Dreaming (24 page)

Some sane part of him knew she was completely unaware of the battle going on inside him. She was too busy with her treasures, and even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t have known, because she was too innocent.

And she’s too young.

She’s nineteen. Old enough.

She’s too naïve.

She’s ready, perhaps too ready. He cursed the scarcity of his morals—that he could look at her and think what he was thinking.

She carefully placed the last food item on her skirt and then casually glanced up at him. She gave him a smile, one that would melt a reserve made from granite. A soft look that would test the celibacy of a monk.

And he was no monk. He shifted to his knees and started to move toward her, his blood too hot and his eyes locked on her mouth, his mind buzzing an aching need.

Selfish bastard.

The hellhound came bounding up the beach, tongue lolling out his floppy mouth, his gait anything but graceful. He skidded to a gangly stop, sending a shower of sand over Richard.

The sand had the same effect as a pail of cold water. He froze and pulled his gaze away from her, shaking his head. Sand rained down around him. Sand was in the creases of his breeches. Sand was in the tops of his boots. Sand was in his waistband, and he could feel the grit of it.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, calming breath. When he opened his eyes he felt distanced, almost as if he were on the outside looking into a locked room for which he had no key.

Gus stuck his nose under her arm, sniffing, and stretched halfway to the closest loaf of bread. She grabbed it, holding it safely out of his reach, and frowned down at the hound, whose big head was still stuck under her arm while his bloodshot eyes peered up at her longingly.

“You couldn’t possibly be hungry
again
,” she said.

Aboard the second ship, Gus had managed to steal Richard’s dried meat, some of his bread, all of his cheese, and an apple. Any food the earl had eaten consisted only of those things he could successfully hide from Gus.

“You’ve eaten plenty today,” she said.

Gus whimpered and pulled his head out from under her arm as if she were a traitor. He took two hangdog steps, and as soon as he was out of her sight, he crawled around to her other side, slowly slinking toward the pile of fruit.

Richard reached for him.

The dog moved in a flash of brown, then looked up and grinned wickedly around a plump red apple. Warned by animal instinct, Gus darted a quick look at Richard and then took off down the beach.

Richard shot up and went after him, running faster and faster, kicking up his own trail of sand as he went. His speed had nothing to do with the dog. Or the apple.

It had everything to do with his conscience. He was running away from her and away from what he might have done, running away from his thoughts and what he was.

The cool wind from the sea went over and through him, but in spite of it his skin grew hot and clammy. Sweat began to pour down his face.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run, if he had ever done so as an adult. He’d had a lifetime of running away—figuratively, not physically. But now he just ran, pounding down the beach as the waves pounded on the shore, his arms and legs pumping as fast as his blood. Harder. Faster. Rescuing her from himself.

His heart throbbed first in his ears, then in his burning chest, where air and breath were tight and almost nonexistent. But he ran on, laughing suddenly and painfully, for he had discovered the ultimate irony.

He was a bloody hero.

Chapter 14

Seymour
leaned over the map atop a desk and watched Sir Hunt point out the location of the ancient chapel. According to the note, the ransom exchange was to take place there tomorrow night.

“The chapel is on the southwestern tip of the island,” Hunt was saying. “About a mile from
Beacon Hill
.”

“
Beacon Hill
?”
Seymour
repeated. “The port authority said there was no lighthouse on Lundy.”

“There isn’t. The foundations were laid for a beacon, but the merchants who funded it went bankrupt last year. Lost everything in a shipwreck off this very coast. We’re still using cannons to warn approaching ships. The fog comes in and eighteen-pounders are fired every ten minutes off the three major points on the island.”

“I see.”
Seymour
stared at the map. He wondered if perhaps
Downe
and the girl were already somewhere on the island. “Is there any location you can think of where someone could keep them prisoner? Anywhere near this chapel?”

“There are secluded bays and inlets all along the island’s coast. There are too many caves to count, too many bays in which they could moor.”

Seymour
stared at the map, lost in thought.

“You did say the excise cutter would arrive tonight?”

“So they told me. The ship planned to leave the coast at
Bideford
with the
midnight
tide, cross the Channel, and moor in a secluded bay near the drop sight.”
Seymour
scanned the map, looking at the bays near the ruins.

“There are three bays near that point.” Hunt showed him the map. “Here, there, and this one called Devil’s Slide. It’s about a mile from the cannon gunpoint.”

Seymour
straightened and glanced at the tall clock. “I suppose there’s nothing to do now but wait until tomorrow. The men aboard the cutter have instructions to surround the drop. I was told they would report to you first thing tomorrow.”

Hunt nodded. “We have plenty of rooms. There’s no need for you to stay on your sloop when you can wait more comfortably here.”

The image of an incredibly lovely face flashed through
Seymour
’s mind. She was here. Somewhere.

“I’m certain you’ll want to talk to the excise militia when they arrive,” Hunt continued. “It would be more convenient to use my home as your base. I don’t relish these barbarians using my island as part of their schemes.”

“Perhaps that would be more convenient.” He gave Sir Hunt his first genuine smile.

“I’ll send someone for your things. Do you have a crew?”

“Just two others. They’ll be more comfortable onboard.”

A discreet knock, and the library door opened to a butler who announced tea.

“Has
Giana
come down?” Hunt asked.

The butler looked pointedly from
Seymour
to Hunt and replied, “I don’t believe so, sir.”

“My daughter usually joins me for tea.” Hunt paused and looked to be contemplating some silent inner battle. There was tension in his stance, a tightness in his voice that hadn’t been there a moment before. He was a tall man, and yet he suddenly looked smaller and terribly weary. A man with a burden. Quietly he added, “I suppose I should prepare you to meet her. Usually makes things less awkward.”

There was an eloquent pause, and
Seymour
had an idea what was coming. “I spoke with your daughter. She gave me your direction.”

“You spoke with
Giana
?” Hunt straightened in surprise.

“Yes.”

“Unusual.” Hunt’s face creased with a puzzled frown. “She normally avoids callers.”

“I took the cliff path from the dock, and am afraid I came upon her in the rose garden quite by surprise.”

“Then you understand that I needed to warn you.”

Seymour
looked him square in the eye. “No. Don’t believe I do.” He stood a little taller himself and said, “Your daughter is the most exquisite woman I have ever clapped eyes on.” He heard the harsh element of challenge in his voice, and social etiquette forced him to add, “That is, unless you intended to warn me of her unique beauty.”

Hunt looked dumbfounded for a moment, then he studied
Seymour
with a father’s critical eye.

They stood in the elegantly appointed library, each taking in and weighing the other’s measure. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of a tall clock and the occasionally snapping of a dry log in the fireplace.

Hunt broke the tension with a bark of relieved laughter. “Yes, young man, I do believe you are right.” He turned to the butler, whose cool aloofness had melted slightly. “Tell
Giana
I should like her to join us.”

The butler left, then Hunt turned back and clapped
Seymour
on the shoulder. “Come along,
Seymour
. I do believe you should formally meet my stubborn
Giana
. Should be interesting. Very interesting.”

Letty
huddled deeper under the blankets wrapped around her shivering shoulders and glanced around the dark sea cave. It wasn’t very deep, and it was cold and damp. Sand and rock formed the floor, and the jagged rock walls seemed to magnify every sound. A trickle of fresh water meandered like a vein of sparkling silver down one wall and pattered rhythmically into a small rock basin.

In the distance, she could hear the boom of the surf hitting the shore. It sounded loud as thunder and just as wild and untamable. She’d always thought the sea a power with which to be reckoned, but now, with nothing but rock and sand and sea around her, she felt as if she were just a drop of fresh water surrounded by the sea. Small. Inconsequential.

Pulling the blanket even tighter around her shivering shoulders, she glanced at Gus, who was sound asleep in a dark corner, his belly full of apples and half a loaf of stolen bread, and his body exhausted from harassing the island’s bird population—and Richard.

For the hundredth time since the dense fog had crawled onshore, she looked at the cave opening with an uneasy feeling. There was nothing to see but white dense mist, clouds that kept the world away, nature’s cold wet breath.

Richard was out in that. Somewhere. He was collecting driftwood for a fire, but he’d been gone a terribly long time.

So she waited quietly, cold and alone. Finally she closed her eyes and leaned back against a cave wall, trying to imagine she was home, in her room, with a warm fire and burrowed underneath down coverlets and sipping the rich sweetness of hot chocolate.

His curse was the first thing she heard. A stumbling footstep the second.

“Can’t see a bloody damn thing.”

She opened her eyes just as he materialized like some Celtic demon from a cloud of damp eerie mist. He seemed taller, somehow, perhaps because the cave ceiling was so low, or perhaps because the reality of him was so much more overwhelming.

Standing there with his arms full of driftwood, he scanned the interior of the cave, then stopped when he saw her. There was such isolation in the look he gave her, cold and bleak, as if he had been suddenly shorn of a heart and deserted by any kinder emotion.

His hardened gaze was on her mouth, and she parted her lips, taking a deep breath. He flinched as if he’d been hit.