Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (24 page)

‘I thought he would kill you,’ she said so quietly that he
struggled to hear the words.

‘Had it not been for you, he would have.’

‘He was so strong…’

‘You were stronger.’

She turned her head and looked at the spot on the wall where
Grosely’s head had struck. Jack’s eyes followed, and he saw the pale hair and
flesh and blood that marked it.

‘Francesca.’

Her gaze dropped and she held her hands out before her, staring
at the stains that smeared her palms. ‘His blood,’ she whispered. ‘It’s
everywhere.’

Jack guided her away from Grosely’s body. He bent and gathered
clean snow from the ground, rubbing it into her palms. Then he pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket and began slowly, ever so gently, to wipe her
hands. He wiped methodically, carefully, working in silence until not one speck
of blood remained. And then he held her palms up before her face. ‘Your hands
are clean.’

She stared at her own outstretched palms as if they did not
belong to her, and he saw that she was shaking.

‘Francesca,’ he said again, and closed his hands around her
trembling ones.

This time she looked at him. ‘Oh, Jack.’ Her voice was raw with
emotion.

‘I’m here.’ He pulled her into his arms and held her against him.
‘I’ll always be here.’

He heard the breath gasping in her throat, felt the sobs rack her
body, and knew that she was weeping. He stroked her hair and caressed her back,
crooning soft words of comfort in her ear until the sobbing died away, and then
he just held her, and knew that he would never let her go. They stood entwined
together, and the wind blew and the sun shone, and the snow thawed around them,
until at last she drew back and looked up at him. Her eyes were wet and
swollen, her nose was pink and her cheeks still blotched from the tears. But,
to Jack, Francesca had never been more beautiful.

‘We should go home now,’ he said, and took her hand in his.

B
y the time
Francesca reached the cottage she had gathered herself together enough to
appear almost her old self. She told her mama only that she and Jack had been
attacked, and in the struggle to defend themselves the attacker had been
killed. She made no mention of the man’s name, or the history that lay between
them. The constable arrived and then left to organise collection of Grosely’s
body. There was no question of Jack leaving that day; the hour was too late and
the shock too great.

Everything seemed so normal—as if the nightmare with Grosely had
never really happened—but she remembered too well that dead and bloody corpse,
and the struggle that had produced it. The scene played again and again in her
head as she lay in bed that night, until she thought that she could bear it no
more. Then she thought of Jack, and how he had cleansed her hands and held her
and made it seem better, and the knot in her stomach loosened. Everything had
been stripped bare between them. And she knew what she had known all along,
since that night aboard the
Swift
: Jack Holberton was a good man. A mere
two weeks ago, and yet it seemed that she had known him a lifetime.

Lydia shifted in the bed beside her. The room was filled with the
soft, even breathing and snores of Mama and the girls sleeping. There would be
no sleep for Francesca that night. Her body ached with fatigue, but her mind was
alert and racing. What if Grosely’s sword had struck home and it had been Jack
who had lain there so still and lifeless upon the ground? Just the thought
brought a pain that seared through her heart as surely as if Grosely’s blade
had pierced it. Francesca did not push the rawness of the pain away. Instead
she allowed herself to experience every last pulsating bit of it, for she knew
quite clearly what it meant. It was a bittersweet revelation that it had taken
Grosely’s death for Francesca to realise that she loved Jack Holberton.

Outside she heard the soft patter of rain and knew that the
morning would bring Jack’s departure. ‘Jack,’ she whispered through the
darkness, and knew that she did not want him to go.

It seemed that she lay like that for hours, until at last she
could suffer no more and slipped quietly from the bed.

Jack was not sleeping. He lay on his back on the small hard sofa,
with his aching ribs, and thought of Francesca and all that she meant to him.

The doorknob turned slowly. Someone was taking care not to waken
him. The remnants of the fire still glowed, casting a low shadowed light within
the room. The softest of treads, a movement of white, and he saw her.

She stood there in the doorway, as if debating whether to come
in. ‘Francesca?’ he whispered, unable to believe that she was really there, and
rolled to a sitting position. He thought for a minute that she would leave.
‘Don’t go.’

The door closed behind her with a quiet click, and then she was
standing before him.

‘You couldn’t sleep either, then?’ Rising, he came to stand
before her. ‘Little wonder after today.’

‘I can’t stop seeing him, lying there with the snow dyed red from
his blood.’

‘It is not a sight to be easily forgotten by any man or woman,’
he said.

‘Will we be tried for his murder?’

He shook his head. ‘You had nothing to do with his death,
Francesca. And I acted in self-defence.’

‘I smashed his hand against the wall. I held it there.’ She
shivered.

‘You saved my life.’ He touched his hand to her. ‘Come and sit
down. We may as well be comfortable.’ He guided her to the sofa, moving aside
the blankets that had made up his bed, and sat her down. Then he sat down
beside her, and wrapped a blanket around them both.

He could feel her gaze upon him, and then he felt the light touch
of her fingers against his bruised cheekbone.

‘Does it hurt very much?’

‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said.

She continued to look at him in silence for some minutes, and
then at last said, ‘You are not the man that you told me, Jack Holberton.’

‘What did I tell you?’

‘That you did not know the meaning of honour.’

‘It is the truth.’

‘No.’ Her denial was emphatic. ‘It most certainly is not. You
have more honour in your little finger than most men have in their entire
bodies.’

He gave an ironic laugh, and the truth weighed heavy upon him.
Her face was soft and shadowed in the scant light cast from the embers. He
reached up his fingers and brushed them against her cheek in the lightest of
caresses. ‘There is something I should tell you, Francesca. Something that no
one save my father and my brother Richard knows.’

‘You need not tell me, Jack,’ she said softly.

‘But I do,’ he replied. ‘Even if thereafter you can only look on
me with contempt. I would have you know the truth of me, Francesca.’

She nodded.

Jack closed his eyes, pushing away the guilt and the shame and
the bitterness, and when he opened them again he began to speak. ‘It happened
not long before Christmas last year, in London. I was called out over an affair
with a woman—a pistol duel to be fought two days later, at dawn on Wimbledon
Common. Two days later I was not on Wimbledon Common but lying drunk with a
woman in my bed—not the same woman, I might add, over whom the duel had arisen.
Richard found me, and tried to make me sober and ready, but I would hear none
of it. I told him I had no care for reputation and family honour, that London
may say what it pleased about my failure to fight. I had no idea what the
consequences of my words would be. Unbeknown to me Richard left and took with
him some of my clothes. He dressed himself in them and went to Wimbledon Common
in my stead. He could not bear the shame my actions would bring. We have
something of the same look, and the light was just dawning. His guise was
believed. He was shot. The bullet landed in his leg and the wound almost killed
him.’ All the old pain flooded back. ‘He survived, but he walks with a limp.’
His whisper was hoarse and filled with anger.

She slid her hand over his in a gesture of comfort. ‘Jack…’

He could hear the compassion in her voice and knew that he did
not deserve it. ‘It should have been me.’

He felt her fingers tighten around his. ‘I did not know you then,
but I know you now, Jack. You saved my life twice over. You saved Tom’s, and
the many other lives that Grosely would have betrayed had you not stopped him.
I’ve seen the pain of regret in your eyes.’ She reached up and touched her lips
to his cheek in a small sweet kiss. ‘I still say that you are the most
honourable man I know, Jack Holberton.’

He stared at her in wonder. And it seemed that something of the
guilt and the pain that had driven Jack for a year began to ease. Beneath the
blanket he slid his hand around her waist and pulled her snug against him. She
leaned her head against his shoulder and they sat there, side by side, heart by
heart, listening to the rain and the ticking of the clock and the collapse of
the embers.

It was a comfortable sort of peace that settled upon Francesca—as
if she had spent her whole life waiting for this moment with this man, and now
that they were together everything was as it should be.

‘You do know that I love you, Francesca, don’t you? That I have
no intention of living my life without you?’

Somewhere inside her was a small part of her that looked on in amazement
as she nodded. But it was true. In her heart she knew that he loved her, just
as she loved him.

He turned to look at her. She tilted her face up to his, and his
lips met hers in a kiss that was gentle and tender and caring. In that kiss she
could feel all of his love, all of his longing, and it called out to something
deep inside her, so that their mouths clung together as if they could not bear
to part. She felt the slide of his hand up her back, the stroke of his fingers
against the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, and the nerves throughout
her body tingled in response. The kiss deepened, became more needful, more
passionate. She laid her palms against his chest, feeling the hardness of his
muscle and the strong, steady beat of his heart. She wanted the moment to last
for ever, this kiss that merged them so that she no longer knew where he
stopped and she began. She kissed him with all the love that was in her heart,
and felt herself immersed in love. His hands caressed her back, slipping down
to skim her waist then round to stroke the swell of her hips.

‘Francesca,’ he whispered against her ear.

His hand slid up to cup her breast through her nightdress. She
felt a spurt of pleasure at his touch, and could not help herself from pressing
closer to him, driving her breast harder into his hand. He groaned, and his
kisses cascaded over her lips, over her chin, down the column of her throat.
She arched her neck, dropping her head back, exposing herself to him all the
more. The kisses did not stop there. She felt the quiver in his fingers as he
untied the top of her nightdress, pulling it open to reveal her bare shoulders.
Around her neck hung the silver ship—the
Swift
. He stilled when he saw
it, lying there against the pale softness of her skin, and his eyes met hers.
And there was only Francesca and Jack and the enormity of their love.

He peeled the nightdress over her head, dropping it forgotten to
the floor so that she sat naked before him.

‘You’re beautiful.’ His gaze caressed her.

Then he was kissing her again. Kissing her until she was
trembling with desire. She did not notice that he had taken off his clothes
until she felt the nakedness of his skin next to hers. He laid her back gently
on the blanket on the sofa. His fingers trailed seductively over her stomach
before he moved to lie over her. She clung to him as their two bodies became as
one, a union of their love, a merging of souls, a bond to last for all
eternity. And as they lay together in the aftermath of their loving both knew
that they were changed for ever.

Jack woke with a feeling of contentment as the clock struck nine.
He remembered what had happened during the night and an overwhelming feeling of
happiness flooded him. He opened his eyes. Francesca was gone. Of course she
was. It was nine o’clock. She wasn’t just going to be lying here beside him for
her family to see. A noise sounded from the kitchen: the sound of pouring
water, the clank of pots. Francesca. He rose quickly, unmindful of his
nakedness.

The room was in darkness. No trace of the fire remained. He moved
to the window, pulling open the curtains. Night had faded; the dull light of
day lit the sky. He moved to the basin and pitcher that Francesca had left for
him upon the table the previous evening. The water was cold enough to chase the
last vestiges of sleep from his mind. He washed and quickly dressed. The
blankets were a rucked mess on the sofa. He folded them up, seeing the dark
stain of blood on one and taking care to hide the mark.

He glanced around the parlour. There was no other evidence of
what had happened in the night. Francesca’s nightdress had disappeared.
Everything was as it had been…save for himself…and Francesca. He buttoned his
waistcoat and, raking his hair into some semblance of order, headed for the
kitchen. There were things that he and Francesca needed to discuss before he
left for Flete. He knocked softly on the kitchen door before opening it to find
the entirety of the Linden family seated around the table. Only Francesca was
standing, pouring cups of coffee.

‘You’re awake at last,’ chirped Sophy. ‘We thought you would
sleep for ever. Lucky for you Francesca saved you breakfast—although I’m sure
the porridge will be quite thick and horrid by now.’

Jack smiled and closed the door behind him.

The snow had gone, and so had Jack. Francesca had waved him off
after breakfast. There had been little opportunity for a private farewell, but
she had seen the love in his eyes when he looked at her, and felt the small
meaningful press of his hand against hers.