Midnight Pleasures (23 page)

“I see a light!”

Patrick picked up a telescope and focused it on shore. There was a deep cove, so slender that it wasn’t visible with the naked eye, at least from this distance. And the lights twinkling behind it looked like those of a large building.

“Could be an old monastery,” he said to Hibbert.

Hibbert took a turn at the telescope. “It’ll do,” he said with characteristic brevity. He headed toward the wheel, trusting no one but himself with the tense job of bringing the
Lark
into a strange harbor.

A half-hour or so later, Patrick headed downstairs, whistling. He almost knocked but then stopped himself. With luck, he could surprise Sophie during her afternoon bath.

But as he swung open the door he saw his wife sitting in her favorite chair, reading. She didn’t hear the door, so he paused for a moment, watching her.

She was reading so intently that her lips moved as she read. Poor sweetheart, Patrick thought. The education given to females was so trumpery that she was still mouthing words while reading. For some strange reason, the thought of Sophie as a schoolgirl made his heart twist tenderly.

As he stepped forward, Sophie caught the whisper of his boots on the floor and looked up, startled. In fact, to Patrick’s dismay, she was so startled that she gave a little shriek and jumped up, only to sink back into her seat, frowning at him mightily.

“You gave me a proper fright!”

Patrick walked over and looked down at his petite wife, a smile lurking around his mouth. “I was hoping to catch you in
déshabillé
.”

Sophie reluctantly smiled back.

“What have you been doing?”

“Waiting for you.” Sophie’s eyes were wide and innocent.

Patrick frowned. “You were reading, Sophie. Don’t lie to me. At this moment, you are sitting on your book.”

Sophie looked at him calmly. “So I am,” she replied. The memory of something said by Patrick’s school friend David raced through her mind. Patrick hated fibs, hated any kind of falsehood. Lord but he would be cross if he found out just
what
she was reading!

Patrick raised an eyebrow. Sophie must be indulging in a lurid French romance that she doesn’t want me to know about, he thought. Politely he moved away and busied himself with pulling off his shirt. But he watched out of the corner of his eye as she tucked her book in a drawer with practiced ease.

Likely Eloise had never let Sophie read anything interesting, Patrick thought to himself with a grin. Stiff-rumped, the marchioness, that was for certain. She would have had an apoplexy if she caught her daughter with a popular novel. Hell, Eloise was probably the reason Sophie couldn’t read very well. She likely had never let her daughter read anything but sermons! I’ll have to speak to Sophie about it, Patrick thought, a bit complacently. I can’t have a wife who’s ashamed of reading, or thinks that novels are immoral.

“You should ring for Simone,” he said, turning about as if he hadn’t seen Sophie hide her book. “We’ll be going ashore in a half-hour or so. John has been over in a row-boat and says there’s an old monastery where we can stay the night. I hope to God they have a decent bed, because it’ll be a little unsteady onboard the
Lark
tonight. I’d rather we weathered the storm in an eight-hundred-year-old building.”

Sophie searched his face. For a minute, when Patrick pointed out that she was sitting on her book, he had
such
a look on his face—as if he knew about her Turkish grammar and was secretly laughing at her. No, it couldn’t be. He looked perfectly normal now.

She rang the bell for Simone as Patrick pulled on his boots and left the cabin.

“Come above when you’re ready, darling.” With a kiss on her forehead, he left.

Sophie slowly pulled a warm gown from the built-in wardrobe along one wall. Patrick had taken to calling her “darling” the last few days. And there was something about the endearment, even though she knew it was casually given, that made her feel unsteady in the knees and near to tears.

Simone burst through the door. Her hair was blown out of its neat knot, and her cheeks were flushed.

“We must go, ma’am! There’s a nasty wind blowing up, that’s what John says. It’s a mickle sky, he says.”

“A mackerel sky,” Sophie corrected her. She hadn’t got any further than her second stocking.

“Whatever kind of sky,” Simone replied tartly, “there’s a nasty color to it, and John says we needs get off this boat right away!” Simone had struck up a flirtation with the first mate, and she was full of sealore and seamen’s slang.

With a sigh Sophie stood up as Simone threw a gown over her head with reckless haste.

“No time to do anything much with your hair.” Simone’s fingers were trembling as she bundled her mistress’s curls into a loose coil on top of her head. Simone had finally gotten over her seasickness, but she didn’t want to be on the ship when a storm hit, no indeed. Likely the
Lark
would just break free and toss its way across the waves. Across the waves and right to the bottom, Simone thought, her fingers moving even faster.

Before Sophie had time to think, Simone had bundled her into a plum-colored pelisse, thrust a fur muff over her hand, and pushed her out the door.

Up on deck there wasn’t nearly the frenzy there had been in the main cabin. Patrick was standing at the rail. The crew was pulling down the sails and lashing the masts in a calm and orderly fashion.

Sophie walked over to Patrick and stood for an instant, gazing at the sky. It looked like shot silk now; the coppery color was laced with darker, jaundiced-looking stripes. The fluffy little clouds had thinned into sullen streaks, like a banker’s smile. And there was a wind starting. Strands of hair pulled loose from her velvet bonnet and whipped against her face.

Patrick’s face was alive with excitement. “See how livid the air has become, Sophie? The wind is blowing, and yet in between gusts the air is heavy and still.”

Sophie nodded. Now she was very glad that they had anchored the
Lark
.

There was a thud and a shout. The crewmen were ready to send a small boat over to the shore.

“Now’s the trick.” Patrick grinned at her. “We have to get you and your maid down a rope ladder. We couldn’t sail all the way in, as the bottom is too shallow near the dock.”

Sophie walked to the side of the
Lark
and peered over. It seemed a long way down, and the rope ladder was swaying in an alarming fashion. Moreover, the water had a gray tint that promised an icy bath to anyone who let go of the ladder.

“I shall carry you down.” Patrick was standing at her shoulder.

“Nonsense,” Sophie replied. “I shall climb down on my own. Simone!”

Simone edged over next to her mistress, clearly frightened out of her wits at the idea of scrambling down the ladder.

“If you climb down without screaming, fainting, falling off, or needing assistance, I will give you the ball dress with the fabric roses.”

Simone was silent for a heartbeat. “The one with a train?”

Sophie nodded.

Simone’s thin Gallic face lit with determination. Without a second’s hesitation she moved over to the side and allowed a sailor to place her at the top of the ladder. Then she sturdily climbed down.

Sophie watched until Simone reached the skiff and was helped to a seat. But just as Sophie was about to move over to the ladder, two warm arms encircled her from behind and a voice whispered, “Don’t you want a bribe?”

Sophie giggled. “Are you offering me one of your embroidered waistcoats?”

A deep chuckle tickled her ear. “The only one I own was embroidered by Aunt Henrietta with cornflowers and bluebells. It’s a dreadfully garish piece, and besides it’s too big for you.”

“Oh dear,” Sophie said sadly. “I’m afraid you’re right. I simply haven’t got the gumption to go down that ladder … especially now that I realize how pitiful your attempt at bribery is.”

“Vixen.”

Teeth nipped her ear, and she leaned back against Patrick’s muscled chest. Her whole body was tingling warmly, despite the fact that a wintery sea spray had begun to blow across the deck.

“So clothing won’t bribe my Sophie. You seem oddly unaddicted to fashion, given that you are considered the next best thing to a Frenchwoman by the London
ton
.”

Sophie resented that. “I adore clothes!”

“Well, you don’t spend hours getting dressed,” her husband retorted. “And you don’t talk endlessly about points of lace and such things. How about kisses as a ladder-bribe?”

“I seem to be getting those for free,” Sophie pointed out saucily.

“That’s true.” Patrick’s voice had deepened to liquid velvet. His lips were still caressing her ear. “Perhaps I shall bribe you with actions. They say that actions speak louder than words, or dresses. Ask me for something, Sophie, and I’ll grant it.”

Sophie didn’t know whether she trusted herself to enquire exactly which actions he was referring to.

“All right,” she said, ignoring the warm tongue caressing her ear. “I am very fond of …” But she couldn’t think of anything that she
could
say aloud. Whenever Patrick touched her, her mind seemed to go hazy.

“The French miss is about to flash her hash, sir.” The sailor who had been leaning over the railing was now pointing down to the skiff.

Sophie peered over the railing. Sure enough, Simone was wailing miserably and leaning over the side of the boat. Sophie moved toward the seaman, but again a strong arm caught her.

“Wait here, Sophie.” Patrick swung his leg onto the ladder, hooked an arm around the rail, and held out his other arm.

“I can certainly climb down that ladder by myself,” Sophie said with some annoyance.

He shook his head. “No.”

She looked at her husband’s unyielding expression, handed her muff to the seaman, and then hesitated again. In Patrick’s eyes there was a command, not an entreaty.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t climb down the ladder,” she grumbled as the seaman handed her into Patrick’s waiting embrace. Patrick effortlessly held her small body against his chest as he made his way down the ladder.

“Sorry,” he said. “You’re
my
Sophie.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the sailor in the boat said as Patrick placed her in the skiff. Simone was retching over the side.

Sophie made her way over to her maid. “Shouldn’t the crew be joining us?” she asked Patrick.

“Crew stays with the ship,” Patrick replied. He didn’t add that it was the first time he had deserted the
Lark
during a storm. “The rowboat will make one more trip and bring Floret over to the shore. He’s threatening never to pick up a soup ladle again if we don’t get him onto solid ground.”

By the time the small boat made its way to the dock, the wind had picked up and icy nibblets of rain were beginning to lash against Sophie’s face. Patrick jumped out of the boat and held out his arms for his wife.

As Patrick turned back to help Simone from the boat, Sophie smiled at the chubby young man who stood waiting for them. He had a round face and blond curls, with a rather impish expression. He was wearing what looked like a monk’s long robe. But he couldn’t be a monk; there were no monks left in the British Isles. Perhaps he just likes the robes, Sophie thought.

“How do you do?”

The man peered at her. “I do well, I do well,” he said, after a pause. He had the rolling syllables of a Welshman born and bred.

Patrick came up behind Sophie and shook his hand. “I am Patrick Foakes, and this is my wife, Lady Sophie.”

“Mine is John Hankford,” said the Welshman, “just plain Mister John Hankford.”

Hankford had a sweet look about him, Sophie thought, rather like a talkative cherub. Except that he seemed disinclined to say anything further.

“We are very grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Hankford,” she said.

Hankford peeked rather nervously around the gentlefolk before him and saw that the rowboat had disappeared into the hanging gray sea spray. Then he pulled a long, rusty rifle from under his robes and leveled it at Patrick.

Sophie jumped but said nothing. Simone gave a faint scream. Patrick remained utterly silent, merely taking a quick glance at the rifle.

The Welshman erupted into speech. “There’s no need to worry, no need to worry. I don’t mean to scare the ladies, no indeed, no indeed. The fact of the matter is … well, the fact of the matter is that I’ve got to ‘ave your promise of silence before I take you up the stairs to the house. Because there’s something there that you might not like, or perhaps you will, I don’t know, but you’re all Lunnonfolk, I reckon, and so you’ll ‘ave to promise not to let out the secret.”

Sophie looked up at Patrick questioningly. He was staring at Hankford, a small frown between his brows.

“Are you injuring anyone, or holding anyone against his will?”

“Oh no, oh no,” the Welshman exclaimed, speech fairly rolling out of his mouth. “Quite to the contrary, as a matter of fact, quite to the contrary. We’re healing people; it’s just a matter of
who
we’re healing. But I canna go any further, or rather you canna go any further, until I have your word of honor that you won’t let out the secret to anyone in Lunnon.”

Patrick glanced down at Sophie.

She met his eyes and then smiled. There weren’t many gentlemen who would ask their wives’ opinion at such a moment, even silently.

“I think we should accompany Mr. Hankford,” she said to Patrick, ignoring Simone’s moan.

Already Patrick had found that Sophie had an inexhaustible store of questions on any subject. He should have known that she would dash straight into danger if given the chance.

Patrick turned a steady eye on the Welshman, who visibly flinched. Whatever Hankford is up to, Patrick thought, he is not dangerous.

He nodded brusquely. “Right. As long as you are not injuring anyone, you have my word that we will not inform the London authorities of your activities.”

Without a word, John Hankford turned about and started up the long, straggling stairs to the ancient monastery.