Ravish Me with Rubies

by Jane Feather

  “For God’s sake, Petra, stay where you are.”

  She looked over her shoulder. Guy was racing down the beach toward her. He held a life ring, one of the many hooked onto poles left by the Coast Guard lifeboat crews along the sands. Petra couldn’t imagine what good it would do in the present crisis, and she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what Guy was doing here or how he could have appeared so suddenly. She ignored his command and stepped forward again, carefully, trying to step as lightly as possible on the surface of the mud flat. It was still shallow and sucked against her ankles.

  A few yards ahead of her she saw that Clothilde had at last stopped, but she wasn’t moving at all, just standing stock still and Petra realized that the deeper mud had snared her. It was thick, viscous and deadly. She shaded her eyes against the sun and looked to the horizon. The silvery glimmer of the sea caught her eye and a cold dread ran down her spine. The tide, the notoriously fast tide of Weston, was coming in.

  Desperately she took another step toward Clothilde, then another. She could hear Guy behind her. “Stand still,” he shouted. “I’m coming.”

  Petra couldn’t imagine what good it would do if they were both stuck. She looked around. A stranded dinghy lay half on its side a few steps away. At least it was solid. She tiptoed sideways, and by some miracle the mud loosened around her toes as she lifted her heels as high as she could. Another step, and then another, and she could grasp the side of the dinghy. She was safe now. All she had to do was swing herself up and into the boat and wait for the incoming tide to lift it out of the mud. But Clothilde was several yards away and stuck fast with a rapidly rising tide.

  “I can’t move,” the Frenchwoman called, sounding numb.

  “Of course you can’t,” Petra retorted, too angry with their predicament to offer sympathy. “Didn’t you hear me calling to you to stop? Of all the bloody stupid things to do. You don’t run toward the water, you run away from it. Don’t you know anything?” Fear infused her anger but when she saw the terror in Clothilde’s eyes her anger died. The poor woman hadn’t known which way was up under the gulls’ attack and she wouldn’t know the dangers of this beach anyway.

  “Help me,” Clothilde begged in a voice of such terror that Petra forgot everything that lay between them. She looked sideways and saw that Guy, also shoeless, was only a few feet away, still holding the life ring. Considerably heavier than she, he was having more trouble getting to the dinghy, but somehow he twisted his foot onto its side so that he was walking only on its edge and with a curious set of hopping movements fought through the mud. At last he was able to grab the side of the boat and haul himself forward until he was beside Petra.

  “The tide’s coming in,” Petra told him succinctly.

  “Yes, I saw.”

  “What are you doing here anyway?” She couldn’t help herself from asking the question despite the urgency of the situation.

  “I missed you and I needed you,” he stated flatly.

  “Oh.” There seemed no answer to a comment that filled her with warmth. Instead Petra leaned over to look into the boat. A thick rope lay coiled along the bottom. “Do you think she could catch the rope if we threw it to her? Then we could pull her through the mud.”

  Guy looked grim but he didn’t answer, instead turned toward Clothilde, who still stood frozen so far and yet so close to them. “Clothilde, I’m going to throw you a life ring,” he called, his voice calm. “Catch it and slip it over your head. The tide is coming in.”

  “But if she’s stuck firm the tide won’t float her off, it’ll drown her,” Petra said in an undertone.

  “That’s not helpful,” Guy snapped, the moment of warmth forgotten. “Get in the boat and uncurl the rope.” He gave her an undignified boost over the side of the dinghy and she fell in a heap on the bottom.

  “Ugh.” Petra righted herself. The bottom was covered in a greenish sludge. She examined the rope. It was wet and coiled tightly. She perched astride one of the thwarts and pulled it toward her.

  Guy held the life ring ready to throw but Clothilde stood paralyzed, the mud halfway up her calves, the silk folds of her blue skirt stuck to her legs. “You have to catch this, my dear,” he called in a kind, almost gentle voice, quite unlike the one he had used with Petra. Despite Petra’s correct dismissal of the usefulness of the ring, he knew that it would give Clothilde some sense of hope and with any luck shake off her paralysis. He measured the distance with his eye and then sent the ring in an arc through the air. Clothilde raised her arms to catch it. A seagull cried, she screeched in alarm and the ring fell into the mud at her feet.

  “Can you pick it up?” Guy asked in the same gentle voice, hiding his frustration. He glanced toward the horizon. The silver line was now an unmistakable wave of water moving toward the beach.

  Clothilde bent a little, reaching down to grab the ring as it lay in the mud. She seized it. It was thick with mud and she looked at it helplessly as if unsure what she was to do with it.

  “Put it over your head,” Petra yelled, and startled at her sharpness Clothilde did so, shuddering as the wet, muddy thing encircled her body.

  Petra’s fingers were bleeding as she struggled with the last wet coil of the thick rope but at last she had it. “Here.” She handed one end to Guy, who still stood outside the boat. “If she can grab hold of that, we can both pull her in. I’ll stay in the boat and pull from here.”

  Guy nodded, casting another anxious glance at the fast approaching wave. He could hear it now, a subdued but unmistakable rushing surge of sound. “Hold on to this as tightly as you can.” He looped the rope around his hand, leaned as far forward as he dared and tossed it toward Clothilde.

  Somehow, this time she caught it. “Now,” Petra called, “tie it around your waist so that if you drop it, it won’t be lost.” Clothilde obeyed, her fingers all thumbs, but at last it was done. The first little rivulets of water crept across the mud toward her.

  “Now, Petra,” Guy said, hauling on the rope, hand over hand.

  Petra took a firm stance in the slanting boat and pulled with all her strength. Clothilde didn’t seem to move at first, and then, as Guy gave another almighty heave, the mud gave up its hold with a great sucking sound and she was dragged across it until Guy got his hands around her and lifted her bodily into the boat.

  She lay on the sludgy bottom, a pitiful sight, mud and tears streaking her perfect complexion.

  “What now?” Petra asked as Guy pulled himself over the side into the dinghy.

  “Now we wait.” He looked out to where the line of waves was coming ever closer.

  “Once the boat floats we’ll have to swim to the sand,” Petra pointed out. “Can you swim, Clothilde?” She held out her bloody hands to pull the woman into a sitting position.

  Clothilde shook her head. She seemed to have lost the power of speech during her ordeal. She shivered and Guy pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket before taking off the jacket and draping it around Clothilde’s shoulders.

  “It shouldn’t be too long now,” he told her, trying to sound reassuring before turning to Petra. “Let me look at your hands.”

  Petra extended them palms up in silence. Guy spat on his handkerchief and wiped away as much of the blood as he could. “They’re scrapes rather than cuts,” he declared. “Keep dabbing at them and the bleeding will stop.”

  Petra watched the tide racing in. It was astonishing how fast it came. She knew all the stories of unwary people caught by the tide on this beach and the many lifeboat rescues, and she’d read the stories of those who’d died in the mud, but still the speed of the oncoming tide shocked her. Within fifteen minutes of Clothilde’s rescue the dinghy was beginning to float and small waves were lapping at the sand twenty feet away. There was no sign of the treacherous mud beneath the blue-green water.

  “Instead of swimming, why don’t we see if we can row the dinghy closer to the shore?” Petra suggested. “Once we reach the sand, you can help Clothilde to walk o
nto the beach. I don’t mind bringing the boat back to its mooring and then swimming back across the mud.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Guy stated. “Your heroics, madam wife, are over for the day.” He leaned sideways, resting on the palm of one hand against the thwart, and kissed her mouth. He glanced at Clothilde, who now sat on the second thwart, huddled in his jacket.

  “What in the devil’s name were you doing here, Clothilde?”

  Petra kept silent. She had the feeling that Guy was about to dispense with his customary courtesy.

  Clothilde said nothing, but turned her head away, looking toward the beach. Guy unhooked an oar from one of the rowlocks and reached across for the other. He turned the little boat and began to row to the beach. Just as the boat was about to run aground again, but this time on sand, he said somewhat curtly, “Get out here, Petra, and go to the Ship. Get a room, order mulled wine, and get out of those clothes. I’ll join you within the hour.”

  “But . . . but . . .” She looked expressively at Clothilde.

  “Would you just for once do as you’re told.”

  There was a note in his voice that made Petra swing herself over the gunwale into the calf-deep water, her feet finding the sandy bottom with relief. She waded to shore, holding up her skirt, although it was already soaked through above her knees. On the dry sand, she looked back at the dinghy. Guy was holding it steady with the oars and he was talking.

  Petra suddenly thought that she did not want to hear what he was saying to Clothilde. Much as she despised her, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of compassion for the Frenchwoman. She was soaked and filthy, barely recovered from a terrifying ordeal, and Guy didn’t look as if he had a smidgeon of sympathy for her.

  She trailed back up the beach, retrieving her sandals on her way, and walked back along the promenade to the Ship Inn. The landlord was still behind the saloon bar and he stared at his bedraggled customer when she entered.

  “Good Lord, ma’am. What’s ’appened to you?”

  “Mud,” Petra said concisely. “My husband will be here soon and he looks as bad as I do. Do you have a room free where we can clean up a little? Oh, and Lord Ashton wants a jug of mulled wine as well as hot water and a fire in the room.”

  “Right away, m’lady. How’d you get caught in the mud? You and ’is lordship know these parts well enough.”

  “Someone needed rescuing,” Petra said. “But all’s well that ends well. So, if you could show me to a room upstairs. . .”

  “Right this way, my lady. And I’ll send a maid up to you right away.” He bustled ahead of her up a creaky staircase and opened a door on the first landing. “This is the best room in the house, ma’am. I’ll have the fire lit in no time.”

  “Thank you. And don’t forget the mulled wine.” She smiled at him and when he’d left leaned against the closed door for a moment feeling the quiet normality of the room settle around her. It was large, with a four-poster bed, a deep inglenook fireplace and an oak settle with a chintz cushion. There was no attached bathroom, but the inn was several centuries old and presumably lacked such niceties. She pushed herself away from the door as someone knocked.

  A maid came in with two jugs of steaming hot water; behind her was a leather-aproned manservant with an armful of wood. Petra found a seat on the settle, careful to keep the folds of her wet and muddy skirt away from the crisp chintz cushion, and watched as the fire began to blaze.

  “I’ll get the mulled wine going, ma’am,” the maid said, dropping a curtsy. “I’ll do it up here, shall I?”

  “Yes, please.” The inglenook was begging for a trivet and saucepan of hot spiced wine on the fire.

  “Should I help you with your clothes?” the girl asked tentatively. “I could sponge off the skirt for you and press it. Have it good as new by morning.”

  The prospect of spending the night in the inn was suddenly very appealing. It was a place with no connotations, no ill memories, a place where she and Guy could be themselves, with no distractions from their own personal issues. What better place to sort out those issues that had to be sorted if they were to have a proper marriage?

  “Is there a shop somewhere you could buy me a dressing gown?” she asked the girl, digging her purse out of the deep pocket of her jacket. She took out three guineas.

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s Judy’s on the High Street. She has some nice things. I could run there now for you.”

  “Thank you.” Petra handed her the guineas and as soon as the girl had left stripped off her sodden outer garments and, dressed only in her chemise and drawers, poured hot water in the basin on the washstand and sponged as much of her as she could get to. The heat was wonderfully refreshing and relaxing. Feeling much more comfortable she wrapped herself in the bed coverlet and returned to the settle by the roaring fire, wondering what had happened to Clothilde. Would Guy bring her to the inn?

  She had her answer a few minutes later when Guy came in without an alerting knock. He gave a sigh of relief as he looked around the warm, inviting room. A fragrant pot now simmered gently in the hearth, two earthenware mugs warming beside it.

  “You look comfortable,” he said, crossing over to her with long strides. “What an abominable afternoon.” He kissed her, then said, “I want to hold you but I’m filthy and wet and you look so warm and comfortable, and dry,” he added.

  “Where’s Clothilde?”

  “On her way back to Harrington Hall with Harrington’s driver,” he said shortly. “And that, my love, is the last time the woman’s name will ever pass between us. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” she said, deciding she didn’t want to pry further. Whatever had happened between Guy and the Frenchwoman would not have been pleasant for either of them, she guessed. “If you have the motor, what are we to do with the pony and trap?”

  “Douglas is taking them back to Ashton Court now.” He stripped off his shirt. “Pour some of that wine, sweetheart. I am perished.”

  “Did you have to swim to shore?” She knelt by the fire, ladling the hot wine into the mugs, sticking a cinnamon stick in each one.

  “As luck would have it, the dinghy’s owner came out for a late afternoon’s fishing on the high tide and took it from me on the beach. A couple of guineas satisfied him as a loaner’s fee and I escaped total immersion.” He took the mug and inhaled deeply. “Ah, I’ve been dreaming of this for hours.”

  “I think we should spend the night here,” Petra stated, looking at him through the steam curling from her own mug.

  “Do you?” He looked around the cozy room. “Apart from the obvious, is there another reason?”

  “Yes.” She cupped her hands around the mug. “We have to find a way through this morass. I love you, Guy, with all my heart, but I won’t change my convictions, my loyalties, I can’t possibly. And you won’t change yours, but perhaps, here, in this neutral space we could try to find a way to love and live with each other despite.”

  Guy looked at her for a long moment. “As it happens,” he said slowly, “I find that under my wife’s influence my convictions seem to have undergone a change.”

  Petra stared at him, her hazel eyes wide. “Do you mean—”

  “I mean that until you entered my life I had not really given much thought to the idea of women and the vote,” he interrupted. “I couldn’t really see why you would want it, but Clothilde explained it to me.”

  “Clothilde?”

  He nodded. “It was not her intention, quite the opposite, I believe, but I found the argument against her argument quite convincing.”

  “Oh. That sounds very convoluted,” Petra said hesitantly.

  “It’s actually very simple,” he responded, a slow smile spreading from his eyes to his mouth. “Oh, my darling love, I don’t want to change one tiny iota about you. Everything about your redoubtable, stubborn, unconventional, reckless, competent, combative, loyal and loving self informs my lifeblood. I can’t imagine what kind of life I was living before you came into
it.”

  Petra felt a little spurt of inner warmth that had little to do with the mulled wine. She looked at him, wondering if what he was saying could be true. “You would support universal suffrage?”

  “I have every intention of doing so,” he responded. “I’ll discuss it with Asquith and Campbell Bannerman when we return to London. Damn, now what?” He turned to the door at a brisk knock.

  “Here’s the dressing gown, ma’am.” The maid looked at Guy in his shirtless state and looked away hastily, blushing. She put the parcel on the bed and turned back to the door. “Is there anything else, my lady?”

  “Is there by any chance a gentleman’s haberdashery in Weston?” Petra asked on a bubble of laughter. “His lordship has need of a dressing gown too.” She held out her purse. “Take what you need from there.”

  “I’ll send Robbie the barman, my lady.” The girl took the purse and scuttled away.

  “Here, you’d better have this.” Petra unwrapped herself from the coverlet, passing it to him before she ripped open the tissue-papered package, shaking out the folds of a sturdy woolen dressing gown. “Not the height of fashion, but it’ll certainly do.” She pushed her arms into it and tied the girdle at her waist. “Oh, I feel almost human again. And I’m starving. Can we order dinner up here?”

  “I might have an order of my own first,” Guy said, peeling off his sodden trousers and undergarments. He pulled back the bedcovers. “Get in. It’s playtime.” He patted the sheet, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Must I fetch you, wife?”

  “Well, that could be fun on another occasion,” Petra said, considering. “But not today.” She leaped onto the bed, untying her robe, flinging her arms wide. “Ravish me, my lord.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure, my lady.”

  Don’t miss the first book in Jane Feather’s

  London Jewels series . . .