Speak Only Love

by Deana James

  Below her, two figures detached themselves from the knot of men at the boat and strode toward the path. With a feeling of thanksgiving, she recognized the tall figure in the lead.

  Piers's head was thrown back staring upward in the blackness. His white stock gleamed at his throat; his white lace, at his cuffs. Like a mirror, his pale garments drew the moonlight, making him a target for every musket on the beach, not to speak of the duckfoot volley gun.

  Behind her, she heard Romany Prince coming down the trail. Tyler was still trying to catch her. She clapped her heels to Barbary's sides, urging him on down. The trail leveled off fractionally.

  In front of and below her, she caught the gleam of metal in the moonlight. The soldiers already guarded the trail. She would be stopped before she could warn him. Tears sprang to Vivian's eyes, and she gasped for breath. He would be killed. Any minute they would open fire and he would be the first to fall. Killed right in front of her eyes, as her mother had been. A sob of pure panic tore itself from her throat.

  Piers could have no idea who rode to warn him. Her habit was black velvet; her mount, dark. If only she could call to him. A stone turned under Barbary's hooves making the horse stumble. Almost unseated, Vivian struggled to bring the heavy head up and save the horse from a fall to its knees or, more disastrous, a slide over the side of the trail.

  The clouds drifted across the face of the moon, again shrouding the whole cove in blackness. Vivian was left blind, muffled in darkness. Barbary halted as if turned to stone. Unable to see the way, the chestnut balked.

  Vivian's stomach churned; her chest heaved in an effort to draw breath into her agitated lungs. Fear and love. Memories in the dark. Terror so fierce that it gripped her by the throat as it had so many years ago when she could not let go. Another sob tore from her. And another.

  Sounds! Carried on the rushing air.

  When blood and death were all around her, a viselike pressure enclosed both sides of her throat. She opened her mouth. Cold night air rushed into her lungs past her immobilized vocal cords.

  White rays bathed the scene again. Like a spectator in an arena she saw it all. The two figures halted facing each other, engaged in conversation. At the foot of the path some twenty yards below her, the soldiers deployed their ranks. They had moved under cover of darkness and now knelt with muskets at the ready. They would fire at command, and her husband would be the first to fall.

  Her eyes widened. Her face by the light of the moon contorted as her agony of mind and spirit became physical. He was there below her, the husband she loved. The man who loved her. Aimed at his heart was a musket. Her mouth opened wide; she drew a deep cold breath to swell her lungs. With all the force she could muster, she propelled the air upward against her vocal cords in a scream of terror, of warning, of love.

  "Fire!"

  The end of her cry was lost in the volley of musketry and the screams of smugglers who fell to the sand, some to writhe in agony, some to lie still. But the tall figure staring up at her had moved when he had first heard her call.

  "Gawd almighty!" Jack Beddoes threw himself flat on the sand.

  "Fire! Fire at will!"

  The muskets spoke again, their fire more sporadic this time as some men loaded and fired faster than others.

  The men who were not down in the white sand were running. The men closest to the boat dropped their burdens and tried to launch it. One figure slid silently into the water. Another arched as a musket ball struck him in the back. His torso hung over the gunwale, legs trailing in the surf until his friends pulled him in beside them and began to row.

  Some of their fellows leaped into the surf trying to catch the boat before it got into deep water. A hundred yards out, the crew of Spanish Girl leaped to raise the sail.

  "Y’ bleedin' cowards! Fight!" The duckfoot gun boomed again and again.

  "Fire!"

  Spinning, staggering, dropping to one knee, Piers clutched at his body. Above the sand on the path halfway down the cliff top, another shrill, childish scream echoed. No time to find where the sound had come from. He had to get away, get out of the line of fire or perish. Though his wounds burned, he crawled cross the sand on his belly, leaving a trail of blood.

  Jack Beddoes lifted his eyes to the trail, just as moon cleared the clouds and the first faint rays of dawn lightened the eastern sky. By their light he reloaded the volley gun. "Bitch," he groaned as he recognized the Countess of Larnaervon. "Bitch."

  Shouts and curses rang in the night air.

  "Forward!" In response to a barked command, the dragoons ran yelling across the sand and into the surf, trying to overtake the boat and capture its occupants.

  Beddoes rose to one knee to meet them. The duckfoot spoke, even as a musket ball slammed into his belly. He cursed and fired again, bringing down the dragoon who had shot him. He flung his empty gun at he line of men charging him, their bayonets aimed for his chest.

  "Gawd almighty!"

  Then they passed over him, slashing and stabbing, driving him flat into the sand.

  To Vivian's horror, they raced on toward the struggling figure of her husband. Then another thick cloud sailed across the face of the moon blotting out the whole scene.

  More shots boomed from the muskets. Confusion and curses rose to her straining ears, but nothing was visible. Trembling with suspense, she slid from the back of the gelding determined to make her way down the cliff face or die in the attempt. Dragging the reins over the tall head, she patted Barbary's nose and led him forward, her fist closed in the check rein under his chin. Several times her slender weight dragged heavily on the horse's head as stones turned under her feet. Below her the foot of the path was clear, for the men had all moved out to the water's edge, and the sound of their voices was muffled by the pounding surf.

  The land wind turned as she finally put her booted foot onto the sand. The clouds blew away as the moon sank lower on the horizon and faint streaks of dawn began to appear in the night sky. The white sand showed plainly the effects of the night's passage. The entire expanse was churned up. Footprints crossed and recrossed one another as the soldiers had charged and the smugglers had fled before them.

  Keeping Barbary on a tight rein, Vivian followed the soldiers' charge. Less than fifty yards from the trail, the body of Jack Beddoes lay stiff, its limbs extended like a stick doll. His sightless eyes stared up at the lightening sky above his chest, a gaping wound torn open by bayonets. Barbary shied violently at the smell of the blood, dragging her away from the sight.

  Where was Piers? Did he lie somewhere ahead, in the same condition?

  Trembling with apprehension, she stared at the dark red patches that splattered the area to the right. Kneeling beside them, her gorge rose in her throat. She was staring at her husband's blood. He had been wounded and had dragged himself away from the melee.

  Behind her she heard the sound of approaching hooves. Tyler loped Romany Prince across the sand toward her. With a swipe of her gloved hand, she flung sand over the stain. As she rose to her feet, she tried to think of herself as the Countess of Larnaervon. From that position she would be virtually unassailable.

  The groom dismounted to pick up Beddoes's wrist. Instantly, he dropped it. The body was already stiff and cold. No need to check for the pulsebeat. With a shrug, he looked away across the churned sand, separating them from the scene at the water's edge.

  Vivian watched believing that she should say something appropriate or ask a question, but unable to think of the words. She ran her tongue across her lips. What did people say about dead bodies of smugglers?

  Then Tyler looked at her, his face sad. "Milady, I believe the smuggling will stop now. MacPherson has broken the ring for good."

  She nodded in agreement. In the strengthening light of dawn, the redcoats stood out brightly against the white beach. A small group of men in bedraggled clothing huddled together surrounded by soldiers with muskets and bayonets trained on them.

  But no white stock and pale buck
skins stood among the prisoners. A little of the pain about her heart eased.

  As if he read her thought, Tyler looked around him inquiringly, but she had covered the bloodstains in the sand. Lacing his fingers, he tossed her into the saddle. "Will you return home now?"

  With a shake of her head, she guided Barbary toward the sea where the uniformed men were regrouping. The longboat had pulled alongside the Spanish Girl and those left among the smugglers would be underway in minutes.

  Tyler galloped his mount past her and conferred with a tall uniformed figure. Rory MacPherson looked in her direction. His tired face lighted with surprise and pleasure. In her black velvet habit, her white veil floating in the freshening breeze, she made a gallant sight. Smiling, she walked her horse toward them. Snatches of their conversation came over the pounding of the waves.

  The groom pointed back up the beach to the body. “—Jack Beddoes. —tried it once too often. Greedy sod!"

  Captain MacPherson left the groom and hurried to meet her. At Barbary's shoulder, he pulled off his tricorne and swept a gallant bow. "You shouldn't be here, milady."

  She shook her head. Long habit kept her mute. She could think of nothing to say. Even as she tried to frame the words, Tyler spoke for her.

  "The countess prefers to ride early in the morning."

  "Take her away from here," MacPherson commanded. "You shouldn't have seen that man's body."

  Acknowledging the truth of his statement, she gazed sadly into his face. Her gloved hands tightly gripped the reins as she summoned her willpower to open her mouth and attempt intelligible speech after ten years of silence.

  "Since this is your cove," MacPherson began carefully, "perhaps I should make some explanation to the earl and to the viscount. Do I have your permission to call later on in the morning?"

  Tension gripped her. The earl was dead. The viscount? She must find him before MacPherson came to the house.

  Tyler must have had the same concern. "Best not come too soon, Captain MacPherson," he murmured under his breath. "The earl died last night."

  "No." MacPherson started and looked up at Vivian. "Then you are the Countess of Larnaervon."

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  In the manner of one making a report, he swept his hat across the scene on the beach. "We caught the rest of the smugglers, milady. At last. And I hope-that is I believe-we have caught their leader. I’ll wish to make a final report to your husband, since this is now his beach and his responsibility."

  She smiled briefly, then exchanged a meaningful glance with Tyler.

  "I’ll stay here and look after the needs of these men, milady," the groom assured her hastily. "Will you continue your ride?"

  Graciously, Vivian nodded. She held out her hand to Captain MacPherson, who took it and lifted it to his lips. His blue eyes were worried. A subaltern came up behind him to make a report. He gave her one last smile before he turned back to the business at hand.

  Vivian pulled Barbary's rein and headed him down to the water's edge. She would ride through the water to the rocks at the end of the cove. Piers would be there. The boyhood cave with its special memories would shelter him. If only he had had the strength to get there.

  Apparently riding in a meandering pattern, Vivian trotted the gelding along in the surf, then turned him up the beach swinging him wide across the path most likely to have been taken by her husband.

  Quickly, her sharp eyes found what she sought-a splash of dark red blood. A heavy body had left its impression in the sand, perhaps rested there while it rallied its strength for the next effort.

  A stab of pain went through her vitals in sympathy for his agony. Guiding Barbary's hooves over the spot, she directed the chestnut down the beach. Her sharp eyes followed his trail now, smaller dots of blood, sand displaced by footprints that staggered and wove about drunkenly. Despite his weakness and probably his disorientation, he was heading directly for the rock face at the end of the cove.

  She must not lead them directly to him. Realizing she was still in the sight of the men on the beach, she rode the horse straight by the rocks and galloped down again to the water's edge.

  The nearness of her wounded husband tortured her. Suppose he were badly hurt, needing her? She wanted to be with him. Her fingers twisted nervously in the reins as she sought to steady herself for the oncoming scene she must play. The creamy surf rolled around Barbary's hocks, and the gelding dropped his head to snuffle at it. He threw up his head and snorted in disgust when the saltwater slapped his nose.

  For a full minute she sat, appearing to gaze out over the tumbling waves and the brilliance of the morning. Silently, she sat, seeing nothing while she recited her prayers for his safety. Her heart pounded fiercely as she imagined the men watching her suspiciously.

  Finally, as unconcernedly as a lady might who rode aimlessly for pleasure, she reined Barbary around and rode toward the cliff face at the back of the cove. There she would appear to the men to be picking her way around the back edge. In a few seconds she would be out of their line of vision. Just as she rode out of their sight, she glanced in their direction. They were busy about their business. MacPherson was not even looking where she rode.

  Instantly, she spurred her mount behind the rocks and galloped across the intervening sand. Heart beating frantically, she reined to a sliding stop and slipped from his back on the run. Between the rocks she darted along the narrow expanse of sand. The perspective opened up as it had before. To her horror when she came to the rock where they had tethered the horses, she found a smear pf blood as if Piers had staggered against it and righted himself by pushing himself away with his hand.

  Climbing over the driftwood, she flung herself at the entrance of the cave. At first she could see nothing; but as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness after the light, she found him.

  He lay pressed back against the wall of the cave underneath the shelf. His shirt was open; his chest bared. He had used his stock to make a compress which he held tightly against his ribs. Still blood trickled between his fingers and stained one side of his breeches.

  As her silhouette-darkened the cave, he looked up. His dark eyes, underscored by circles of pain and exhaustion, had the look of a hunted animal. He pressed back against the wall of the cave.

  She swallowed hard against the tearing pain in her heart and in her throat.

  Chapter 26

  As Vivian's silhouette filled the cave entrance, Piers started up. When he recognized her, he slumped back. Eyes alight, he held out his free hand to her. "Vivian. Thank God," he whispered softly. "You got away from Felders. If that bitch hurt you- How did you get here?"

  Slipping into the cave, she sank to her knees by his side. Her slender hand closed over his bloodstained one and gently added her strength to his. Empathy for his pain made her lean her head weakly against his shoulder.

  "It's not too bad, just a crease over the ribs," he reassured her. "It looks worse than it is. Believe me."

  She would not be satisfied until she had inspected it and replaced his hand with hers to hold the compress in place. Pulling off her own stock, she passed its length around him and made a competent bandage.

  Entranced, he stared at her absorbed face as she worked over him. Finally, she sat back on her heels, satisfied that he was in no danger of bleeding to death.

  "Are you all right?" he asked her softly.

  The tenderness, the concern, in his tone made her shiver. She marshaled her forces to speak to him, to utter words for the first time in ten years. Not for a minute did she doubt that she could do so. Before she could speak, he threw his free arm around her and drew her against him, as if to draw strength from her strength.

  "Oh, Vivian. You must tell me everything that happened the minute we get home. You can write for hours." Chuckling weakly, he tipped up her chin and pressed her mouth with his own. His kiss was a revelation of tenderness and gratitude. Sighing, he drank her like fine wine. Then, he raised his head but continu
ed to hold her close against him. His heart thrummed strongly beneath her ear.

  Finally, when he spoke her name, his voice was husky with emotion. Embarrassed, he paused, gri­maced, drew a deep breath. "Vivian, when you were in danger, I couldn't bear it. Now that I can see you, I'm- She didn't hurt you, did she? I’ve been wild with fear. If Jack Beddoes managed to escape this time, I'll hunt him down until I find him and kill him. He’ll never, never come near you again. You'll never have to be afraid of anything again. I promise you—”

  Her finger touched his lips, closed them over his babbling. She smiled at him, her heart in her eyes. Opening her mouth, she drew in a deep breath. "I— love—you, Piers."

  Incredulously, he stared at her. Silence stretched between them. At last he spoke, his voice a croak. "Vivian?"

  She nodded. "Piers."

  His hand trembled as it rose to her mouth. His fingers caressed her lips. "You spoke?"

  "Yes."

  "You spoke. Vivian. Love. Oh, my dear. You spoke." He began to laugh. Shakily at first, then joyously. "You spoke." He caught her by the shoulders and kissed her lips again and again. "You spoke," he whispered. "You spoke."

  "Yes."

  "Say my name again." His own voice broke with emotion. He tipped her head back, staring at her mouth.

  "Piers." Her voice had a light musical tone like a child's voice without the deepening that adult voices gain with age and usage.