A shout drew his attention back to the boy—a different kind of shout, infused with fear, rather than joy. The young woman’s cry followed, its plaintive note drowned in the surf’s roar.
The child’s sodden head bobbed on the surface for a moment before disappearing. He’d run too far. A wave had caught him.
George didn’t pause to consider. He didn’t even bother with his boots. He pelted across the strand, the pebbles rolling beneath his feet, and plunged into the surf. The water’s icy grip numbed his legs on contact. His chest constricted, and he fought to gulp in air. Now was no time to freeze. He must go on. Must reach the child.
There. The boy’s head surfaced, blond hair darkened and waterlogged and falling into eyes round with fear.
George dived, reached, grabbed at nothing but cold water. On the second attempt, his fingers brushed something solid—a tiny hand. He grabbed for it and hauled the boy upright. The child took one look at him and clawed at his topcoat.
“Easy there, son. I’ve got you.” Somehow he forced the words between chattering teeth.
The boy put his arms around George’s neck and clung as he struggled back toward solid ground. Wave followed wave; each one reached for him in an attempt to drag them both under. The need to keep hold of a quivering body prevented him from using his arms in the fight. The ground melted beneath his feet, threatening to topple him at every footstep and leave him to the mercy of the sea.
The young lady fought her way to his side. They faced each other, waist-deep in the waves, while he gulped in air and she reached for the boy. Her dark eyes stood in stark contrast to the whiteness of her face. They hardened, caught somewhere between a glare and fear.
“Give him here,” she said, hard and abrupt. Dismissive.
Well. The least she could do was thank him for ruining a perfectly good pair of trousers in freezing saltwater so he could rescue her brother.
“Certainly … miss.” A wave crashed into him, thrusting him forward. He lunged to catch his balance and knocked her aside. In another breath, he righted himself. “As soon as we’re on shore, I’d be happy to.”
On closer view, she was older than she first appeared. Her face gave the illusion of a younger woman—drawn on delicate lines to a pointed chin, it appeared almost fairy-like.
He shook his head. Imagine, such a fanciful idea, especially now that her brows had lowered to a full-on glare that emphasized a twin set of lines above her nose. They were etched deeply enough to put her beyond the age of a schoolroom miss. Her soaked bodice accentuated curves more generous than he’d first thought. Lovely, firm, round curves.
In spite of the danger, she reached again. The tips of her fingers trembled, and she held her lips in a firm line, as if to suppress an echoing vibration there. Hitching the boy higher against his chest, he fought his way free of the waves. She splashed behind him, and wrenched the child from his grasp.
She pulled him to her bosom, her eyes closing, and she drew in a long, shuddering breath. Her hands tightened, until the boy let out a whimper and wriggled in her grasp. He fought his way free and slid to the ground.
“Jack!” she said rather sharply.
“There’s no call to shout at the boy.” George sat down hard on the beach and gasped for breath. Water slogged inside his Hessians, and a nasty bite of breeze sank its teeth into his sodden garments, chewing through to the skin. Even the spot on his chest where Jack had clung to him had grown cold. “He’s had a fright. Give him a chance to recover.”
“Jack, we need to go home. Now.”
ISABELLE drummed her fingers against her thigh to mask their trembling. So close. She’d come so close to losing him.
“Come, Jack,” she tried again, but her tone refused to soften.
It was that blasted man, that stranger. He’d surged out of nowhere to splash into the water and save Jack when her fear took hold. She ought to be grateful; she ought to thank him, but annoyance at having her privacy invaded twined with the old wariness. It kept her blood pumping hard, long after it ought to have subsided.
If only Jack would let her hold him for a moment or an hour, but he’d turned his attention back to the man, staring at him as if he thought to keep him. Obstinate child.
With a sigh, she marched over and held out a hand. “I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. I prefer not to carry it any further.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” The man shifted his weight, leaning back on his elbows. His waterlogged topcoat plastered itself against his chest. His very broad chest topped by wide shoulders.
Isabelle cast her eyes downward, but that wasn’t much safer. The surf had wet his trousers until they clung to his thighs. She wrapped her arms about her waist to hold off a bout of shivering. She had no business looking over a man’s body. Most especially, she had no business noting his long, tapering fingers or the roguish lock of hair that flopped over his forehead. Its color matched the tan of the damp pebbles that lined the shore. No matter his face was battered, one eye puffy and swollen.
Even worse, he was looking right back, his gaze traveling down the lines of her body in frank appraisal. Doubtless her soaked dress left little to the imagination; it clung to her form the same as his garments. His glance came to rest on her feet. She curled her toes against the pebbles.
Her bare toes. Oh, how could she have forgotten herself to such an extent? Her shoes and stockings lay discarded up the beach where she’d left them in a fit of girlishness. For a few brief moments, she’d wanted to run along the shore as carefree as Jack. For those moments, she’d wished to relive her innocent days.
When would she learn she could never go back?
At last, Jack tore his attention away from the stranger. He turned his face toward her—and grinned. The very devil lit that smile.
“You little scamp,” she murmured.
His grin broadened, but he still refused to come to her. His face glowing with admiration, he stepped closer to his rescuer. “What’s your name?”
Isabelle gasped. “Jack, where are your manners?”
Laughter rumbled from deep in the stranger’s chest, an oddly comforting sound. She pushed the idea aside. She had no business thinking that about him, either.
“You may call me George.”
“You most certainly shall not,” Isabelle said. Time to nip this in the bud. “It’s improper to address one’s betters by their Christian names.”
The stranger—she refused to think of him as George—winked at her. Winked! “How do you know that’s not my family name?”
She pressed her lips together. For some inexplicable reason, they wanted to stretch into a smile. “Even so, it’s improper, Mr.—”
“Very well. It’s Mr. Upperton to you.” He raised himself to a crouch, bringing his face to Jack’s level. “But you can call me George when no one’s listening. Now, shall I call you Jack or do you prefer something a bit more formal? You wouldn’t happen to be Lord Something-or-other, would you?”
“No.” The boy’s smile showed the gap between his front teeth. “Just Jack.”
“Well, Just Jack, suppose you tell me your sister’s name, and we shall be properly introduced.”
A nasty jolt coursed down Isabelle’s spine, and her pounding heart drowned out the roar of the surf. “It’s Isabelle.”
Oh, why had she blurted her Christian name after her insistence on propriety? For an awful moment, she waited for the protest, the challenge, the contradiction. Jack blinked at her, his forehead wrinkled. The challenge, such as it was, came from a different quarter altogether.
“Am I to presume you wish me to address you by your given name?” Mr. Upperton asked.
“Miss Mears will do.” Another hasty reply. If only she’d stopped to think, she might have claimed the title Mrs., but Mr. Upperton seemed to have a strange effect on her mind. It would have made matters so much easier if Mr. Upperton believed her married, or at the very least, widowed. He wouldn’t ask difficult questions. He wouldn’t make supp
ositions. He wouldn’t question her morals.
Irritation prickled at the back of her neck. Why should she even care what Mr. Upperton thought? She wasn’t about to make friends with him. After today, she’d probably never see him again—and so much the better.
The cut of his clothes, their quality, the fine leather of his boots told her all she needed to know. He was a young buck from Town, no doubt staying at the manor up the cliff face, and she knew from bitter experience that made him dangerous.
“I much prefer Isabelle.” A smile spread across his face, revealing even, white teeth. “It suits you better. Mears sounds almost common, like you were a mere Isabelle, but I doubt you’d settle for being a mere anything.”
Oh yes, he was dangerous, all right, gifted with a quick and clever tongue. She’d succumbed to a silver-tongued charmer once before and paid the price. Never again.
She raised her chin and tensed her jaw. “I have not given you leave to address me by my Christian name.”
He pushed himself slowly to his feet. She recognized the gesture for what it was—an attempt to level the field. He could not tolerate her standing over him. He, on the other hand, towered over her. She’d always been small, but Mr. Upperton’s imposing height made her feel as if she were closer to Jack’s size.
“Indeed, madam.” He infused the words with an aristocratic, officious chill. A dismissal, nearly a cut. Oh, how she remembered that. How happy she’d been living apart from the judgment, the superiority. The utter hypocrisy.
But he continued to stare, and his gaze penetrated until she fancied she felt it burning from inside, the sensation at once familiar and disturbing. Beneath the fire of his scrutiny, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, keenly aware of her soaked skirts sticking to her legs and the abrasion of small stones against her bare feet. She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering.
Jack looked from one to the other. “Mama?”
She closed her eyes as blood rushed to her cheeks. Dear God, now she really could not bring herself to face this stranger. Not now that Jack had let the secret slip.
“Mama?” A tug at her skirts forced her to face her young son. “Shouldn’t we say thank you for saving me?”
She covered the top of his head with her palm and smoothed his dripping mop of blond hair. “Of course, darling.” Gritting her teeth, she bobbed a curtsey. “Your pardon, sir. I’ve quite forgotten myself. I’m most grateful you fished Jack from the sea.”
“Not at all.”
Something in his tone drew her gaze. He watched her closely, assessing once more. Reevaluating, just as she’d known he would. His glance flicked from her bare left hand to Jack and back to her face. Calculating her age.
Everyone did, as soon as they worked out the truth. And yet …
She didn’t feel as if he were judging her. The only impression she got was curiosity. Thank God. Thank God she wouldn’t have to put up with more. She didn’t think she could handle it, not after the scare she’d just had. Her trembling increased, and she clenched her hands into fists.
“George?” Jack asked brightly. Isabelle opened her mouth to admonish him, but he’d already tripped onward. “It was fun.”
“Fun?” She forced the word past her quivering lips. The heart-pounding fear rushed in to replace any worries about propriety. She’d almost lost him. Might have watched his small, blond head disappear under the waves while she stood by, paralyzed. “You nearly drowned.”
“You’d best listen to your mama,” George said mildly enough. She didn’t dare look at him, not now that he’d acknowledged the truth. “She’s working very hard not to let it show, but I’m sure you’ve given her a fright she won’t want to relive any time soon.”
Her eyes snapped to his. She couldn’t help herself. How had he seen? He was a complete stranger. She knew nothing about him or his intentions. She did not want his scrutiny or his perception. And she most certainly did not want him around Jack, not when his gentle admonishment had her son blinking hard at the ground, the back of his neck red. Gracious, the man hadn’t shouted, hadn’t scolded, hadn’t threatened. He’d expressed a simple enough truth, and Jack stood there, quiet and contrite, but, dash it all, if the lesson hadn’t sunk in.
“How many children do you have?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Mr. Upperton blinked. “What? What makes you ask such a thing?”
“It’s just …” Oh, why had she given in to her curiosity? The last thing she needed was to encourage him. He might get the wrong impression—that she was looking for a protector. “You’re so good with children, I thought you might have a few of your own.”
Goodness. Why not come out and ask if he was married? She could hardly have been more blatant.
A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his cheeks darkened slightly. “Me? Good with children? That’s a laugh.” To prove it, he let out a chuckle. The sound carried just enough of an edge to make her suspect it was forced. “I’m not married, and I haven’t any by-blows that I know of.”
She flinched. Of course, he’d only been trying to make light and had forgotten himself, but that didn’t prevent a prickle of shame from overcoming her. The back of her neck burned with it. “Come, Jack. We’ve taken enough of this gentleman’s time. We ought to head home.”
“Might I escort you?”
Escort? As if they’d been exchanging pleasantries on some society matron’s terrace and she’d hinted she might like to see a bit more of the garden? Heaven forbid. At any rate, six years had passed since her life resembled anything of the sort. And just such a proposition had placed her in a great deal of difficulty.
Besides, she still retained some measure of pride. She couldn’t allow such a fine gentleman to witness what her life had become, whether he paid attention to gossip or no. Whether or not he saw through the sham of her name and worked out her true identity. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”
“It would be no trouble at all, I assure you.”
She eyed him, alert for any sign he might consider her an easy mark. After all, to his mind, she’d lifted her skirts once. In reality she’d been duped, but he wouldn’t know that. “We’ve been managing rather well on our own, thank you.”
“Do you live in the village? I thought—at first—you might be a guest of Lord Benedict.”
A sharp breeze off the Channel whipped at her skirts, slapping them against her shins. She hugged herself to ward off its sudden chill. “Please, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you any further. We ought to be off for home. I would not wish either of us to fall ill.”
“MAMA? Mama! You’re walking too fast.”
Isabelle pressed a hand to her breastbone and came to a halt. Her breath came in shallow pants. She’d practically been running and hadn’t realized.
Jack trotted up the rise from the beach, his short legs pumping. She waited until he’d reached her before pulling him into a fierce embrace. All the emotion she dared not show in front of a stranger poured into the strength of her grasp. Once more, her heart thumped a desperate cadence against her ribs, as the terror returned.
“Mama,” he protested. All too soon, he pushed her away. Water dripped from his trousers, and his hair hung in lank strings. She’d need to cajole him into sitting still while she combed the knots out before it dried and the situation became hopeless. If Biggles had baked biscuits, she stood a reasonable chance, at least as long as the confections held out.
“Come, we’ll put on our shoes and stockings before we get back to the village.” She fought the ache in her throat to keep her tone brisk. These days, he’d only tolerate so much mothering. “Quickly now.”
He plunked himself down in the middle of the path and scrunched his stockings over dirt-encrusted feet. With a wrinkled nose, he worked the coarse knit over damp ankles and shins. Her throat tightened to watch him perform the most mundane of tasks so soon after—
Too late, she closed her eyes. Too late to shut out the imag
e. In her mind, she relived the terrible moment when the wave engulfed him. All that blond hair, so bright in the sun, gone like a flame being snuffed out. In the blink of an eye. Disappeared. The backs of her eyes stung as if they’d been exposed to seawater.
“Mama?” He tugged at her skirt. “Aren’t you going to put your shoes on?”
“Oh … Oh, yes.”
She could hardly traipse back to the village barefoot like some beggar woman. Their bedraggled clothes were bad enough. But she could dress in the finest silks and the butcher’s wife would glare at her. Not that she could afford meat very often, at any rate.
She sat on a rock and eased a stocking along her leg. Her feet were in as bad a state as her son’s. The drying grit prickled between her toes.
“We’ll need to stay close to the house tomorrow,” she said as she pushed her feet into her shoes.
“Aw, Mama.”
“You had your holiday today.” She took his hand and set off down the path. “Tomorrow we must work.”
He poked out his lower lip. The expression boded no good at all.
“You can help Biggles in the garden. I’ll wager you can pull more weeds than she can.”
“I don’t want to pull up weeds.”
Well, blast. Normally the prospect of putting both hands into the soil and getting as much dirt as possible ground into his shirt was enough to turn work into play.
“We don’t always get to do as we please.” How often had she reminded him of that over the years? Half the time, she felt she was reminding herself as much as Jack. “If you’re a good boy and don’t complain, I shall tell you a new story. One you haven’t heard before.”
His lower lip receded somewhat. “Will there be a dragon in it?”
“There might be.”
“Will you tell me about the people who live in the big house?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Off to the left, the outline of the manor on the hill etched itself against a cloud-scattered sky. “I don’t know if I can manage that and a dragon.” The only dragons she associated with country manors were the grand dames of society.
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