Chapter Twenty-Four
F og blanketed the harbor, muffling the cries of the gulls and the creak of the rigging. Lynsley turned from the misted windowpanes and finished dressing. The scent of the fresh starch was crisp against his just-shaven jaw. New clothes for a new day . Bailin had, as usual, been efficient in packing for their flight.
His shirt and cravat from the previous night were folded away at the bottom of his traveling valise. Mementos of madness? His hands clenched for an instant, recalling their desperate, delirious lovemaking.
Would her perfume linger in the linen? Could he keep them hidden in some private place, to sneak a sniff of her when solitude threatened to squeeze the air from his lungs?
A gust rattled the casement, stale with astench of salty decay. Dawn was breaking. The tide was ebbing.
Time to go.
Valencia, her back to him, was slipping the final hairpins into her coiled curls. He moved around the bed, his gaze avoiding the tangled sheets, and tied off the last few fastenings of her gown. As he smoothed the collar into place, he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. She tasted of salt and spice.
Neither of them spoke.
Taking up their bags, he shouldered the door open and shuffled down the stairs. A strange sense of sadness weighed his steps. It took a moment or two to realize he felt slightly ashamed of himself.
He wondered why. After all, he lived his life in a world of moral ambiguity. The lines between right and wrong were so easily blurred. His mouth pressed in a self-mocking grimace. Oh yes, the exalted Marquess of Lynsley was an acknowledged master of justifying his own actions. Noble ideals, righteous principles. All was fair in pursuit of the higher good.
But no matter how cleverly he twisted and turned, there was no getting around the fact that his actions last night had been terribly selfish.
What did Valencia think of their lovemaking?
The Academy— his Academy—taught the girls to view sex dispassionately. A basic human need, like eating and sleeping. Satisfying such urges had nothing to do with right or wrong—it was simply a fact of life. Had she bedded him in body only?
His jaw clenched, so hard he feared his teeth might crack.
There was no denying the chemistry between them. It was explosive—a fiery force far more powerful than the mad scientist’s secret weapon. And like those unquenchable tongues of flame, the conflagration was impossible to extinguish, now that the elements had been unlocked from their containers and stirred together.
Its potent passion had left him singed to the very core.
But they had never talked about their feelings. He had discouraged any discussion of emotion. One must be detached and dispassionate during a mission. Now his own words were coming back to haunt him.
“Mr. Bingham?” A gravelly voice dragged him back to the moment
Lynsley turned, feeling even more like a stranger in his own skin.
The Lord of Lies. He forced a poker face to mask his inner turmoil. “Yes. I’m Bingham.”
“Samuels. Quartermaster of the brig Sea Witch.” The sailor wasted no time in pleasantries. “Please come along with me. We’ll be ready to cast off within a quarter hour.” He glanced at the two valises in Lynsley’s hand. “Have you and your wife any other baggage?”
“No. The rest of our things will be shipped later,” replied the marquess. In truth, the fancy gowns and elegant evening clothes would likely end up among the spoils of war, unless the American delegation managed to reclaim Tobias Daggett’s possessions. A pity—Valencia had looked beautiful in the Parisian satins and silks that he had purchased.
“Good. We are crowded enough with cargo as it is,” said Samuels. “This way.”
Lynsley gestured for Valencia to go first. He brought up the rear as they cut through the tangle of cordage and fishing nets lining the docks, trying not to watch the sway of her hips. Trying notto imagine what lay beneath the layers of wool and lace. Impossible. The picture of her naked body would be indelibly imprinted in his mind’s eye forever.
“Mr. Bingham.” The captain of the brig stood at the head of the gangplank, consulting the manifest sheet. “We were beginning to wonder whether we would have to sail without you.” A curt nod acknowledged Valencia. “Ma’am. I regret to say that your quarters are rather cramped. We are not in the habit of taking passengers.”
“Thank you for making an exception,” she replied. “Please don’t apologize. We are quite used to traveling under adverse conditions.”
“Excellent.” The captain eyed the pennant flapping atop the mizzen mast. “The wind is rising. It’s best you go below while we get the ship underway.”
Below. Locked in a dark, dank cubbyhole deep in the bowels of the ship. Lynsley felt his lips twitch in irony as he descended the ladder. The situation couldn’t be more apt, considering his current state of mind.
Valencia watched Lynsley light the binnacled lamp and open his document case. The papers, already damp with salt, shuffled with a limp whisper. He placed pen and ink beside them on the narrow chart table.
“Whitehall will want a full report,” he murmured. “Though I’ll likely be accused of writing a horrid novel.”
“I doubt anyone would dare accuse you of any such flight of fancy.” She meant to use humor to defuse the tension in the air. But a strange, smoldering spark seemed to darken his eyes. A frown furrowed his brow as he looked down and began to sharpen his quill.
Valencia took a book from her reticule—she had purchased a copy of Aesop’s Fables during the journey to the coast—and opened the pages. Her eyes, however, kept straying from the printing to his profile. It was hard to read his expression in the oily light. That solemn, serious Sphinx face. An outward calm etched in stone.
Hell. She knew he was not impervious to feelings. Thomas was a passionate man, fiercely tender, sweetly sensual, when he allowed his true self to show.
Yet he seemed almost embarrassed since waking. Had her own wild need shocked him. Disgusted him? How else to explain his oblique gaze. Why, he hadn’t yet looked her full in the face.
She bit back an exasperated sigh. As they had passed by the harbor’s edge, low tide had revealed a multitude of mollusks in the mud. Lynsley reminded her of a hermit crab, scuttling into the recesses of his shell.
A creature wholly unto itself.
Footsteps pounded across the deck overhead. Canvas cracked, sharp as the sound of cannonfire, and the hull lurched forward as the crew cast off the mooring lines. The final leg of the journey would last just a few more hours. The ship would divert to Dover, and from there, Lynsley would head to London. While she would seek passage back to the isle of Sark.
They both should feel a sense of great satisfaction. The job was done.
She sat in shadowed silence, the scratch of Lynsley’s pen and the whisper of her pages the only stirring between them. Serpentine swirls of smoke clouded the airless cabin. A damp chill curled up from the bilge.
Her throat suddenly constricted, and she felt as if she couldn’t breath.
Setting aside her book, she quietly slipped out the cabin door and made her way topside.
On the quarterdeck, the captain was busy barking orders to the helmsman, and aloft, the men were busy trimming the sails. The ship heeled as it headed out to open sea, leaving a trail of wind-whipped foam in its wake. Wishing to be alone, Valencia crept past the forecastle hatchway and found a sliver of deserted space near the bow of the ship. She laced her fingers in the shrouds and lifted her face to the gusting breeze. The ocean was choppy, its leaden hue mirrored the line of squalls hovering on the horizon. Salt spray stung her cheeks.
Or was it her own tears?
Merlins never cried, she reminded herself.
Never. Ever. They suffered pain and hardship in stoic silence.
But in the next instant a sob slipped from her lips as all her years of training came undone.
Valencia clung to the to rail, her nails digging at the varnished oak to keep from sinking to deck. And from there, to despair.
By the morrow, she would be headed home, back to her isolated island and lonely little cottage, surrounded by windswept rock, gnarled forest and farmland.
While Lynsley returned to London.
To a host of glittering balls and routs, a crowd of polished ladies and gentlemen. A world of wealth and privilege. There was so much there to keep him busy. The experiences they had shared would quickly fade, and become just another one of his adventurous tales.
And some day, a lady of his own class would convince him to do his duty to family and tradition. They would share a home, companionship . . . and children.
Valencia hated her already.
“Valencia.”
Strong hands were suddenly steadying her shoulders. She tried to spin away, but Lynsley enfolded her in his arms and hugged her close. Too close. The scent of bay rum and his male musk was overwhelming.
And suddenly all her Merlin training took flight, leaving her just a woman who had been foolish enough to fall head-over-heels in love.
“Valkyrie, what’s wrong?”
What possible answer was there to give?
“Your leg—is it in pain?”
No, my heart is breaking into a thousand little pieces. Stifling her sobs in his shirt, she shook her head.
“Tell me.”
Over and over, he asked, then finally fell silent and just held her tight, his hand stroking over her wind tangled hair. Oh, if only she could stay burrowed in his warmth, and never have to face reality. But no Merlin with a magic wand was going to sweep down from the heavens and grant such a wish.
“Sorry,” she whispered, when at least her tears were spent.
“Valencia, please tell me what’s wrong.”
Again she shook her head..
Lynsley tilted her chin up. “You must. There should be no secrets between us.”
“D—don’t ask, Thomas. All I have is my pride. Strip that away and I am not sure I could bear it.”
He framed her face, his broad palms full of warmth. “You have me, Val. I won’t let you fall.”
At his touch, his piercing gaze, she no longer cared about pride, about anything other than honesty
“Oh, Thomas, I shall strip away my defenses then. I was thinking of the future.”
He seemed to hold his breath.
“Of sitting in my cottage, staring out at the empty seas. Of serving brandy and beer to my neighbors, then trudging home at night to a cold hearth and empty bed.”
He pressed his fingertips to her cheek. “Valencia . . .” he began.
“No, let me go on, while I have the courage to speak,” she cried. “I was also thinking of you returning to London. To the glittering ballrooms, the gaiety, and the glamour. The ladies and all the luxuries of Town life. Your friends, your family. The social swirl will soon dull the memory of this interlude for you. But not for me.”
Her voice cracked. “After the past, I thought I was tough enough to parry any attack. But love is far sharper than steel.”
She saw a strange light flood his eyes.
“It cuts deeper than muscle and sinew. It cuts to the heart. You wish for there to be no secrets between us? Very well— I . . . I love you. More than I can say. Not that it matters. I?—”
Her halting words we cut off by his lips. A gentle kiss, a whisper of breath warm on her cheek.
“What you describe of my London life would not dull this interlude, it will only make your absence from my life sharper. My valiant Valkyrie, you think my heart is untouched? Like you, I have been staring at the sea, trying to imagine a world without you in it. All I see is an endless stretch of grey.
Her heart gave a lurch.
He smiled. “There is, you know, a simple solution?—”
“I thought of it,” she interrupted. “I was so desperate I considered suggesting it myself.” Blinked the pearls of tears of her lashes. “It is very so tempting, Thomas. But I fear that becoming your mistress would end up making us both unhappy.”
“Mistress?” He frowned, then slowly his lips quirked up. “I told you. I already have one mistress.”
She gave an involuntary gasp.
“My work,” he added quickly after pressing a kiss to her brow. “Valencia, I am not asking you to be my ladybird. I am asking you to be my wife.”
“Impossible,” she blurted out.
“Why?” he asked.
“You know damn well why. You are a powerful lord and I am a . . . nameless nobody. Society would swoon to hear you have legshackled yourself to such a person. There will be too many questions, too many titters. Such nasty scandal would intrude on your work. As for your family, they will likely think you have gone stark, raving mad.
“You forget, I am very good at deflecting questions. You are the only one in the world who matters to me, Val. And since when have you known me to care about convention? Society can go to the devil.” He hugged her close, enveloping her in his warmth. “We shall weather any gossip, my love, and Society will soon move on to fresh scandal.”
Hope flared in her breast.
“There is just one thing.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“You will have to put up with my odd hours and sudden disappearances. I may be getting on in years, but I am not quite ready to retire.”
“I think I can agree to that,” she whispered. Slowly running a hand along the line of his jaw. “However, I must insist on a joint command. My training makes it difficult to submit to orders. Is that a problem?
“Is that a yes?”
It took less than a heartbeat to answer.
“Yes.”
Thunder rumbled from the ominous clouds hovering on the horizon, drowning her murmur.
“Yes!” she shouted, tears mingling with raindrops. Sweet and salt. Holding him tightly, she watched the distant flashes of lightning illuminate the horizon. The future looked brighter than she had ever imagined.
Blinking away the droplets, she kissed him . . .
A large wave shuddered the deck, throwing them up against the rail. “Damn,” murmured Lynsley, his lips feathering against her damp hair. “Not another cursed ocean squall. I must say, I am getting heartily sick of turbulent seas.”
“Not me. “ Lifting her face to the wind and rain, Valencia let out a whoop of joy. “I shall always adore the sight of stormclouds and wine dark seas.”
“You must be drunk with love.”
“I am!”
“Ah, well, in that case, kiss me again. And again.” It was some moments before his lips raised from hers. “I suppose I can learn to like an Atlantic gale. Just so long as I always have you to bring me back to life.”