Her Dearest Sin
Page 22
“There,” he said softly.
Moving her hands and her feet to stay afloat, she turned toward the sound of his voice and then in the direction he was facing. Revealed by the moonlight was an island, little more than a bar or shoal, sparsely covered with rocks and vegetation. At high tide it would probably be almost completely submerged.
“Can you swim?”
Sebastian’s question brought her gaze quickly back to his face. He looked exactly as he had the day she’d met him. The black hair was plastered to his skull, rivulets of water streaming downward over the sun-darkened skin. Dark lashes spiked with moisture framed his eyes, which seemed as calm now as they had then.
“A little,” she said.
Her father had taught her to swim in that same river during one long hot summer when she was a little girl. Although that had been years ago, she believed she could make it as far as that narrow bar. After all, the only other choice…
Perhaps it was better not to think about the other choices, she acknowledged, her eyes lifting toward those distant ships.
Without another word, Sebastian nodded. He released her arm and began to swim away from her. She glanced back the way they had come, surprised at the distance they had managed from the pier.
Something was moving through the darkness between them and the lights of the port. Blinking to clear the water from her eyes, she saw that it was a boat, obviously the one that had been hidden beneath the pier. The men on board were pulling hard against the oars, causing the craft to surge forward over the surface.
Three men, she counted. Only two were rowing. The third was sitting imperiously at the bow, gazing out into the estuary. Although she knew it was impossible, given the distance, he seemed to be looking directly at her.
Julián. The men in the boat must have waited for him to come to the pier from the vantage point from where he had fired that shot. Why hadn’t she realized what he planned when he’d sent her out with the others?
She turned, intending to call a warning to Sebastian. He had also turned, she realized, perhaps to gauge her progress. And he, too, was watching the rapidly approaching boat.
Glancing back at it, she was surprised at how quickly it was closing the distance between them. Filled with a different sense of panic this time, she began to swim toward Sebastian, trying to remember those long-ago lessons and her father’s kind, patient voice.
The same father Julián had murdered for inconveniently being between him and his goal. Just as Sebastian was tonight.
There was less cover on the island than he’d anticipated, but Sebastian had realized that only after they’d pulled themselves on shore. Of course, any cover was better than being exposed and helpless in the open sea.
Keeping low, they had run across the shingled beach and slipped into the salt-crusted line of rocks and scrub. Then, lying prone, they watched the inexorable approach of Julián and his men.
Sebastian wasn’t sure whether he and Pilar had been seen or whether Delgado had decided he couldn’t afford to move on without searching the island. In any case, it was obvious the men in that boat were coming here. And obvious, too, that the advantages were all on their side.
He touched Pilar’s arm. Her eyes reluctantly abandoned their focus on the boat that was drawing nearer and nearer.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “Whatever happens, don’t move. Not until I come back for you.”
He had begun to push himself up from the ground when her hand closed around his wrist. He stopped, but that was more the result of a sudden light-headedness than because of its restraint.
The wound was high on his chest. He had enough experience with battlefield injuries to know that the ball had struck neither bone nor anything vital. If it had, he would never have made it this far. Due to his exertions, however, it was bleeding more than he liked.
There was no time to do anything about that. And, he acknowledged, glancing again at the boat, the loss of blood was probably the least of his worries.
“I’m sorry,” Pilar said, bringing his eyes quickly back to her face.
“For what?”
“He said that if I could make you leave, he’d let you go. He wouldn’t kill you. I didn’t mean any of what I said back there.”
“Don’t you think I knew that?”
“Did you?”
“I knew he’d done the same thing he always does. He threatened to hurt someone else to force you to do what he wanted.”
“And like a fool, I believed him. Even when he told me he’d let you go.”
“You had no choice. No one does in that situation. Whether you believe him or not. Besides, I knew you were lying,” he said, smiling at her. “Especially when you said you didn’t love me.”
There was a small silence before her lips curved into an answering smile. “Typical staff officer arrogance,” she said.
Hearing the teasing note in her response, he felt a wave of love and admiration for her unquenchable spirit. Perhaps she hadn’t reacted as he might have to her guardian’s threats, but she had done what she felt she had to do in order to survive and to protect others. No one could fault her for that.
He leaned toward her, propping his upper body on his forearm. He brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, near the place where he had noticed the bruising.
“I won’t ever let him hurt you again,” he said.
He had no idea how, outnumbered three to one, he imagined he would be able to keep that promise, but he gave it anyway.
Her hand released his wrist, lifting to cup his cheek. She turned her head slightly, aligning her mouth so that it was just under his. He didn’t resist the invitation.
They had no time for the long, unhurried kiss they shared. Both of them understood, however, that it might be their last. Their lips clung. Caressing. Cherishing. Reluctant to release.
Finally Sebastian broke the contact, lifting far enough to look down into her eyes. And instead of saying any of the things he wanted to say, he simply gave his order again. “Don’t move.”
Then he pushed up into a low crouch and disappeared into the darkness.
His father’s dueling pistol rested somewhere at the bottom of the Thames. He thought briefly about Dare’s possible reaction to its loss, and then put it from his mind.
He had more pressing things to think about—such as facing three armed men without a weapon. No weapon other than his intellect, he amended. His intellect, his experience and his determination that Pilar would not be forced to return to Spain with Delgado.
He watched as the oarsmen pulled the skiff up onto the beach. The King of Spain’s ambassador didn’t deign to step out of the boat until there was no longer a possibility that he might get his feet wet.
I’ll wet them for you, you bastard, Sebastian vowed. In your own blood.
He deliberately loosened the grip of his fingers around the thick branch he’d selected, and then tightened them again, one by one, making sure of his hold. Armed only with a limb and about to face a couple of pistols, a sword and God-knows-what-else, he had to be prepared to make the most of every opportunity.
Surprise was his only advantage. He doubted the Spaniards would expect him—weaponless and wounded—to attack them. Delgado was a good enough shot that he must be reasonably sure he’d hit his target, even if not dead center.
A poor choice of words, he acknowledged with grim humor.
He still felt light-headed, but he was anxious to begin the attack. His muscles were tense in expectation of the spring that would bring him near enough to his enemies that he could use his makeshift club.
As the three came closer and closer to his hiding place, he could distinguish Delgado by his size. The count had taken the lead, the others following in a single file behind him.
He let them walk by his hiding place, close enough that he could have reached out and touched them. Almost faint from the combination of blood loss and anticipation, he knew he would have only one chance. He had to make the
most of it.
Only when they had all passed him did he allow the tension that had been building in the coiled muscles of his legs to release. He sprang upward, right behind the last man. The branch was already raised above his head, poised to strike.
When it did, all element of surprise was lost. The hollow sound the wood made impacting on the Spaniard’s skull assured him that he’d lowered the odds in his favor.
The man toppled to the ground like a felled tree. As he did, the pistol he carried fell from his hand, to be lost in the darkness.
Sebastian cursed its loss, but he knew there was no time to search for it. At the sound of his blow, the next man in that single file had turned, rushing toward him with his sword drawn.
Sebastian changed the position of his grip, swinging the club sideways. The end of the branch hit the man’s sword, rebounding off metal and bone powerfully enough to cause his hand to tingle.
The Spaniard let out a yelp, but unfortunately he didn’t drop the sword. And by that time, Delgado had realized they were being attacked.
He was carrying the rifle he’d used at the pier. As Sebastian warded off the attempts of the other Spaniard to slash him with the sword, he was aware almost subliminally of every move Pilar’s guardian was making. The halt in his forward motion. The moonlight glinting off the chased metalwork on its stock as he began to bring the rifle into firing position. The exact moment when he began to train it on his target.
Still the swordsman thrust and parried at the branch, which Sebastian was finding an unsatisfactory foil. He had not been given the opportunity for another of those broad swings that might have disarmed his opponent. His entire attention had been devoted instead to keeping the blade away from his heart.
His eyes flicking from sword to gun, Sebastian had watched as his enemy raised his weapon and sighted along the barrel. Now the rifle was fully extended, prepared to fire. The swordsman fought on, his rapier harrying and darting, coming closer and closer to the same target at which his master aimed.
Sebastian had looked death in the eye on dozens of occasions. Never before had he felt its cold breath as strongly as he did now. And too conscious of the rifle drawing a bead on his heart, he let the blade slip in under his guard.
He felt the cold steel more as a blow than a cut. He had been able to partially dodge the blade by a reflexive twist of his body. Although he had been successful in pulling away from the point that had been embedded in his chest, he could feel the rush of hot blood that followed its removal.
Furious with himself for allowing his attention to be distracted by what Delgado was doing, he renewed his attack through the simple expedient of driving the end of the branch into the swordsman’s solar plexus.
The move seemed to take him by surprise. He doubled over, letting down his guard.
Sebastian pulled back the limb and brought it down against the side of his adversary’s neck in what had been a nearly unconscious physical sequence. His body seemed to react without the direction of his mind, guided perhaps by its memory of the countless battles in which hand-to-hand combat had played a role.
The sound of that blow was not so solid nor so satisfying as the first had been, but the man fell to one knee, and then, dropping his sword, toppled sideways.
Two down, Sebastian thought, turning his attention to the last man standing. His eyes were drawn first to the black eye of the rifle’s muzzle, which was pointed directly at his heart. He had to force them to lift and focus on the face behind it.
“So…we meet again, Captain Sinclair,” Delgado said.
Breathless, weak, light-headed—Sebastian felt a ridiculous impulse to laugh at the melodrama inherent in that. The man could probably make a decent living at the Haymarket.
He sobered quickly, however, as he watched Delgado’s face change. The dark features took on a look of malevolent triumph as his finger began to tighten over the trigger. His lips were arranged in a sneer of satisfaction.
Sebastian knew he couldn’t let the Spaniard win. Or if he did—and with a rifle trained at his heart, it seemed likely Delgado would—then it could not be because he’d simply stood here and let the bastard shoot him down like a dog. Sinclairs didn’t die that way.
He dropped his makeshift weapon and with a roar of fury that encompassed everything Delgado had done, he began to sprint across the distance between them. It seemed he had taken no more than a step or two when he heard the shot.
This time, surprisingly, he had been aware of the sound before he felt the impact. That thought had formed before he watched Delgado’s eyes widen.
Then the Conde del Castillo took a staggering step backward. The rifle he held discharged, but when it did, it was no longer directed at its target.
By the time Sebastian reached him, the black eyes were beginning to glaze, exactly as Harry’s had done. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Only through the greatest effort was Sebastian able to stop before he’d run into the dying man. Trembling in reaction, he slowly turned.
Standing in the spill of moonlight behind him was Pilar. The pistol the first man had carried was in her hand, and it was still aimed at the place where her guardian had stood.
Swaying drunkenly, shocked to discover he was alive, Sebastian could do nothing but stare at her. Finally she lowered the gun and then let it fall to the ground. It bounced once as it hit the sand. Then she began to run.
It was only by sheer force of will that he didn’t go down when she threw herself against him. After a second or two, she seemed to realize how badly he needed her support. He leaned into it gratefully, his forehead resting on the crown of her head.
“I don’t suppose you can row a boat, too,” he said after a moment, the words punctuated by gasps as he tried to catch his breath.
“Are you expecting me to do everything?” she asked, that same teasing quality in her tone once more.
“If you don’t…” he began, and realized midway through the sentence that he really might not have breath to finish it.
Despite her arms locked around his waist, his legs gave way as if the bones had suddenly turned to water. She went down with him as he fell, helping him slow that ungainly descent. And when he was on his knees in the sand, still she held him, putting her hand against the back of his head and pulling it against her shoulder.
“My poor beautiful Sebastian,” she whispered.
“Hardly…beautiful,” he said, closing his eyes, mainly to keep the world from spinning around him.
“So beautiful,” she said again, her lips moving against his hair. “And the answer is yes.”
There was a long silence.
“Forgive me,” he said truthfully, “but…I seem to have forgotten the question.”
She laughed, despite everything.
“It has been several hours since you asked me. I knew the answer then, but you wouldn’t let me tell you.”
“That question,” he said, finally understanding. “And you are saying yes?”
“I don’t want a marriage that has been arranged or bartered or contrived, but I very much want this one. Legal or not. Blessed by the church or not. Approved by your brother or not.”
“Consummated or…not?” He was relieved to find that his voice seemed stronger. Perhaps not that strong, he acknowledged.
“I don’t want a marriage of convenience, either, my darling. That, I assure you,” his Spanish bride said softly, “was never an alternative.”
“Then we bribed Julián’s men to row us back. You had given Sebastian the money, I think.”
“I’m delighted he found it useful,” the Earl of Dare said with a small bow. Pilar acknowledged the gesture by inclining her head. “I confess I’m surprised that you found them amiable to bribes.”
“At one time they had been my father’s men. I knew them both. I think they were embarrassed by what they had helped Julián do. And sorry for it. Their loyalty to him was always based on fear. With Julián dead…” She shrugged.
All in all, she admitted, Dare had proven to be a most satisfactory ally, in spite of the objections she believed he still harbored about her marriage. She certainly could not have asked for anyone more efficient at disposing of the inconveniences of their current situation.
She didn’t mean Julián’s body. The outgoing tide had carried that away as surely as it had swept up the ships bound for France. And she thanked God she had not been aboard any of them.
As soon as they’d returned to Gravesend, she had sought out the innkeeper Sebastian had directed her to. In a matter of minutes, her husband had been ensconced in the inn’s best chamber, one of the kitchen boys had been dispatched to bring a surgeon and the groom sent to London to fetch the Sinclairs.
The earl, however, had not arrived until this morning. That had been due, she now understood, to his own efforts on her behalf.
He had immediately lent his support to her strong objection that Sebastian should be bled. He had rather rudely sent the local surgeon on his way, although he had given him a gold coin for his trouble. Then he had sent to London for his own physician, who was with Sebastian now.
“May I ask what your plans are,” Dare continued, “now that you are free of the danger your guardian represented?”
She was free, she realized. There was nothing to prevent her from returning to Spain. With Julián dead, it was possible the king might even see fit to restore her father’s lands to his rightful heir. Which could, she realized, make her more acceptable to Sebastian’s family.
Of course, it didn’t matter whether they found her an acceptable wife for a Sinclair or not. Her name and her heritage were as old and honorable as theirs. Perhaps the exchange of vows between her and Sebastian had been unconventional by their standards—
Actually, she admitted, they were even more unconventional by her standards. However, they were vows, and since they both intended to keep them…