Chad’s shoulder blades tingled. He had always considered the tales of Edgecombe’s haunting to be laughable, but an earlier suspicion returned. Despite his refusal to put Edgecombe at the smugglers’ disposal, could they have been trespassing these past two years and making convenient use of those ghost stories?
‘‘I’m told you’re willing to sail right past Edgecombe’s cliffs, even at night,’’ Chad said. ‘‘If you believe the place to be haunted, why aren’t you afraid?’’
‘‘Don’t ye know anything about ghosts, mate? They don’t just flit about in the wind. They need a place to anchor themselves. Somewhere familiar, a place they frequented in life. Usually a house where they lived.’’
‘‘Is that right?’’
‘‘Aye.’’
Chad thought of his little ghost . . . and of the nearby chapel to which she had led him. But surely that had been nothing but a dream. He regarded the mariner. ‘‘I’ve heard that some people believe Jack Keating haunts the seas as well. What about that?’’
‘‘Aye, it’s said the Ebony Rose sometimes sails the coast. But only after midnight. See, that’s when old Jack’s ship went down. I’m careful. I always put in well before midnight.’’
‘‘Not at all curious to see if the legend is true?’’
‘‘I mind my business. That’s how a man lives to a ripe old age. If something ain’t got to do with ye, ye got no need to be knowin’ about it. Wisdom to live by, if ye know what’s good for ye.’’
An offhand observation, or a subtle threat blanketed in amiable words? For an instant Chad had thought he heard the latter, but Grady’s sunburned features retained their good-natured indifference as he turned his attention to the rigging.
‘‘Do you believe Edgecombe’s ghosts could have had anything to do with my father’s death?’’ Even as he asked the question, Chad hadn’t thoroughly realized the turn his thoughts had taken. As he waited for an answer, his heart pounded so violently his shirtfront fluttered. Not once since his father’s death had he ever considered the tragedy as anything but an accident.
‘‘Ah, now, mate, it’s clear ye truly know nothin’ about ghosts. They can’t kill a body. Can’t raise a pistol or shove a bloke out a window.’’
‘‘Can’t start a fire?’’ Chad suggested quietly.
‘‘Exactly.’’ Grady aimed a wad of spit over the gunwale. ‘‘They can only drive ye to do things by goading. That’s why they haunt. They can’t do for themselves, so they beleaguer the living till we do their bidding for them.’’
The boat arced through frothing whitecaps, following the curve of the coast. His mind racing with possibilities, Chad raised the spyglass and resumed watching the passing shoreline. They had just passed a stretch of flat, rocky beach bordered by dunes. The farm belonging to Sophie’s relatives lay just beyond.
As they rounded a promontory, he aimed the spyglass farther down the coast, where he detected the narrow inlet above which he and Sophie had stood the night before. Sharp projections of granite thrust up from the water, forbidding entry to even a boat as small as Grady’s. At least, that appeared to be the case from this angle. Chad needed to go closer to be sure.
A breaker rocked the boat. His gaze shifted, and what he saw caused the spyglass to tumble from his fingers onto the deck. Craning forward, he gripped the gunwale with both hands. The craft teetered and a wave splashed over the side.
‘‘Bloody hell.’’
‘‘Aye, have a care, milord. We’re in dodgy waters now. Locals call this current the Devil’s Twirl. Gets worse the further south ye go. I can’t be takin’ ye much beyond Edgecombe. Ye’ll soon see why.’’
Chad could already see. He had never experienced waves like these before. Cresting sideways, crosswise, and crashing into one another, they surged from every direction at once and created eddies that spiraled downward with a vicious suction.
But that was not what had forced the oath from his lips.
On the shore about fifty yards away, Sophie picked her way along the water’s edge, stepping gingerly across the boulders that formed an uneven ledge at the base of the cliffs. The crashing surf raised a spray taller than a man, sending gleaming foam splattering against the bluffs . . . and Sophie. She shrank against the cliff face beside her, only to push onward when the waves receded.
He swore again, while Grady summed up the situation with a colossal understatement: ‘‘She oughtn’t to be there. Especially not now, with the tide rollin’ in.’’
‘‘How high will it go?’’
‘‘See the watermark on the rock face?’’
‘‘Good God.’’ It was well above Sophie’s head. ‘‘How long?’’
‘‘Not long a’tall. Half hour at most. That’s the other thing about these waters—’’
Chad cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted her name. Her head twisted around and she spotted him, but from that distance he couldn’t make out her expression. Had she realized her mistake? To Grady he said, ‘‘Turn in. We’ll go get her.’’
‘‘Can’t be doing that now, can I?’’
Chad glared at the man. ‘‘What do you mean, you can’t? Turn this damn boat and put in.’’
Grady made an adjustment to the rigging that drained the wind from the sails. The boat stopped its forward momentum and bobbed like a toy. He pointed toward the shore. ‘‘See them rocks? Tear the hull to shreds.’’
Chad supposed he was right. Between the channel and the cliff countless boulders thrust their jagged forms above the water. He peeled off his suit coat and dropped it to the deck. Next he shoved out of his boots.
‘‘Wait here. I’ll swim in and get her.’’ He hoisted a leg over the gunwale, rolling into the water as carefully as he could to avoid tipping the little boat. A million icy needles pierced his skin, but he had swum in colder water as a boy. His feet didn’t reach the bottom, and as he gripped the side of the boat with one hand, a wave lapped at his face.
Grady leaned out over him. ‘‘You’ll never get the lass back here. Not unless you strip her naked and knock her out so she don’t panic and thrash about. Even then, the current’s too strong and the tide’s pushing landward, straight into the cliffs. If that don’t get ye, the Devil’s Twirl will suck ye under.’’
Chad could feel the truth of those words tugging him downward and toward the rocks at the same time. For an instant he questioned his ability to dodge the saw-toothed rocks standing between him and Sophie.
He had no choice. If he didn’t reach her and get her off that ledge, the waves would either batter her body against the rocks or drag her out to sea.
He pushed away from the sailboat and kicked his feet for all he was worth. Water filled his ears as he dove under, blocking out the roar of the surf. The twisting currents plucked and shoved. He pressed on, heaving his shoulders into each stroke. He opened his eyes, grateful for the crystal clarity of the water that would allow him to see the boulders before he slammed into them.
Where he could, he used the rocks for leverage to haul himself forward. Once, he lost his grip and was caught in a vicious undertow that sent him reeling. His back struck stone with punishing force. Disoriented, his breath about to burst, he searched wildly for the brightness of the sky through the water. On about his third or fourth twist he found it and kicked hard, breaking the surface and sputtering for air. Filling his lungs, he pinpointed the shore again. Where was Sophie?
Still pressed tight against the cliff face. The wind whipped her hair across her face and plastered her skirts behind her. She stumbled, and he knew a moment’s panic before she righted herself.
He surged forward. His shoulders were burning, his arms shaking with cold and exertion. The currents shoved him into another rock, the force of the water sliding him lengthwise against it. A biting sting along his ribs told him that not only had his shirt torn, but his skin as well. Salt seeped into the wounds with slicing pain, momentarily sapping his remaining strength. He thought he heard Sophie shout his n
ame. Then a wave smashed into him and his head went under.
The slap of hard ground beneath his feet renewed his stamina, his hope of making it. Bracing against the seabed, he broke the surface and stood up tall. The water reached his neck. He moved forward in long strides, using his arms to thrust forward against the swell. Behind him Grady shouted encouragement. Sophie’s cries wafted from the shore.
‘‘Go back. Please, I didn’t mean for you . . .’’
He blocked out the rest, intent only on reaching her. The water swirled around her feet now. The pelting waves splashed higher and higher. Her skirts would soon be soaked through.
He was close. Just a dozen or so yards, though they were perhaps the most dangerous of all. Wave after wave crested over him, and once more chaotic peaks of foam shoved him off balance. He lost his footing, toppled backward, his legs tangling in weeds. Submerged, he sealed his mouth tight and opened his eyes. A face stared at him through the water.
He all but drowned in the terror of believing she had fallen in, that he was too late. His horror twisted on end as he recognized the face, glowing fish-belly white except for those vacant, staring eyes and a raw wound gaping across the brow. A claw of a hand reached for him, and a voice echoed through the water.
Live . . .
The shock of it sent water sliding down his throat. He choked and sputtered as his lungs seized. Then his collar cinched tight around his neck as if someone were gripping him by the back of his shirt. He felt his body being hauled upward until his face broke free of the water.
Chapter 7
Her own fears forgotten, Sophie pressed her balled fists to her mouth as she watched the Earl of Wycliffe flounder in the waves. He had been coming to help her, and now it was he who needed rescuing. If he drowned it would be her fault.
His arms and legs flailed beneath the water, sometimes breaking the surface with bursts of foam. He grappled as though fighting an invisible foe, and then simply heaved himself into shallower water. Sophie couldn’t fathom how it happened. He seemed propelled by the ocean itself.
She strained forward from the cliff face, willing his sodden lungs to expel the water as he clung with both hands to the side of a rock. Coughing, he tipped his head back and opened his mouth wide for what appeared to be a painful, life-giving gulp of air.
Relief sent her sagging against the wall behind her. A sob of laughter escaped her as the earl pulled himself upright, steadied his feet beneath him and raised a hand in the air.
‘‘Hang on, Sophie! I’m coming!’’
When he reached her she crouched, grabbed him beneath the shoulders and tugged as he climbed up beside her. Doubling over, his shoulder pressed to the cliff face, he stood shivering and panting to catch his breath.
She seized his hand and held it against her cheek. ‘‘I’m sorry. This was so stupid of me. You must be furious.’’
A single word slipped through his chattering teeth. ‘‘Yes.’’
A hooting cheer rolled across the water. Sophie peered out at the sailboat that had brought the earl here. The boatman waved and she waved back.
‘‘Your friend appears wildly relieved.’’
‘‘He shouldn’t be.’’ The earl straightened. His shoulders fell to their full breadth, giving Sophie the giddy impression of yet another cliff face, tall and rugged and powerful. She felt rescued. She felt safe. Until he spoke again.
‘‘We’re both trapped now. As that mariner predicted, there is no way in hell I’ll ever be able to swim back to the boat, much less bring you with me.’’
‘‘We’ll return the way I came.’’ She turned in that direction and immediately comprehended the impossibility of the suggestion. The rocks were already submerged, the cliff face gleaming and slick. ‘‘The other way, then.’’
But that proved no better. A wave slapped their ankles. Her skirts were sodden from the knees down, already heavy and cumbersome.
‘‘What can we do?’’ She shoved strands of hair out of her eyes and prayed the earl had an answer.
‘‘Up.’’
‘‘What?’’ Perhaps she hadn’t heard him correctly. He was still shivering, panting, gasping past the water he had so recently swallowed.
He raised their clasped hands—she hadn’t realized she was still holding on to him—and gestured up at the bluffs. ‘‘We’ll have to climb. There’s no other way.’’
Alarm bells clanged inside her. Had nearly drowning addled his wits, made him hallucinate ladders where there were none to be found? ‘‘It’s straight up. We’ll fall to our deaths.’’
‘‘No, we won’t. It isn’t straight up. There’s enough of an incline and plenty of hand- and footholds. Trust me, Sophie. I’ve done this sort of thing before. Many times. We can do this.’’
‘‘No. Oh, no, no, no. I’ve never . . . I couldn’t—’’
He dropped her hand and just as quickly seized her shoulders, tugging her close until her face was mere inches beneath his. ‘‘Listen to me. We have no choice. The boat can’t get to us and we can’t get to it. Within minutes now the tide will devour this ledge and we’ll be swept away. We’ll both drown, Sophie, unless we climb to safety.’’
‘‘I . . . oh . . . all right.’’ Her own teeth were clacking now. She looked up again. Up and up and up.
‘‘I’ll be right beside you, showing you exactly what to do.’’ He flattened his hands against the rock, preparing to begin the climb.
Sophie gasped. ‘‘You’re bleeding.’’
Blood was oozing down his side, soaking into his already sopping shirt. He brought his arms down, tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches and pulled it into view. ‘‘Looks worse than it is. Just scrapes, really.’’
‘‘Oh, but your forehead.’’ That too had begun to bleed, the drops trickling down his temple and onto his cheek. He pressed his shirt cuff to the spot, examining the bright red stains with little apparent concern.
‘‘You can’t possibly make the climb,’’ she said. ‘‘If you lose too much blood you could pass out. You could . . . could fall and then—’’
‘‘Sophie.’’ He held her face between his hands. His palms were cold and wet, but even so a steadying influence. She stopped babbling and stared into his rich velvet eyes. ‘‘I am not badly injured,’’ he said. ‘‘I will not pass out, and neither of us, I promise you, will fall. Now then.’’ He regarded her with a faint frown. ‘‘You’ll need to take this off.’’
‘‘My dress?’’
‘‘It’s soaked. It’ll weigh you down.’’
‘‘I couldn’t possibly. Why, that man is still watching from his boat.’’
Lord Wycliffe spun her about. Before she could react, he gripped her bodice and yanked. The top button popped free, then the next two, and then all the rest in a torrent, pattering around her feet and into the water. She sputtered protests, all ignored as he peeled the sleeves from her arms and tugged the dress down over her hips. Compounding her chagrin, she thought she heard, ‘‘Bloody good idea, mate,’’ shouted from across the water.
The yards of green muslin puddled onto the wet rocks, leaving her little option but to kick her legs free. A wave swept the ledge. The water surged to their knees, prompting the earl to pin her with a steel-like forearm to the bluff. When the water receded, her dress coursed with it, blending with the vivid blue-greens of the sea.
‘‘We haven’t much time.’’ His gaze swept her. ‘‘Tuck your petticoat up into your corset a bit so your feet don’t get tangled.’’
Burning crimson, she did as he said, thankful when he turned to view the cliff face rather than watch. Hugging her newly bared arms around her, she saw him reach over his head and wedge his fingers into grooves in the rock. He then lifted a foot to a small ridge, balanced with his toes and stepped up. ‘‘Like this. Slow and steady all the way up. You try it.’’
Doing her best to ignore the fact that she wore nothing but her chemise, corset and tucked-up petticoat, she tested the cliff surface wit
h her fingertips.
‘‘Oh, and Sophie?’’
The somber rumble of his voice made her go still.
‘‘Whatever you do, don’t look down. Don’t look up either, at least no higher than to find your next handhold.’’
She gulped and placed the fingers of her right hand into a crack in the stone. She did the same with her other hand before looking down to find her first foothold. One step up, then another. Not so bad. With luck she might even make it to the top.
He waited for her to repeat the process once more, raising herself a foot or two higher on the wall before climbing up beside her. ‘‘That’s all there is to it,’’ he said with a grin. ‘‘Just keep at it until we reach the top. So, how about it? You game?’’
‘‘You make it sound like a dare, as if I have a choice.’’ Yes, she even detected a twinkle of enjoyment in his eyes.
‘‘It is a dare, Sophie. I dare you to do this. I dare you to show me you aren’t afraid of a little climb. That you are every bit as capable as I am of tackling this scrap of a challenge. Unless, of course, you truly aren’t up to it.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’ She experienced a stab of indignation before realizing his purpose. Yes, of course. The appreciative grin she flashed him quivered a little—she couldn’t help that—but she hoped it convinced him, as he had almost convinced her, that she could manage the feat before them.
‘‘Right, then,’’ he said briskly. ‘‘Remember, slow and steady. We won’t stop again until we reach the top. Ready?’’
‘‘Ready.’’ As much as she would ever be, she thought with a grim inner chuckle.
Grip, pull, step, push. Little by little they worked their way up, side by side, the earl waiting for her each inch of the way, though he could easily have proceeded a good deal quicker if he’d wished. Sophie breathed past the gratitude swelling in her chest; she needed all her concentration, all her courage, for the task at hand. Whenever she paused, unsure where to reach next, he was right there guiding her, his voice a gentle but steadfast presence in her ear.
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