Page 3 of Undoubtedly Reckless (Rebel by Night #2)

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Roland had dreamed of Sabina last night. It was only natural to think of his valiant hostess since he had been boarding under her roof for two weeks. However, little things were beginning to intrude upon his everyday awareness. There was only so much housework he could occupy himself with before he was distracted by the way she hummed tunelessly as she cooked. He observed how fascinated she was by insects, letting the ants make their hill by the woodshed and holding the crickets for a moment before ushering them out of the cottage.

The hearth took little effort to clean out and he hoped to get the new bookshelves up before she returned. It would be better if he was pretending to sleep when she arrived. He enjoyed her too much and would rather not discomfort his rescuer with too keen of an interest.

Roland noticed that some days she smelled sweeter than others and he would find excuses to be near her. Perhaps she smuggled sugar biscuits in her pockets every few days.

Perhaps he had been months without a woman and had almost died. Surely that explained his attraction to Sabina. Roland had sailed half of the world. He had sampled some of the most beautiful and exotic women to be had. Sabina was a sheltered English schoolteacher, and unless he missed his guess, a virgin. Or perhaps not quite an English rose, he could see her skin would darken easily in the sun and her fine features had an exotic cast to them, perhaps from an Italian ancestor. He pondered the lines of her face often, almost as much as he savored her cooking.

Roland had responsibilities waiting for him, but he found excuses to stay. These days with Sabina had been utterly peaceful, a respite from the past nine years of seafaring.

The night before, it had been pleasant to sit by the edge of Hornsea Mere and fish without the weight of his mission and duties. He could simply fish for their supper. He had not had that simplicity since he left home and his family.

Sabina had told him she had some funds saved from her aunt and uncle, and that she always rationed during the school year to have monies for the summer, but he did not wish to impose more than necessary.

Additionally, he was beginning to tire of eggs. Sabina had killed a chicken for them early in the week and Roland had been absurdly ecstatic. He did not expect Sabina to buy him a beefsteak but the day he couldn’t catch a fish would be the day he died.

Roland was tired of hiding. He wanted sunshine on his face. Until he could have that, he would make do with giving Sabina bookshelves.

He was almost finished when he saw her walking down the dirt path to the cottage. Flaunting caution, Roland stepped outside to meet her.

He saw her eyebrow quirk and smiled at her. There were blackberries at the top of the basket, almost the color of her hair. Her sable strands escaped her pins and danced merrily in the breeze. She returned his grin, her face lighting up. His hands itched to tuck her curls behind her ears but that would be taking liberties. He gallantly took her basket instead.

“Look how beautiful you are,”

Roland said, quite forgetting himself. Sabina laughed at him and then quieted when she saw how serious he had grown. He saw something else in her face. “Did something happen?”

Sabina shook her head and continued to the cottage.

“It’s nothing of import, only the perils of living in a small vill—oh.”

Sabina stopped when she saw the shelves.

“They’re not done yet,”

Roland said and set the shopping basket on the table. “I need to finish the joints and then they’ll be quite stable.”

Roland could not read her face and he found himself waiting anxiously for her approval.

She turned to him and he was concerned by the tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,”

Sabina said quietly. “They are wonderful.”

Yet Roland could feel her sadness. Unaccountably troubled, he finished the shelves while she made dinner. She was fascinated by his endless supply of sea shanties so he sang her a song about a man called Salty Dick and mermaids and Irishmen’s boots. He stole glances at her delighted face as she listened to every word.

Poor fool he, to delight in something as simple as a woman’s smile.

****

Sabina made apple blackberry charlotte that evening, which went very well with the fish she fried, coated with crushed nuts. When Roland ate all the potatoes she had fried with onions, she mentally noted to double all portions when feeding him.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

Roland breathed prayerfully. She laughed.

“My nurse, well, she was my aunt, taught me a little. Surprisingly, my uncle taught me more. He was an academic but considered cookery akin to chemistry. Sometimes it could be alchemy,”

Sabina said, remembering happier times. She did not know how long she pondered her memories when she saw Roland observing her closely.

He liked to look at her. She liked being looked at, she had discovered.

“Why are you here?”

Roland asked. Sabina blinked and spooned more of the charlotte onto her plate.

“I cooked us supper and now I want to eat my pudding,”

Sabina said.

“In Hornsea. Why are you in Hornsea? You’re not from here, you’ve no family here. You’re clever, surely you don’t want to spend your life here,”

Roland said baldly. Sabina chose to take the compliment.

“I’m also poor. One requires funds to travel. Hornsea suits me quite well, Mr. Privateer. I have a purpose and a cottage here. And I like to be alone,” she said.

Roland looked at her quite seriously, as if he could read every one of her secrets. Here was danger, and she must be wise.

“I almost believed that,”

Roland said gently. “You would be a terrible card player.”

“I don’t gamble, for many reasons,”

Sabina said.

“That is neither here nor there. Have you thought about the Mere?”

Roland asked. Sabina paused at the change in subject.

“Was I supposed to have been?”

Sabina asked carefully.

“We agreed you could come to the Mere tonight, yes?”

Roland said. Sabina chuckled and almost choked on her pudding. She was the epitome of grace and elegance tonight.

“Nothing doing,”

Sabina admonished, and took a quick sip of her milk. “I don’t even know how to swim.”

Two hours later, in the bright moonlight, they crested a hill and saw Hornsea Mere in all its nocturnal glory. Sabina stopped stock-still, amazed. Hornsea Mere was otherworldly at night. The water shimmered and glowed under the full moon.

“Didn’t druids sacrifice virgins up here?”

Roland asked, breaking the spell.

“Oh, give over. In Hornsea?”

Sabina laughed, feeling light and she followed him down a hill to the shore. Roland led the way, having mastered the Mere after visiting once or twice before, and they settled on a dock. Sabina rarely came here and certainly not when the crickets were singing. “I thought you said virginity itself was fatal.”

“Only to knight errants. Druids would never sacrifice knights, but fair maidens, now. All maidens beware!”

Roland growled. Sabina laughed, and leaned back on her arms, enjoying the night breeze teasing the pins from her hair. Yes, every person should know how to fish.

****

Roland watched Sabina cast the line he baited for her, just as he had shown her after dinner. The moon illuminated the dock as clear as day, and he could see her sweet face.

“You don’t know how to swim, you don’t know how to fish. It’s a rather shite decision to live between the sea and a lake, ain’t it?”

Roland pointed out.

“It wasn’t my decision,”

Sabina said, turning her face to the moon. The moon leeched all color from her face and she glowed like a water nymph, tempting sailors to their doom. Roland shook his head at such fanciful notions.

“The water’s not deep here,”

Roland said. He would not push her. He had an idea of how stubborn she could be now and this was a woman who would not be harried. “I am, in fact, a sailor. I know how to swim. I could teach you.”

“Roland, how scandalous,”

Sabina admonished him.

“More scandalous than keeping a pirate as your man-of-all-work?”

“Now you’re a pirate?”

Sabina chortled.

“I am what the moment requires of me. You saved my life and you know not how to swim. What if you have need of the skill in the future?” he asked.

“If I never leave Hornsea, I will never need to swim. I have no plans for crossing oceans.”

“People make plans and the angels laugh at us.”

“You are not being very convincing.”

“Then I will stop and only say please. I would very much like to help you swim,”

Roland said humbly.

The night was quiet, very quiet, as Roland waited for her to finish thinking. Suddenly, she rose to her feet and began to undress. The ring she wore from a leather around her neck flashed briefly in the moonlight.

“How deep is the water?”

Sabina asked and he heard her gasp as he dove past her into the water. He had not been wearing boots and the coat. Everything else would dry in the summer night.

When Roland surfaced, he stood, the water rising to the top of his stomach. He hovered his palm over the water.

“About ye high,”

Roland said amiably, swiping water from his face. He paddled back and forth as she sat on the edge of the dock and dangled her feet in. Then he held out his hand to her, as gallant as a footman.

Roland saw her struggle with the decision, and when he was about to climb out of the water, she jumped. With barely a second to react, Roland caught and steadied her. She thrashed a bit and then settled, testing her weightlessness in the water with his arms around her.

Little by little, he loosened his grip, against his most ardent wishes. Sabina was lovely to hold, Roland had discovered. She fit perfectly against him. When he had caught her, he had felt something ephemeral, like a lock bolting into place or a sail lifting just right.

They played in the water for quite some time, Sabina’s laugh chiming quick and bright. She had never frolicked in the water before, which he found absurd for a woman who lived by the sea. Sabina explained that her aunt and uncle were elderly and her childhood was more focused on learning than play.

Roland judged that a childhood without play was no childhood at all and said so, earning himself a splash in the face. Then he tried to teach her how to float. As she struggled to relax against his hand, Roland started to sing a children’s version of “The Song of Roland.”

As he had hoped, Sabina focused on his song instead of the water and when he launched into the second verse, she was floating on her back with little support from him.

“That’s not old French,”

Sabina remarked when he took a breath, bobbing a little.

“You’re welcome, Sabina fair,”

Roland chuckled. “Old French is meant for punishment, not enjoyment, at least for me. Alas, I have not memorized the epic poem for you.”

“Is that a children’s song?”

Sabina asked.

“It is. It lacks grandeur, certainly, but one cannot fault a child for wanting the story told in three minutes. Now, try to kick your feet like this.”

Roland demonstrated with his hands. Sabina watched closely in the moonlight.

“It looks like you’re patting butter together with Scotch hands,”

Sabina remarked. She put her hands on his shoulders as she tried the kick, alternating her legs. “What am I doing?”

“Amazing me,”

Roland said facetiously. Sabina chuckled and lost her rhythm.

“Don’t make me laugh. I need to focus,”

she chided him.

“What are Scotch hands? Can I pat butter together with my English hands?”

Roland asked.

“Scotch hands are paddles you use to shape the butter after you’ve churned it. Indeed, Captain, you summarize chanson de gestes and cannot cook to save your life. One would think you were to the manor born,”

Sabina said absently. She did not seem to notice Roland stiffen. She was a clever one, do doubt. He would have to be more careful.

“You are treading water,”

Roland informed her. She looked at him doubtfully and he suddenly moved away from her. Sabina’s eyes widened and she kicked toward him, reaching out. Roland resisted the urge to pull her close by the waist and continued backing away from her at angles.

She grew quite adept at kicking forward and slicing through the water to chase him.

“Do be still. You said you would teach me, you lollpoop,”

Sabina cried as she gave chase.

“My work is done. You are swimming,”

Roland said. Sabina had a moment to grasp that she was indeed swimming before he gave in to his impulses and snatched her waist. He swung her into an aquatic country dance, one in which the partners hold each other closer than proper, and sang “Spanish Ladies”

at a lively tempo.

Roland swung Sabina through the water, watching her laugh in the moonlight. She closed her eyes and swayed to the music, leaning back so her long hair dragged through the water.

This was a memory he would take with him when he left, of the beautiful girl dancing in the water.

****

The next morning came too quickly. They had barely dried off and slept a few scant hours when the rooster crowed. Roland might yet seek out that rooster and present it to Sabina for supper. Remarkably, Sabina had popped up as any other morning, and set a steaming cup of coffee in front of Roland as he stared blearily at the worn table.

“Now, it’s your turn to cook the bacon,”

Sabina announced. Roland blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

he asked. She beckoned him and he came, because he was a fool for her bright face.

“This is a spatula.”

Sabina handed him the utensil. She pointed at the pan. “That is the bacon I procured for us yesterday, at great expense. If you don’t turn it soon, it will burn, and that money will have been wasted.”

Roland did so rapidly, splashing them both with a bit of grease.

“Why am I doing this?”

he asked, jumping a bit at grease splatters.

“Will you have someone else cook for you all your life?”

Sabina asked, wincing when grease caught on his arm.

“That was the goal, yes. Is it always this hazardous?”

Roland cast about for something, he knew not what. Sabina rescued him with a tea towel and blew on his grease burn.

“Cooking ought not maim you, no, but you seem to have a flair for the dramatic. Have you never done this before?”

Sabina asked.

“I have never cooked before,”

he admitted. Sabina had him flip the rest of the bacon and then firmly took the spatula away, having decided a full stomach was more important than imparting knowledge.

“I am astonished, quite. I would have never guessed this was the first time you have cooked bacon,”

Sabina teased.

Roland watched her cooking oatcakes and let his mind empty of thoughts until all that was left was a humming woman with pale hazel eyes and shining, sable hair.

“You only ever lived here with your uncle and aunt?”

Roland asked

“Yes. They were wonderful. I miss them so.”

“Ah, so you’re used to being spoiled.”

“No, I’m used to being loved,”

Sabina said, not smiling. She filled an oatcake with the previous night’s potatoes, onion, and bits of cheese, then folded it gently. She filled another oatcake with macerated blackberries and stewed apples. Roland enjoyed watching her competence, but was more eager for the products of her aptitude.

What kind of life had this woman led, that she should be so capable? Her accent, her face, the trivial facts she sometimes let slip, let him know this woman who was once cared for so well and drank chocolate in the morning was born to better circumstances than the one in which she was living. She must have been a rich aristocrat’s bastard. Sabina deftly cut the oatcakes and flipped large portions onto Roland’s plate.

“What would your uncle say if he saw us now?”

Roland asked idly. She grinned at him.

“My uncle used to say, teach a man to fish so you won’t have to fish for him. That’s not the exact proverb but he was very keen on transliterating if needed,”

she said as she deftly fried thin oatcakes on another griddle. “He would also say that the only person one has responsibility to is oneself. Live your life and know that you will live with the consequences.”

“Would Uncle Galfrid have saved my life?”

Roland asked, pouring golden syrup over both his savory and his sweet oatcake.

“He would have indeed. I was not raised to let a man die, Roland. Though I may murder you now. What you’re doing is a travesty,”

Sabina said indicating Roland’s plate in mock-horror.

“Ah, then you have not tried it,”

Roland said, and forked a piece into his mouth. He groaned ecstatically. “You will be the ruin of me.”

She laughed, as he intended, and they ate in amiable silence. Roland wondered what excuse he would invent to stay today. Perhaps he could fix the kettle hook, which swayed drunkenly when it came to boil.

“Miss Elden, that was a glorious breakfast,”

Roland said, leaning back from his very clean plate.

Sabina refilled his mug before tending to her bread dough. Roland adored her bread. The smell of it, the taste of it straight from the oven, this was heaven if he had ever stopped to contemplate such a notion.

Sabina requested the song about the drunken sailor as she worked the dough. He obliged, and she was only slightly chagrined when Roland gave her yet a different version.

He finished his coffee and contemplated what task to complete for her today. Perhaps he would restring her bed, it seemed to be sagging.

Roland frowned and sniffed. Something was burning. It was not the bread Sabina had put in the oven. This was different, and he felt the clench in his gut that always forewarned him of danger. Then he saw the smoke slinking around the front door.

The house was on fire.