2. CHAPTER 2
T he damn sea hated him. And the feeling was mutual.
Dalton braced a hand on the rail as the steam yacht bumped against the pier, the jolt running up his arm like a reminder that he was again on solid land — well, almost.
The gale had subsided, leaving behind a few tattered clouds over St. Peter Port, while the few remaining ragged gusts rocked the vessel in petulant aftershocks.
After two nights of hell, they had arrived at Guernsey's harbor.
The crossing should have taken little more than a day.
Instead, the Channel had risen in a fury that dragged the journey past forty-eight hours and into something that felt far longer.
As if the sea, after taking her from him, was now determined to keep him from reaching her.
Not bloody likely.
He had taken refuge below decks once the worst struck, the yacht pitching and heaving like a creature in its death throes.
Every groan of the timbers, every slam of the waves against the hull, had dragged him back to that other storm.
He had spent half the night gripping the edge of the bunk, jaw locked, refusing to let the memory take him.
At least Alfred had fared no better. Dalton had listened to every miserable bout of retching through the thin bulkhead and had felt nothing but grim satisfaction. He had hated the sea for years, but in that moment he hated Alfred more .
Now, at last, land. Somewhere on this island his wife lived. Hidden from him for seven long years.
He stared at the waterfront buildings rising in tiers up the hillside, as though he might spot her by sheer will alone. Seven years of silence, of anguish, of absence — and it ended today.
The sailors secured the lines, and the gangplank thudded down. Dalton shifted, patted the pistol in his pocket — loaded, primed, and kept ready since they had left London. He didn't know what Alfred intended, but he had prepared as best he could.
Footsteps behind him snagged his attention, and he turned just in time to see Alfred emerge from below decks, pale, unsteady, and greenish about the mouth. The man straightened his coat and tried to look composed, as though he had not spent the last day spilling his guts.
Dalton closed the distance in three strides.
"Let us go, Alfred." Low. Clipped. He jerked his chin toward the gangplank. "We have lost enough time. Where is she living?"
His cousin swallowed. "St. Saviour's Parish. Opposite side of the island."
Dalton entered the harbormaster's office, where he inquired about a carriage and was told the roads were near impassable. He didn't care. He got directions to a livery stable, hired two horses instead, and they rode out within the quarter hour.
The roads were as bad as warned. Mud flew up with every stride, splattering his boots and coat. They forded two swollen streams. By the second, he was soaked to the knees, and Alfred was listing in the saddle. Dalton didn't slow down.
And then, through a break in the hedgerows, the church spire.
It rose against the gray sky, and his chest tightened at the sight. St. Saviour's. The place where she lived. She had been here all along. So close, and yet she could have been a world apart.
Seven fucking years.
He should have searched harder. He was the Crown's own spymaster, for God's sake. If he had directed the full force of the service to find her instead of letting himself believe that further searching was useless, she would have returned home long ago. Safe. With him.
He kicked the horse forward. The church grew larger. He could make out the graveyard wall, the rectory beyond it — a modest stone house with smoke rising from the chimney.
Alfred had said she lived as a companion to the rector's mother. He swung down from the horse, kept Alfred at his side, and knocked.
A wiry old woman in a servant's uniform opened the door and frowned at the state of his clothing.
"May I help you, sirs?" she asked with a touch of impatience.
"You might." He used the tone that made grown men step back. "I am looking for the woman rescued from the sea seven years ago."
The maid raised her eyebrows but didn't budge. "And who might you be, sir?"
"I am the Duke of Dalton. The lady's husband."
The color drained from the maid's face. Her eyes went wide. "Husband, you say?"
"Yes. It is clear you are acquainted with the woman in question. Take me to her."
But she only shook her head — not in refusal, but more in disbelief. "We thought she had nobody. In seven years, not a soul came looking."
He bit down on his impatience. "I didn't know she was alive. It was only two days ago I learned where she was. Now, madam, take me to her at once."
He had a great deal to answer for. But he would be damned if he was going to stand on the street and explain himself to a servant.
"B-but I cannot, sir. I mean, Your Grace."
"Why not?" Cold spread down his back. Please God. Let her be safe.
"Because she is not here. You see, she is at the church. Getting married."
Getting married.
The words struck him like the clapper of a great bell, reverberating through his skull and down to his very bones. Or maybe that was the sound of real bells. Loud and jarring in the stillness of this village. He looked toward the church tower.
She could not be getting married. She was his. His wife. His Vivi.
Except she didn't know that. She didn't know him.
"Is she at this church here?" His own voice sounded distant.
"Y-yes. But the ceremony must be concluded by now — "
He was already running as he answered, more for his benefit than the servant's. "I don't give a damn. She is my wife. And God help the man who tries to stand in my way."