The Least Likely Bride (36 page)

“In Ventnor, apparently.”

“He came back to hurt me … or my father,” she said with conviction. “He must have some plan, some—”

“It seemed he had the idea that you would make the perfect wife for Channing. The perfect
rich
wife. His idea, if I understood our friend right, was that he would share in the financial windfall.” He shook his head in mock amazement. “The ideas people come up with.”

“It would be more than that,” Olivia said. “Not just the money. He’d want to hurt us in some other way.”

“And what better than seeing you married to a man like Godfrey Channing? I doubt the Granville pride could stand the truth.”

“Vile man. You hurt him, didn’t you?”

“As much as was necessary,” Anthony responded calmly. “And he is now walking to Yarmouth, tied to Mike’s stirrup, where he will take ship to the Sublime Porte. I think he might find it quite difficult to find his way home from there.”

“The Turks will probably sell him into slavery,” Olivia said in awe. “Isn’t that what they do with foreigners?”

“Quite possibly. It seems a well-deserved fate. I was thinking he and Mr. Morse might care to make the journey together.”

“But … but how could that happen?”

“With a little ingenuity, my flower.” He laughed at her astounded expression. This was the Anthony she had first known. A man with rakehell amusement in his eyes, a merry quirk to his mouth; a man exhilarated by whatever life had to offer, certain of his utter competence to deal with whatever twist and turn fate presented him. This was the Anthony from the early dream days of entrancement, and her spirit rose to join his as it had done then.

He pushed her soaked hair from her face and said, “I shall need your help to enhance my ingenuity.”

“How?”

“Nothing too difficult. I’ll explain all in good time.”

He bent over the wounded man, examined the wound in his shoulder. “You’ll live long enough for the hangman,” he said dismissively. “You and the rest of your murdering friends.”

He stood up, took Olivia’s hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Adam?”

“Aye?” Adam came over to them.

“What’s the damage?”

“Tim ’as a scratch, ’an it looks as if Colin’s broke a finger.”

“That’s it?”

Adam nodded. “Sam’s gone fer the watch. They’ll pick up this lot.”

“Good, then let’s get dry. Tell the men to find berths in the village. We’ll not get back to
Wind Dancer
in this.”

Adam glanced at Olivia. “Like a bad penny, you are,” he said. “What in ’ell’s teeth are you doin’ out ’ere?”

“It certainly is a puzzle,” Anthony said. “A distinctly puzzling volte-face. But I’m about to find the answer.” His fingers closed tightly over her hand that he still held.

He said almost as an afterthought, “Adam, I want three men in Ventnor, in the taproom of the Gull at dawn.”

“More mischief, I suppose,” Adam grumbled.

“Of the most necessary kind,” Anthony said with an edge to his voice, an edge that Adam knew boded ill for someone.

“Come, Olivia,” Anthony said quietly.

Olivia found herself half running to keep up with his lengthy stride. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere where we can dry out and you can tell me what brought you out here in the middle of a gale.”

Olivia’s spirits sank abruptly. She knew she would
have to tell him the truth, and she dreaded having to make such a confession. Would he understand how she had come to make such a mistake? Would he understand how much of it was his fault? He had told her nothing about himself, nothing about why he did what he did. Nothing about his family, except for the embroidering aunt. A man who believed in nothing, followed no rules, had no scruples. She had had ample excuse for her mistake. But would Anthony see it that way?

A
NTHONY STRODE
up the snaky path to the clifftop. He held Olivia’s hand tightly. When she stubbed her toe on a rock and stumbled, he caught her up against him. “You’re so cold and wet,” he said in almost chiding tones, trying for a minute to warm her shivering body against his own icy wetness. “What madness could have brought you out on such a night?”

“I knew … I just knew there was going to be a wreck. I thought maybe I could stop it. It was c-crazy, I know, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.” It was the best she could do for the moment.

“It took twenty men to stop it,” Anthony pointed out. “And why would Lord Granville’s daughter have any interest in wrecking? It’s a vile and vicious thing. Not to mention dangerous. If we hadn’t been there, or if the battle had gone the other way, and you’d been spotted by the wreckers, they would have killed you as soon as look at you. Surely you understood that?”

Olivia made no answer. Her teeth chattered.

Anthony shook his head and began to walk fast again. They were striding along the undercliff path, and the wind
and rain were less fierce under the overhang. He stopped suddenly and Olivia almost ran into him.

“Where are we?”

“A safe place,” he said. He pushed his rain-darkened hair out of his eyes. “It’s not the most comfortable spot, but at least it’s quiet and dry.”

He turned aside from the path and seemed to walk into the cliff, Olivia’s hand firmly in his. And they were in a dark place, suddenly silent, as the storm raged outside. It was cold and Olivia’s teeth were chattering like castanets. The hood of her cloak had long since blown off, and water dripped from her hair down her neck.

“This way.” He drew her with him across a floor where the sand scrunched beneath her boots. Her eyes grew slowly accustomed to the darkness, and she could see that they were in a large cave. Then they were in a passage, narrow and dark, and she clung to his hand, the flat dry warmth of his palm comforting her. The passage opened out into a smaller space than the first.

Anthony dropped her hand and she stood still in a darkness that was more profound than it had been before. She heard him moving around, then flint scraped on tinder and light glowed from a lantern.

Olivia looked around in amazement at the rudimentary furnishings of this inner cave.

Anthony pulled blankets off a straw palliasse. “Get your clothes off while I light the fire.” Urgency made his tone brusque. He tossed a blanket across to her, then busied himself at a round stone hearth in the center of the cave.

“Won’t we be smoked out?” Olivia shrugged out of her cloak and doublet and stood shivering.

“There’s a natural flue in the roof.” He looked up from the hearth. “Hurry up, Olivia! Get out of those clothes. Don’t just stand there!”

His gaze rested on her breasts, pink and round beneath the sodden white chemise. Her nipples were hard dark points against the pink.

“Dear God,” he said softly. “What is it that you do to me?”

“What you do to me,” she responded as softly.

The comforting crackle of catching wood filled the cave. He straightened. His gaze held hers and this time her shiver was not due to cold and wet. “Take your clothes off, Olivia!”

He watched her through narrowed eyes as she flung aside her wet clothes. Naked she drew close to the fire. On some distant plane she realized that she was warm again. She could feel the fire against her side. She looked up at him and saw her own face in the dark irises.

He put his hands on her shoulders, cupping the curve where they met her upper arms. He ran his hands down her arms and the fine hairs prickled. He took her hands, turned them palm up. They were filthy, encrusted with sand and dirt. He held each hand in turn and lightly smacked the grime from each palm.

There was an edge to his caresses. An edge that Olivia sensed had to do with the battle he’d fought with the wreckers. A lingering residue of the savage intensity that had defeated the enemy. Something in herself responded. She tugged her hands free and undid the buttons on his shirt with rough haste, heedless when one flew off into the far corner of the cave. She unfastened his belt buckle, slowly, making of each movement a deliberate act. She slithered the belt through its loops and unfastened the buttons of his britches.

Her nails raked his flanks as she pushed his britches over his hips. She heard his quick indrawn breath. Then he kicked his feet free of the britches and caught her face between his hands.

His mouth was hard, relentless, offering no quarter. And Olivia asked for none. She pushed her hands up inside his opened shirt, over his ribs, up to his shoulders. She thrust the garment from him until he stood as naked as she.

His hands went to her bottom, pulling her hard against him. She caught his lower lip between her teeth, drove her tongue within his mouth on her own exploration. She would not be dominated by his urgency; her own met and matched his in a competition that escalated with each breath. Her hands were everywhere, following their own instincts. She gripped his buttocks, sliding a finger into the deep, narrow cleft between them. She ran her flat palm over his belly, dipped a finger into his navel, slid down to clasp his penis, moved back between his thighs to cup the hot swelling globes. She was on tiptoe now, pressing herself against him, giving herself to his hungry hands, feeling the heat of her own arousal, the flowing juices, the absolute desperation of their shared need.

They slid to the floor beside the fire. Olivia was unaware of the hard sand-covered rock beneath her. Her hips rose to meet his penetration and he gathered her up, lifting her off the hard floor, holding her, his hands flattened on her back, protecting her, as they rose and fell together in a silence that sang with all the sweetness of a cathedral choir.

And when it was over, when he held her tightly against him, rocking her in the aftershocks of passion, she pressed her lips to the fast-beating pulse at the base of his throat and thought that if she never experienced such joy again, she would die content.

But when the world reasserted itself, she understood the stupidity and the futility of such a belief.

As the glow of lovemaking faded she moved from his embrace, and he let her go without protest, reaching for
the blanket that lay discarded on the sandy floor. He put it around her shoulders, then rose to throw more wood on the fire.

Olivia drew the blanket tight around her as she stood up too. She was tense now as she watched him dress again. She couldn’t help the unworthy hope that their lovemak-ing had driven all questions about her presence on the beach from his mind … that she would be spared her confession.

“So you thought to stop a wreck single-handed, my flower?” He raised his eyebrows, his gray eyes suddenly uncomfortably penetrating.

She clutched the blanket at her throat with one hand and stepped closer to the fire, the sand soft as silk beneath her feet.

“I have to confess something,” she said, keeping her head lowered, her eyes on the fire.

Anthony was suddenly very still. She could feel his stillness, hear the soft in and out of his breath. “Go on,” he said.

“I think it was probably unforgivable,” she said. “I know you’re going to be very angry and you have every right. But I hope you’ll understand why it happened.”

“You’re alarming me.” He clasped the back of her bent neck, his hand warm and somehow reassuring. It gave her the courage to speak.

“I thought it was you,” she said.

“I don’t understand you.”

“The wreckers,” she said simply. “I thought … and then I think I thought that maybe I could persuade you to stop.”

Her words hung in the cave’s dank and stuffy air. For an eternity there was no sound but the crackle of the fire. Slowly Anthony’s hand dropped from her neck. It left a cold place where before it had been warm.

When at last he spoke it was in a tone of utter disbelief. “You thought
I
was one of those filthy vermin? You thought
I
could do such a thing?”

Olivia turned to face him. She forced herself to meet his eyes, where incredulity mingled with a deep anger. “You said … you said in Portsmouth when you gave me the c-clothes that they’d c-
c
ome from a wreck.” She tried to control the stammer but her agitation was out of hand.

“I didn’t say I had caused the wreck.” Anthony’s voice was now very cold and soft, and it was impossible to imagine the way they had loved a few short minutes ago.

“I thought you did. It’s what I
heard
you say. You sounded so c-casual, as if it was quite natural…. You’re a smuggler, a pirate. Everyone knows that smugglers are often wreckers. You were on the island the night of the last wreck, and the goods from the wreck were in
Wind Dancer
’s hold.”

She extended one hand in a gesture of appeal. “What was I supposed to think? I didn’t know anything really about you. I still don’t,” she added. “I don’t know why you are as you are … why you do what you do.”

There was a challenge in her voice now, but Anthony didn’t answer it. He stood with his hands on his hips, feet braced on the sandy floor. His icy regard never left her countenance.

After a second, Olivia continued in the face of his silence, “We’d been living a dream, an idyll on the beach and on the ship. It wasn’t real. And then I saw everything with new eyes, as if the dream was shattered and I was seeing the real world again. And in the real world, piracy, smuggling, and wrecking go hand in hand. I’d seen you c-capture the
Doña Elena
. I saw you steal her c-cargo. I heard you tell me the c-clothes c-came from a wreck!”

And at last he spoke. “I don’t understand how, when
we had loved together in the way that we did, that you could imagine I could do anything that vile,” he declared with soft savagery. “Was that why you threw dishonor in my face?”

She nodded dismally. “Only for that.”

“Not piracy, nor smuggling, nor the fact that I am an enemy of your most honorable father? Not the fact that I will do everything I can to outwit him, regardless of honor?” he asked with bitter irony.

Olivia winced. “No, none of those things.”

“Isn’t that somewhat illogical?”

“What we have together has never been logical,” she answered with desperate truth.

“But believing that I was a wrecker destroyed what you felt for me … what we had together?”