A Well Favored Gentleman: Well Pleasured #2

by Christina Dodd

  Alanna crawled around to face him. The ocean rumbled behind her; the wind struggled to pick up the heavy strands of her hair. She shoved them behind her ears and asked, “Ian, is it so hard for you to believe I love you? I had nothing to gain by telling you so.”

  He looked at her, framed by the sea, the sun, and the crimson sky. She’d said she loved him, and maybe she really did. Maybe…she did.

  “I just don’t understand why.” He caught her neck in his hand. “Why would anyone love me?”

  “For the same reason I love Fionnaway.” She smiled. “You’re mine.”

  She leaned toward him. He leaned toward her. Their lips met—and an incoming wave splashed around them.

  He jerked her up. They ran backward while she laughed, and he found a grin curving his lips.

  He’d thought he would never grin again.

  Rubbing his hands along her tightly clenched arms to create friction, he said, “It’s getting dark. We’ve got to go get warm.”

  “Yes.” She let him turn her away, then pointed upward. “Look. The new moon is rising.”

  So it was. The barest sliver of light in the purple sky of the east. He stared at it, and wondered if it was a sign. A new moon for a new life.

  “Ian.” Alanna wrung seawater from her skirt. “What was that thing that pushed us?”

  “That thing?” He knew perfectly well what she meant, but he stalled, his emotions precarious and fragile.

  “In the water.” She watched him. “The creature that got us up to the surface before we drowned.”

  He turned back to the ocean and scanned the waves, looking for a familiar head. “I suppose it was my mother.”

  “You suppose?”

  Remembering the face, the smile, he said, “It was my mother.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Alanna crowed. “She couldn’t save you when you almost drowned when you were a lad, because she was human. But she did it this time.”

  “Yes. Yes, she did.” His mother. For years he’d thought she had irresponsibly conceived him and abandoned him without thought. Now he knew better. Relief and bliss swelled in his chest until he thought his heart would burst. Unsteadily he said, “I suppose Mr. Lewis saved me the first time.”

  “Mr. Lewis? But I thought you said it was a…” Her voice died as she realized the truth.

  Ian enjoyed her slack-jawed surprise.

  “He’s a selkie?”

  “The guardian selkie.”

  “Like Armstrong is the human safeguard. Armstrong is the one who”—she took a breath—“the one who sells the sea opals at market.”

  Remembering her reticence about Armstrong’s whereabouts, he asked, “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “You were so angry about the stones I thought you’d be angry about that, too. But he’ll be returning soon.” Her mouth curved with satisfaction. “And there’ll be a decided increase in our coffers.”

  He touched the bulk of the oilskin beneath his shirt. “I suppose you got more stones while you were in the cave.”

  “The selkies didn’t leave any this time. They have a way of knowing what happens at Fionnaway—well, obviously, Mr. Lewis informs them—and until we find out who has stolen the sea opals, they’ll not leave any more.”

  “So when we have solved that mystery, you will want to swim out again.”

  She kicked at a fragment of shell.

  “Not by yourself,” he said, staring up at the moon. “I’ll go with you.”

  She tugged at his arm until he looked at her. “But you’re afraid!”

  “For good reason, as we’ve just proved. But I’d be more afraid to stay onshore and wonder. So I’ll go.”

  “Oh, Ian.”

  She was staring at him as if he were noble again, and he thought he’d better say something before he started basking like a cat in the sun. Glancing up and down the beach, he asked, “Where is the old busybody, anyway?”

  “Mr. Lewis? I don’t know.” Alanna frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Damn.” He scanned the rocks. “Would he have gone back to the water?”

  “Forever? Not without saying good-bye. Do you suppose he’s had an accident?”

  “I doubt that smart old man would have an accident.”

  “But he is old. He said so. He said he would have swum with me, but he couldn’t. What if a wave caught him, or he fell on the rocks?”

  Ian didn’t know why, but her disquietude struck him hard. “You go that way”—he pointed toward the path—“I’ll go that way.” The longer way. He could cover the ground faster, and with the tide coming in, they had no time to waste.

  He hurried, peering among the boulders at the base of the cliff, looking for any sign of the thin man with the broad-brimmed hat. There was nothing, and Ian had just started back when he heard Alanna shout at the far end of the beach. Clambering over massive boulders, she disappeared into a crevasse at the base of the cliff.

  She reappeared on the top of the rock, waving frantically. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she yelled, “I recognize him by the hat, and by my rune on his chest, but he’s…not human anymore.”

  Ian saw her lips move again, but the wind and the waves washed the sound away. “What?”

  This time he heard her only too well. “He’s been stabbed.”

  She turned to go back to Mr. Lewis.

  “No.” Ian increased his speed. “No! Alanna, get out of there.”

  He saw the masculine form climbing onto the rocks above her. He ran, and knew he’d never get there in time. He shrieked a warning; she turned and raised her arms to protect herself.

  Edwin jumped at her, his silver knife flashing red in the rays of the setting sun.

  Chapter 30

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Alanna shouted at her cousin. She knocked his hand up, and followed with a punch to the face. “I could always thrash you.”

  As Edwin staggered backward, the significance of his presence struck her.

  Edwin had a knife. Mr. Lewis was dead. And Edwin—stupid, blundering Edwin—was attacking her.

  She tried to jump out of the way, barely avoiding the gray seal-like creature that had been Mr. Lewis. Boulders rimmed the little cleft. Her soggy skirts tripped her, and she fell. She groped for something, anything; grabbed a handful of material and rolled. Caught Edwin’s deadly slash in the crown of the minister’s hat. Edwin cursed and tore the tattered felt out of her hands. He lifted the knife.

  In the distance she heard Ian’s shout.

  He wasn’t going to make it in time. She lifted her arms to protect her heart.

  Then from the side, someone attacked. Edwin sprawled against the boulders. Alanna struggled to her feet, and Brice shouted, “Get away! Alanna, get out!”

  She hesitated. With the two of them against Edwin…

  “He won’t hurt me,” Brice said.

  Using her hands and feet, she scrambled out onto a boulder. Ian was shouting, running across the beach toward them, and she yelled, “Hurry!”

  And heard a scream behind her. She turned. Brice writhed on the ground. Edwin stood over him, blood dripping from the blade. As he lifted the knife again, she tried to scream.

  But from above her she heard, “Edwin, mercy. He’s your brother!”

  Wilda stood on the path, her hands pressed to her sides. She panted in great breaths, but she cried again, “Edwin, mercy!”

  Edwin lifted the knife higher yet.

  “Edwin…” Wilda sobbed.

  He dropped his hand. Working the knife in his grip, he said to Brice, “You got in my way.”

  And stalked toward Alanna again. Run, she urged herself.

  Edwin grabbed for her and missed, grabbed for her skirt and caught it. She fell, striking the flat top of the boulder hard. She lost her breath. She clawed for a handhold; caught a cleft in the rock. He pulled, trying to drag her back down. She kicked at him. With a curse, he pulled himself up beside her.

  She heard the shout from down on the
beach, and Edwin glanced up into the deepening gloom.

  “Ian,” she whispered.

  Standing, Edwin kicked her in the ribs. “Later,” he promised. Then as Ian ran up, he launched himself at Ian.

  Alanna tried to catch her breath, tried to sit up, but the struggle with the sea had consumed her strength. Worse, she knew Ian had done more, swum harder, run farther, and now he rolled on the ground with Edwin.

  With her gentle cousin Edwin who would kill them all to take possession of Fionnaway and its cache of stones.

  Seeing movement on the path, she shouted, “Wilda. You’ve got to get help.”

  Instead, Wilda reached the beach and ran at the two men. What good could Wilda do against a killer with a knife?

  But Wilda bypassed them, and Alanna, as if they weren’t even there. Scrambling up the boulders, she slid down into the cleft and grabbed for Brice. “Don’t die,” she pleaded.

  “Damn, Wilda, don’t jiggle me,” Brice said.

  Wilda burst into tears and cradled his head in her lap.

  Below Alanna, Ian and Edwin tumbled, locked together in a macabre embrace. Encroaching breakers continued to crash up the beach, overpowering all sound. Alanna strained to see in the gathering dusk, strained to stand, but could only slither off the rock onto the ground. She sat gasping, clutching her side. Each breath was agony.

  She braced herself and picked up a good-sized stone in both hands. The muscles across her ribs pulled and burned, but she stumbled to her feet. Dimly she saw Ian, flat on his back, the thinnest part of the waves sliding beneath him. She saw Edwin, his dark shape straddling Ian like a giant leech. His head formed a clear target. The bloodlust rose in her. She’d see him dead. He’d threatened her Ian.

  She staggered toward the two men.

  In time to witness Edwin plunge the knife toward Ian. Catching Edwin’s wrist in both hands, Ian slowly began to turn it. Edwin screamed in rage and punched him in the face with his free hand, but Ian ignored the blows. The muscles in Edwin’s face strained as he tried to stop the knife. Inexorably it descended.

  Edwin broke. Whimpering, he dropped the knife and twisted, trying to get away. Ian let him. He picked up the discarded blade and when Edwin splashed to his feet, prepared to run, Ian lay there and said, “Sniveling coward.”

  Two words. Sniveling coward.

  “Bastard!” Edwin shouted, and jumped at Ian’s prostrate form.

  In the feeble moonlight the knife flashed, point up.

  Edwin jerked as he landed on the blade. Alanna heard Edwin’s grunt as it penetrated his neck. Instinctively she turned her head away.

  “It’s over,” Ian said. “Help me get him off.”

  Her rock landed with a thump on the wet sand as she hurried to him. He had already levered Edwin away, and she shoved at her cousin’s legs and arms without regard until the body fell facefirst in the sand.

  Ian lay flat. Something was wrong.

  “Did he hurt you?” he asked.

  “Broke one of my ribs.” She knelt in the ebb and flow of the waves. Her hands skimmed over his head, his neck, his shoulders. Why wasn’t Ian sitting up?

  He tried to laugh. Gasped in agony. “He killed me.”

  She froze. “Ian?”

  “Stabbed me when he jumped off the boulder. Made it worse in the struggle.” He lay limp on the sand, his voice growing fainter with each word.

  “Ian?” She found the wound. A thin, deep stab to the chest spurted blood with each of his heartbeats. “Ian?”

  Then they stopped. Just stopped. No more spurts. No more heartbeats. No more breath.

  “Ian?” She crouched over him, fumbling with his chest as if she could bring the life back. “Ian?”

  At that moment in Fionnaway Manor, Leslie Fairchild slumped in his chair. A gush of salty water spewed from his mouth, and he died.

  Alone.

  “Heaven’s mercy, m’lady, what’s happened?” Armstrong stood on the beach, a dun silhouette against the gathering stars.

  She didn’t wonder why he was there or how he’d got here. She just said, “He’s not breathing, Armstrong. Make him start.”

  Armstrong splashed into the water, dropped to his knees beside her, and pushed her hands away.

  She put them back over the wound. That would keep the blood in.

  Armstrong pressed Ian’s neck, held his hand to Ian’s lips. His voice rich with pity, he said, “M’lady, he’s gone. M’lady…”

  She couldn’t hear him. “We need to drag him above the waterline. He’ll get chilled. It’s not good for a man with a wound to be chilled.”

  “Da?” A young girl spoke beside them. “What’s wrong with him?” She pointed at the other body. “And him?”

  Alanna could see the faint gleam of Armstrong’s eyes as he looked up at his daughter. A multitude of footsteps sounded, and Mrs. Armstrong said, “In the name o’ God, what’s happened here?”

  Alanna harkened to a murmur of voices, realized the events of the evening had drawn the servants from Fionnaway Manor. The fishermen and the villagers had followed, and now the beach was full. Full of people. Full of…nothing.

  Crouching closer to Ian, she stared at him, trying to make out his features in the feeble light of the new moon. “Ian…” She called him softly. “Ian, please…” She could see him better now. His strong features were peaceful.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Armstrong asked sharply. “Armstrong, what is that?”

  His pale skin caught the white light and reflected it back to her.

  “It’s the moon.”

  He looked as if he could wake if she just called him. “Ian…”

  “It canna be the moon. It’s time for the new moon. I saw it as I ran here.”

  “Ian…” She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. Kissed him, and realized he was already getting cold.

  “What else could it be? It’s the moon, and it’s—”

  Alanna looked up. “It’s full.”

  Armstrong stared at her. Mrs. Armstrong, and Ellie, and behind them all the villagers and fishermen, stared at her.

  “He said if he loved me”—Alanna removed her clinging hands from Ian’s still body—“a full moon would shine from a new-moon sky.”

  As if on her signal, everyone looked up, and she did, too. The full moon shone brightly, assuring her of her heart’s desire. Assuring her when it was too late.

  Alanna stood, her whole body aching with pain and grief. “He said he’d make the waves die down on a windy night.” She gestured at the sea, now quiescent as a pool on the stillest day. “He said if he loved me, he’d make the sea clear as glass.”

  Babble arose as the moonlight penetrated the ocean water near Ian. Visibility spread out from him in an ever-increasing circle, displaying first the sandy bottom close to shore, then encompassing the sandbar, the broken rocks at the base of the protruding cliffs, and at the edge of the bay, the shoals and schools of fish that darted among them. And for just a moment, in a far deeper place, Alanna saw the selkies swimming in agitated circles.

  “He said he’d do all that—if he loved me.” Her voice broke, and she bowed her head as the reality of his death crushed her.

  Someone tentatively touched her shoulder. A handkerchief was pressed into her hand. But she wasn’t crying. How could she? The pain plunged too deep, too fresh. She could barely breathe, barely comprehend. How did anyone think she could do something so banal as cry? Not when Ian was dead.

  Ian was dead.

  The growl, when she noticed it, seemed only a illusion, a figment of a mind dazed and simple. But the ground beneath her feet began to tremble, growing in strength as the seconds passed. Gravel showered off the surrounding cliffs. The people around her muttered, their voices rising.

  “Armstrong,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “Armstrong, what is that?”

  Alanna lifted her head and tried to see through eyes so dry her vision blurred.

  “Run,” Armstrong ordered. “Take Ellie and run.” Grabbing Ala
nna’s elbow, he said again, “Run!” He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed, but dragged her with him toward the path, shouting to everyone, “Run, before it gets us all.”

  The ocean, rebelling against the constraints Ian’s love had placed on it, rose in a huge wave. People were darting about, yelling, pressing close to the cliff. Mrs. Armstrong had Ellie up on a boulder, and she held the child against her chest and watched the sea with terror-filled eyes.

  “Nay!” Hysteria filled Alanna as she saw Ian’s still form laid out on the beach and tried to wrestle herself free from Armstrong’s grip. “Ian. We’ve got to get Ian!”

  Armstrong wouldn’t let her go. He wrapped her in his arms and held on grimly as she fought him, pulling her ever farther up the shore.

  Then the wave crashed down, covering Ian, filling the beach, sucking hungrily at everyone caught in its maw. Shrieks of terror rose as first one, then another, lost their footing. They came up again, caught by clutching hands, or standing on their own. Armstrong held Alanna, both wet to their knees, and braced them against the suction of the retreating wave.

  When the wave had withdrawn, everyone remained on the beach. Everyone—except Ian. The place where he had rested was empty.

  “Nay.” Alanna couldn’t believe it. How could they? How dared they? “Nay, I want him back.” She broke away from Armstrong, and this time he let her go. Frenzied with rage, she ran into the surf until it slapped at her thighs. The ocean wasn’t transparent anymore, but she knew the selkies were there. She knew they could hear her. “Give him back to me. He’s my husband.” Beating on the water with the flat of her hand, she shouted, “He’s human, not selkie, and he deserves to be buried on the land. Next to me. Give me back his body.”

  Armstrong waded out to her. “M’lady, don’t do this.” Agony laced his tone.

  “I want him back.” She slapped water toward Armstrong to keep him away. The whitecaps were surging again, not gentle, nor overwhelming, but still big and agitated by the storm. She didn’t care. She stumbled, righted herself, breathing harshly as she made her demand. “I want his body.”