"At this moment in time, I couldn't think of anything better than a drink," Ruan agreed, thinking that he had best stay above deck because he would be too tempted to bed Olive below. Both men had turned from the rails, to make their way to the slop, when a loud explosion rocked the vessel, sending them sprawling to the floor.
"What was that?" Ruan roared, scrambling to his feet to assess the damage.
"Felt like a bloody cannon ball, your Grace," Black shouted in response, already running to the lower deck to see what had happened.
"Some of the cargo has exploded in the main hold, Cap'n," a petrified crew member said, as both men reached the lower deck. "It's ripped through the hull, and she's takin' on water fast. We'll nae manage to save her."
"What are we carrying?" Ruan asked his captain, urgently.
"Skeins of exploding cotton, apparently," the younger man replied, his mouth a grim line. "It looks like whoever's trying to kill you doesn't care who gets in the way. Go and fetch her Grace, and meet back here by the small boats. I'll have to go downstairs to see if we can save her, before I give the orders to evacuate."
Olive.
Ruan cursed savagely, and ran to the stairs which led below deck. As he moved through the dark hallway, the acrid stench of smoke assaulted his nose, causing him to cough and splutter. The cargo of cotton would act like kindling to a fire, and it would not be long until the whole ship was aflame.
"Olive," he shouted, banging on the door of her cabin, which seemed to be wedged shut.
"Your Grace?"
Her voice, muffled through the closed door, sounded frightened. Ruan scowled at the way she addressed him, but now was not the time for a lecture on showing wifely affection.
"Is the door locked?" he roared, pulling the front of his coat over his moth and nose, for smoke was now billowing heavily through the corridor.
"No," Olive shouted, apparently kicking the door for it rattled on its hinges. "It's wedged stuck, it must have been from the force of the blast."
"Stand back," Ruan ordered, taking a large step back before throwing his full weight against the door. It moved slightly, but did not budge. Annoyed he tried again, and this time the weight of his shoulder shattered the door to splinters. He vaguely registered shooting pain, but his main concern was getting to Olive, and then getting her safely off the ship before it was engulfed in flames.
"Come," he coughed, grabbing her hand to guide her out.
"My bag," she spluttered, for by speaking she had inhaled a lungful of smoke.
"No time," Ruan spoke tersely, dragging her forcibly from the room. He led the way down the dark corridor, both crouching low agianst the billowing smoke. When they emerged on deck, they gasped simultaneously, willing their lungs to be filled with fresh, sea air.
"Oh, goodness."
Olive's gaze was fixated on the masts. The foremast was ablaze, burning as hot as the fires of hell, and its sails were whipping against the larger main mast, which looked set to go up in flames in seconds.
"Get to a small boat," Ruan instructed, but too late he realised that there were none there, for the whole front of the ship was burning.
"Can you swim?" he asked, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her roughly, willing her to understand the urgency of the situation.
"I can," she nodded, her face pale but calm. Silhouetted against the dark night sky, and the burning inferno of the ship, she looked beautiful. Strong, brave and beautiful. But now was not the time for compliments, so instead Ruan dragged her by the arm to the railings of the deck. Their way was precarious, for the front of the ship had begun to sink rapidly, and the deck beneath their feet sloped downward at a sharp angle.
"It will be cold," Ruan warned, kicking of his Hessians, not wanting the heavy leather boots to weigh him down in the water.
Olive nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath.
"I'll go first," he continued, swinging his legs over the rails, "And you follow. I'll catch you, never fear."
He took a deep breath, held his nose and jumped into the freezing cold sea. The icy water shocked the air from his lungs, and for a second Ruan floundered beneath the waves, struggling to break the surface.
Olive, he thought wildly to himself, I have to get to Olive.
Kicking his powerful legs, he propelled himself to the surface of the choppy sea, treading water as he tried to gauge the distance to the ship. It was but a few yards away, and with strong strokes, he swam over to the burning vessel.
"Olive," he called to his wife, who was perched on the railings, evidently paralysed by fear. "Jump."
The main sail had caught fire now, and it was a terrible thing to behold. If she didn't jump she would be burned alive as the wooden ship turned into a bonfire.
"Ruan," she looked out to where he was, and seeing him in the water seemed to bolster her confidence. With a shriek she launched herself into the sea, toward her husband.
Ruan swam to where she had entered the water, fear making him nauseas. She cannot die, he thought frantically, as he scanned the waves. The relief that he felt when he spotted her red hair was palpable. She was alive, and she had not lied, she was a strong swimmer.
"We must try to get to the small boats."
Ruan spoke urgently, tugging at her hand to pull her in the direction of the stern of the ship, where surely some of the small boats would be. The night was dark, but the glow of the fire illuminated the inky black sea. He saw her eyes flash, and though her teeth chattered, Olive wore a look of steely determination.
Man and wife began to swim toward the sound of voices, which echoed above the roar of the burning ship. We'll be safe, Ruan thought happily, Black will not leave until each and every crew member is accounted for.
This was the last thought he would have for the rest of the night, for with an ominous creak, the pole holding up the main mast shattered, and crashed into the sea. A stray piece of rigging hit Ruan's skull with such force that it rendered him unconscious, and he was drifting into blackness, sinking below the waves.
"Ruan."
His name was ripped from her chattering lips while Liv watched in horror as the main mast came crashing into the sea. Her husband disappeared from view, and, frantically, Liv swam toward the burning piece of wood, desperate to save him.
She spotted his white shirt, as he sank, slowly, down toward the deep bed. Taking a lungful of air, Liv dived beneath the waves, kicking her legs with a strength she had not known she possessed. Thank goodness, her mother had insisted she learn how to swim. Lila Green had grown up by the ocean in Devon, and had lost two brothers during a freak boating accident. As such, she had insisted that Olive received lessons, despite it being a less than lady like endeavour. Liv had not been in the water since before her teens, but the instinct to kick was unconscious, almost like breathing. The salty water stung her eyes, as she clawed her way toward Ruan. Her lungs began to burn, and her mind screamed at her to seek the surface, but she persisted. She reached out, found Ruan's limp hand, and with a final burst of energy she kicked upward, her ears ringing in panic.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she found air.
"Oh, God," she whimpered, inhaling deep, deep, lung-fulls of precious air. She hooked one arm around her husband's torso, allowing the water to take his weight, so that he floated against her.
"Ruan," she whimpered, looking at his blank face. He was breathing, thank goodness, though completely unconscious.
"Help," Liv called out, hoping that somewhere in the distance, someone might hear her. The ship was ablaze, and Liv could see the small boats, containing the evacuated crew, but they were too far away to see them. Her dress was sodden, heavy and cumbersome, and when she tried to swim one handed, still supporting Ruan, toward them, she swallowed a mouth full of salt water that left her gagging. She sank beneath the waves, and had to claw her way back to the floating position she had held before.
Swimming toward the crew meant swimming against the current, whereas the tide was
naturally pulling them toward the shore, she reasoned in an attempt to calm herself. She was usually level headed, but the weight of Ruan was making her panic, though even she could be forgiven for becoming overwrought given the current circumstances, she thought.
If I swim with the current, it will be easier than fighting it, she decided. The shore was not that far away, small dots of light – presumably cottages – were visible, and though Ruan was large, the water took most of his weight. It was arduous, it took over an hour, and at many stages Liv contemplated simply letting go of the Duke, for she feared that if she held onto him, she herself would drown. Finally, exhausted, freezing and on the verge of tears, she reached the sandy shore of a small cove. Hoisting the Duke onto the beach was no mean feat. In the water he had been almost weightless, but on dry land he was extraordinarily heavy.
"Why did I have to marry such a beast of a man?" Liv groaned, as she dragged the Duke across the small beach they had washed up on. It was nestled at the bottom of two sloping hills, and tucked in the middle of these, was a small fisherman's cottage. Light blazed cheerfully from the windows, and when she finally reached it, Liv found the door was ajar.
"Hello?" she called, laying Ruan down, to dash inside and look for help. But when she entered, the small front-room was empty; the fire burned in the hearth, and on the table lay a half-eaten supper. The occupants of the cottage must have seen The Elizabeth, and rushed to help.
Chilled to the bone, and shaking slightly, Liv retraced her steps, and dragged her husband inside.
"You're so heavy," she whispered, half in annoyance, as she hauled him into the warmth. He was still completely unconscious, and she knew that she needed to divest him of his wet clothes straight away, before he caught a chill.
Laying him on the rug before the fire, Liv removed his jacket and shirt quickly, but hesitated when she got to his breeches.
You are his wife, a voice in her head taunted, but despite this fact, Liv felt too nervous to confront her husband's nether regions just then, and instead threw a blanket over him to protect his modesty, before yanking his trousers off. It was a difficult task, for the sodden cloth was stuck to his skin, and his thighs were large and muscular, but eventually he was undressed. Only when she was certain that her husband was comfortable, did Liv strip off her own wet dress and undergarments. She wrapped herself in a blanket, stolen from the adjacent bedroom, and hunkered down by the fire, beside the slumbering Ruan.
He was beautiful; even with his eyes closed he had the face of an Adonis. Liv reached out, and ran her hand over his hair, checking for lumps, bumps or bleeding. Ruan groaned at her touch, which she took as a good sign – at least he could feel. His hand, which rested above the blanket, showed signs of growing chilblains. His fingers were becoming swollen and red, and Liv noticed that on his index finger he wore a signet ring, around which the skin was becoming angrily bloated.
She slid it from his finger, and placed it on her own thumb for safe keeping, thinking that it would be a pity if, after all her heroics, he would lose a finger because of a ring. Satisfied that her husband would live, Olive threw another log on the fire, to keep it burning. She stood up and wandered over to the table, snatching a piece of bread from the cottage owner's abandoned supper, and stuffing it greedily into her mouth. She was ravenous after her hours in the water. Once her stomach was full, she peeked out the front door, gazing toward the sea.
In the distance the lights of many boats surrounded the smouldering wreckage of The Elizabeth, twinkling bravely in the darkness. Liv said a quiet, fervent prayer that the crew might be rescued safely.Then there was nought for her to do, but wait, so she returned to the chair beside the fire and promptly fell asleep.
A grey dawn was breaking, when she woke with a start. For a second she could not place where she was, until she recalled the events from the night before. Ruan was still slumbering, under his blankets. His face, she was glad to see, looked much healthier. His cheeks had colour, and he now looked to be asleep, rather than on the verge of death. A small fire still burned in the grate, and Olive threw another log on, wondering what was keeping the owner of the cottage from returning. Perhaps they were salvaging cargo from the ship, for this was the south of England, and people weren't above wrecking ships for profit, so a naturally sunk vessel would be seen as fair game.
Her clothes, which she had laid out on a chair beside the fire were now dry; stiff from sea salt and warm to the touch.
She hastily donned her chemise, and petticoats, and slipped her red dress over her head. Her slippers, no longer wet, were a sorry sight, but better than nothing. Once clothed, she went in search of a privy, for the pressing need of her bladder was what had woken her from her deep slumber.
She cast a glance at Ruan as she tiptoed past him. Even after the events of the night before, he was still but a stranger to her. This unwelcome interlude in their travels would soon end, and she would once more be facing the prospect of a life as his wife. She remembered the searing passion that he had kissed her with, and she shivered. From fear or desire, she could not tell, but it unsettled her none the less and so she hurried past him, overcome by the need to escape.
Like most country abodes, the privy was situated outside. Liv quickly went about her business, for the small shed was cold and filled with spiders. As she walked across the yard back to the cottage, she heard the sound of voices from within, and paused mid-step.
"Wonder 'ow 'e got in?" a deep male voice said, in a Cornish twang.
"Aye," another voice, this time female agreed, "And 'ow 'e managed to strip 'imself of all 'is clothes. Not that I'm complainin', for 'e's a fine looking gentleman without 'em."
"Hush wife," the male voice admonished, sounding more amused than annoyed. Liv peeked through the gap in the door, and saw an older couple standing by the fire, peering at Ruan curiously.
"Look," the bent old woman cried, pointing a gnarled finger, "'E's waking up!"
Liv held her breath, as Ruan groaned. She could see him struggling to sit upright, his handsome face awash with confusion.
"Who are you? How did I get here?" His tone was haughty as ever, evidently the blow to his head had done his ego no harm.
"We were about to ask you the same question," the old man said with a deep laugh. "Did you come off The Elizabeth? You'll be glad to know the crew are all safe, if you did, but they're missing a Duke."
"I am the Duke of Everleigh."
From her vantage point, Liv saw Ruan scramble unsteadily to his feet, clutching the blanket around his waist, to protect his modesty. He towered above the old couple, his bare chest bronze and breathtakingly powerful.
"How did I get here?" he repeated imperiously, startling the old couple, "And is there any news of my wife?"
That was all Liv needed to hear.
Nobody knows if I'm alive or dead, she thought silently to herself, and while most people would have found that slightly morbid, Live felt a sudden lightness in her soul.
I'm free.
A voice in her head sang a hallelujah, as her mind began to form a plan. She would go to the nearest village, pawn the ring she had taken from her husband's finger, and set up a new life elsewhere.Quickly, before doubt began to set in, she turned and fled, scrambling up the hill away from the cottage and the Duke of Ruin.
You can't just let him think you sank to a watery grave, her conscience nagged at her, as she traipsed along the steep hill path. And though her conscience was right, in that it was a heartless act, Olive remained resolute.
She owed Ruan Ashford nothing, she thought bitterly. He had stolen her life away from her, for his own amusement and pleasure. Her faith in her father, her childhood home and friends had all disappeared at the click of his arrogant fingers - she might as well be dead.
And now I am, she thought with a small smile.
"She's not dead."
Ruan looked Captain Black calmly in the eye, as he took a deep swig of his pint of ale. They were seated in a dark tavern, near Pa
cket Quays in Falmouth. The Captain had just surmised exactly what had become of The Elizabeth and her crew. All men were accounted for bar one, a new tar that had joined up at Bristol; the missing man was the chief suspect in what Ruan knew to be yet another attempt on his life. Other men had reported seeing him go down to the main hold just minutes before the explosion, and as cotton wasn't liable to blow up on its own, they had deduced that he had been the one to set it alight. Captain Black had been in the middle of outlining how the crew were going about searching for Olive, who they presumed lost at sea, when the Duke had interrupted him.
"She's not dead," he repeated again, though he could see doubt in the other man's dark eyes. "I know you think I'm mad, but I didn't manage to wake up in a cottage, naked as the day I was born through divine intervention. God doesn't like me enough for that. It was Olive, she brought me there."
Ruan was certain of it. He remembered little of the previous night, bar the horrifying moment that the mast had crashed down upon his head, and another hazy recollection of someone stroking his hair. When he had woken up in the fisherman's cottage, embarrassingly nude and disorientated, he had not been able to recollect how he had arrived there. His clothes had been laid out before the hearth to dry, and the fire within had burned merrily, despite the long absence of the fisherman and his wife. There was no way that he had managed to do all that when he had been rendered completely unconscious. It had to have been the work of his wife.
"Beg your pardon, your Grace," Black interjected, his expression troubled, "But if it was Her Grace who dragged you all the way to the shore, then why did she disappear after?"
"Probably because she knew that everyone would assume she had perished," Ruan replied evenly, taking another sip of the slightly warm ale, and grimacing at its bitterness. "She wasn't exactly enamoured at the thought of being my wife - perhaps she simply seized the opportunity that was presented to her."
"She can't have simply decided to disappear," Black laughed nervously, evidently uncomfortable with his employer's brutal honesty. "Perhaps she was in shock? I'll have the men search the beaches and the cliffs, in case she wandered in a daze."
The Duke of Ruin: Reluctant Regency Brides Page 5