by Aston, Alexa
He saddled Mercury himself and then rode out toward the cliffs. Since coming to Cornwall, he’d spent many hours riding and often walked to the cliffs or down the steep path to the beach below. Andrew rode to them now and tied Mercury’s reins to a low tree branch. He walked for half an hour and returned. Surprise filled him when he found a second horse standing next to his, its rider none other than Francis. His half-brother quickly dismounted.
“Francis, what are you doing here? You have an estate to run in Somerset.”
Francis sneered. “It’s small and doesn’t produce much of anything. It’s a waste of my time.”
“I disagree. If you learn to manage it properly and turn a profit, I will gift it to you,” he said, hoping that would change Francis’ tune. “You’ll need to give it some time, though. The Season has only been over a month. Once you’ve been there several months, I guarantee you’ll see progress.”
“Why the bloody hell would I want something in boring Somerset?” Francis asked, his face red with anger. “It’s too far from London. There’s nothing to do there. My friends refuse to come see me. They think Somerset is ready to drop off the edge of the world.”
Telling himself to practice patience, Andrew said, “That’s a good thing, Francis. You were running with a fast crowd that got you into trouble. Being in the country after the Season will do you a world of good.”
“I’m bored, Windham,” Francis complained.
He gave the younger man a withering glance. “There’s plenty for you to do. Hard work builds character.”
“Blast it all. You sound just like Father. I’m not like either of you. Ward and I had much in common. Now he was a man other men admired, not some stick-in-the-mud like you.”
Andrew’s anger had simmered until now. He asked, “What did you have in common with Ward? A love of gambling? Coupling with strumpets? Buying too many fashionable clothes?” He glowered. “It’s time you grew up, Francis. You are twenty-two now. A man. You need to start acting like one. I’ve been generous with the allowance I’ve given you and I’ve provided an opportunity for you to learn estate management. If you can show me progress at Monkford, I’ve said I will gift it to you outright,” he reminded. “It will be a solid, reliable income and a place you can raise your family someday.”
Francis cursed. “You say it as if that’s something I want. I don’t, Windham. I want London. I need to be with my friends. I want to box at Gentleman Jack’s and race. Gamble from midnight until dawn. Sow my wild oats for a decade or more and then find me a woman with an enormous dowry.”
“That will be hard, Francis. You’ve no title. In my experience, heiresses have papas who are looking to buy a title and position in the ton. You have neither,” Andrew said coldly.
Francis spat. “You weren’t even meant for the dukedom. You never wanted it. I did.”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to be Windham. It comes with too much responsibility. You want to be a wastrel and play your life away.”
“What if you die?” challenged Francis. “Ward did. He drank until he couldn’t remember his own name. Lost more money gambling in one night than some men earn in a lifetime. He had a zest for life you’ll never have. You’re dull and morose and all you think of are duty and obligations. What’s the point of being rich and powerful if you don’t enjoy it?”
Andrew was fed up with this conversation.
Coldly, he said, “You’ll never know. The only way for you to become wealthy is to marry money and I don’t see that happening. You’re lazy, Francis. Forget Monkford. I’ll take it back. Return to London for all I care. I tried to help you mature.”
“You’ve only tried to hold me down,” Francis said petulantly. “Besides, I can’t go back. Not until I can pay my debts.” He paused. “I need money, Windham. You must help me out. We’re family. Father would expect you to take care of me.”
Disgust filled him, knowing he was related to this worthless man. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. If you spent your quarterly allowance unwisely, you’ll have to figure out what to do until the next installment is paid. And don’t bring Father into this discussion. He would be appalled at what you have become.”
Francis moved closer and, for a moment, Andrew felt threatened. He stood near the edge of the cliff. He saw desperation in his half-brother’s eyes. It wouldn’t surprise him if Francis attempted to push him over.
Andrew started to take a step forward and froze.
A pistol now sat in Francis’ hand. He had visions of Francis killing himself and knew he must talk him out of it.
Calmly, he said, “Francis, I—”
“It’s too late, Windham. I gave you a chance. I pleaded with you to pay my debts. I have no other choice,” he said bleakly.
The gun began to rise and all Andrew could think of was stopping Francis from committing suicide. He made to dive at Francis when a loud noise occurred and his shoulder caught fire. Andrew looked down and saw blood—and realized that Francis had shot him. The bloody idiot had never planned to kill himself.
He’d come to murder a duke—and claim the title and fortune for himself.
Andrew’s hand went to his shoulder, pressing against the wound, hoping to stanch the bleeding. He was far from his house. Riding would only aggravate the wound. Walking home would also keep the blood flowing and take too long.
He had fought in how many battles, only to come home to this madness?
Rage filled him. He wanted to charge Francis but weakness overwhelmed him. His knees buckled and he dropped to them, his vision blurring as pain set in.
“You’re a pompous ass,” Francis said snidely. “I’ll be a better Windham than you or Ward.”
With that, his own flesh and blood kicked him in the chest. The thrust caused him to fall backward. Suddenly, he sensed open air about him. Wildly, he reached out and grabbed onto something. A branch growing from the cliff.
How long would it hold his weight? And how long could he even hold on to it? Already, removing his hand from his wounded shoulder had caused more blood to rush from the hole. He grew dizzy and weak.
A shadow loomed over him. He looked up and saw his gloating half-brother hovering above him.
“Goodbye and good riddance. Windham is dead. Long live Windham.”
With that, Francis kicked Andrew in the head. His hands were torn from the branch as pain rushed through him. Then he sailed through the air, falling into the sea, which swallowed him whole.
*
After an hour of sketching, Phoebe decided to take a walk along the beach. Her current tale was about a fish and she decided she needed some inspiration. She’d always found walking seemed to spark her creativity and so she set Caesar down from her lap. The cat merely jumped into it again.
“I need you down, my sweet friend,” she told her furry companion. “But I suppose you’d like it to be your idea.”
She stroked the cat a few times and then of his own accord, Caesar leaped to the floor and strolled out the open door. Once Phoebe had tied on her bonnet and stepped outdoors, she saw the cat sunning himself, a pleased expression on his face.
“I’ll be back soon,” she told the feline.
She’d never had pets of any sort as a girl. Her father couldn’t abide either cats or dogs. Thinking she might get one after her marriage, she’d been saddened to learn Borwick was allergic. Even though Nathan had begged for a pet, promising to keep it outside and out of his father’s sight, Borwick refused to waver.
When she’d leased the cottage, Caesar had simply appeared the day she’d moved in and taken up residence as if he owned the place. The cat had made for a good companion to her and she found herself carrying on conversations with him regularly.
Phoebe walked the short way to the beach, inhaling the strong smell of the sea. She’d already spent a fair share of her time these past few weeks walking the sandy shore, even sitting and watching the waves wash in and out. The constant movement soothed her like nothing else.
Two gulls flew overhead, brilliantly white against today’s bright blue sky. Her eyes followed them as the sound of their calls drifted away. She paused, soaking in the warm breeze, knowing how this sojourn renewed her spirit. Perhaps she would return and spend time at Falmouth Cottage each year, drawing strength from the vast ocean.
If her husband allowed her to do so.
Phoebe had come to the conclusion that she would need another husband. Because she desperately wanted another child.
No boy or girl could ever replace Nathan in her heart but she knew she was made to be a mother. It was almost a shame that she would need to marry again in order to do so. Her first marriage had been a disappointment, Borwick remaining a stranger to her for the most part. Not that she was foolish enough to expect a love match but, this time, her husband would be one of her own choosing. Closer to her age. A man who valued family as much as she did.
That meant a return to Polite Society. Phoebe had resigned herself to that fact. When next spring came, she would be long past her mourning period and could participate in the Season. Though Letty would be a new mother and might even skip the Season altogether, Phoebe still had enough friends in London who would be kind enough to invite her to some events. She didn’t care for a title or great wealth. Just a man who would be respectful and courteous, one who would focus on being a good father. Maybe a widower with a young child would make the most sense. A man who needed a woman of good breeding to act as mother to his child, one still young enough to consider providing a brother or sister to that child.
The thought pleased her immensely. A child—and man—who would need her.
She would not put any of this to paper. Instead of corresponding with her friends, she’d visit them once she returned to London for her niece or nephew’s birth. It would be easy to make known that she was ready to consider taking a husband again. While she would be much older than the young misses in their first Season or two, she did have other things to offer. She’d run Borwick’s household with efficiency and participated in charity work. She wouldn’t expect a man to fawn over her. She had no need of love. Just another child or two in her life would suffice.
Phoebe walked down the beach and returned in the direction of her rented cottage, ready to begin work again on Freddie the Flounder and his friend, Walter the Whale. As she neared home, though, she spied something on the sand.
No. Someone.
Lifting her skirts, she raced along the beach, frustrated at how long it took her. When she reached the body, she feared the man was dead. He was so still. She thought he must have drowned. He lay face down, a head full of dark hair. She rolled him over with great effort. Though tall, he was slender. This man was over six feet, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. The wet clothes that clung to him left little to her imagination, his sleek muscles obvious. The tide was up around them, soaking her skirts, as she brushed the thick, wet hair from his face.
My, he was handsome, though very pale. She felt his cheek and thought he must be dead because it was so cold. Her fingers slipped to his throat and she felt the faint pulse.
Alive.
Phoebe needed to drag him from the water. Now. She moved to his head and thought to try and lift him under his shoulders. Her attempt failed miserably. The stranger was dead weight. She fought tears of frustration.
And then her eyes fell to his shirt—and the hole in it, blood trickling.
He’d been shot.
The cold water must have stopped the bleeding but now that he no longer was submerged in it, the wound had started bleeding again.
Fear rippled through her. Was he some smuggler who’d been in a dispute with a fellow pirate? Cornwall was full of coves and tales of smuggling. This man could be a criminal. But he was hurt and needed her help. She was all he had.
Phoebe shook him. “Wake up, whoever you are. Wake up!”
When that didn’t work, she slapped him hard. She’d never resorted to any kind of violence and hadn’t even spanked Nathan or allowed Nanny to do so. But she was desperate.
So, she slapped him again.
His eyelids fluttered. Progress. She clutched the abundant hair, lifting him toward her.
Practically shouting now, she cried out, “Wake up, you bloody fool! If I’m going to save you, I’ll need your help.”
Then he blinked several times and his eyes remained open. They were a warm, rich brown with flecks of deep amber. She could lose herself in them for days. She licked her lips nervously.
“You’ve been shot. You’re half in the water. And you’re far too large for me to get you out on my own. I’m afraid to leave you. You might bleed to death. The water was cold enough to contain the bleeding but it’s already started up again. We must get you out, Sir. You could freeze to death if you don’t.
“So, are you going to help me or not?” Phoebe demanded.
A smile crossed his face. She had thought him handsome before but his smile dazzled her. Her heart caught in her throat and, for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
“Then I suppose I need to do my part.”
Chapter Five
For a moment, Phoebe stilled. The rich timbre of his voice and the warm, brown eyes mesmerized her. She couldn’t have him dying on her, though. She’d never get over the guilt. Even if he were some smuggler, probably shot in a dispute over who got the lion’s share of the profits from bringing in French brandy to England.
As the waves lapped around them, making her own skirts heavy, she said, “You must stand. I’ll help you the best I can.”
Phoebe stood and bent over him. He gripped her elbows and she placed her hands on his waist. With all her might, she pulled back, trying to right herself and bring him along with her. Somehow, they both wound up on their feet. The stranger swayed, though, and she wrapped her arms tightly about his waist, knowing if he went down again, she would never get him up.
An odd sensation ran through her. She’d never held a man in this manner. Never been pressed against one, much less a man whose chest was a wall of hard muscle. She looked into his eyes and swallowed.
“Thank you,” he managed to say and then asked, “what now?”
“I am not good at estimating distances but it’s not far to my cottage,” she told him.
“Hmm. Not far may be more than I can manage.”
“Please, you must,” she pleaded. “I cannot leave you on the beach. It’s two miles to the nearest village and the doctor. By the time I returned with help, you . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I might be dead?” he asked.
“Let’s just get you to Falmouth Cottage,” she insisted.
The stranger gave her a wry smile. “I suppose I shouldn’t question an angel of mercy. Lead the way.”
Phoebe turned slightly, still keeping her arms about his waist. For his part, he draped an arm about her shoulders. It hung heavily. His body pressed against hers as they began shuffling along. They had to pause several times. His breathing was labored.
“There! You see it? That’s where we are going,” she told him, relieved the cottage was now in sight. Caesar still sunned himself but stood and stretched lazily, coming toward them with interest.
It took several more minutes until they reached it. When they did, she propped him against the doorframe and opened the door.
“You left without locking it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That isn’t wise,” he said wearily. “Too many smugglers along the coast.”
He would know.
She latched on to him again and he clung to her as she maneuvered them inside, leaving the door open for now. Caesar strolled in and jumped onto the table, tucking his paws in front of him as she half-dragged the injured man across to the table and pulled out a chair. He collapsed onto it.
Phoebe saw the blood on his shirt now, the exertion causing it to flow more freely. Worry filled her. His eyes looked glassy and she figured he was going into shock.
“I need to look at your wound,�
� she said, unbuttoning the three buttons and trying to push the shirt back enough to see.
“Take it off,” he commanded.
She’d never seen a man without his shirt. When Borwick came to her, he always left his nightshirt on and doused the candle. He would climb atop her and hike her night rail past her hips and then make her take his flaccid cock in hand and rub it until it hardened. Then he jammed it into her and pumped away before it fell out.
Reaching for the hem with hesitation, she pulled it up. The stranger raised his hands, hissing in pain as she removed it and placed it on the remaining chair, avoiding looking at his bare chest and focusing on his face instead. His eyes had darkened with pain.
“Do you have any whiskey?” he demanded harshly.
“No,” thinking he wanted to dull his pain. “I do have some brandy.”
She’d discovered an unopened bottle of it in the cupboard when she’d moved in. Having never consumed strong spirits, she had left it where it was, thinking the next tenant who leased the cottage might appreciate it more.
“Fetch it.”
Phoebe rose and retrieved the brandy, opening it for him since she knew the motion would cause him pain.
“Was it a through and through?”
“A what?” she asked, unfamiliar with the term.
“Did the bullet pierce my front and exit the back?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. I would have noticed the hole when I found you since you were face down.”
Still, she leaned over his shoulder to check, once again experiencing an odd tingling, being so close to him.
“No,” she informed the man.
“I didn’t think so.” He grimaced. “That means the ball is still in me. You’re going to have to remove it.”
“What?” she gasped.
“I’ll walk you through getting it out of me.”
“You’re familiar with bullet wounds?”
He nodded grimly. “I saw enough of them in the war.”