Compromised Miss (30 page)

‘You have all the luck.’ Luke stretched his arms, shoulders, stamped his feet until life returned. Then, as they turned to follow the path to Lydyard’s Pride, he grasped George Gadie’s shoulder and pulled him to a standstill. ‘We were meant to fail last night, weren’t we?’

‘Seems so, y’r honour,’ Gadie admitted with a lift of his shoulder.

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Adam broke in. ‘The shots that were fired at us—they came from the opposite direction. Not where the dragoons were on the cliff path. The Revenue men didn’t fire them.’

Luke stared, attention caught. ‘Adam—are you sure?’

‘Yes. I saw the flash of fire. And they were pistol shots. A dragoon’s rifle wasn’t used, I’d swear to it.’

‘Pistols!’ The idea spun in Luke’s mind. ‘Why didn’t I realise that?’

‘You were a bit preoccupied,’ Adam reminded him drily. ‘Too busy picking yourself and Harriette up from the pebbles.’

The implications chased each other through Luke’s thoughts, until he became aware that Adam was looking at him with eyes widening in horror.

‘Luke?’

‘What is it?’

‘Were you hit? Did one of the bullets hit you? I didn’t think…’

‘No. Why?’

Adam took hold of his lapel, pulling the coat aside. ‘Look—on your shirt—and your coat.’

Luke looked down. He was damp and filthy, covered with sand and grime. But in the grey light of dawn, the stains could be made out. Dried blood, dark and encrusted on his chest and arms, on his thighs. But not
his
blood. Breath backed up in his lungs as fear curdled in his belly. His chest felt bound in iron bands. He had not known. All this time and he had not known.

‘Not mine…Harriette! Harriette was hit. It’s her blood.’

She hadn’t told him. Rather she had denied it. He had pushed her to the ground, out of the path of a bullet, but it had still found her instead of him. Then she had sent him off to safety with the contraband and all the time she…How badly was she hurt? Had he, after all, saved the life of his brother’s widow, only to lose his own wife?

With a terror such as he had never before in his life experienced, Luke took off at a run along the path between church and Lydyard’s Pride.

The night’s storm had blown itself out. Lydyard’s Pride glistened on the cliff top in the morning mist, almost watchful, as if some vital development must still unfold within its walls. Luke took the steps at a run, threw back the door and came to a halt in the shabby entrance hall. Still too early for the girls from the village to be there. Nor was Wiggins obvious. So he must search for himself, and did so. The withdrawing room, the library, the parlours, staying only to sweep a glance around each. Nothing, all unoccupied. No sign of blood or some terrible tragedy from the early hours.

How could he live with the blame that she was hurt? How would he live the rest of his life without her if she were dead?

There had been enough blood to stain his own clothes liberally, now shockingly clear in the light of day. He felt it as he climbed the staircase, stiff on the linen of his shirt, rough against his skin. Who knew what damage some local inexpert doctor might not do to her? She might have bled to death through the early hours, whilst he had been shut up in that god-forsaken tomb. Why had he allowed her to dictate his movements? True, she had the experience, but he should never have countenanced it.

She might even now be lying dead in her bedchamber….

Which thought took him up the stairs straight to her room. He did not even stay to knock on the door, but flung it back.

And stopped on the threshold, chest heaving.

Harriette looked up, lips parted at the intrusion. Then relaxed on a fluttering little laugh. She had known he was safe—George, considerately, had sent word to Wiggins—but with the problem of Marie-Claude and Captain Rodmell to demand her attention she had not thought of how much the night would have taken its physical toll. His face was stark with strain and lack of sleep—there would have been as little rest for him in the tomb as there had been for her. His hair disordered, smudges on his face where he had brushed cobwebs from his skin, he was as far from the elegant and polished Corinthian of the London
haut ton
as it was possible to imagine. Clothes ravaged from salt and water, his cravat in a stage of magnificent disintegration, his boots stained and dull. And there on his breast, on coat and waistcoat and shirt was the ugly rust-brown of her dried blood.

She had, she decided, never loved him more. He was
alive, he was safe, he had thrust his own body between her and the bullets, and now he had come to find her. He was out of breath. He must have run up the stairs. Was it concern for her? Was it to find her, to know if she was safe? A tiny flame of hope flickered into life in her heart.

Despite everything, all the danger they had been through, energy still vibrated from him. His eyes were alight with fire in their depths. How splendidly masculine he was, how impossibly good to look at. How she longed to walk into his arms and be held there. To touch his face, his hair, to drink in the familiar scent of him.

But she could not.

Reality set in for Harriette. Did they not have a bargain that was now close to fulfilment? He would have come back to the Pride to complete the deal, to claim Marie-Claude. That was why he was here. Then he would leave her.

He had come to end it all. How foolish for her to have any other longings. The little flame of hope died.

Luke found his voice. The only thought in his head. ‘I thought you were dead!’

‘No. As you see.’

Harriette was seated by the fire in a loose robe of fine lace. Meggie hovered at her side with pinched lips. On a little table stood a bowl of bloodied water. A roll of linen. Meggie held a pair of scissors.

‘I know you were struck by the bullet.’

‘Yes.’

Her face was as pale as the wax of the candle at her elbow. The shadows beneath her eyes were too heavy, deep as bruises. Her lips were tightly pressed, too pale, and her eyes were laced with pain.

‘She should rest, my lord.’ Meggie frowned at him.

‘Not before I know she is safe.’ An outrageous relief left him almost light-headed, and with it an unexpected brush of anger. She might have been dead and he not know. Why could she not have told him that she was hurt and in pain? The thought that she had suffered—was still suffering—without his knowledge simply fuelled the fire.

‘I think you should go to bed, my lady.’ Meggie turned her frown on Harriette.

‘And I will ensure that she does. But not before I have spoken to her.’

‘Please go, Meggie,’ Harriette urged. ‘I’ll come to no further harm.’

Passing him on the way to the door, bearing the bowl and linen, Meggie cast a disapproving glare in his direction. ‘She’s lost too much blood. Don’t hurt her or worry her, my lord,’ Meggie admonished.

‘I’ve no intention of doing either!’ But he closed the door quietly. Then strode across the room to sink to one knee at Harriette’s feet, taking possession of her hands, holding on when she struggled to free herself.

‘Humour me.’ He folded her hands tightly within his own. ‘Let me look at you. Let me be sure that you are safe.’

‘There’s no need, Luke.’ Harriette flushed to her hairline. ‘Meggie exaggerates.’

‘But you are hurt.’ He did not release her. Could not.

‘A bullet grazed along my ribs—that’s all. Meggie has bandaged it.’

‘You lost a lot of blood. You didn’t tell me! Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?’

‘What good would that have done?’ Now her fingers clung to his in a need to make him understand. ‘The Preventives were almost at the beach. We were only just in time. We had to get you, the crew and the contraband away.’

‘And so you did.’ Luke bent his head, his forehead against their joined hands, and breathed deep, accepting the truth of it. She had seen the need and acted on it. He still did not know how she had created her own escape, and that of the widow, without raising suspicion. ‘Should I tell you how much I admire you?’ He lifted his eyes to hers, slid his hands up her forearms and bent his head to press his lips to the translucent skin of her wrists, startled when she hissed in a breath. Pushing up the loose sleeves of her robe, his fingers stilled. Her inner arms were rough and grazed, both of them, the soft skin broken in places.

‘What…?’

‘The shingle,’ she explained with the ghost of a laugh, that could have been a tearful catch in her voice. ‘When we fell—I must have slid on it. It’s sharp and unforgiving with the broken shells. It’s nothing and will heal quickly enough.’

‘Harriette!’

His eyes were captured by hers, to be held by them and he felt himself drown in their clear depths. There was pain there. All good sense told him to treat her gently. Sense warned him to keep her at a distance. But what power did good sense have in the face of this woman whose courage was beyond question? This woman whom he loved to the very depth of his soul and would until the final breath in his body. How could he have considered making so foolish a pact with her that would allow her to walk away from him? Driven by an absolute need to hold her, soothe her, reassure her and himself of the life-giving force that surged through his blood, Luke rose to his feet, lifting her to stand with him.

Holding her, hands lightly on her shoulders, his mouth took hers. Gently, softly, conscious of her fragility, until he forgot everything but his desire for her as her lips opened beneath his demand. Unconsciously, his embrace
wrapped her closer, his mouth moved with fierce urgency in unrestrained kisses. Until she murmured, flinched.

‘Forgive me, forgive me…’

He relaxed, but did not release her. Could not as her vulnerability flowed through his veins, as her lips again parted beneath his to allow his tongue to caress and soothe the wet, satin-soft skin. His blood was hot, his erection hardened in painful demand. They were both alive and here was a need to celebrate that one simple fact.

With a superb exercise of will Luke released her, stepped back from her.

‘You are too sweet and desirable. And you are so tired.’ Her eyes were heavy lidded, the lashes falling to shadow her cheeks where the prints of exhaustion were even more evident, her face even whiter. ‘You need to sleep.’

‘I should tell you…about the bullets.’

‘Tomorrow…’ But dawn had already fully come. ‘Later today—that will be soon enough.’ Then added, ‘Let your mind be at peace, Harriette. I know about the bullets.’

‘Yes. I thought you might…’ She did not argue, was too weary to do so, as she swayed on her feet. With extravagant care he lifted her in his arms, carried her to her bed and placed her there. Folded the covers over her, arranging the pillows to her comfort. She was almost asleep before he was finished.

‘We did it, Luke,’ she murmured. ‘We rescued her…’

‘
You
rescued her,’ he amended. ‘Tell me all about Captain Rodmell when you wake.’

‘Will you be here?’

‘Yes. I will be here. I’ll not leave you.’

Her breast beneath the delicate lace rose and fell regularly, her eyes were closed.

Luke simply stood and looked at her, taking in every
detail of her. She was alive and he must give thanks for that. His love for her, still so new when she had fled from him, had bloomed into full maturity, astounding him by its power. The seconds, the minutes, passed and still all he wanted to do was stand there and absorb the very essence of her as she slept. It was too late. Ridiculously too late. He had fallen in love with her, totally, irrevocably, yet had offered her her freedom in the same breath. As a man of honour he must keep his promise.

In despair, Luke forced himself into action, to draw the fall of the curtain to shield the bed from the intrusive sun. To pull forwards a chair—and damned uncomfortable it was—to sit beside her. He should leave her to sleep undisturbed, but he could not. Covering her hand where it lay on the coverlet with his own, he turned it over, smoothing his fingers over hers. Another contradiction here. He smiled briefly. Slender femininity coupled with the roughness from using rope and tiller, the sheer physical work of sailing a cutter. So practical, so pretty. Like the rest of her. He tucked a curl back from her face, letting his hand rest on the silkiness of it. Leaning to kiss her brow, her lips. He would stay with her for a little time. She did not need him, but he would remain on guard. Nothing must be allowed to disturb or harm his wife.

The horror of what had nearly happened struck him anew. She had nearly died, running the contraband for him, just so that he might rescue a woman who meant nothing to him, who might yet be a heartless impostor. Could he have borne it if Harriette had died? What would life be like without her? Unbearable. Unimaginable. Impossible.

Exhaustion got the better of him. Luke slept also, his head and arms resting on the bed beside her as she had
once slept to keep watch over him. Until Meggie returned to wake him with a hand to his shoulder.

‘What is it?’ His eyes were instantly on Harriette. ‘Is she…?’

‘She’s asleep. You should go and get some sleep, too, my lord.’

‘You speak as if I have no right to be here,’ he replied harshly. ‘She is my
wife
.’

‘Yes, she is. But she ran away from you. I don’t know why—and I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s none of my business—but she would not do such a thing without reason.’

He stretched, touched Harriette’s fingers fleetingly. ‘She had every reason.’

For a long moment Luke lingered by the bed where Harriette was deeply asleep. Her life was in no danger and he thanked God for it. He had promised he would stay with her, but what use? She did not need him now and Meggie did not want him here.

‘You should go and bathe, change your clothes. Rest, my lord.’ Meggie’s voice had softened a little. ‘I’ll take care of her for you.’

‘I know you will. She has no need of me. I love her, you know.’

‘Do you? Does she know?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘She did this for you. And was hurt. Will you break her heart, as well?’ All in the fiercest of whispers.

Without reply, Luke left Harriette in Meggie’s care, feeling as if his heart had been ripped from his body.