The Tutor's Daughter (38 page)

She looked up at him, a smile slowly forming. “I think you've missed your calling, Henry Weston. Perhaps you ought to have gone into the church.”

He grinned. “At the moment I'm wishing I had not gone into this
particular
church, but . . .”

She chuckled, even as tears filled her eyes once more. “I am mostly sad for my father. He was just beginning to recover from losing his wife. And now this.”

He nodded. “I thought of that too.”

“At least he'll have his sister,” Emma said.

“Yes.” Henry agreed. “Your aunt Jane is quite a remarkable woman. I've always liked her.”

“And she you.”

“The only Smallwood female to like me in those days, I'd wager. Then or since.”

“That's not true,” Emma said; then she ducked her head, self-conscious.

Henry looked at her cheeks, suddenly pink in her pale face, and felt unexpected pleasure warm his heart. Perhaps Emma did like him after all. Then he noticed the slightly bluish cast to her lips. Careful not to jostle her, he left one arm snug around her and gingerly loosed the other, moving his hand up along her arm to her face.

She watched, her expression uncertain, as he slowly lifted his hand toward her mouth.

“Your lips are blue,” he whispered.

She pressed them together, the act restoring a bit of color. Not enough.

He touched his thumb to her lower lip. She jerked back in surprise, and again he tightened his hold to keep her from losing her balance. When she resisted no further, he slowly traced her lower lip, then moved to the upper, circling her mouth and wishing he might do so with his own. Leave it to a man to become amorous at a time like this, he thought wryly—but he made no move to stop himself. Returning to her lower lip, he dragged his finger across its fleshy firmness, feeling his chest tighten at the sight. Yes, he had to kiss her.

He leaned down, looking into her eyes, and seeing no resistance there, lowered his mouth.

“Emma. . . .” he breathed and touched his lips to hers. Her cool lips were warmed and softened under his touch. He kissed her again, more fully, and felt her lips move against his, kissing him back. Satisfaction and pleasure filled him. Pleasure lanced with regret. Why had he waited so long?

He held her close, relishing how her tall, willowy body molded itself to his, supple and firm, yet soft in all the right places.

She snaked her arms up from between them, and wrapped them around his neck in a most un-bluestocking-like fashion that made him forget he'd ever been cold.

He deepened his kiss, her mouth melding to his. He wanted to make up for every lost second, every missed opportunity from the past or unlikely future. He wanted to savor her, breathe her in, and thank her creator for everything about her. From her elegant figure to her soft lips to her keen intelligence. Even her confounded love of order. If only they had more time.

He broke away to catch his breath, but his mouth was soon drawn back to her skin, kissing her temple, her forehead, one cheek, then the other.

“Mr. Weston,” she breathed shakily. “I . . . I think—”

“I think you might call me Henry at this point, don't you?” he teased.

He glanced down at the water level. Was it his imagination, or had it remained the same as before they climbed atop the font? It certainly didn't seem to be rising as rapidly as it had been. Henry would take all the time he could get with the woman in his arms.

He caressed her cheek. “Do you think it funny that we are standing on a baptismal font to stay out of the water? Or is it just my odd sense of humor?”

Emma looked into Henry Weston's face with wonder. Her heart beat rapidly from their kiss and the rush of affection she felt—affection which he evidently returned. She had never felt about Phillip the way she did about the man holding her in his arms.

Suddenly the tower shook. Emma gripped Henry's shoulders
in alarm, and he tightened his hold around her waist. He began reciting the lines from an old hymn in his deep, masculine voice, stroking her cheek with his free hand as he did so.

“Then let the wildest storms arise,

Let tempests mingle earth and skies;

No fatal shipwreck shall I fear,

But all my treasures with me bear.

If Thou, my Jesus, still be nigh,

Cheerful I live, and joyful die;

Secure, when mortal comforts flee,

To find ten thousand worlds in Thee.”

The words echoed within the stone walls, off the carved Greek gods of the four winds, and into Emma Smallwood's soul. She breathed, “That is beautiful.”

He nodded. “It is. And I take no credit for it. Philip Doddridge wrote those words some sixty years ago.”

“And still very fitting today.” She swallowed. “Especially today.”

Then Emma paused, belatedly realizing that she had indeed heard the words echo off the walls. Had the roar of wind and waves abated somewhat?

She looked toward the west window. “I'm sorry you never got to live the life you wanted. Or see the world. Have an adventure.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Oh, no? I'd say we were having quite the adventure, you and I. They always said to be careful what you wish for, but I wouldn't listen.” He sighed theatrically.

She grinned, the act pushing a fat tear from each eye and down her cheeks. Traitorous tears! She was trying so hard to be brave. In control of her emotions.

“And what did you never get to do, Emma Smallwood?” he asked lightly, brushing the tears from her face.

“Nothing that really matters, in hindsight.” She shrugged. “Though I would have liked to travel. And perhaps encourage Aunt Jane to live her life. Live enough for the both of us.”

“No ordinary dreams? Of marriage, perhaps? A family?”

She ducked her head. “Perhaps.” Tears filled her eyes once more.

He cupped her face in both of his hands and kissed her again.

From outside, Emma heard the sound of a voice. Or was it her hopeful imagination, transforming a sea gull cry into a human call?

“Did you hear that?” she whispered, breaking the kiss.

He angled his head, alert, frowning in concentration.

Fragments of words penetrated the chapel door. Followed by the clear peal of a bell.
Clang, clang, clang.

The warning bell.

Henry and Emma looked at each other, eyes locking. Then Henry gripped her arms. “You stay here.”

Henry jumped down into the thigh-high water. Clearly some of it had drained out through escape routes too small to do Henry and Emma any good. Even so, the cold water stole his breath.

Gritting his teeth, he slogged to the door, noting that the water level had risen nearly to its latch. Reaching it, he banged on the upper part of the door with his fist. “Open the door! We're trapped in here!”

He paused. Listened.

“Not so close to the breakwater!” Julian's voice. “What are you doing?”

“We have to reach the door.” Rowan's lower voice.

“You're going to get us both killed.”

“Give me the key.”

“Let's go back.” Julian's voice rose. “The waves are too high!”

“Not yet. Give me the key.”

No answer. Henry held his breath.

“Dash it, Julian,” Rowan growled. “Give me the key.”

Crack
—the sound of a blow. Fist upon flesh, followed by a thud.

What was happening? Finally there came the sound of metal scraping against metal. A key turning in the lock.

Henry raised his hand to the latch. What awaited beyond? A wall of water? Glancing over his shoulder to assure himself Emma still stood atop the font, Henry jerked the latch and felt it give. The
door pushed inward by the force of the water, which rushed in up to his waist but no higher. Relief swamped him.
Thank you, Lord!

Outside the door, where steps normally led down to the rocky path, now flowed choppy water, compliments of the storm and spring tides. Though the waves were still heavy, it seemed the storm had subsided. The sea covered the causeway so that the distinction between harbor and open sea was barely discernible. And there in the harbor, partially protected by the breakwater, rocked a small fishing boat. Rowan stood in the bow, legs spread wide. Behind him, on the floor of the boat, Julian struggled to his feet.

Rowan sat down at the oars and pulled hard.

Glancing past the boat to the shore, Henry saw Derrick Teague standing there arms akimbo, Major tossing his head, and Lizzie running headlong down the sand road toward the beach. Had she rung the bell?

Henry called, “Rowan, thank God you've come.”

Rowan fought the waves to maneuver the small craft back to the door of the chapel.

From behind Henry came the sound of a splash, and he turned to see Emma wading toward him. Henry met her partway, taking her hand and leading her to the door.

Outside Rowan struggled against the waves to keep the boat close. Straining against the oars, he said, “Julian, throw Henry the rope.”

“Julian . . . !” Derrick Teague called from shore, warning in his voice.

“Throw me the rope,” Henry commanded, stretching out his hand.

Julian looked from Henry, back to Teague on shore. He appeared torn, his loyalties divided. He looked instead at his twin. “You hit me!” he shouted, rubbing his jaw.

“It's less than you deserve,” Rowan snapped. “Now throw the rope!”

Instead, Julian launched himself at Rowan headfirst, knocking his larger brother against the prow.

“Stop it, Julian!”

The boat quickly moved away from the chapel.

Julian snarled, “Nobody hits me, jackanapes.”

Rowan cocked his fist back and punched him again.

Julian reeled and lost his balance. He toppled backward off the boat, splashing into the churning water.

On shore, Lizzie screamed, hands pressed to her cheeks.

Rowan paled but sat at the oars once more and rowed hard back to the chapel.

Julian's head appeared above the surface, sputtering and cursing.

Keeping an eye on Julian, Henry said to Rowan, “Miss Smallwood first.”

Struggling to keep his balance as the vessel lurched in the waves, Rowan stood and tossed Henry the mooring line himself, his face tense. “Come on,” he called. “This is only a lull in the storm. The worst is yet to come, according to Davies. Let's get out of here.”

Henry hurried to comply. Holding the rope and bracing his leg against the doorjamb, Henry extended his other hand to Emma. “In the boat, Emma.”

“But, what about Julian?”

“First, you get in.”

Emma took his hand and extended her other to Rowan, awkwardly half climbing, half falling into the boat.

“I'll kill you for that, Rowan,” Julian yelled, though he was clearly struggling to keep his head above water.

Henry climbed in behind Emma. The boat rocked violently, even though the water in the south side of the harbor was somewhat less violent than the open sea beyond. Henry took the oars, trying to keep the boat from facing broadside in the waves.

“Throw the rope to Julian,” Henry ordered between gritted teeth.

Rowan shook his head, face white. “He might capsize us. Intentionally.”

“We have to save him,” Emma cried.

Rowan looked at Henry for a decision.

Henry nodded and yelled to Julian, “Hang on. We'll tow you to shore.”

Lips tight, Rowan threw the rope to Julian. Julian grasped it and pulled his head higher out of the water.

Julian's weight added more burden, but Henry rowed with all his might, muscles straining, lungs burning.

The boat nearly capsized more than once, then finally scraped its belly against sand.

“Praise God,” Henry sighed.

“Amen,” Emma echoed.

Probably drawn by the bell, villagers appeared along the harbor, Mr. Bray among them.

Derrick Teague strode into the surf, grasped the struggling Julian by the arm, and hauled him up onto the shore. Scowling, he tossed Julian onto his back as so much flotsam. “Botched that, didn't 'ee, lad.”

Julian coughed and rolled to his side, waterlogged and hacking but safe.

Henry helped Emma from the boat, then paused where he was, resting his hands on his knees, panting in exhaustion. He glanced over at Teague, saw the man glare at him and fist his weathered hands. Henry doubted he had the strength to fight the man at present.

Teague took a step toward him, but Mr. Bray gripped his shoulder.

Teague jerked free and wheeled on the old constable. “What?”

Bray said gently, “I was only going to thank you for helping the lad. Why not go home now while you're ahead?” The constable said it kindly, yet there was a tenor of steel beneath his words. The men's eyes locked.

Teague looked away first. “That's right. I was helpin' the lad. Remember that.” He turned and stalked away.

Lizzie ran to Henry, splashing through the surf, heedless of her gown. “Oh, Henry! I saw the light in the window and your horse on the beach. That's when I rang the bell. I was so worried, knowing you were trapped inside.” She threw her arms around him.

Henry knew the girl looked upon him as an older brother and resisted the urge to put her away from him. Instead he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Well, thankfully Rowan managed to reach us in the boat.”

Henry glowered over her head at Julian and shouted, “What the devil were you thinking, Julian? You have a lot of explaining to do.” Seeing the crowd gathering, Henry added more quietly, “But we shall wait and have it out in the privacy of our own home. Understood?”

His brothers nodded, but Lizzie continued, almost desperately, “I never thought it would come to this. Never!”

Mr. Smallwood jogged onto the scene, face flushed, breathing hard. Had he run all the way from the house? His anxious eyes riveted on his daughter. “Emma!”

Good, Henry thought. Her father was there. She would be safe while he dealt with the chaos that was his family.