by Cheryl Bolen
At first he didn't see her. Then the distant echo of her wails reached his ears among the sounds of the roaring seas and the ever-present winds of Cornwall.
And he saw her hand on a ledge not ten feet below. It was grasping the edge with a life-saving grip that could not possibly last much longer. Though he could not see the rest of her, he knew her body dangled beneath the ledge, the clutch of her slim hand the only bridge between life and death.
He had no time to think, only to react. He threw off his coat to allow himself greater flexibility, then squatted at land's edge, lowering first one leg, then the other downward. He had known he could not jump to the ledge below. Not because it was a distance of ten feet, but because the impact of his considerable bulk could disturb her tenuous grip.
As fast as he could, he shimmied down the rugged face of the cliff, oblivious to the scraping of its jagged surface removing the flesh from his arms. His only thought was of getting to Louisa before she fell to her death.
With relief, his boots hit solid ground, and he quickly turned to see where Louisa was. He lunged toward the ledge's edge and dove to grab her wrist with a lock as permanent as a welded chain.
From his vantage point he looked down at her and was rewarded with a view of her smiling face looking up at him, hope shining in her eyes.
From then on, the rest was easy, and his erratic breathing returned to normal. In a moment he had pulled her up, and she sat beside him on the ledge, which was no larger than his carriage.
She looked up at him with eyes full of gratitude. Then she saw his bloody arms and gasped. "You've hurt yourself!"
He looked down at the maze of bloody scrapes on his arms. "I assure you, I feel nothing -- save relief that you're alive."
To his surprise, she reached up and lovingly stroked his face. No words of gratitude could have spoken as eloquently or been as appreciated.
"Thank you," she said softly, then looked away.
"What's wrong?" he asked, touching his knuckle to her chin and turning her face toward him.
"I've just realized how much I wanted to live," she said, laughing bitterly.
A fierce wave of emotions washed over him. He wanted nothing so much as to take her in his arms, but his restraint won out in the end. After the damned Godwin Phillips, she would likely have an aversion to physical contact with men. What she needed now were kindly delivered words of assurance of her worth. "My dear Mrs. Phillips, think of how much work you have yet to do on behalf of mankind, of how many people you can help."
She merely looked at him with a dazed expression.
Then, he thought of one last advantage to her living. "What would happen to Ellie if something happened to you?"
A slow smile spread over her smudged face. "I do have a lot to live for, do I not?"
He reached to wipe the dirt from her forehead. "Indeed you do."
She surveyed their little plot of firm ground. "May I ask how we are to get off this spot, my lord?"
He chuckled though he felt far removed from levity. "A good question, Mrs. Phillips." With no rope and no one to help them from above, going upward was completely out. Then he gazed at the shoreline below. Going down would mean certain death. "It is hoped my coachman will come looking for us if we do not return at dark."
"But it's far too dangerous to ride a horse so near the cliffs at dark," she said.
He frowned. "You do have a point there."
"What are we to do?"
"I shall have to think on it," he said, his voice upbeat, a smile on his face.
The wind grew stronger now, whipping her hair away from Louisa's head in horizontal sheets. It was wretchedly unpleasant here with no coat. And damned if his arms hadn't begun to hurt like the dickens. Of course, he would never tell her. As he sat there on the cold limestone, he thought and thought. There had to be a way to get them off the deuced ledge. It was a certainty no one would ever find them here. Their slip of rock was, after all, not visible to anyone traveling the high road.
He got up and carefully inched his way to the edge. A series of ledges climbed up the cliff. He believed he could leap from one to another. It was no different than jumping from deck to deck, his sword at the ready. He had done it any number of times. Of course, Mrs. Phillips could not be expected to follow him.
He looked up at her. "Do you remember those steps we saw a couple of miles back?"
"The ones that led to the sea?"
"The very ones," he said. "I believe I'll scurry down those rocks." He pointed to his left. "And when I reach the beach, I'll walk back to the steps and come back to fetch you in no time."
"You'll be killed," she protested.
"Nonsense. I'm said to be rather acrobatic."
"Dying here of the elements and of hunger would be preferable to watching you plunge to your death."
"I am flattered, madam." He rose. "Nevertheless, I believe I shall begin our rescue."
With those words, he squatted at the precipice, and in but a second had disappeared from her sight.
* * *
Along with his presence, her breath seemed to have vanished. She tried to scream, but no sound came forth. With her pulse fluttering madly, she scraped up the courage to move to the precipice and watch Lord Wycliff as he bravely jumped from one ledge to another. He was like a hero from one the novels she had read when she was young. Before she married Godwin and lost all dreams of love and happy endings.
Finally, she could no longer see him clearly. All she saw was the white of his shirt. Then he did reach the beach. And she could breathe again.
The fear that had gripped her for the past hour vanished like her perception of the cold. She knew she would be rescued. And all because a noble man had risked his very life to save her. She forgot that the wind pierced her. She forgot that she had, literally, come within an inch of life. All she thought of was the warmth that spread through her.
Because of him.
She could not have said how long she sat there on the scant ledge waiting for Lord Wycliff to rescue her. All she knew was that the sun was low in the sky when she heard the crunch of rocks above her and looked up to see him smiling down at her.
"Did you find help?" she yelled up at him.
"We don't need help," he shouted, taking his greatcoat and tying its sleeve to the sleeve of his jacket, careful to use the trusty sailor knots. Then he laid on his belly to where his arms hung over the cliff's edge, the coats dangling down to just above Louisa's fair head.
She had almost fallen when she stood up. Her knee must have been injured in the fall. She could only barely put weight on it. She reached and tentatively took hold of the sleeve that hung nearest to her. Surprised that it held her weight, she held tightly as she began to rise. She looked up into Lord Wycliff's face, strained as he hoisted her to the top of the upper ledge.
As she reached his hands, he firmly grabbed her wrists and lifted her to where she was even with him. The man possessed incredible strength.
"Be careful," he cautioned as he backed up, causing her upper arms to be bruised on the jagged rocks.
Then they were on firm ground, three feet from the precipice.
"Promise me you won't pick any more flowers," he said with levity as he pulled her up to stand next to him.
When he saw that she was unable to put weight on her knee, a look of worry flashed across his face. "You're hurt."
She looked up at him and nodded solemnly.
"Bloody hell!" he said, giving her a mock scowl. "Now I've got to carry you four miles to Boscastle."
"I most certainly can limp."
"The hell if you will!" He picked her up.
"Put me down at once!" she commanded. "I can wait here until your man comes back for me."
He looked up at the darkening skies and at the setting sun in the west. "I'll not allow my carriage or my horses here at night."
Her lower lip stuck out. "If you don't put me down right now, I'll never speak to you again, Lord Wycliff!"
"A severe punishment, indeed."
"You, my lord, are making fun of me." Her stiffened arms remained at her sides.
"You wrong me, Mrs. Phillips."
She burst out laughing then, and hooked her arms about his neck. "Really, my lord, you have certainly been through enough today without having to carry me for four miles."
"You weigh no more than a sack of grain, and I assure you I have carried many of those in my day."
It seemed quite odd that a peer of the realm had actually toted sacks of grain. But, then, Harold Blassingame, the Earl of Wycliff was not just any peer. She was beginning to feel a great deal of remorse for all the wicked things she had said about him and about the worthlessness of his lot.
He had been right the day they met to ask her not to judge him as she judged others who were born to a title. "My lord?"
"Yes?" he answered in a much winded voice.
"Perhaps we should stop to rest for a spell."
He obliged her, spreading out his coat for them to sit upon.
She waited for him to catch his breath. "My lord?"
He looked at her with eyes full of warmth. "Yes?"
"I am very sorry for the wicked things I have said about you and your class."
"Then I am sorry for the wicked things I said about bluestocking ladies -- in the past."
They both laughed.
"Perhaps we could begin again," she proposed. "Maybe we could be, simply---"
"Harry and Louisa?"
She smiled. "I'd like that."
He took an apple from the pocket of his coat and offered her a bite. "Hungry?"
She took a bite. "There's another thing I need to tell you, my--"
"Harry," he said firmly.
"Harry," she said, smiling. "It's. . .it's that you have made me realize that not all men are selfish, horrible creatures like my father and husband." How many men could have spent three nights in the bed of a woman possessed of some beauty and not have tried to take their own pleasure with her? And how many men would have risked their lives to save a highly opinionated bluestocking who purported to hate men?
His voice was soft when he spoke. "I sincerely hope I can continue to earn your trust, Mrs.--"
"Louisa," she urged.
"Louisa."
Brown eyes locked with blue.
"Nothing you could have said," he continued, "could have meant more to me. I wager you say the same thing to all men who rescue you."
They both laughed. She was grateful that an easy camaraderie had developed between them. Then she saw that his arms were still bleeding.
He followed the path of her gaze.
"Are you in pain?" she asked, compassion in her voice.
"Probably not nearly as much as you -- from your knee."
"But I don't have to carry another person."
He got to his feet, and she thought he looked like a dark god. She forced herself to look away.
He lifted her, and without thinking, she wrapped her arms around his neck, which was still warm from the waning sun.
As they trod over the moorland, she rested her face against his chest and could never remember feeling such contentment in her entire life. It brought to mind the reassurance she had felt as a small child when her mother, rest her soul, had read her nursery rhymes and Bible stories in her soft, loving voice as Louisa lay tucked beneath her blankets.
She could hear the steady beat of Harry's heart and his labored breath, and she was intensely sorry she was such a burden. In so many ways.
She vowed to do everything in her power to aid him in his quest to regain Wycliff House.
She was almost sorry when they reached the inn in Boscastle, for he would have to put her down. She fleetingly wondered if she would ever again feel such warmth in her life.
She rather doubted it.
Chapter 11
As they sat across from one another over dinner at the tidy little inn, the fire to Harry's back, Louisa thought she had never before felt so comfortable with another person. That was not to say she and Ellie did not enjoy an easy camaraderie, but with Harry she not only felt completely warm inside, she seemed to glow on the outside. Something about being with him set her to sparkling like sun glancing off a bed of crystal. She found herself hoping it would be many days before they found their mysterious lord.
For she knew that when his quest was over, she would return to her dreary life of meetings with those man-hating bluestockings who had been her only social life. Now, companionship with such women held little allure.
She supposed they had filled a deep and retching need in her at the time. Now, though, she felt another need, though she could no more put a name to it than she could understand it. All that she knew for sure about it was that it had something to do with Harry.
Calling him Harry seemed quite natural now, though she found it hard to countenance, as would others who might hear her address him in such a manner. So sitting there in the private parlor of the Cock and Stock, she came to the decision that she would never address him so familiarly in front of others. It would be like her mother's miniature portrait, something she could pull out and take comfort in when she was alone.
"This is the most I have seen you eat on the journey," he commented, his eyes not removed from her clean plate.
"Then the four-mile walk must have tired me, I dare say." There was levity in her voice and an amused glint in her eyes.
He cocked his brow. "A pity it was so exhausting for you. I found it rather invigorating."
She laughed then moved forward ever so slightly and with a feather-like touch ran gentle fingers across his bandaged arms. "I cannot tell you how deeply I am indebted to you."
* * *
Her gentle touch was much like that which she had used when she had tended to his wounds upon their arrival at the inn. Instead of allowing him to look at her knee, she permitted him to carry her up the wooden stairs to the room his coachman had secured for them. And there on the high feather bed they had sat facing each other. He had followed her instructions to remove his shirt so she could minister to his wounds. He wasn't sure, but he thought her breath swooped as his shirt fell to the counterpane.
She had been quick to gain control of herself as she deftly cleaned and bandaged his mangled arm.
A pity he had not recovered as quickly as she had. His close proximity to her and the feel of her soft breast brushing against him as she bent over his arm affected him emotionally as well as physically.
Once she finished bandaging his arm, she bent over and lightly kissed his arm, then looked up at him, a flush creeping up her face. He could tell she was embarrassed and wished he could put her at ease.
"I'm. . ." she stammered. "I didn't think of what I was doing," she explained. "I used to kiss Ellie's wounds after I bandaged them when she was little."
He set his hand on her frail shoulder. "You've nothing to apologize for. My mother did the same to me when I was small, and to this day I believe it aids in the recovery."
When his remarks did not seem to put her at ease, he ruffled her hair and laughed. "Rather amusing that you think of me as a child."
"Oh, no!" she protested, looking up at him. "There's nothing at all childish about you. In fact, I believe you must be the bravest man I have ever known."
He made light of her compliment, changing the subject. "I believe we should ask for another bottle of wine."
"Pray, Harry, it's already made me lightheaded."
He became pensive. "I like it when you call me Harry."
"I confess, it seems most inappropriate."
"But there are those who find John Stuart Mill's actions inappropriate, though you and I know his vision is correct."
"You speak of his efforts on behalf of birth control?"
He nodded.
"You had not told me before that you approved of the younger Mr. Mill's efforts."
"You never asked me before," he said.
He could almost see the years of woe pe
el from her like layers off an onion as her voice became animated, her face lively. "Tell me, how do you feel about slavery in the colonies?" she asked.
"Until I met you, I confess I had never given it a thought." He caught the serving maid's attention and told her they needed another bottle of wine.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now I have decided it is not a good thing."
"Why?" she challenged.
Darn the chit! What was he supposed to say now? He'd never given thought before to African men. Then he remembered Thomas Paine's Rights of Man. He had not read the blasted thing, but the title gave him a clue as to its contents. "Regardless of the color of the skin, a man is a man, and as such should have the right to be his own master and to be treated with dignity." He was completely surprised at his own eloquence. Perhaps he would have made a good show in Parliament.
"Oh, Harry," she beamed. "I cannot wait until we have your voice in the House of Lords."
He experienced a wretched feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had so carefully earned the girl's trust, and now as he held it as securely as a vault, he was about to trample it. Which just confirmed his own low opinion of himself. A pity he was not the man he pretended to be. That man could have been quite noble. Not conniving like Harold Blassingame, the Seventh Earl of Wycliff. Former pirate of the high seas. Murdering and stealing his way to an extremely comfortable station in life.
The return of the serving lady saved him from having to make a response.
"Tell me, if you will," he said to the serving woman. "Is there a Lord. . .What was that man's name, my dear?" he asked Louisa.
Playing along with him, Louisa said, "Goodness me, I cannot at all remember it."
Harry pretended to act drunk. "Can't remember the chap's name. What is the name of the local lord in these parts?"
"We have no local lord, sir," the woman said. "The closest one's Lord Harley over in Binghampton some forty miles from here."
"Is that in Cornwall?" Harry asked.
"Oh, no, sir. It's in Devon."
He watched somberly as the woman poured two more glasses of claret, wishing for the first time in a long while that he could drink himself into oblivion.