Phelan kept inching upward. As long as Lady Margery continued with her babble, she was distracted, unaware that he was almost within reach of Juliette. “Who killed him?”
“He’ll tell you it was an accident, that they were struggling for the knife, and you might believe him. It might even be true. But the fact remains that Hannigan killed my husband.”
Phelan felt the wood shift again, the mast begin to splinter with a dreadful grinding sound. Juliette shrieked as she lost her hold and began to plummet downward, only to be brought up short as her long skirts caught on a spar of wood.
“No,” Lady Margery screeched, clambering after her on the collapsing masts. “You won’t live. I won’t let you have him.” She reached out a clawlike hand toward Juliette, and her precarious balance shifted. Screaming, she went flying through the air, flapping black skirts and long gray hair. Her body crashed against the railing of the ship, breaking through, and she went over the side, into the turbulent ocean.
“Don’t move,” Phelan called to Juliette, edging carefully along the sagging timbers, trying not to look down as the body of the woman he’d always thought was his mother was pulled out into the hungry sea. “I’m coming to get you.”
“No,” she cried. “Get down. You’ll fall.”
“Nonsense,” he said, ignoring his surge of panic. Not for his own safety, but for hers. “I’m not about to let that happen.”
He was almost there, his hand within inches of her arm, when the wood holding her skirts gave way. She screamed, reaching for him, and then she went plunging downward, downward, into the roiling sea.
The cold black water closed over her head, and she sank into the darkness, her skirts dragging at her, her shoes weighing her down. She kicked, trying to push upward, but the current was murderously strong, pulling at her as she struggled toward the light. Her lungs were about to burst when finally she shot through into the morning air. Only to find herself being pulled along by the merciless tide, almost out of sight of the old shipwreck and Dead Man’s Cove.
She opened her mouth to scream for help, but she promptly sank, swallowing water. By the time she surfaced again she was spinning wildly out of the inlet, and there was no one to watch her go but those silent, useless sentinels on the edge of the cliff.
And then even they were out of sight, as she was swept away. Her stupid women’s clothes were dragging her down, and she realized that, for the moment, she had to stop thinking about Phelan and concentrate on surviving. She managed to kick off the heavy leather shoes; then she began struggling with the waistband of her skirt, sinking beneath the surface as she did so.
Ancient though the material was, it proved almost impossible to rip. She finally succeeded, shredding the wet cloth, and when she rose again she was being carried past a stretch of coast she’d never seen before, the murderous tide clutching her like a jealous lover.
She knew it would be useless to try to swim against the current. Instead, she concentrated on keeping afloat, staying alive, as the water swirled and eddied around her, carrying her far, far away.
Just as suddenly as the death swell had caught her, it released her, and she was drifting along the coast, slowly, as the sun beat down overhead.
It took her a moment to realize she was free. She struck out for shore, ignoring the weariness in her arms and legs, determined not to give in. By the time she made it onto the narrow stretch of white beach, she was exhausted, and she collapsed, closing her eyes and lying very still as she tried to catch her breath.
She had no idea how long she lay there. It was minutes, or hours, before she could drag herself into a sitting position, to survey her surroundings with unavoidable dismay.
The cliffs behind her were white, chalky, and impossibly steep. The stretch of sand was narrow and temporary—she could see by the line at the base of the rocks that during high tide this small beach would be underwater. She couldn’t afford to take her time.
She staggered to her feet, staring down at her clothes. She was wearing a shredded petticoat that clung to her body. The upper portion of the dress barely remained, the sleeves having been torn off. In all, she looked like a scantily clad gypsy.
But gypsies could walk as well as swim. Phelan would be searching for her, but he might not know which way the tide had taken her. She needed to get moving, get back to him. There was so much she needed to tell him.
She reached inside the ruins of her dress and pulled out the waterlogged sketch, unfolding it carefully. There was no longer any recognizable shape to it—the salt water had blurred and destroyed the ink, turning it into a black smear. She ought to leave it.
But she couldn’t. It had been her one comfort ever since she’d left Phelan. He’d said he loved her, had told the madwoman that quite brazenly. But she needed to hear him say it to her alone, in the dark, in the quiet, before she could really believe it. Before she could let herself love him.
Not that she was having much luck stopping herself. She started down the strip of sand, her bare feet digging deep. She wouldn’t worry about love, or the future, or even sketches. She’d worry about finding Phelan again. She needed to find a way off this beach, either back in the ocean or up the cliffs, if she couldn’t find a path. The rest would take care of itself.
Valerian walked slowly through the harbor of Hampton Regis early that evening, thankful that no one stared at him, no one recognized the dashing Mrs. Ramsey in the blond young man who strode along so calmly. And they never would, God willing. Not that he intended to spend much time in Hampton Regis in the future. But since his future in-laws lived there, he’d be bound to make an occasional visit when Sophie insisted.
In all, the de Quinceys had proved to be surprisingly amenable to the notion of their precious daughter’s imminent marriage to a nameless bastard. Of course, they didn’t realize that Valerian Romney had any connection with their daughter’s dear friend, and Sophie had been wonderfully adept at giving her parents an ultimatum. Either they accepted a baseborn son-in-law and proved their free-thinking principles, or they would never see their daughter again.
He could find any number of flaws in his beloved’s argument, but her parents were not as clearheaded. The knowledge that Sophie’s handsome young man had a decent competence settled on him by his natural father in years past went a ways toward soothing their alarm, and the fact that he was in charge of his half brother’s estates was equally soothing. The casual information that a grandchild might be on the way seemed particularly pleasing to Mrs. de Quincey, once she had recovered from her swoon.
He had no right to be happy, no right at all. During his weeks in hiding, dressed in those damned skirts, his name had been cleared. With Lady Margery dead, the truth had died with her.
Phelan was leaving. Hannigan had disappeared into the forest once there was no hope for Juliette. No one would be able to find him, and in truth, no one cared. Whether Lord Harry’s death had been self-defense or murder, an accident or deliberate, it was done, and while Valerian mourned the selfish old man who’d brought such misery into the world, he knew it was time to let him rest in peace.
So Valerian had his unexpected happy ending. But there was no happy ending for him as long as Phelan was in torment.
Phelan had almost drowned himself, diving for Juliette’s body. It had finally taken all Valerian’s strength to haul him from the sea. “She’s dead, man!” he’d shouted. “She’s gone.”
And Phelan had made one last attempt at flattening him. Only to collapse on the sand, staring up at the bright sunshine, an expression so bleak and deathly on his face that it had broken Valerian’s heart.
Phelan had barely said a word since then. They’d made their way back to the house at Sutter’s Head, slowly, in silence, and then Phelan had disappeared into his rooms. An hour later he had reappeared, dressed for travel.
“I’m leaving,” he said in his cool, emotionless voice. “Romney Hall is yours to do with as you please. I’ve left a statement saying as much—you s
houldn’t have any trouble. You can tell everyone that Lady Margery died of the ague while she was visiting us. No one will doubt you, and no one will care. You are a great deal better liked than she ever was.”
“You can’t go, Phelan,” Valerian said desperately. “You can’t just—”
“I can. I wish you joy of your little bluestocking,” he said. “Make me lots of nieces and nephews.”
“Cousins,” Valerian said.
For a moment a spark of life glimmered in Phelan’s bleak gray eyes. “So they would be,” he murmured in belated surprise. “I hadn’t realized that.”
“You’re still the heir, you know,” Valerian said. “Since Lord Harry had no legal child, you’re still the next to inherit.”
“No,” Phelan said. “I never existed. I died in childbirth with my mother, Catherine, and I expect Lady Margery was never pregnant at all. That leaves you, brat. With my blessing.”
“But, Phelan …” Val protested.
“I hate the place. I hate this whole bloody country,” he said savagely. “I wish you joy of it. I’m leaving, and I don’t expect to be back for a very long time.”
“You can’t spend the rest of your life alone.”
“I don’t believe I will. Hannigan will catch up with me sooner or later. After a lifetime of watching over me, he’s not about to let go now.”
“Phelan, he’s a murderer. He killed Lord Harry, he knew that Juliette was in danger, and he said nothing. He’s a criminal, from a family of criminals.”
Phelan shrugged. “The loss of Lord Harry is no great disaster,” he said. “As for the other, we’ll have a reckoning. Sooner or later. In the meantime, I’m not going to let the sun rise over me on English soil, ever again.”
“But Juliette …” The words froze in Valerian’s mouth as he looked into Phelan’s face, and he knew there was nothing he could say. He was looking into the face of hell, and the memory would haunt him for the rest of his life.
And then Phelan put his arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Have a happy life, cousin,” he said.
“Brother,” Valerian corrected gruffly.
Phelan pulled back to look at him, and there wasn’t a glimmer of life in his eyes. “Brother,” he agreed.
Valerian wasn’t making any final effort now to talk him out of leaving. He was simply going to watch the ship sail, taking Phelan away from England, back to the places he loved so well. Maybe he’d find some sort of peace there. Valerian could only pray he would.
“Valerian!” A harsh whisper sounded from an alleyway.
He halted, turning to peer into the gathering gloom. He couldn’t see a soul, but once more the voice came, insistent, and he realized with shock that there was only one human being in this part of the world who knew his name.
He dove into the alleyway, colliding with Juliette’s small figure, flinging his arms around her, and hugging her so tightly she almost choked.
“Let go of me, you ox,” she cried. “Where in God’s name have you been?”
He held himself away, looking at her in surprise that finally brought the first trace of humor he’d felt in what seemed like a century. “Good God, Juliette! What have you got on?”
“One of your old dresses,” she snapped in return. “Why do you suppose I’ve been skulking around in alleyways? You didn’t leave a thing behind at Sutter’s Head. I was lucky I found this in the stable, revealing though it is.”
“The Hannigans must have cleared everything out. The Ramseys have disappeared forever. Juliette, we thought you were dead.”
“For heaven’s sake, why? I can swim,” she said crossly.
“Most women can’t.”
“I’m not most women.” She shivered in the cool evening air. “Where’s Phelan?” A sudden, horrifying thought crossed her mind. “He doesn’t think I drowned, does he?”
“What else could he think? You were gone, there was no trace of you,” Valerian said. “He’s on board a ship sailing for France.”
“Damn him, couldn’t he have waited to bury me?” she fumed. “Has he sailed yet?”
“In the next hour. You’ve got to go to him, Juliette.”
“Like this?”
He stared at her. To be sure, the outfit was indecent on her. On his strapping figure, the dress had an elegant décolleté. On her, the neckline sagged almost to her waist, and she only managed to retain a speck of modesty by clutching the loose folds in her hands. The yellow skirts pooled around her ankles, and if she tried to board the Sea Horse in that getup, she wouldn’t even get up the gangplank.
He looked at her, and knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth. “No,” said Valerian flatly. “I won’t do it. Never again.”
Juliette just looked at him. “I nearly drowned today,” she said sternly. “I’ve been kidnapped and almost murdered by a crazy old lady, and now I’ve been abandoned by the man who said he loved me right in front of everyone, and you have a few qualms about doing something you’ve done a thousand times before.”
“Hell and damnation,” Valerian said wearily, unbuttoning his shirt. “You’d better name your first child after me.”
Phelan sat alone in the darkness. They were about to weigh anchor, but for the first time in his life he felt no sense of adventure. He wanted the darkness, the numbness, and nothing else.
The cabin was large, but he’d barely noticed it. He sat on the bed, listening to the creak of the timbers, the splash of the sea against the sides of the ship as it moved into the harbor, the snap of the sails overhead, and there was no excitement in his heart. No life at all.
He did have a heart after all. He knew it now, accepted it. Cursed it.
He was starting to feel again. He’d ordered brandy, and the first mate had promised two bottles would arrive at his cabin the moment they left the harbor. Two bottles would be a start.
He heard the quiet rap on his door. He moved his head, looking out the porthole, watching as the lights of the town faded into the distance. “Leave it outside.”
The rap came again, more insistent, and he cursed. He’d locked the door, and he had no intention of opening it and facing anyone for a long, long time.
The sailor had the gall to jiggle the locked handle. Phelan surged off the bed, happy for the chance to hit someone, and he yanked open the door. “I told you—” he began, and then he broke off abruptly.
She was standing there, wearing Valerian’s male clothes. Her hair was stiff and matted from the salt water, and the huge clothes hung on her small body, but she was there, she was real, she was alive.
He didn’t dare move, staring at her in disbelief. “You lied to me,” he said, his voice harsh.
“Any number of times,” she agreed, watching him warily. “Which time were you referring to?”
“The note you left.”
“I didn’t want you to follow me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I loved you. And I thought I’d destroy you.”
“You’re an idiot,” he said.
“So are you,” she said, and her eyes were dark with fury. “I can swim, damn it.”
He hauled her into his arms, slamming the door shut behind them, pushing her up against the wall as his hands cupped her dear, lost face. “Of course you can,” he murmured dazedly. “I should have realized you can do anything.” And he laughed, kissing her wildly, holding her so tightly that she gave a breathless little squeak.
She put her hands up to touch his face, and he knew her fingers were wet with his tears. “Why, Phelan,” she said in wonder, “you’re human after all. You really do love me.”
And he proceeded to demonstrate just how much, as the Sea Horse bore them away from this demi-paradise, to a heaven all their own.
This is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living
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Published in Great Britain 2013
Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
© Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge 2013
eISBN: 978-1-472-01528-0
Anne Stuart, Shadow Dance (Mills & Boon M&B)
(Series: # )
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