The Ravencliff Bride (20 page)

Ducking low-flying birds, Sara reached the strand without incident, and stopped to catch her breath. The rocky shoreline, edged in sand, looped around in a semicircular arc toward the north, to disappear beyond the sheer face of another ancient crag. The strand was straighter to the south, though the beach was foreshortened there by outcroppings—fallen boulders, tide pools formed by coves and natural jetties, and what debris the cliffs gave back to the sea. It was a rugged stretch of land, lonely and desolate, yet possessed of an ethereal beauty that drew her like a magnet.

It was still neap tide. The full moon that would bring the rush of spring tide was still a few days off. It should be safe enough for a brief walk on the strand. Nicholas certainly wouldn’t stay down on the beach if there were any danger. With that to bolster her courage, she began her stroll high along the hard-packed berm to the south, as far away as she could manage from the surf lapping at the shore and creaming over the broken shingle. The surf crawled higher as she progressed, but she scarcely noticed. Something black lying in a heap half-hidden among the rocks in a little cove several yards down the beach caught her attention, and she decided to investigate.

The wind had picked up, rippling the object, and lifting into the air something white lying beside it then tumbling it along the sand until it snagged on another rock. Sara hurried toward it, scrambling over rocks that formed one of the natural jetties, passing what she now recognized as a man’s coat—Nicholas’s coat—wedged between two boulders. She snatched up the white object. It was a shirt. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled Nicholas. There was no mistaking his evocative scent. Still there was no sign of him, and she carried the shirt back to his greatcoat to discover his pantaloons, hose, and drawers strewn about, as well. His Hessians were lying amongst the seaweed, east of the spot, and she climbed over the rocks and collected them, uniting them with the
rest. This took some time, as the rocks were slippery, half-hidden in the weed, and she lost her footing more than once retrieving them.

By the time she reached the pile she was making, the wind had whipped the waves into fearsome breakers, their issue inching ever closer and leaving dark lace-edged rings on the sand. She paid them no mind. She had lost all track of time. Where could he be without his clothes? Had he gone for a swim in one of the tide pools? It was warmer, being May, but not
that
warm, and the wind had a definite bite. Hardly weather for swimming. Why, hearths were still lit in the house, and probably would be for some time. Were all Cornishmen so rugged, she wondered? The man must be mad.

She returned to her chore. The clothes would surely blow away again if they weren’t well anchored between the rocks, and she set about the task of layering them in such a manner that might help prevent them from disappearing.

All at once she realized what she was doing. The man was wandering about out there somewhere
naked
. What if he should return and find her there? She glanced up and down the strand. Still no sign of him, and her hands moved a little faster ordering his clothes.

She arranged everything in a neat pile and lifted the coat, intending to lay it over the lighter garments, then anchor the lot with the Hessians. It was heavy. Trying to fold it, she came upon one of the reasons—a pistol in the pocket. She almost dropped it, realizing what it was for. He still meant to kill Nero! Should she take it? He had a well-stocked gun room. He would only get another, but that would take time. Should she, or shouldn’t she? While she was debating that with her back to the sea, she paid no attention to the wail of the wind, or the roar of the breakers rolling up the coast. It wasn’t until a blast of salt water knocked her off her feet that she realized she’d been cut off. She was trapped—walled in by the jetties—her access to the north beach obliterated by crashing waves that left her floundering in waist-high water.

Icy cold, it snatched her breath away. The pelerine was weighting her down, and she began to flounder, until she tried to regulate herself to the ebb and flow of the rushing water. She would not panic. Once she caught the rhythm of the ocean, she tried to scramble higher when the water receded, but the sand beneath the sucking waves undermined her footing, pulling her back toward the sea—toward the undertow. She dared not slip out far enough to be caught in it, or she would surely drown.

She was losing her grip on the rocks. Just when her strength began to fail, something pulled her back toward the natural jetty—something that felt like a set of jaws sunken deep in her soggy pelerine. Shaking the soaked hair out of her eyes, she squinted, for they smarted from the salt. She blinked, clearing her vision, expecting to find Nicholas towering over her, but it wasn’t Nicholas. There, with his claws dug into seaweed and rock, and his sharp teeth sunken in the saturated wool of her wrapper, stood Nero on the jetty pulling her toward it, away from the rising tide.

He seemed to have adopted the same strategy, tugging her closer as the waves receded until she got a grip on the rocks and let him pull her out of the cove to the strand alongside. Conditions there were no less treacherous. It had happened just as Nicholas said it would. The beach had flooded in seconds, cutting her off, and she wasn’t out of danger yet. The stone stairs seemed so far away. How could she have come all that distance? How would she ever get back? The waves were coming faster now, driving her higher, pinning her against the sheer-faced wall of Ravencliff.

Nero still had a hold on her wrapper. He’d torn it, and it was dragging, but he wouldn’t let go. He was in front of her, backing up, dragging her toward higher ground, and the steps.

“My God, Nero, don’t let go!” she cried, as he shifted his jaws for a firmer grip. The shaggy ruff of silver-tipped hair about his face was plastered wet to his head; and his eyes,
those dark, penetrating eyes, never left her face as he inched her along toward safety. He whined as if in reply, seeming to take great care to catch nothing in those clamped tight jaws but fabric. “Sometimes, I do believe you are more human than any of the two-legged creatures in this godforsaken place,” she observed, indulging in a giddy laugh now that safety was almost within reach.

Still whining, the animal continued to back toward the steps, his breath puffing from flared nostrils, his broad chest expanding and contracting visibly. His ribcage seemed about to burst for the labor, but he didn’t let her go until they reached the stone staircase. He barked then. It was the second time she’d heard his bark, and it rooted her to the spot. The first time she’d heard it, he was menacing Mallory. There was triumph in it now. Deep and rich, guttural and mellow, it sounded more like the bark of a wolf than a dog’s high-pitched cry. He shook himself then, and when she flung her arms around his neck, thanking him for his labor, he washed the salt from her face with his long, pink tongue.

“I love you, you brave boy,” she murmured. “I see you’re in a better humor this morning.” She tried to see his wound, but his chest and forelegs were plastered with seaweed, mud, and ooze.

He nudged her toward the steps then, and she started to climb thinking he would follow, but he didn’t. He barked again, then turned and raced back the way they’d come through the creaming surf and flying spindrift, and disappeared toward higher ground above the cove, his plaintive howl living after him. It was only then that Sara realized the sea had claimed her Morocco leather slippers.

She began to climb. Her clothes were clinging wet to her body, and her hair had come loose from its confines, the grosgrain ribbons hanging limp about her shoulders. She was so cold, her teeth were chattering, but it was gooseflesh unrelated to the chill that froze her halfway up the cliff. What of Nicholas? Had he been cut off by the storm, as well?
No, he was too clever for that. He must know another way to reach the house, too. Still, his absence didn’t settle well on her, and she continued to climb, anxious to reach Ravencliff before he did, and order herself before she had to face him again.

Nell was waiting beside the service entrance door, wringing her pinafore into a hopeless twist, as Sara picked her way barefoot over the rocky apron.

“Oh, la, my lady!” the girl cried, tears streaming down her face. “I’d given ya up for dead.”

“Has the . . . master returned?” Sara panted, crossing the threshold just before the rain came.

“I dunno, my lady,” said the maid. “I ain’t seen him.”

“Thank you, Nell. How long have you been standing here?”

“Since I made your excuses ta Dr. Breeden for nuncheon, my lady. I done that as soon as ya left.”

“Then, there must be another way up here from the strand. No one could survive down there in that. If it weren’t for Nero, I’d have drowned. The strand disappeared in seconds, Nell.”

“That scruffy old dog, my lady?”

Sara nodded. “It was, indeed.”

“How are ya ever goin’ ta get past the hall boy like that?” the abigail whined.

Sara thought for a moment. “I’m not going to have to,” she said. “Go up and fetch my hooded cloak. Pretend you’re taking it below to press it off with the flat iron or something, if anyone questions you. Then go back up and occupy that hall boy—get him away from that door however you have to, so I can get back into my suite.”

“But how, my lady?”

“I’m sure you’ll be enterprising, Nell. How did you manage it with Peters? Try not to get caught out this time. You weren’t very clever then. If you had been, Peters would still be here with you. I knew it all the while, and I haven’t said a
word to his lordship about your assignations with that boy. I’ve kept my part of the bargain, just as I said I would. I needn’t remind you that you owe me for that—not just about Nero’s visits, either. If you fail me now and it all comes out, because it surely will, I shall have no choice but to tell the truth. He cannot dismiss me, but he will sack you in a heartbeat.”

Sara regretted her words the minute they slipped out; the girl’s stricken look was more than she could bear. It wasn’t like her to be mean-spirited, but if Peters hadn’t sneaked off to meet the little abigail, none of this would be happening. It was beyond the beyond.

“I’m sorry, Nell,” she said. “I’m overset. I’m soaked to the skin, and I need to get into a hot tub, else I come down with pneumonia. Here’s what let’s do . . . tell the boy—whatever his name is—”

“It’s Wallace, my lady, beggin’ your pardon.”

“Very well, tell Wallace to go and fetch water for my tub. Tell him you’ll stand guard until he returns. The minute he’s out of sight, collect my cloak and bring it down—not here. I cannot be seen in the halls looking like this. Someone will surely tell the master. I shall wait in the alcove by the stairs. Hurry now. His lordship could return at any moment.”

The girl scampered off then, and Sara crept along the hall and waited in the shadows. Minutes later, Wallace hurried along the hallway on his mission, and Nell came shortly after with her cloak. Once safely back in the tapestry suite, Sara closed herself inside her sitting room out of the servants’ sight, while each in their turn carried up the water to fill her tub.

Outside, the storm had worsened. Horizontal rain slid down the windowpanes in sheets, and wind gusts rattled the glass. Sara could scarcely see below, though she strained her eyes, and wiped the fogged window hoping for a glimpse of Nicholas’s black greatcoat sailing over the edge, but the
apron below and the stone fence that housed the steps were vacant.

Nell came to fetch her once the tub was filled, and she walked through the suite, hesitating in the foyer. No. She would
not
lock the door. She would leave it just as she always did, just free of the latch, but not noticeably open. The sentries weren’t guarding her against four-legged intruders, only the two-legged kind, Alexander Mallory in particular. Nero had saved her life twice. If he wanted to take refuge in her rooms, he was welcome. With that decided, she moved on toward her dressing room, and the waiting tub.

“
Bloody hell!
” Nicholas trumpeted, bursting in on Mills, who was preparing his toilette for the evening meal in his dressing room.

“Oh, my lord!” the valet breathed, staggering back from him. “Where is your shirt—your good pantaloons, and hose? And where has your bandage gone? Oh, now! Look at your coat! I shall never be able to beat the sand out of it.”

Nicholas glanced down at what was left of his clothes, and hurled his Hessians to the floor. He stood barefoot, wearing only his drawers underneath the caped greatcoat hanging off his shoulder. It dragged on the carpet, filthy with beach debris.

“I would have returned before the storm hit, but for the baroness,” he said. “Perhaps I should tell her to
do
the things I do not wish her to do. Perhaps then we might have order instead of chaos in this damnable house.” He reached into one soggy greatcoat pocket and produced the pistol, then drew Sara’s Morocco leather slippers from the other and tossed them on the lounge.

“My lady went down on the strand?” said Mills. He was incredulous.

“She did, and but for Nero, she would have drowned down there.”

“
Nero
, my lord?”

“I couldn’t very well confront her naked, old boy, now, could I? That delayed me, and I’m fortunate to have escaped with my life, let alone my drawers.” He peeled off his greatcoat. “Where is Dr. Breeden?” he queried, tossing it down after the Hessians.

“In the herbarium preparing your cordial,” said Mills, stooping to gather the coat and boots.

“He will be happy to know that the deuced ‘cordial’ seems to be working, else it would all have been over down there just now.”

“Oh, my lord! You were able to control the transformation?”

“After a fashion,” said Nicholas, “until her damnable shoes came crashing down on my head riding a wave.” He gestured toward the waterlogged Morocco leather slippers.

“Oh, but that is such good news, my lord!”

“It’s too sporadic to be good news yet, old boy. Let us just say that it’s progress, and leave it for now, shall we?”