Chapter 6 #2
“Miss Bigsby, please,” he shouted over the shrieking wind. “I know this seems frightening, but you must trust me. I will not allow any harm to come to you.”
Henri’s response was a renewed struggle that nearly sent them both tumbling onto the slick, uneven ground.
His arms tightened around her, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he fought to maintain his footing on the slippery shingle, wet with spray and treacherous with hidden rocks.
She caught a glimpse of a weathered man leading their carriage and horses away into the darkness, the animals’ breath steaming in the cold night air, presumably to return both vehicle and team to whatever inn or stable Lord Trenwith had arranged.
The efficiency of the operation suggested it had all been planned in advance.
As they neared the edge of the cove, Henri heard a voice raised in anger. A stocky man with graying hair and wind-beaten features stood in a small boat that bobbed and bumped against the rocks, gesticulating furiously and shouting in rapid French.
“What are you doing?” the captain demanded, cutting sharply across the wind. “You told me nothing about a woman!”
Lord Trenwith replied in French, his tone calm but unyielding. Henri caught enough of the exchange to understand that the captain was furious about her presence and the delay it had caused.
“We are late,” the captain snapped in French. “The tide is already turning. We should have left an hour ago.”
“Then we must leave now,” the viscount called back firmly, shifting her weight in his arms. Henri twisted violently, trying to break free, but he merely tightened his hold with grim determination.
Without waiting for further argument, he stepped into the freezing shallows, icy water swirling around his boots and soaking the hem of his coat.
Salt spray lashed them both in punishing gusts, and Henri gasped as freezing droplets struck her face and neck to send a convulsive shiver down her spine.
She realized abruptly that Lord Trenwith must be just as cold.
She felt the tremor that rippled through his body where it pressed against hers, his coat already heavy and sodden with seawater, the wind tearing at his hair and clothes without mercy.
Yet he did not hesitate. He did not slow.
His grip was secure, even protective, and his jaw was set in a hard, determined line as he trudged forward against the pull of the waves.
He splashed through the water to the waiting small boat, shifting her higher in his arms to keep her dry.
“Captain Joubert, I apologize for the delay,” he called evenly over Henri’s head, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather rather than restraining a furious woman while raising his voice in the damp flurry of turbulent air. “Circumstances required … flexibility.”
Captain Joubert muttered something uncomplimentary in French about being discovered, but he finally gestured for them to board, shaking his head in irritation.
Lord Trenwith did not wait for further argument.
He shifted her in his arms and stepped into the swaying boat, placing her firmly onto one of the narrow benches before settling down beside her, boots dripping and coat heavy with seawater.
Silently, without meeting her eyes, he removed the gag from her mouth and the cords from her wrists.
They pushed off immediately, oars biting into the black water with harsh, rhythmic splashes.
Salt spray stung her face, and she wrapped her aching arms around herself, shivering violently in her cloak, which was miraculously mostly dry due to his efforts to keep her above the splash of the waves.
Lord Trenwith sat close beside her, his breathing harsh with effort, water streaming from his lower half to pool around his sodden boots in the bottom of the boat.
When they reached the sloop’s side, crewmen hauled them aboard with hurried, rough efficiency.
Henri stumbled as the deck pitched underfoot, her shoes slipping on the wet planks.
Lord Trenwith’s grip on her arm steadied her just long enough for him to steer her toward the companionway.
Captain Joubert barked orders behind them, clearly eager to be underway.
Lord Trenwith guided her below into a small dimly lit cabin, the lantern swaying wildly on its hook with each heave of the ship.
He urged her onto a narrow bunk and immediately the oilskin bundle from his overcoat pocket.
She watched in frozen silence as he carefully unwrapped the manuscript and sketch to check them, his fingers steady as he rewrapped them despite the pitch and roll of the vessel.
He stowed them securely in what appeared to be a waterproof chest, snapping it shut with decisive finality.
Without pausing, he began to peel off his drenched coat, the fabric making a wet, sucking sound as he forced it from his arms. Henri blinked, startled, then quickly turned her face away, her cheeks burning with mortification as she realized he was shedding his soaked garments.
But not before she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders, rippling muscles, and a sandy brown dusting of curling hair over his powerful chest, which caused an unexpected stirring of curiosity.
She heard the thud of boots hitting the deck and the rustle of linen and wool as he changed.
Henri kept her gaze fixed firmly on the bulkhead, despite her impulse to glance back, watching instead the long shadows cast by the flickering lamplight across the cramped cabin.
Heat prickled in her ears despite the chill that clung to her shivering form, and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself, determined not to turn and look.
This might be the closest she had ever been to a naked man, but she would resist the urge to peek if it killed her.
Behind her, she heard the sound of dry clothes being pulled on with brisk, impatient motions.
At last, he spoke from just behind her shoulder, rough but steadier. “You may turn around now, Miss Bigsby. I am decent.”
Henri barely nodded in response, having become wretchedly seasick from the listing of the boat.
The bile rose in her tight throat, made worse by the dryness from having been gagged for so long and thus preventing her from voiding her stomach properly.
She began to choke, panic flooding through her as she struggled to breathe around her body’s rebellion.
Lord Trenwith was beside her instantly. “Easy,” he murmured, supporting her as she leaned over a basin he had somehow procured. “Let it come, Miss Bigsby. Fighting it will only make you feel worse.”
Henri was too miserable to appreciate the irony of receiving comfort from her captor.
She retched violently into the basin, her body shaking with the force of her illness, and found herself grateful for Lord Trenwith’s steady presence.
His hand rubbed soothing circles on her back, and he held her hair away from her face with surprising tenderness.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly as her stomach finally began to settle. “I had hoped we might make a calmer crossing.”
Henri wiped her mouth with the cloth he offered, trying to muster the energy for renewed anger. But exhaustion and illness had drained her reserves, and she found herself slumping against him despite her best intentions.
“Where are you taking me?” she whispered, barely audible over the sound of waves against the hull.
Lord Trenwith’s arms came around her, drawing her more securely against his chest. She felt his lips brush against her hair, the touch so fleeting she might have imagined it.
“To France,” he admitted quietly. “But only temporarily, Miss Bigsby. I promise you will return to England soon.”
“France?” Henri tried to pull away, but her weakened state made resistance impossible. “Lord Trenwith, you cannot mean to … This is lunacy. Why France?”
“Because it is the only place where certain matters can be resolved,” he replied, his breath warm against her ear. “You will be safe while I complete what I came to do.”
Henri wanted to demand more answers, to rail against his high-handed treatment of her, but another wave of nausea swept over her. She found herself clinging to Lord Trenwith’s coat, using his solid presence as an anchor against the relentless motion.
“Breathe slowly,” he murmured, low and rumbling. “Focus on something steady. The sound of my voice, perhaps.”
Despite everything—the kidnapping, the restraints, the terrifying ride to an unknown destination—Henri found his presence oddly comforting. There was something infinitely reassuring about his calm competence, the way he anticipated her needs before she was even aware of them herself.
“I do not understand any of this,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I know.” His hand moved to stroke her hair, the gesture tender. “And I am sorrier for that than you can possibly know. But I swear to you, Miss Bigsby, upon my honor as a gentleman, that no harm will come to you while you are in my care.”
Henri closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink into the unexpected comfort of his embrace. She could feel the vessel pitching and rolling as it fought its way through rough seas, but wrapped in Lord Trenwith’s arms, she felt oddly secure.
It made no sense. He had kidnapped her, transported her against her will, and was now taking her to a foreign country for reasons he refused to explain. By all rights, she should be terrified of him, should be fighting with every breath to escape his hold.
Instead, she found herself thinking of the way he had rescued her from that armed man in Sir Alpheus’s library. The careful consideration he had shown even while binding her wrists. The gentle way he tended to her illness, as if her comfort mattered to him despite the circumstances.
Lord Trenwith was many things. High-handed, secretive, infuriatingly controlled. But Henri knew that he was not, at heart, a villain. Which only made her situation more confusing.
As the ship carried them through the storm-tossed Channel toward France, Henri allowed herself to rest in the arms of the man who had turned her life upside down. Tomorrow, she would demand answers. Tomorrow, she would find a way to assert some control over her fate.
Tonight, seasick and exhausted and more confused than she had ever been in her life, she simply held on and tried to trust in Lord Trenwith’s promise that he would see her safely home.
Alaric Devayne was a victim of his own obsessions. He slept poorly, ate too little, and attacked his interests with such fervor that it verged on a madness, a disease of the soul for which he would have been well-advised to take a long and brisk constitutional to pay his surroundings some mind.
Obsession was why, from a rocky outcropping above the cove, he watched the dark vessel slip away into the storm-lashed night. The wind whipped his coat around him as he strained his eyes to follow the ship’s lanterns until they disappeared entirely into the churning darkness of the Channel.
He had followed them from Danbury’s estate, keeping well back on the muddy roads until the storm had forced him to seek shelter at a wayside inn.
Rather than reveal himself to the other travelers, he had bedded down in the stables with his horse, wrapped in his greatcoat and listening to the wind howl through the night.
When dawn broke clear, he had ridden as hard as he dared to pick up their trail again, eventually finding the wheel ruts in the softening snow.
The pursuit had been arduous, but his determination had been rewarded when he had spotted their vehicle making its way down the steep path to this secluded cove.
What he had witnessed from his hidden vantage left him deeply unsettled.
The woman had clearly been struggling against the man, fighting him with desperate energy as he carried her aboard the vessel.
Her hands had appeared to be bound, though the darkness and distance made it difficult to be certain.
Alaric frowned, trying to piece together what he had observed.
The man had rescued the woman from his attack in the library yet now appeared to be taking her against her will.
Why save her only to kidnap her? The manuscript was valuable, certainly, but why take the woman from England altogether?
There had to be more at stake, some larger game being played that he could not yet comprehend.
The proximity to Dover gave him hope. If they were using this cove for their crossing, they might well return the same way. Smugglers were creatures of habit, preferring routes they knew to be safe from the revenue officers.
Alaric made his decision quickly. He would ride to Dover and establish himself near the docks, watching for any sign of their return.
A few coins in the right hands would secure him information about unusual arrivals.
Perhaps he could even find a local boy to keep watch on this particular cove, someone who knew the tides and could alert him to any nighttime activity.
The manuscript was still within his reach, but now his curiosity extended far beyond the ancient text. Whatever the man was truly after, whatever had driven him to such desperate measures, Alaric intended to discover it.
He had no choice but to be patient. But patience, he reflected grimly as he made his way back to his horse, had always been one of his particular strengths.