“No, Donovan will be fine. He’s going to be fine,” she intoned to herself, dodging two men who had suddenly gotten in her way. She was no sooner past them than she felt a jarring tug that nearly felled her, her sodden cloak yanked from behind. Someone else grabbed her around the neck and clamped a rough callused hand over her mouth before she had a chance to scream.
And she tried to scream, struggling in mute terror as she was half dragged along the beach. She realized with a horrible sick feeling when no help came that everyone was too intent upon watching the desperate rescue to see her plight. It was so pitch-dark at this far end of the beach, too, and the wind howling so bitterly that she could hear nothing but the blood thundering in her ears.
Two men now held her, one with his arm curled around the back of her neck and his hand still clamped firmly over her mouth while the other gripped her right arm cruelly, twisting it as if daring her to try to escape. To her horror, a third man suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere and strode toward them. Corisande was sickeningly certain that these were the very same men who must have been following her to the parsonage, who had bumped into her so rudely at the inn—
“Let her go! No one can hear her scream now.”
Corisande recognized that harsh voice at the same moment she was knocked forward onto the sand, an ice-cold wave hitting her full in the face. She’d had no idea they were so close to the water. Her eyes burning from the salt, she tried to rise but instead found herself hauled to her feet and then thrown forward again. This time the water was much deeper, another frigid wave breaking over her head.
“No…please, no!” she sputtered tearfully, scrambling through the churning surf on hands and knees as she tried frantically to get away. She shrieked when a third time she was dragged to her feet and again she was pitched forward, her body tossed and rolled like flotsam as a violent wave crashed over her, then another and another.
Her fingers clawing at the sand, she feared in that moment that she was going to drown. When she felt a heavy foot settle atop her back to hold her face down in the icy water, she was certain of it.
She wildly flailed her limbs, her lungs ready to burst, the pounding so fierce in her temples she felt her head was going to explode. Until something suddenly gave way deep inside her, her struggles growing sluggish, her clothes become so heavy, dragging her down, down to drift around her like a watery shroud…
“Non, non, madame, I did not bring you here to kill you.”
Corisande cried out as she was slapped hard across the face, scarcely aware that she’d been dragged from the water until she felt another brutal slap that made her see blinding white light in front of her eyes. The next thing she knew, she was staring up at the sky, rain stinging her face as she gasped and coughed and sputtered for air.
“Now you know when you hear from me again, madame, you will not doubt that my words are true. You will not doubt me!”
Corisande heard gruff laughter and low voices conferring and then nothing more, the wind sucking up all sound but the waves crashing upon the beach. It wasn’t until long, heart-pounding moments later that she dared to believe she was alone. Curling onto her side, she lay there numbly, her limbs and her wet clothes so heavy that she wondered if she could move. It was only when she heard a faint cheer coming from the opposite side of the beach that she remembered…
Donovan.
Somehow she rose to her hands and knees, crawling across wet gritty sand until she felt she could rise. She stumbled, fell, and rose again as another cheer split the night, much louder this time, the distant orange light of a bonfire drawing her like a moth to a flickering flame.
Somehow she made herself walk faster when she heard another cheer, finally managing to run as lightning flashed overhead, a thunderclap booming seconds later. She might have thought she was coming upon a joyous celebration if not for the tension suddenly cutting the air: at least a hundred villagers were gathered in a tight crowd at the shoreline and staring out at the sea.
“What’s happening?” she rasped, nearly falling into two men who turned to look at her, clearly stunned that she was soaked from head to toe, her clothes caked with sand. “Tell me! What’s happening?”
“Why, haven’t ‘ee seen, Corie? The ship’s splitting apart, but all the crew are saved except for two.”
“Two?” she echoed hoarsely, peering through the crowd to see the hunched blanketed figures being led across the beach to the bonfire. She didn’t see Donovan anywhere and she began to push her way through to the water, mounting fear clawing at her throat, until finally she came upon two sets of grim-faced men who were pulling hand over hand at thick ropes stretched taut.
“Is he still out there? My husband? Lord Donovan?”
“Ais, Corie,” one man spoke up, though none of them turned for even a moment from their crucial labor to glance at her. “Lord Donovan and John Killigrew, bringing in the last of ‘em, the captain and his boy— There, lads! There! I can see ‘em now, pull easy, pull easy!”
Corisande felt scalding tears jump to her eyes as she saw four distinct shapes emerging from the surging darkness that was the sea, the fisherman John Killigrew with a small boy clutching to his neck and Donovan only a few feet behind holding fast to a heavyset man who appeared to be unconscious. As cheers went up along the shore, Corisande held her breath.
They were still some twenty yards out, but already villagers were wading into the breakers as far as they dared. She waded out, too, a sudden violent gust of wind nearly knocking her off her feet. She heard a loud cry and glanced behind her to see one of the groups of men who’d been pulling suddenly rushing into the waves. It was then that she saw a rope had snapped. She cried out, too, spinning back to see with horror that Donovan and the captain had disappeared under the waves.
“No! Donovan! Donovan…”
Desperately she lunged for deeper water, the sand slipping beneath her feet, only to feel someone grab her from behind.
“Corie, Corie, ‘ee can’t help him! The waves will take ‘ee out too!”
“No, let me go! Let me go!”
She fought and flailed her arms, but her captor refused to release her, dragging her back even as villagers rushed to help John Killigrew and the boy as they were hauled exhausted onto shore. Nearly choked by rasping sobs, Corisande stared in shock at the black churning sea, full of debris from the shattered ship, white bits of sail, planks of wood—
“Over there! Help him, men! We can grab him now—the water’s not too deep!”
Corisande found herself suddenly free as people began to run farther down the beach. Her heart clamored in her breast as Donovan emerged from the waves hauling the limp captain in his arms. Both men were at once surrounded and helped to shore by a cheering, jubilant crowd. But she couldn’t reach him, her legs suddenly giving out beneath her. She collapsed upon the sand, unable to see for the tears blinding her eyes.
Unable to see anything until what seemed no more than an instant later, when someone fell to his knees in front of her and pulled her into his arms.
“Corie…”
She held on to him for dear life, not caring that Donovan seemed a block of ice, his skin and his clothing as wet and cold as her own. Suddenly they were borne to their feet by a host of villagers and swept along to the bonfire where all the other rescuers and survivors sat huddled. At once she and Donovan were enveloped in blankets, mugs of hot tea laced with brandy thrust into their hands.
She couldn’t drink, merely staring at him as he stared back at her, his breathing still labored, his eyes the color of midnight as, incredibly, a wry smile came to his blue-tinged lips.
“You look as much a mess as I feel, woman. Sand in your hair, on your clothes. What happened?”
Chapter Thirty
Corisande didn’t know what to say; there were so many people gathered beneath the rocky overhang. Thankfully Donovan was distracted as the captain of the fishing vessel was suddenly brought round by a shot of brandy poured down his throa
t, the man breaking down and weeping openly as he embraced his son.
As more cheers went up, and many villagers crowded forward to commend not only Donovan, but also all the other rescuers for their bravery, Corisande drank her tea, grateful for its warmth. Yet nothing could thaw the chill that was descending over her. She stared silently into the sputtering bonfire, her attacker’s cryptic words echoing in her mind…
“Now you know when you hear from me again, madame, you will not doubt that my words are true. You will not doubt me!”
She sat there and stared even as people began to leave for their homes, and one by one the survivors were helped to their feet and taken off to eat a warm, hearty meal and spend the night in beds generously offered by strangers. She was scarcely aware of anything until she felt Donovan touch her arm and she jumped, dropping her mug into the sand.
“Corie, I said it’s time we leave. Didn’t you hear me?”
Donovan got no reply, only a mute shake of her head. Corisande’s face was so pale, her teeth still slightly chattering, that he couldn’t wait to get her home.
Good God, she had probably helped to drag the survivors to shore—no wonder she was soaked to the skin. She must have been knocked from her feet a time or two and won a good dunking for her efforts to have so much sand clinging to her, too, her hair matted to her head.
She didn’t protest when he helped her to her feet and wrapped the blanket more snugly around her shoulders, but her legs seemed so wobbly that he lifted her into his arms and carried her out from underneath the overhang. The wind was not so strong now, the gale having lost some of its wild fury.
He was amazed he didn’t feel worse after battling the waves. When that rope had snapped and he’d gone under, nearly losing his grip on the captain, he’d known apprehension, yes, but he hadn’t allowed himself to doubt for an instant that he would make it back to shore. He’d had only to think of Corisande, dammit, how she had defied him again, putting herself at grave risk, and how he planned to let her know just how furious he’d been when he had met the ducal carriage rumbling at a breakneck pace toward home and discovered she was not inside with Charlotte.
But not tonight, Donovan thought to himself, wondering at how strangely still Corisande was as he strode to a narrow outcropping where he’d left Samson. His horse was soaked, too, snorting almost in indignation at him, but at least the animal had had protection against the wind.
He hoisted Corisande into the saddle and then mounted behind her, thinking she must be exhausted, indeed, when she leaned back against him, again making no protest when he wound his arms tightly around her and kicked Samson into a gallop.
This wasn’t at all the Corisande he’d left earlier in the day, when she had hardly spoken to him and more often than not refused to meet his eyes. That woman was nothing like the one who had hugged him so fiercely back there on the beach as if…as if…
Sighing heavily, Donovan told himself to be content that she was safe and sound in his arms. Yet he wasn’t content, God help him, he wasn’t.
“Here’s some nice hot tea, my lady, I’ll put it right here next to the bed. I don’t like to see you still shivering so. The bath should have helped. If you’d like I could fetch another blanket for you—though we’re a bit short right now with Their Graces being here and all their servants—”
“I’m fine, Ellen, really,” Corisande murmured, plucking absently at the sleeve of her flannel nightgown. “I think maybe if I just get some sleep…”
“Oh, my, yes, of course, sleep is probably the best thing for you, my lady. To think of you outside in all that wind and rain and sloshing about in the sea. I’ll be grateful that you don’t come down with a bad cold or worse!”
Corisande closed her eyes as the housekeeper tucked in the covers one last time, then turned down the lamp by the bed. “If you could give the duke and duchess my regrets—”
“Ah, no trouble there, Her Grace has already retired for the night, but I’ll say as much to His Grace. He’s waiting downstairs in the library for Lord Donovan to finish his bath and join him, though I heard him ask Ogden to let His Lordship know he wouldn’t mind at all if Lord Donovan decided to retire, too, after the night he’s had. Actually, His Grace was humming. Seemed quite content to be alone. I can’t say that I blame him—oh, dear, I’m rattling on, and you need your sleep. Good night, my lady.”
Corisande had already rolled onto her side, listening with half an ear as Ellen stoked the fire one last time and then left the room. Fleetingly she wondered if Donovan was making as much of a mess at his bath as he had at the washbasin that one night, water splashing everywhere, but she immediately pushed away the image, not wanting to think about water at all.
It had been terribly difficult even getting into that tub, and when Ellen had poured a pitcher of water over her head to rinse the sand from her hair, her heart had begun to race so fast that she at once had wanted out. She imagined her pillow would be covered with the gritty stuff come morning, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to sleep, please, please, to sleep so she wouldn’t think anymore—
“Non, non, madame, I did not bring you here to kill you.”
Corisande gasped and pitched onto her back, the harsh voice so loud in her head it was as if she had heard it all over again.
“.…kill you…kill you…”
Dear God, the man almost had killed her, nearly drowning her! What was happening? Why was she living this nightmare? What had he meant about not doubting him?
Corisande threw back the covers and half stumbled from bed, trembling to her toes. She tried to take a sip of tea, but the cup was shaking so fiercely in her hand that she at once set it down again, fearing she might drop and break it. Instead she walked unsteadily to the curtains and peered through the rain-spattered windows, wondering if her attackers were out there, watching the house, watching her.
Three men, but only one had spoken to her, a Frenchman, she was certain of it, and they were at war with France! Rebecca had denounced the men staying at the inn as foreigners. Hadn’t she guessed their origin? What of Oliver? A Frenchman who had said Corisande would be hearing from him again. Dear God, did he plan, then, to kill her?
“Corie?”
She shrieked and spun. Embarrassment flooded her as Donovan came toward her, the soft lamplight streaming through the sitting room from his bedchamber limning his powerful silhouette. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you knock—”
“I didn’t knock, woman. Are you all right?”
She gave a small laugh, a shaky, empty laugh, and spun back to the curtains. “I’m fine, of course, I’m fine—”
“Screeching when someone says your name is fine?”
“I didn’t screech.”
“Yes, you screeched. Which was actually a good thing to hear, considering you haven’t said two words to me since I found you on the beach. I came to see how you’re doing and I’m not leaving until you tell me. How does that suit you?”
Corisande rested her forehead upon the velvet curtain, her shoulders slumping.
“Corie, you’re not yourself. I know tonight was a trial for both of us, but you’re made of sterner stuff—”
“No, I’m not.” Exhaling brokenly, Corisande didn’t recognize the tremulous voice that had escaped her and neither apparently did Donovan. She felt tears sting her eyes as his hand touched her shoulder.
“Woman, that didn’t even sound like you. What do you mean, you’re not—”
“Not for something like this…it was so horrible—”
She gasped, folded so suddenly into Donovan’s arms that she scarcely realized he’d reached out for her. Nor had she realized he was wearing no more than breeches as her cheek pressed against the crisp thick hair that matted his chest. Unbidden, tears began to spill down her face, not because he held her so closely, but because it felt so comforting to be held.
“I know the shipwreck was horrible,” he murmured, slowly stroking her hair. “But it turned out well—no one
drowned. It was damned astonishing, really, given the seas…Corie?”
She had begun to sob, great wrenching sobs that came from the very depths of her as she turned her face to his chest and wept unabashedly.
While Donovan began to hope, to hope desperately, that she might be weeping for him.
“I’ve always been a good swimmer, woman. Maybe I should have told you that before I ran off—”
“He tried to drown me, Donovan. I thought I was going to die.”
He stiffened, intuition kicking at his gut as he held her away from him only to have her nearly collapse, she was sobbing so wretchedly. With a low curse he swept her into his arms and carried her into his room, into the light where he could see her face. A face that was flushed red from crying, her eyes filled with such despair that his heart seemed to twist inside him as he went and sat down with her on the bed.
“Who tried to drown you, Corie? For God’s sake, what happened tonight?”
“Th-the same man from the heath…when you went into the water. I…I know you told me to stay put, but I came down the beach so I could be closer and—and they grabbed me.”
“In front of everyone? How could that—”
“No one was watching me, Donovan. They were watching you and—and the other men and the ship! I tried to fight but—oh, God, they took me to the other side of the beach, and a man came out of the dark and threw me into the water again and again and again…”
Donovan pulled her fiercely against him as a terrified cry burst from her, and her arms flew around his neck as if by holding on to him she could will the horrible memories away. But he didn’t want her to stop—he wanted to know everything that had happened. He clenched his teeth as she began to cry again, wishing desperately that he had been there, wishing that he could have helped her…
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