder they had not seen her: without sails, all she was was a brown dot on the dark sea. The next ship she saw, she must attract their attention, must signal by some means. She had the single oar—if only she had a scrap of sail to tie to it! In that instant she thought of her petticoat and, without hesitation, wrenched it off. With trembling fingers she ripped off the narrow lace edging and used that to bind the cloth fast to the end of the oar.
She had to break off several times to bail as the water rose to her ankles again, but finally she had a signal ready. As if in answer to her prayers another sail appeared to the south of her, scudding along in the brisk wind, topgallant sails and royal set. Helena raised the unwieldy oar and waved it, ignoring the strain to her arms from the weight of the wood and the wet cloth. She shouted, too, although the wind snatched away the words as soon as she uttered them. For long desperate minutes it seemed they had not seen her, then the ship came round into the wind and began to take in sails.
‘Oh, thank God!’ she whispered, sinking down and dropping the oar into the bottom of the boat. The sailing ship was tacking under reduced canvas, making its way towards her. Now it was less than a quarter of a mile away and she could see they were making ready to swing out a boat.
Her eyes glued to her rescuers, Helena quite forgot to bail. The boat’s crew scrambled down into the craft and now they were close enough for her to hear the sharp words of command carrying across the water. The sailors pulled hard on the oars and the gig leapt forward, eating up the distance between rescuers and the sinking craft.
For sinking it was: Helena looked down in horror as a plank finally gave way and water gushed over her feet. The boat stopped tossing and began to founder. Helena jumped to her feet and screamed, ‘Hurry, oh please, hurry! It is sinking!’
Her cry of anguish must have reached the ears of the boatmen, for a tall figure stood up, pulling off his jacket. For the briefest of seconds he stood poised on the gunwales, then he was cleaving the water in a shallow dive. Helena had no opportunity to watch her would-be rescuer, for with a lurch the sinking boat slipped sideways under the waves, precipitating her into the freezing water.
Helena could swim, but the warm shallows of Brighton beach with a bathing machine close at hand was a far cry from the cold, choppy Channel. To add to her terror, the soaked cloth of her skirts wound itself around her legs, the weight imprisoning her so she could not tread water. She struck out towards the dark head forging towards her through the waves, only to be slapped full in the face by a wave.
Stinging salt water blinded her, filled her nostrils and cascaded down the back of her throat. Choking, she knew she was sinking…
A hand seized her hair, ruthlessly dragging her into the air. Helena was pulled up and back on to a broad chest and found herself held hard, her breasts crushed under the muscular forearm of her rescuer. He lost no time in striking out for the boat; Helena forced herself to relax into the grasp, knowing that if she struggled she would take them both under the murky waves.
It seemed forever before they reached the side of the boat, an eternity before willing hands were lifting her out of the sea. Dumped unceremoniously into the bottom of the craft while the men made room for her rescuer to haul himself back on board, Helena choked and scrubbed painfully at her salt-encrusted eyes. The swimmer was on board before she could focus and she found herself abruptly lifted and turned over his knee while the water was ruthlessly thumped from her lungs.
Eventually she found enough breath to protest, ‘Stop! Enough!’ and was turned back to sit on the man’s knees. Words of thanks died on her lips as astonished recognition took over. ‘You!’ she gasped.
It was unlikely that he could recognise the young ‘governess’ he had seen just a few hours before as the half-drowned female he had just plucked from certain death. But Miss Wyatt recognised the master of the cutter only too clearly. His blond hair was dark with water, plastered to his head; his chest rose and fell with the exertion of his rescue and the linen shirt clung transparent to the strong planes of shoulder and upper arm.
He looked somewhat taken aback at the vehemence of her expostulation. He raised one eyebrow but said with considerable formality, ‘I am sorry, Miss…er…have we been introduced?’
‘No, we have not, sir! But it did not prevent you from shouting at my little brother this morning!’
‘So…not the governess after all.’ His eyes moved appreciatively down from her face. ‘How could I not have recognised you?’
Recalled to the clinging cloth moulding itself to her body, without even a petticoat between her shift and her gown, Helena blushed furiously, tugging up the neckline in a futile effort at decency.
Her confusion was cut short by the gig bumping against the side of the cutter. Before she could say or do anything else her rescuer commanded ‘Eyes front!’ The rowers, shipping their oars, obeyed instantly. He stood, grasped her around the knees and tossed her lightly over one shoulder before seizing the rope ladder and scaling it.
Winded, flustered and scandalised, Helena found herself deposited unceremoniously on her feet on the deck of the cutter under the interested eyes of the rest of the crew, who had obviously decided that the order to the boat crew to keep their eyes to themselves did not apply to them.
‘Sir!’ Helena stormed at him, eyes sparking. ‘How dare you handle my…my person in such a manner?’
The man turned from giving orders to the boat crew and enquired amiably, ‘Do you object to being saved from drowning and prevented from choking or to being assisted safe on board, madam?’
Helena discovered that stamping one’s foot, when one was wearing only one sodden boot, was both undignified and uncomfortable and glared at him. ‘I am, sir, most deeply obliged to you for rescuing me, for I would have undoubtedly drowned…’
‘Undoubtedly,’ he echoed drily. ‘Can I assume from your lack of concern that your small brother was not with you in the boat?’
‘John! Oh, he will be frantic with worry…No, no, he was not in the boat, I was quite alone. He was pretending I was a drunken French captain, you see…’ A snort of amusement escaped from the tall man and she added irritably, ‘I do wish you would t
ell me your name, sir!’
He smiled and bowed slightly. ‘I agree, madam. Nothing is more frustrating than to try and quarrel with someone when you do not know their name. Adam Darvell, ma’am, at your service.’
‘Lord Adam Darvell?’
‘The same, ma’am. You appear to know my name.’
‘Er…yes. Why, you are almost a neighbour of ours.’ ‘And you have been told by your mama that I am a notorious rake and you should have nothing to do with me should we meet?’
‘Oh, no, it was not my mama, I mean…’ Helena stopped in confusion. She could hardly tell him the scandalous tales the Vicar’s daughter had regaled her bosom friends with, having been within earshot of one of her mama’s afternoon tea parties. ‘I am sorry I sounded so ungracious—it was a very frightening experience and I am truly sensible of the service you have done me.’ She was rather pleased with the dignified manner she achieved.
‘Might I hope, unconventional though the circumstances are, that you will tell me whom I have the pleasure of welcoming on board the Moonspinner?’
Helena pulled herself up to her full five feet five inches, raised her chin and said properly, as if she were at Almack’s and not shivering on the deck of a cutter in mid-Channel, ‘Helena Wyatt, sir.’
‘Miss Wyatt, it is indeed an honour to have been of some small service to the daughter of such a distinguished naval hero.’ He was obviously sincere in his reference to her father and Helena warmed to him. Perhaps all the things she had heard about Adam Darvell had been wild rumours.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the wind got up sharply, sending Helena’s wet skirts flapping about her legs. She shivered and at once he was at her side, ushering her towards the companionway leading below decks.
‘What am I thinking of, you will catch your death of cold.’ He glanced over his shoulder and called, ‘Jenks, get us back on the same heading as before and have someone brew some coffee.’
Adam ushered Helena into a small, yet luxuriously furnished, cabin. She could stand upright but he had to bow his head below the deck beams and she realised he must be well over six feet tall. His presence in the gloom made Helena a little uncomfortable and she looked around her with an assumption of interest while he lit the two oil lamps hanging in gimbals. The bed was built in with cupboards below and the panelled walls were lined with lockers. There was a table with two chairs and a massive sea chest at the foot of the bed.
Helena shivered again, no longer certain it was with cold and shock. His lordship threw open a small door in the panelling and, peering in, she saw, with some relief, a private closet and a washstand with an ewer and basin. He handed her a towel and threw open one of the lockers. ‘Here, some of this must fit you.’
The women’s garments he tossed so carelessly on the foot of the bed were all of the finest quality and some of them of such an intimate nature that Helena blushed to look at them. Adam caught her eye and saw the colour mantle her cheek. ‘And you were thinking all the stories you had heard about me were just malicious rumour,’ he said mockingly, his voice low. ‘I like to make my guests comfortable.’
It seemed to Helena that he was looking at the bed behind her, but she forced herself to stare straight ahead and say with a fair assumption of calm, ‘Thank you, sir, I am sure there will be something suitable. If you will leave me I would like to change.’
With a mocking bow and a smile which showed white teeth in the gloom, Lord Darvell opened a locker, removed a shirt and trousers and let himself out of his cabin.
Helena sat down on the edge of the bed with a thump and let out a long shuddering breath. Her heart, she realised now, was fluttering. Who would have thought that shock could make one feel so very flustered? But she was honest enough to admit that the way she felt could not be entirely attributed to being cast adrift and half drowned.
After a moment she began to remove her gown. She looked at the door and almost stretched out her hand to throw the latch but then checked the movement. Lord Darvell was a gentleman, knew her to be a lady; to lock the door would be to display an insulting lack of trust.
Washed, dry and clad in the most sober of the available gowns with a fichu around her shoulders Helena felt rather more herself. However, when it came to her hair, she had to admit defeat. She could not wash the straight mass of dark brown hair in the small basin and pinning it up with an inadequate mirror and no maid proved impossible. In the end she tugged Lord Darvell’s comb through the tangles, plaited it into one long braid down her back and tied the end with a ribbon unthreaded from a petticoat.
She had just completed her toilette when there was a knock at the door. Helena caught herself tugging self-consciously at the damp tendrils around her forehead and sat on one of the chairs before calling, ‘Come in!’
‘Ah, Miss Wyatt, quite restored, I see. Did you find everything you needed?’
It sounded a curiously intimate question in that confined space and she bit her lip before saying quietly, ‘Yes, thank you, my lord.’
‘I have brought you some coffee. We will eat soon.’ He had changed into shirt and trousers with a dark blue reefer jacket against the wind but his feet were still—disconcertingly—bare.
He waited in silence, sipping his own coffee, apparently content to let her speak first. The brew was bitter, but reviving and warming as it slipped down her sore throat. Helena had been pushing all thoughts of her mother and brother’s anguish over her disappearance to the back of her mind, but now she could suppress them no longer. ‘How long will it be before we return to Siddlesham sir?’
Lord Darvell considered. ‘Several days—ten or so perhaps.’
‘Then you will be landing at the next port?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I have no plans to make land until I reach St Mary’s,’ he replied.
‘The Scilly Islands!’ Helena put down her mug with a thump. ‘But how will I get home?’
‘I will take you back in the fullness of time.’ His smile was scarcely reassuring.
‘Until then, I will do my utmost to make you tolerably comfortable.’
Chapter Two
‘The Scilly Isles!’ Helena was aghast. ‘My lord, if this is some form of jest on your part, I can assure you it is in very poor taste!’ She stood up in her agitation and held out a hand to him. ‘Please, sir, do not jest with me—assure me you will return to Siddlesham at once. My mother and my brother will be believing me drowned—think of their torment. You cannot be so unkind!’
For a moment, looking into those imploring violet eyes, Adam Darvell almost relented, then hardened himself against their innocent appeal. It was evident that, in her concern for her family’s feelings, it had not occurred to Miss Wyatt that her position was indeed precarious. Even the most liberal member of Society would regard her as being hopelessly compromised already—a few more hours or even days alone with him at sea could scarcely make things worse than they already were. And he had very good reasons for wishing to reach the port of Hugh Town on St Mary’s by tomorrow evening.
‘I cannot turn back now, but I will make sure a message reaches your mother by tonight. You have my word on that, Miss Wyatt,’ he added with a smile, taking her outstretched hand and squeezing it reassuringly.
Helena snatched it away, far from reassured. ‘Sir, I cannot believe you realise how serious this is! How can you undertake to deliver a message to my mother, yet refuse to take me to dry land?’
Adam Darvell’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘Believe me, Miss Wyatt, I fully realise what a predicament we are in.’ He turned to the door, adding under his breath, ‘Even if you do not.’ He lifted a heavy boat cloak from a peg by the door. ‘Here, wrap this around your shoulders and come up on deck. We will make rendezvous with a small vessel off the Needles presently: they return to Siddlesham this afternoon and the master will deliver a message, you have my word.’
‘Then give me pen and paper and I will write to Mama myself,’ Helena demanded on a rising note of impatience. Then the absurd
ity of this talk of messages struck her. ‘But if a boat is returning, why cannot I go back to Siddlesham with it?’
‘I have no intention of entrusting you to a small fishing smack with a crew of…rough seamen.’
Helena’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Rough seamen? More likely your acquaintances are smugglers, are they not, my lord?’ she demanded.
‘Smugglers?’ His grin was almost wolfish. ‘What do you take me for, Miss Wyatt?’
Any retort Helena could have chosen to make was cut off as he closed the door behind him.
She threw the boat cloak onto the bed and sat down with a thud. Grateful though she was to have been plucked from the jaws of death, why, oh, why did it have to be by this man! Adam Darvell, by all accounts, was a rake and a roué; now it seemed he was in league with smugglers to boot!
Having lived all her life on the south coast, Helena was all too familiar with the hair-raising tales of such as the Hawkhurst gang, who had terrorised the county for miles around in her grandfather’s day. Smuggling was a less violent occupation these days—and many a respectable household would find a cask of brandy on their kitchen doorstep in return for ‘watching the wall as the gentlemen went by’ with their loaded pack-ponies—but becoming involved in the ‘trade’ itself was quite another matter!
Her agitated reflections were interrupted by a tap at the door and the entrance of a respectful sailor who handed her an inkhorn, quill and sheet of paper. He tugged his forelock and left as silently as he had arrived. Well, at least she could write and set Mama’s mind at rest, she must be distracted with worry. And poor John must be believing he was responsible for his sister’s drowning.
Helena scribbled a few reassuring words, avoiding all mention of the sinking boat, stating that she was well and safe, but unfortunately could not be returned to shore yet.
The Admiral's Daughter Page 2
