by Elisa Braden
“Jonas. Look at me, please.”
It took a moment, but he did as she asked. His eyes were filled with fiery resentment. “I am sorry that this happened,” she said. “I am sorry for what you endured. It is dreadful. But you survived. Scarred but strong.”
“Right. I survive. That is my lot. To watch others die while I live.”
“Jonas—”
“Leave me be.”
“But I—”
He rode ahead, ending the conversation.
An hour later, they left the road for a path to the small slice of golden beach tucked inside high cliffs of weathered rock. Waves roared onto the rocky stretch beyond the cliffs, drowning out the sound of wind.
When they reached the beach, Jonas dismounted and came to lift her down. It was the first time he’d touched her since breakfast, and she went dizzy and weak as her body brushed against his. But his face was as hard as the cliffs that now surrounded them, striated by water and time.
“Tide’s coming in,” he said, scanning the area with a narrowed gaze. “We’d best hurry.” He turned a glower upon her. “Stay close. Do as I tell you and don’t bloody hesitate. Understand?”
She didn’t care for his harsh tone but nodded anyway.
He led the way around the interior of the cove. Though the beach was strewn with rocks and driftwood and seaweed, his steps were swift and sure. She clambered to catch up, reminding herself he’d likely spent his boyhood exploring such ground. She’d worn sturdy boots, but the wet sand and slick, sporadic rocks made for uncertain footing. Her skirts were well suited to riding but less so to beach rambles. By contrast, his legs were much longer. And, he was propelled by annoyance at present.
She followed him through a narrow gap between the high cliffs and towering stacks.
“I said stay close,” he growled, glaring at her over his shoulder.
She lifted her skirts higher and blew out a breath. “You’re in a devilish temper, Jonas Hawthorn.”
“You should have stayed at Grimsgate.”
“I cannot help you at Grimsgate.”
“No, just play bloody garden chess with bloody boyish men.”
She frowned. “Why does that displease you?”
“It doesn’t.”
Stepping carefully from one seaweed-laden rock to another, she snorted. “It sounds very much as if it does.”
“This is a daft conversation.”
“I could teach you to play if that is your objection. Chess is really quite enjoyable once you—oh!“
He halted so abruptly she collided with his back. His hand reached back to her hip, sliding around her waist to stabilize her against his body. She clutched his coat and peeked around his shoulder. They’d passed through the crevice into a second, smaller cove. This one was heavily shadowed with less sand and more rock. Along the shore-side cliffs, inside a recess surrounded by boulders, water had carved a deep, black cave.
The opening was wide but shorter than Jonas. Everywhere around them, the rocks were dark and wet.
He grasped her hand, his gaze as predatory as she’d ever seen it. “Stay quiet. Stay close.” With his free hand, he reached inside his coat, withdrawing a pistol.
The dashed man had brought a gun when he’d forbidden her the same liberty. “Jonas,” she hissed. “I thought you said—”
“Shh. Quiet and close.”
All his attention focused upon the small, black cave. His eyes flickered to the top of the cliffs, the three access points leading into the cove, the rising tide. “Come.”
He held her hand and tugged her with him, edging around the interior curve with the sea to their right and the cliffs to their left. Soon, they picked their way to the small alcove surrounding the cave’s mouth. When they passed between a boulder and the cliff, Jonas stopped and pushed her back against the rock.
“Stay here,” he warned softly, sparing her an intimidating glare. “Anything happens, run for the horses. Ride to Alnwick. Do not wait for me. Understand?”
“Jonas—”
“Do you understand?”
Her breathing quickened along with her heart as every part of the civilized mask he normally wore fell away. She clutched his hand, feeling her head try to lift and float. Biting down on the impulse, she instead rose up on her toes and kissed him. “Be careful,” she whispered.
Wolfish, silvery eyes narrowed upon her with naked hunger. With a last squeeze of her hand, he released her to edge into the cave’s opening.
She closed her eyes briefly, digging her fingers against the rock to either side of her. Must stay, she chanted to herself. Must stay, must stay, must stay. She focused on the waves, loud and crashing and rhythmic. Above, sea birds swooped and sang. Beneath her boots, wet rock smelled of fish.
She was here. She must stay with him. He needed her.
Shaking as seconds turned into minutes, she dug fingers against rock. Breathed. Let the fear rise but pictured it leaving like smoke through a chimney.
He would be fine. She would be fine. Everything would be fine.
“Hannah.”
Her eyes flew open as she jolted. Blinking, she found him frowning at her from a crouched position in the cave’s opening. “J-Jonas?”
“You were expecting someone else?”
She swallowed. “I was worried. You took a long time.”
He nodded toward the cave’s interior. “I found the trunk. It’s inside a fair distance.”
She started to enter, but he stopped her.
“I should like to see,” she protested.
“No reason to go in. I only came out to tell you what I’d found. I’ll carry the trunk myself.”
“I shall help.”
“No need.”
“I’d prefer to go with you.”
He released a breath. “It is dark and close. They left a lantern, but—”
She slipped past him, ignoring his curses. He was right—the cave was small at the opening, though bigger inside. And quite dark once she moved ten yards deeper. But she’d never feared dark places. The solid rock and quiet dripping soothed her.
“Have I suddenly lost the ability to speak English?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Because I’d swear I told you to follow my commands.”
“Oh, you did,” she reassured him, tracing fingers along old, carved dates gouged into the cave’s ceiling. “Look here, Jonas. Sixteen ninety-three. Do you suppose it was actually inscribed in sixteen ninety-three? Or is this merely a lark some boys carved a few months ago?”
With his head lowered to avoid braining himself, Jonas grunted a noncommittal response and, after pulling a flint and knife from his pocket, bent to light the lantern he’d set upon the ground. The glow only emphasized the darkness, casting odd shadows upon the greenish black of the cave’s interior.
She wandered deeper, fascinated by odd sea creatures clinging to wet surfaces. “Why would they bring the trunk here?”
“It’s a good hiding place. When the tide is up, nobody can get in.”
“Or out,” she murmured, shivering. “Is that how you knew they wouldn’t be here?”
He went quiet.
She glanced back at him. “I am not daft, Jonas. The tide is rising, and only a fool would willingly trap himself inside a cave for hours. Secure hiding place or no.”
“When given the choice, I’ll not take chances with your safety. Ever.”
She glanced at his hands—lean and strong and capable. One was still a bit swollen from when he’d struck the tree. He’d hurt himself for her. Nearly died for her. He’d married her because she’d asked. Agreed to her terms. Brought her unimaginable pleasure.
And what had she done for him? Apart from insisting he take a wife made of wet paper. The damp chill of the cave seeped past the blue velvet of her habit. It swallowed her skin.
“I shall help you carry the trunk,” she murmured. In this, at least, she might be of some use to him.
He released an exasperated. “Do as you like.”
> She followed him deeper into the cave, which ballooned inside so that Jonas was able to walk upright. The sandy floor was wet and littered with the sea’s leavings near the entrance, but as they walked, the ground inclined upward, becoming dry sand then drier rock. Finally, they followed a branch to the right.
And there it was.
A black trunk with brown trimmings. It wasn’t especially large—perhaps thirty inches long and twenty high, the same size of trunk Hannah often used for her slippers and reticules. She glanced around the space, noting a blanket folded near a small pack. She skirted around Jonas to investigate the pack.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I already searched it. Nothing but a map of Alnwick and a flask of whisky.”
She glanced over her shoulder, examining her husband carefully. He’d set the lantern on a long shelf of rock beside the trunk. Now, he was grasping the handle of the trunk itself and testing the weight. Before she could say anything, he heaved the thing up and onto his shoulder.
“Good heavens, Jonas. I said I would help. Is it heavy?”
He gave her a grin—the first one in hours. It made her heart flutter. “Light as lamb’s fleece. I reckon you could carry it while I carry you.” He glanced behind him. “But, in the interest of time, why don’t you carry the lantern, instead?”
Swallowing the knowledge of her utter uselessness, she nodded and retrieved the lantern. “Ready?”
“Lead on, princess.”
Every time he called her princess, it felt like a bit of sand had entered her boot—by now, she was forming blisters. Nevertheless, she’d been enough of a nuisance to him today, so she ignored her irritation and started back toward the cave’s entrance.
“Does this mean your task is finished?” she asked.
“Half of it. The other half is finding the thief. Her ladyship would like a chat with him. So would I, to be fair. There’s also the matter of the missing maid.”
She sidestepped a wet, crawling creature before asking her next question. “Did you look inside the trunk? What if it’s empty?”
“I did. And it’s not. Though, it’s still possible the thief took everything of value and left the rest. Another reason to run him to ground.”
She frowned. “What is inside?”
“Miscellany. Pile of letters. A gown or two. Slippers. An old tin of soap. The whole thing smells of sandalwood.”
A flush prickled her skin. “Sandalwood?”
“Aye. Something about that tickle your fancy, princess? Perhaps your boyishly charming gent stinks of the stuff.”
She halted.
He grunted.
She spun.
He frowned.
“Why do you insist on calling me ‘princess’?”
He adjusted the trunk on his shoulder, glancing at the cave’s ceiling. “Let’s discuss this after we’ve reached the—”
“Every time you say it, you sound vexed, as though I’ve slighted you.”
“The tide is coming in. We need to leave.”
A cold, sick feeling rose in her stomach. She watched his face, saw the resentment there—at least, she thought it was resentment. What did she really know about her husband? “Y-you don’t like me very much, do you?”
“What the devil? You sat astride me only this morning. Shouted my name with some conviction. That was you, yes? I didn’t mistake that.”
She shook her head. “Wanting and liking are not the same.”
“This rubbish conversation is going to get us trapped in here.”
She went colder. Her eyes fell away from his. Out of long practice, she gathered her composure, letting numbness buffer the pain. “Please do not call me princess. You say it to mock me, and I do not deserve it.”
“Noted,” he snapped. “Now, shall we find our way to daylight before the sea adds us to her collection of refuse?”
She inclined her head and resumed walking toward the entrance. As she reached the last ten yards, she heard the roar of wind and waves tangling. Rock being battered. Close. So much closer than before. Her stomach swooped as seawater dragged at her feet.
Jonas lagged behind, having stopped to reposition the trunk. When she saw how close the tide was, how it filled the little cove, she lost her breath.
“J-Jonas,” she whispered. She glanced back.
He held the trunk by one handle, bracing it across his upper back. Stooped and cursing, he trudged through ankle-deep water.
She rushed forward. The lantern swung, golden light dancing oddly with reflected sunlight from the cave’s entrance. “Hurry, Jonas,” she managed, her voice thin but louder than before.
He glanced up. “Bloody hell. Wait.”
“We must hurry,” she called, sloshing the last few feet as the surf surged toward them.
“Hannah. Wait for me to—”
“Must hurry.” She reached the ring of sunlight, her heart pounding.
Just as a burst of exploded rock showered over her head.
And a loud crack echoed above booming waves.
And pain seared her right thigh.
And a wolf howled her name.
Picked her up with one arm.
And hauled her back into darkness.
*~*~*
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I take exception to your use of the word ‘disaster.’ It is not as though the Prime Minister has never heard such vulgarities before.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter of non-apology for a disastrous wifely intervention.
He’d only felt rage this explosive twice before. The first time was when a prostitute who looked too much like Hannah had been savagely beaten to death and left for him to find—a signpost of the poisoner’s intention to kill her. The second time had been when she’d told him about Horatio Syder.
Now, she was his to protect. Yet, he’d allowed her to come here, knowing the possibility of danger. He’d counted on his own ability to keep her safe. He’d been a fool.
Pure, thundering fury—at himself, at the shooter—powered his sprint with both Hannah and the trunk in his grasp.
The shot had to have come from high ground. The cliffs on the land side, likely. Hannah had been startled, but he didn’t think she’d been hit. She was keeping up with him. She hadn’t gone slack or cried out or even dropped the lantern.
Remarkable woman.
He ran for the chamber at the farthest reach of the cave. They’d be relatively safe there while the tide was up—while he decided how to kick his own blasted arse for not turning around and hauling her back to Grimsgate.
He released her and set down the trunk. “Set the lantern there.” He nodded to a shelf of rock and pulled his pistol, checking the powder. “We may be here a while.”
She did as he asked, light wavering as her hand shook. “Do—do you think he will attempt to attack us in here?”
“Doubtful.” He positioned himself at the turn that led into the chamber. “If he does, he’s a dead man.” Urgent rage pounded inside him, drowning everything but the need to kill. “Probably a dead man anyway.”
Definitely a dead man anyway.
He sensed Hannah moving behind him. Heard the swish of her skirts, her panting breaths. But he kept his eyes fixed upon the tunnel. If that piece of shite came anywhere near her, Jonas would tear his throat out.
“The tide should recede in an hour or two,” she observed, her voice perplexingly calm. “Enough for us to leave, at any rate. An additional pistol would be a boon, indeed.”
“If I’d thought it necessary for you to bring a gun, I wouldn’t have let you follow me into the cave.”
“A miscalculation, then.” She sniffed. “I’ve similarly underestimated my opponent before. Phineas likes to lure me to my demise with a pretense of weakness. His brilliance is that I rarely see it for what it is until he has me cornered.” When she next spoke, her voice came from the back of the chamber. “Often, he grants me s
mall victories. His queen or a rook.” She paused. “Those are important pieces in chess.”
She had the tone of a governess patiently instructing a fractious boy. Despite his tension, he replied, “If you know his tactic, why not develop a counter?”
“Oh, I have. Many times. That is what makes him brilliant. Always ahead of me, my brother.” Another pause. “I’ve learnt a great deal from him.”
He heard a click. Turned. She held a pistol. Was loading a pistol.
Bloody hell, she’d brought a pistol.
Calmly, she tucked her powder flask into a hidden pocket between the folds of her skirt. Pale green eyes came up to meet his. A small smile curved her lips. “I am an excellent shot.”
A thousand curses filled his head. He clenched his jaw to keep them in. He knew she was a good shot—Reaver and Dunston had told him she’d been the one to shoot Lydia Brand when the previous Lady Holstoke had taken her and Dunston’s wife hostage. In the midst of a vicious assault, a girl of sixteen had picked up a gun and shot the woman who’d killed her mother, poisoned her father, and hunted her for over a decade.
His beautiful wife knew how to fire a pistol. She knew how to put a bullet between the eyes of a murderer. But she shouldn’t bloody well have to. It was his job to keep her safe. His.
He turned back to the tunnel, listening for signs that the shooter had followed them. All he heard was the roar of waves filling the cave’s opening. The roaring echo grew louder, giving him chills. After a few minutes, the noise’s pitch changed. Quickly, he moved to the trunk, threw open the lid, and found what he’d been looking for. He lit the candle and set it beside the lantern then picked up the lantern. “Stay here,” he told Hannah. “This time, for God’s sake, do as you’re told. And don’t shoot me when I return.”
Then, he traveled down the cave’s long shaft until seawater lapped at his boots. Glancing around, he noted signs of a waterline roughly four feet further in. They were nearly at high tide. Over the next hour, the water would peak and begin receding. Within two, they’d be making their way back to Grimsgate—provided he could kill the shooter quickly.