by Cheryl Bolen
Chapter 9
The grass was wet, but their blanket seemed to absorb most of the moisture. After they ate, the coachman went to tend the horses and Lord Wycliff leaned back, his weight on his elbows, his long legs stretched out beyond the length of the blanket as he gazed up into the now-blue sky. It was warm enough now that he'd removed his greatcoat, and Louisa -- with Lord Wycliff's assistance -- had taken off her black cloak.
She tried to avert her gaze from Lord Wycliff's limbs. They reminded her of one of those statues of ancient Greeks she had viewed in the British Museum. Like them, he was all firm planes and smoothly rounded muscles that must be as hard as the marble from which the Grecian men were carved. Her eyes traveled from his muddy boots, past his thighs and settled just above his waist, where there was not an ounce of fat on his well constructed bones.
She was once again reminded of her first impression of him when she had thought him too manly to be clothed in the finery worn by fops of the ton. Not that he sported the frivolous frills worn by dandies, either. She could see him sparring with the likes of Jackson or keeping his balance at the helm of a ship, his sword drawn in defense of his schooner.
"What keeps you so pensive?" he asked, making no effort to sit up.
She watched him intently. The endless fields of wheat behind him framed his head like a golden halo in a Renaissance painting.
A week ago she would have lashed out in anger at his presumptuousness in asking her so personal a question. But this was now, and their close proximity had slowly been weathering away the armor they both had worn for a considerable period of time.
"I was wondering why you hate your father."
He sat up and drilled her with his dark eyes. "How do you know I hated my father? I never told you."
"You didn't have to say the words. Do you take me for such a fool that I would not notice that you adored your mother, yet said nothing about your father?"
He relaxed, taking a sip of the wine that had been in their basket. "You know that my father lost everything."
"I know he lost Wycliff House to Godwin at cards one night at Waiters."
He looked as if a brace of candles had been lit within his gaze. "How could a man who had nothing to leave his wife amass a fortune great enough to play for stakes that would include one of London's finest townhouses?"
Now the brightness of her eyes matched his. "The benefactor!" she said. Godwin had certainly never been able to hold onto money. Not with his obsession for gaming. And for lavish living.
"That has to be it," he said.
They both stayed silent a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, she spoke. "Do you suppose the benefactor chose his prey?"
He slapped at his knee. "You are positively brilliant!"
"You are just learning that, my lord?" She laughed.
"That you are considerably smarter than other women of my acquaintance I learned the day I met you."
The corners of her mouth lifted into a smile. "Lucky for me and my need for a good night's sleep that you are not enamored of intelligent women."
A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes. "Indeed."
Somehow, his answer seemed to lack sincerity.
He began to gather up the leavings of their luncheon, and she stood and stretched, lifting her arms straight toward the heavens. The stiffness in her back from hours of riding in the coach had lessened considerably, but she knew it would return once they resumed the journey.
To her surprise, he came to her and gently covered her shoulders with her cloak. Unexpected warmth surged through her.
* * *
That night he repeated his practice of leaving her to dress for bed while he went to the tavern. Only this night she was awake when he came to bed.
Lying there in the dark, she pretended to be asleep as he stood before the window and removed his pants. Her heart accelerated when she beheld him, his wondrous body bathed in moonlight. Then he tossed aside his jacket. She could no more remove her eyes from the glorious sight than she could cease to draw breath.
Had Godwin looked like that, she might not have found his presence in her bed so repugnant. She wondered what it would be like to lie beneath a man like Lord Wycliff. She watched as he moved toward the bed, lithe and powerful and dark like a panther, and she wondered how many women he had been with.
He climbed beneath the covers, careful not to touch her. After the brief whiff of cold air from lifting the covers, she felt his heat.
She lay there for a very long time, her back to him. She waited to hear his breathing change as a man's does when he drops into slumber, but she heard no such change.
Was he, too, wondering what it would be like to take her into his arms?
It was a very long time before she finally heard the pattern of his breathing change. He had finally gone to sleep.
Only then did she do likewise.
* * *
The following day, Harry consulted the map.
"How long before we reach Cornwall?" she asked.
He flicked a glance toward her. "We shall sleep in Cornwall tomorrow night."
"Do we go to the northern coast first?"
He smiled. "I see you know how to read a map." His glance darted back to the map. "We should make it to the River Tamar tomorrow evening -- if the weather holds out."
"Then Lord Arundel is our first prospect?"
He gazed at her with amusement in his eyes. "You are also in possession of a good memory."
She held herself proudly. "I believe I can even predict the route you wish to take, my lord."
"Indeed?"
She nodded. "Tintagel first, then south to Bodmin, and from Bodmin to Polperro on the south coast. From Polperro, we'll continue west along the south coast to Penryn. From Penryn we'll head directly north again to Curthbert. And Falwell -- being nearly at Land's End . . ."
Harry shot her a devilish glance. "I see your map skills -- and your logic -- are excellent. He frowned. A pity she was a do-gooder. He rather enjoyed having for a companion a woman of superior intellect.
The weather continued unimpeded, and they slept at an inn in Minehead that night. Harry was disappointed that Minehead was some miles short of Devon. He had assured her they'd be sleeping in Cornwall the following night.
Then she grew dejected. "I daresay I never realized when we embarked on this trip that it would be four days before we even reached Cornish soil. Which means it will probably be two weeks before we return to London. I deplore leaving poor Ellie for so long."
"She'll scarcely miss you, she'll be so elated over the Bentham chap."
Louisa continued to frown.
"What do you know of Tintagel?" he asked.
"There's a shell of a castle there where it's said King Arthur ruled."
"Perhaps our Lord Arundel is a descendent of King Arthur."
"If one were to believe in Camelot," she said solemnly.
Harry gave her a solemn look. A pity she could never believe in Camelot or in happily-ever-afters.
The following day, as the afternoon sun shone its brightest, Louisa was looking out the window of the coach and seemed almost startled by his voice. "I think it's time for me to send the coachman to the next inn while you and I begin to explore the coastline on foot."
Since the weather had turned fair, they made excellent progress and were now travelling along the first part of the Cornish coast.
"An excellent plan," she agreed. "Glad I will be to stretch my legs."
Harry and Louisa disembarked, with the coachman given instructions to bespeak rooms for them at the inn in Boscastle. "Aye, Mr. Smith," the coachman said, winking with great emphasis. "Take good care of the Missus."
"Get on with you!" Harry ordered, a chuckle in his deep voice.
Louisa wrapped her dainty hand around his proffered arm as they began to walk along the single cobbled street of this village that was not to be found on their map. "I trust you are looking for our lordly friend," Harry said facetiously.
"To be sure, my lord."
In mere moments, the village lay behind them, and they followed the mists that would surely lead them to the sea.
Their instincts were correct. After traversing a craggy land, they heard the roaring of distant waves and tasted the salty air that seemed to cling to them like wool to sheep. Soon, they began to walk along the coastal path where they could see the dark seawater ringed by white far below. "I'm assuming Lord Arundel is a man of wealth, and it's my bet that he lives near the coast," Harry said.
Now that no one watching them, Louisa released her hand from Harry's arm and skipped ahead of him, stopping to pick a crocus blooming in the midst of rocky crags.
Had he been a painter, Harry would have painted her stooping to smell the flower that grew wild on the gray cliffs. With the wind catching her pale hair, Louisa Phillips was undoubtedly the loveliest creature he had ever beheld. Almost as refreshing as the complete lack of artifice in her beauty was her total lack of conceit. Did she have no idea how beautiful she was?
His eyes narrowed from the sun, Harry stood watching her as if he were as rooted to the land as the nearby elm. She looked up at him then, puzzlement on her face. "Are you unwell, my lord?"
He stepped forward. "I have never been better. It is a fine day, is it not?"
She stood up. "Wonderful, I should say. I've never been to Cornwall before. Have you?"
She looked like an inquisitive child. "No I haven't, and I quite agree with you. There's a loneliness about the land, but also a peace."
Waiting for him to come even with her, she watched him, a puzzled look on her face. "That's a most poetic thing for you to say, my lord. I had no idea you were so sensitive."
"Please," he urged, "do not imbue me with qualities I do not possess."
She took his arm again though he had not offered it. He was glad she did.
"There's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in having the ability to express one's feelings. Lord Byron did so, and to my knowledge, he never lacked for suitors."
Harry laughed. "Then perhaps I shall become a poet."
"Come, my lord, I hardly think you have to begin writing poetry to woo women."
"But according to you, all my suitors are women of easy virtue. Where's the fun of the conquest?"
She removed her hand from his arm. Though she continued to walk beside him, he detected a stiffness in her manner. Was she angry at his remark? Did she take it personally? Surely his restraint last night as he lay beside her throbbing with need assured her of the honor of his intentions. He had best change the subject before he angered her further by confessing his desire for her.
"Tell me, Mrs. Phillips, where is it you wish to make your next home?"
His comment relaxed her. "I had thought to buy a little cottage in a rural village, but as we left London yesterday I realized I am needed there."
"Needed?"
"I must see the poverty first hand if I am to do something to relieve it."
"And you think you can singlehandedly change it?"
"I am not naive, my lord. But with your help in Parliament, we can move forward."
God, but he felt as slimy as Godwin Phillips right now. Like all the other men in her life, he was using her.
She stooped to pick more wild crocus, then she leaned over the precipice of the cliff to tug at a huge flower that bloomed there. When she pulled the flower, the dirt around it came away, and the ground beneath her crumbled.
Harry watched in horror as she plunged over the cliff.
Chapter 10
Harry's heart nearly stopped beating. In one blindingly quick second Louisa bent at the precipice, the wind blowing her flaxen locks, a flower clutched in her hand. The next second she was gone, a whirl of tumbling skirts, then nothing.
He raced to the cliff's edge, not really wanting to look down, but knowing that he must. He was prepared to see no sign of the lovely Louisa who had surely been swallowed by the raging sea a hundred feet below.
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.
&
nbsp; 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.