The Romantic (10 page)

Not just silent. Lonely. What kind of a man welcomed such a thing?

Out on the terrace, he looked down at the water.

She had left without a word. No warning and no farewell.

The morning tide was in, and the boat swayed in the surf. He stripped off his coats, neckwear, and shirt, and walked down the stone steps. He sloshed through the foam lapping on the sand and climbed into the boat. Taking the oars, he rowed straight out to sea.

The exercise felt good. So did the sun on his skin. It still carried remnants of summer’s warmth even if the wind bore a taste of winter’s bite. The strain of his arms and back, the battle with the waves as he rose up each one and slid down, relieved some of the turbulence in him.

Maybe she had only made the decision after he departed
yesterday. Perhaps she dared not tell him because she thought he would interfere.

Most likely she had not confided her decision because she felt no need to. He was only her solicitor. Her servant. Her blackmail-monger, as Glasbury had put it.

He pulled harder at the oars. He wished the day were stormy and the waves higher. He wished this exercise would exhaust him, so his mind would be too tired to absorb the desolate truth slicing his soul to shreds.

He would never see her again.

A large wave caught the boat and lifted it high. He stopped rowing and let it bear him forward, tottering on that wall of water, flying. He scanned his high view of the rocks and house.

His gaze halted, and darted back to the left. A spot of blue commanded his attention. Sapphire blue, and not the color of the sea, it draped the rocks below a steep drop from the cliff path.

The wave dumped him down and he turned the boat. He rowed south along the shore with all his strength, praying that the spot of blue did not cover a tragedy.

Pen squinted against the glare of the sea. She thought there had been a boat out there being rowed toward the horizon.

Surely not. That would make no sense. A sane person did not row out to sea.

Unless a person wanted to examine the whole coast, that is.

Had those men waited until now to search? Despite an
exhaustion that had wrung her spirit dry, the old, horrible panic began again.

She glanced back at the plot of sand she had sought last evening. It was submerged during the high tides. Last night she had been forced to climb on this large rock when the tide took her spot. It had been dark then, but it wasn’t dark now, and she was visible and vulnerable.

The sea had wanted to claim her perch, but it appeared no longer to be rising. At least the tides turned before there was nothing left above water. In a few hours there should be enough beach to walk back to the cottage, assuming she dared risk it and she was not too numb to move.

The cold spray had soaked her garments and her wet cloak did not offer much comfort. She pulled it tighter anyway, and tried to ignore the chill that had her teeth chattering.

She looked for the boat again. Perhaps she had been mistaken. If not, there was nothing she could do now to escape detection. She was so tired and miserable she was not even sure she would mind being found.

Suddenly the boat came in view, very plainly. Long and dark, it moved parallel to the shore, coming toward her.

The panic surged.

A dark head turned. A shout called out her name.

Her heart took a leap. Tears of relief blurred her eyes.

It was Julian. He had said he would return this afternoon, and here it was early morning and he had already come.

“Julian,” she called back. “I am here, Julian. Save me.”

The boat came closer. She could see his taut arms pulling the oars and his dark hair blowing in the wind and his strong shoulders glistening from the spray. He appeared so magnificent that she forgot her peril.

He rowed right to her, then set up one oar and let the sea bring him in. Navigating the submerged rocks, he came within ten feet of her. He jumped into water that reached above his waist, tucked the boat between two boulders, and strode toward her.

Half naked like that, he appeared to be an ocean god striding through his domain. The muscles of his shoulders and chest were certainly sculpted well enough for the role.

“How did you get here?”

“There was a man and I did not dare go back and I hid and then the tide came in and I was stuck and—”

He lifted her into his arms, effortlessly. Strong arms, so welcome and so comforting. “Explain later. You are wet and chilled and we need to get you to a fire.”

Grasping her closely and holding her high, he bore her to the boat. In those few steps, her body went slack as both her danger and relief sapped the remnants of her spirit. Her head lolled against his shoulder. The warmth of his skin and the security of his strength almost undid her.

He paused and looked down at her, his face mere inches from hers, his expression both severe and gentle.

He placed her in the boat as if she were made of china, then climbed in and pushed them back into the sea. She sat facing him, shivering in her wet cloak, as he rowed toward the cottage.

She admired how dashing he looked with his naked muscles moving to the effort. She should probably avert her eyes to the water or the boat’s floor, but his arms and torso mesmerized her.

“Did you row out looking for me when I was not at the cottage?”

“If I had, I would have worn a shirt.” It was not a scold, just a statement that said she was looking as she should not and that he knew it. “I like to take the oars for exercise. When I am in London, I often row on the Thames in early morning.”

She was too tired to be embarrassed, but she did manage not to look at him so blatantly. “Did you not think it odd I was not there?”

“I assumed you had decided to leave.”

That she might have left did not seem to either surprise or dismay him. He had found her gone, and simply returned to the activities that he normally pursued here.

“I am very fortunate that you saw me and realized I was caught by the tide.”

“I saw the blue of your cloak. I did not know how it got there.”

He did not sound as if he had been very concerned. He had just been rowing, seen the blue, and investigated out of curiosity.

“It was my hope, of course, that I would find it wrapped around a living woman.”

A tightness in his voice caught her thoughts up short. She looked in his eyes, and he diverted his attention to his oars.

He had indeed worried, in the worst way. He had
rowed toward her thinking he might find her dead, from the sea or from a fall. Maybe not an accidental fall.

“I will never hurt myself because of him, Julian.”

He brought them to the stone stairs, pushed the boat into the shallows and tied it to its post. He carried her to a step above the water.

She wobbled from the stiffness that had claimed her legs and the exhaustion that had robbed her strength. His arms scooped her up again. He carried her up the stairs and into the library.

He sat her in a chair and bent at once to build the fire.

“It has died,” she said. “The fire. Perhaps he did not wait here all night after all.”

“Who?”

She told him about the man at the cottage. “I dared not return here, lest I find him waiting.”

He got the fire going to a pleasant roar, then left her to bake near it. It felt so good that she got drowsy. Sounds vaguely penetrated her stupor as he moved about the house.

A gentle hand on her arm coaxed her out of the gathering fog. “I have made a bath in the kitchen near the fire. A hot one. You will feel better for it.”

She really did not want to move. Wet clothes or not, with relief had come deep aches and a relentless chill.

“Come, Pen. I worry for your health.”

She sighed. “If you insist, Mr. Hampton.”

She forced herself to her feet.

And found her nose an inch from his chest. He had donned a shirt. Pity.

Her gaze moved up to his face. One of his rare smiles greeted her. Not a completely gentle one.

“So, I am Mr. Hampton again. It seems that I am only Julian when you forget yourself.”

“I … that is …”

“We have known each other more than half our lives, Pen.”

She had not even noticed what she called him.

“I do not want you to call me Mr. Hampton in private conversation ever again.”

He stepped aside. “I brought down some dry garments for you. They are near the bath. If you require anything else, just call for me.”

Julian had set the metal tub close to the fire and filled it with hot water that the hearth kept warm. Easing down into the steamy comfort made her groan with pleasure. The heat immediately started to leach the chill out of her.

She could not ignore the fact that a man was very nearby. Knowing he was there gave the languid soaking a naughty titillation. As she dipped low to rinse her hair, she imagined she heard his footsteps coming toward her. An exciting alarm shot through her.

“I found no evidence of intruders in the house.”

She startled at his voice and quickly glanced over her shoulder to the door. He did not stand there. He must be right on the other side, however.

“You are sure?” she asked.

“There are also no wheel marks or horse or boot prints outside, other than mine.”

“I did not imagine that man, Julian.”

“I am not saying that you did. However, it is common
for people using the cliff path to cross the terrace rather than walk around the property. It happens even when I am here.”

“Then I imperiled myself for nothing more than an overwrought imagination.”

“If you saw someone at the cottage, your caution was sensible. If your fear kept you on the rocks all night, we should have expected it might.”

This conversation, held while she bathed naked just ten feet from him, created a seductive intimacy. She kept glancing to the door, expecting to see it move.

“I will control my fear in the future, Julian. I will need to learn to do that, won’t I?”

“I think it will be easier to ensure you are not afraid, Pen.”

She heard the slightest sound. She closed her eyes and waited for the change in the air that would say he was in the kitchen.

None came. She looked behind her. The door remained resolutely closed. He had probably walked away, back into the library.

Of course he had.

She looked down at her naked body, assessing what a man would see if he did enter while she bathed. Her breasts were full and firm, and her waist narrow enough for the current styles despite an overall soft plumpness that she had never been able to lose.

There was nothing special to her, however. Nothing stunning, physically or otherwise. She had never been the sort of woman whom men lost their voices over. The only thing remarkable about her was that she had walked out
on an earl early in marriage, and that was not the kind of thing that provoked admiration.

She finished washing herself, conscious of the man in the next room who could hear every splash.

She was sure he did not even notice. He had probably retreated into that private place where his mind seemed to dwell most of the time. It went without saying that neither Mr. Hampton nor Julian had ever wondered what she looked like without clothes.

Eventually the water began cooling and she had to get out. Stepping onto the floor, toweling off her skin, she blushed at how much she enjoyed the awareness that he heard everything, even if he could not care less. It was the most delicious bath she had ever taken.

She reached for the garments. No stays had been brought down. The dress was one that fit her a bit large now, so it would not be too ridiculous. She slid on the chemise, petticoat, and stockings, and managed to fasten the dress. She walked to the library.

He was not there.

She stood in the empty chamber and laughed. Not only had he not listened and wondered, he had not even remained in the house.

A blanket had been left on the divan. She understood the gesture. He assumed she would want to rest.

She reclined and tucked the blanket around her. He would stay until she woke, she was sure. She was safe.

He heard every movement. Every splash. Every breath.

His mind saw her removing her garments one by one until she was soft and pink and naked. He pictured the
fullness of her breasts and the way her curves elegantly stretched as she stepped into the tub.

Standing in the library he saw and heard it all. The arousal of a lifetime claimed him. Gritting his teeth, he forced some control, but the urge to walk into the kitchen almost won over his better sense.

Finally, to spare her from that raging impulse, he left the house. He paced along the lane, looking again for evidence of a visitor last night.

He did not doubt someone had been here. Pen was not the sort of woman whose fear would make her imagine such a thing. It was obvious it was a local person using the cliff path, however. No carriage or horse or boot had approached the house from the road.

He strolled back into the garden. The kitchen window beckoned. The temptation to peer in had his body tightening again.

He laughed at himself. Here he was, a grown man, established and respected, and he wanted to peek in a window at a naked woman, as a schoolboy might.

He did not approach the window, but his mind saw the interior of the kitchen all the same.
Pen soaked in a tub, with her soft shoulders and dark hair and lovely breasts visible. The heat and water had turned her skin glossy and flushed, and the tips of her breasts had hardened from the cool air.

He tried to fight what the image did to him, but he could not. For years he had battled this hunger. He had learned how to retreat from it, how to control it. Its victories had been private and pointless, and he had always rebuilt the walls that held it safely in place.

He had kept it from owning his life. Now, Pen’s danger
made him vulnerable to the most primitive reactions, and he could no longer master them.

Standing by the garden wall, he closed his eyes as a savage fury maddened him. The desire to possess and protect became one violent, senseless urge.