by Lyn Stone
His muscles burned as he put all of his strength into the effort to reach her. Faster and faster, pulling against the rolling of the sea, he struggled past the breakers, searching frantically to locate her in the water.
He saw her then, riding the swells, arms pulling in unison, not flailing in panic. She kept her wits, thank God. He also spied a larger figure following only yards behind her.
“Here, Laurel! This way!” Jack called out. He fought hard with the oars, adjusting his direction as best he could without being swept backward.
In moments that seemed like hours, she was nearly even with his boat, but still too far away to reach, and he could not go sideways. Jack glanced back. They were near enough—he could swim her to shore. He dropped the oars, went over the side and swam.
Three more strokes and he would have her! Her scream ended abruptly as she was jerked under. Jack saw the man’s head break the surface and he went for it. He grasped a handful of hair and yanked backward. With his other fist, he pounded once, smashing the nose. Hands came up to protect the face and Jack dived, knowing Laurel would be free.
A swell slammed her body into his and he grabbed her beneath the water. She began pummeling him ineffectually, but with all her might.
He grasped her waist and pushed her up to the surface so she could breathe, and she ceased fighting. Jack came up beside her. “It’s me, Laurel!” he sputtered, knowing she had taken him for her attacker.
“Hold on,” he ordered, dragging her arms around his neck, facing him. “The tide will take us in.”
“Jack!” she screamed. “Behind you!”
Jack swerved to see the man behind him, one arm raised high, moonlight glinting on a silvery blade.
Jack deflected the blow, put a foot to the man’s chest and shoved hard. When he turned to find Laurel, he heard a shot over the sound of the breaking waves. He knew it could not have come from the knife-wielder. Wet powder was useless. Anyone aiming from a boat in the rolling surf had precious little chance of hitting them anyway.
Jack turned his focus on Laurel so she wouldn’t drown. They were near the shore, but not close enough. She reached for him and hung on.
His feet soon found purchase and he stood, gripping at the shifting sands with his toes, hauling Laurel up against his chest. He staggered through the shallows, laid her on the rock-strewn beach and collapsed beside her.
“There now...” he gasped, and coughed up the brine he had swallowed.
Laurel rolled close and buried her face in the clinging wet fabric of his shirt. “Take me...home,” she groaned.
He sat up and dragged her onto his lap, hugging her tight and planting a kiss of promise on her tangled curls. “Immediately, if not sooner,” he said.
“I’ll wait for him. Make certain he is dead,” Mrs. Grierson declared. She stood not a dozen feet away, holding Jack’s pistol in both hands.
Jack smelled the gunpowder, acrid as it mingled with the cool salt air. The woman held herself stiff and still as a statue and looked much like one, motionless and blue-white in the moonlight. “You shot him.”
“Yes.” Nothing more.
Jack and Laurel sat there resting from their ordeal, holding and warming each other until he felt able to rise and pull Laurel to her feet.
“He meant to sell me,” Laurel said. “Because I’m English. And fair. From what he said, I’m not the first.”
“We’ll tell the authorities. Perhaps the others can be rescued.” He tightened his arms around her. “Try not to think about it.”
“Why did he come after me?” she gasped.
“Because you would tell,” Jack said simply. “If you were drowned, he could have claimed you went of your own accord. And no one would know of the others.”
The rowboat he had appropriated earlier washed ashore with the incoming tide and brushed back and forth on the sand. Jack wondered how long it would take for the Italian to turn up. He would, because he’d never have made it out to the ships if that shot had missed him.
Jack looked up. Mrs. Grierson was waiting patiently, with one shot left in Neville’s double-barreled pistol.
He heard a shrill whistle. Someone must have summoned the Watch. People would surround them soon and demand to know what had gone on. He hoped Mrs. Grierson’s French was better than his. He did not want Laurel to have to relive the incident, even with words. He rubbed her back, trying to warm her.
“I worried you might not come for me,” Laurel murmured against his chest as she returned his embrace.
“I will always come for you,” he said, brushing a hand over her hair and cradling her head. “Always.”
“He made me go with him. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I never doubted it for a moment. You would never betray a friend. Or me.”
“He said he would kill you if I screamed. If we had reached the ship, you would never have found me. He wasn’t bound for Florence, as you might have thought.”
“I know. Hush, love. Don’t think about it anymore. It’s over now and you’re safe.”
“I love you, Jack,” she whispered, looking up at him. “I think I did from the very first day we met.”
He smiled to himself as he stroked her cheek. No, maybe she had loved who she thought he was then. Now she knew him better, along with most of his frailties, and loved him anyway. “I know, my brave girl, and I love you, too.”
Epilogue
Weeks later, Laurel basked in the warmth of home at last. She thought often of the poor infant who had died at sea, the one who might, had a fever not taken her, be living the life Laurel had now.
On Sunday they were to hold a service for her and place a small granite memorial beside the mother’s grave. It would carry the name of Lady Pippin Worth, since Pippin was the only name they knew that anyone had troubled to give her.
Lady Portia had sold her jewels and was busy establishing an orphanage with the proceeds, in order to save other babies and assuage some of her guilt. Laurel’s father was handling the purchase of property and business legalities for her.
Laurel looked forward to bringing everyone together for the harvest festival. There was much to celebrate, not least that the estate was returning to a profit after a few years stagnation and the old earl’s death. Laurel kept a sharp eye on expenditures and investments with Jack’s ever-reluctant blessing.
They were learning, understanding more each day, that they each possessed particular strengths the other must rely on and not covet. Though these sometimes coincided or overlapped, Jack was the strong one, the protector, judge and enforcer of laws within their domain. She offered patience, the voice of reason and—she laughed to think of it—financial advice and new ideas.
Midnight at Elderidge House was Laurel’s favorite time of all. The servants were out of the way, their duties completed, and she and Jack enjoyed their time alone. The past two hours had proved particularly wonderful.
“You really are such a man!” She stretched her arms above her head and sighed dreamily as Jack traced a finger along her rib cage and smiled down at her compliment. That she sometimes uttered those same words as an accusation didn’t signify to either of them at the moment.
When she lowered her arms, he leaned to nip her shoulder. “I love having the time to explore,” he said against her skin. “Let’s never travel again.”
“Umm.” Laurel smiled in agreement. They had gone overland from Cagnes-sur-Mer, back through Paris to the Nicots, and on to Calais. The journey home had afforded them precious little privacy, and that only available when they stopped for the night at wayside inns. Their two nights at the London house were little better, what with exhaustion from the trip and the rush of their second wedding.
Hurried couplings in unfamiliar beds were exciting, but definitely not as satisfactory as those of their first night home at Elderidge House.
“What do you think of Father’s reaction to our Mrs. Grierson?” she asked, toying with a wave that curled over Jack’s brow. She gav
e it a tug.
“Ouch!” He chuckled and grabbed her fingers. “Hobson’s in for trouble on that front.”
After a quick visit to the Nicots in Paris and ascertaining that no grandchildren were due in her near future, Cornelia Grierson had accepted Jack’s invitation to come to England with them. She had been unusually quiet since shooting her fiancé and suffered a sadness they had constantly worked to draw out of her.
Only when they stopped in London to visit Laurel’s father for her reconciliation with him, did Cornelia show any vestige of her former self.
She became even more vivacious at the private Catholic ceremony Jack had hastily arranged. He had insisted, so that no one would ever question whether he and Laurel were legally wed. Few women had ever felt as married as she did, especially this night.
“We should ask Hobson to come for a visit whilst she’s here,” Jack suggested. “I sensed a potential attachment there.”
Laurel laughed out loud. “You’d want Cornelia for a mother-in-law? I cannot believe it!”
Jack propped up one elbow and looked down at her. “I quite like her when she’s fixed somewhere betwixt magpie and mute.”
“So do I, but she’s seldom at that average, is she!”
“Not often.” Jack nuzzled Laurel’s ear. “But she’s a fine shot. We could use her every year at the autumn hunt.”
“Jack! You are the worst ever to say such a thing! Never remind her of that horrid event or she’ll sink back into her doldrums.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, obviously neither sorry, nor intent on discussing their guest any longer.
Laurel loved to tease him by making him wait. It drove him wild, and she rather craved wild at the moment. She took his wandering hand and threaded her fingers firmly through his. “We must get planning on the harvest festival right away.”
“In the morning,” he murmured, seeking her lips with his.
She dodged his kiss. “Then there’s Betty and George’s wedding to discuss, as well.”
“Be practical tomorrow,” he ordered gruffly.
She held fast, laughing at him when he would have extracted his hand from hers to continue caressing. “Not to mention the—”
“Heir,” he interrupted, murmuring into her neck between increasingly hot and insistent kisses. “If we must do estate business tonight, let’s dwell on getting the heir.”
She wondered what excuse he would use to insist on instant lovemaking once the heir was conceived. Not that it mattered in the least, since he didn’t really need an excuse to seduce her.
Laurel gave up the game with pleasure, welcoming him into her without preamble, loving the impatience and boundless energy that was such a part of Jack. There would be a time for quiet control later in the night and she would love that, too.
She loved him and knew that he loved her, without any reservation. Nothing in the world mattered more than that.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Some Like to Shock by Carole Mortimer.
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Chapter One
May, 1817—London
‘May I offer you a ride in my carriage, Genevieve...?’
Genevieve turned sharply to look at the man standing beside her at the top of the steps leading down from St George’s Church in Hanover Square. The two of them had just attended and acted as witness at the wedding of mutual friends.
It was not the gentleman’s tone which surprised her, but the question itself, when her own carriage and maid were clearly waiting at the bottom of the steps in preparation for the drive back to her home in Cavendish Square.
There was also the fact that she was Genevieve Forster, widowed Duchess of Woollerton, and the gentleman at her side was Lord Benedict Lucas, known to his close friends and enemies alike as merely Lucifer. There was a difference in their social standing, the two of them having only been on nodding acquaintance before today, which should have dictated he refer to her as your Grace rather than by her given name...
‘Genevieve?’
She felt a quiver of awareness travel the length of her spine at the husky intensity of Lucifer’s voice, even as she realised he was looking down at her with enigmatic coal-black eyes, with one equally dark brow raised in mocking enquiry beneath the tall hat he had placed upon his head upon leaving the church.
Lucifer...
How well that name suited this particular gentleman, with his midnight-black hair curling softly over the collar of his black superfine and eyes so dark a brown they also appeared black. His cheekbones were high besides a sharp blade of nose and sculptured mouth that occasionally curved in sensual appreciation, but was more often than not thinned in haughty and unapproachable disdain above the firmness of his arrogantly angled jaw.
Aged one and thirty, Lucifer was but six years older than Genevieve, but the depth of emotions hidden behind those glittering black eyes spoke of a gentleman much older than his calendar years.
Part of the reason for that, Genevieve and all of society knew, was the tragic way in which his parents had met their deaths ten years ago. Lucifer had found the couple murdered at their country estate and their slayer had never been found or brought to justice.
Which was perhaps also the reason Genevieve had never seen Benedict Lucas wearing anything but black over his pristine white linen, all perfectly tailored, of course, to emphasise the width of his shoulders, muscled chest, lean hips and long legs in black Hessians. It was attire which should have given him an air of somberness, but on this gentleman only added to his air of danger and elusiveness.
An elusiveness, if Genevieve’s assessment of his offer was to be believed, which Benedict Lucas was now suggesting she might be allowed to breach by travelling home in his carriage with him...?
A suggestion, if Genevieve were to accept, which was so very much in keeping with her declaration a week ago to her two closest friends, Sophia and Pandora, that as widows recently returned to society after the required year of mourning, they should each of them take a lover, before the Season ended. It had been a brave and risqué suggestion on her part, Genevieve knew, and made more out of bravado than intent on her part; her painful and humiliating marriage to Josiah Forster had resulted in a physical wariness on her part in regard to all men.
She moistened her lips. ‘It is very kind of you to offer, my lord, but—’
‘Surely a lady as...daring as you cannot be feeling nervous at the idea of travelling alone in my carriage, Genevieve...?’
That quiver of awareness turned to one of alarm at Lucifer’s use of the word daring, for that was exactly the same term she had used a week ago, when talking to Sophia and Pandora in regard to their taking of a lover. It had been a conversation she was aware one of Lucifer’s two closest friends had overheard—and perhaps repeated...? It was most ungentlemanly of him to have done so if that should turn out to be the case.
Her chin rose as she looked up at Lucifer with guarded blue eyes. ‘I was not aware that I had ever behaved in a manner which any might consider “daring”, my lord?’ Nor was she at all sure she would ever be able to do so. Bravado with her two close friends was one thing, acting upon that bravado something else entirely.
Besides which, Benedict Lucas was a gentleman whom all of the ton talked of in hushed voices, if they dared talk of him at all. A man of deep and viol
ent passions, he was known to have vowed ten years ago that he would find the person who had murdered his parents, no matter how long it took him to do it, and that when he did he would kill the man himself rather than trust to the justice of the law.
Lucifer was also known as one of the finest shots in England, as well as a superior swordsman, skills he had honed and perfected during his years spent in the army, which meant that he was more than capable of carrying out such a threat.
‘Or perhaps you have heard otherwise, my lord?’ she challenged at his lack of reply.
Benedict might have laughed at how little that expression of haughty reproach suited Genevieve Forster’s impishly beautiful face. Almost. Except laughter, amusement of any kind, was not something which had come easily to him this past ten years. Instead, his mouth now curled into a hard and mocking smile. ‘Not particularly, Genevieve.’ He continued to use her given name deliberately, having noted her earlier discomfort. ‘But I am sure it is not too late for you to remedy that particular omission, if you so choose...?’
There was no denying that Genevieve Forster was a very beautiful woman; her abundance of curls beneath her blue bonnet was the colour of flame and her mischievously twinkling eyes the colour of periwinkles. Her nose was slightly snub above full and sensuously pouting lips, her complexion that of peaches and cream. And although tiny in stature, almost daintily fragile, the swell of her breasts, above the low neckline of her blue gown, appeared full and lush.
To Benedict’s knowledge she had been married for six years, and widowed for one. She was without any male relatives, except for her stepson, the current duke, a gentleman who was several years older than Genevieve, and it was known that the two were not close. Her two closest female friends were also currently engaged in relationships which he knew took them from Genevieve’s side.
Not that Benedict had ever been known to prey on unprotected females, but as a widow of five and twenty years, that term hardly applied to Genevieve Forster. A public acquaintance with her would do well as a foil for his own movements over the next few weeks, in his capacity as a spy for the Crown, with the added bonus that her beauty and vivacity would also ensure that Benedict enjoyed that acquaintance.