Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
It was no use. Hiding up here was ridiculous, Helena told herself, and eventually she simply would have to go downstairs.
The little clock that had been her mother’s chimed beside her bed. It was ten o’clock. There was no putting it off any longer.
“Bonjour,” was the word accompanied with the beaming smile of Pierre d'épilucon as she stepped into the parlour. “And what a beautiful day it is too!”
Helena blinked. It was as though a newly instructed butler had whirled through the room in an attempt to impress his new master…
but had not done a particularly good job of it.
The blanket had been badly folded and placed underneath the sofa, which had been brushed down but with a mop, by the look of it.
There were wet streaks across the cotton.
The floor was spotless, but there was a vase missing, and if the sharps of fractured glass were any indication, it had been broken. However, someone had been resourceful with the flowers that had been picked from her garden, and placed them in a new jug. Which was a saucepan.
The entire room gave a picture of a person, and Helena could not help but smile as she thought of who, desperate to make a good impression but with no idea of how do to it.
“Voila!” Pierre was standing by the kitchen door, erect, tall, and proud. “You like? I am not sure what your favourite flowers are, mademoiselle, but as there were so many roses in your garden, I thought – ”
“Yes,” she murmured, stepping into the room and smiling at the pile of mending that had been shoved behind the sofa to hide it – not, presumably, part of the décor. “Thank you.”
He watched her as she examined the room, and she did not need to see him to know that he was two things: perfectly healthy, and undressing her with his gaze.
“And now all that remains is to see my boat,” Pierre was saying. “Will you accompany me, mademoiselle Helena? I must see how damaged it is.”
“I warn you,” she said quietly, picking up her shawl to wrap around her shoulders and around the collar of her gown. “It is unlikely to ever be seaworthy again.”
He shrugged, and something in her stomach twisted to see that nonchalant movement. “It is, it is not, we will see.”
They were greeted, as they stepped outside, with a warm breeze, warmer than Helena would have expected this springtime. It ruffled her hair, but it did not cool her.
“‘Tis a strange, changeable weather we are having,” she murmured.
“Here, let me take,” Pierre began, reaching out for her hand.
But Helena was too quick for him; slipping deftly to the side, in complete control, she laughed at his surprise.
“I have spent many a year walking on these stones,” she smiled, watching the Frenchman struggle with his footing. “‘Tis no surprise that I have got the better of it than you.”
That she was better – more nimble, almost spritely – was impossible to deny.
Helena giggled as Pierre slipped and slid over the wet stones of the beach, wincing at the tug in his healing leg, and though he did not see the joke at first, he could not help but laugh at the delicate way that she walked, while he crashed alongside her.
“I will admit, I am impressed,” he said, throwing her a smile. “Your athleticism, it is most impressive.”
For a moment, she thought he was laughing at her; but as she turned her head, and gazed at him, she saw nothing but sincerity.
“Well, it is what I do,” she said, smiling back at him. “I tend to and heal the sailors and fisherman that get thrown back onto shore, and sometimes that makes them very difficult to reach. You have to be nimble, and not mind the sharpness of some of the stones.”
She felt, rather than saw his gaze drop down.
“You are not wearing any shoes!”
Helena laughed. “You feel the movement of the stones, their strength or slipperiness, far better without shoes. I have grown accustomed to walking barefoot on my beach.”
“Oh, ‘tis your beach, is it?”
They laughed together, and Helena felt joy surge through her. This – whatever this was – was wonderful. He was always making her laugh, putting a smile on her face. If only he could make her laugh for the rest of her –
Helena shook herself. She should not think like that.
“So you are a rescuer,” Pierre said softly as his shipwrecked boat came into view. “And I can tell you, mademoiselle Helena, that no matter what choppy waters you have found in my soul, you have certainly rescued me.”
She coloured, and was silent, but the warmth that was stirring up in her was starting to make her heart ache. She wanted him to kiss her; to kiss her like he had done at the top of the stairs just hours before.
Did she have the bravery – or perhaps, the stupidity to kiss him?
“Ah, it looks much worse than I had thought.” Pierre’s voice interrupted her thoughts as his despondency showed.
Helena took a close look, and had to agree.
“Without your mast, you cannot sail in her again – I am surprised that you were able to come this far. Your stern has buckled, that will need a repair, and,” ducking around him to check the rear of the boat, “yes, ‘tis as I thought. Your rudder is heavily damaged, that will need to be replaced, not repaired.”
She stood up again, and smiled at the astonished look on Pierre’s handsome face.
“You…you know so much,” he said, shaking his head. “I will have to learn not to underestimate you in future.”
Future? Helena wanted to ask, but could not bring herself to. Does that mean you will stay here? Stay with me?
Instead, she said, “The damage is not too severe inside, though there is little of it, I suppose, to even be damaged.”
Though it was tilted slightly to one side, it only took a hefty push from Helena to right it, nestled as it was by the sand and stones on each side. She stepped into it, and turned to smile at Pierre.
“We will have you shipshape in no time.”
But Pierre was not smiling. He was looking at her with such seriousness, such a fierceness, that she gasped.
“I would happily live every day with you,” he said in a low voice, heavy with emotion, “if it meant I could see you smile like that each of those days.”
Helena’s heart swelled: so captivated by his words, and his meaning – he wanted to stay with her, he was going to stay – that her foot slipped on the hull of the boat.
Strong arms caught her, and she gasped at the intensity of his hold. She nestled into that strength, her footing found but her heart cast off and lost in the swirling gale of emotions.
The desire to kiss him was starting to overwhelm her, and she stared up into Pierre’s eyes that were staring down at her with equally matched passion.
“I will not,” he whispered in a heavy tone, “do anything that you do not want me to do, Helene.”
Helena smiled, pushed up on her toes, and kissed him full on the mouth.
And she almost cried out against his lips at the hot sensations that ran through her body as she made contact with him, so immediate was the response to his touch.
Perhaps it was because he kissed her back with even more ardour; perhaps it was because she was barely aware of where she was standing, how she was standing, if she was standing.
The arms that had just recently been holding her upright were now tightening their grip on her, as though she was the only anchor in a storm, and Pierre’s lips were forceful on hers but with passion.
Helena opened her lips and allowed him entrance into her mouth, and almost cried out again as his tongue gently caressed her own. Her hands were clutching his chest and she could feel his hastily beating heart through the thin shirt he was wearing.
“Oh, Helene,” Pierre murmured in a dark voice as he broke away from her, staring at her with such fiery eyes that something deep within her melted.
“Pierre,” she gasped, breathless, heart racing, giddy with lust, ready to give her all to him but unsure what that even meant. “I-I want – Pierre, I want – ”
“I know,” he said with a smile, and it was filled with such passion that Helena felt a warmth creep between her legs. “Come here.”
The remains of the sail were pooled at the bottom of the little boat, and in one swift movement Pierre removed his shirt and laid it down as a pillow.
Helena barely noticed what he was doing: the sight of his bare chest made her breasts ache, and she wanted to touch him, for him to touch her, to caress her, to kiss her – she had never felt this wanton, never wanted a man like this in her life.
“Lie here,” Pierre said jaggedly, as though struggling for breath.
Helena obeyed, lying on the sail with her head resting on his shirt. It smelt of his musky smell, and the ache in her stomach clenched tighter.
“I want you,” she said simply, reaching out for him, lips aquiver and eyes pooled with desire.
If she had expected him to try and resist her, she was wrong.
Uttering a low groan and her name, Pierre descended to her, covering her body with his own, kissing her frantically as his hurried hands clutched at her hips.
She did gasp in his mouth this time as the heat building between her legs caused her unconsciously to spread them, allowing him closer to her as he became entangled with her.
There seemed to be too many clothes in the way, Helena thought wildly as he began to kiss her neck, and there was a tug at the ribbon at the front of her gown, and it was open, and her breasts, swollen with lust and the fever of love, fell out.
There was no time for shame or embarrassment: the moment that she was aware of being exposed, Pierre dipped his head and took a nipple in his mouth.
Her whole body convulsed at the pleasure that shot through her body and she whimpered, “Pierre!”
This only seemed to drive on onwards, as his hand reached her other breast and caressed it, as his left hand remained on her hip, squeezing it, lifting it up so that the hardness she could feel between her legs rubbed against her.