Chapter Twelve #3
They waited. Minutes passed—long, tense minutes in which every distant sound seemed magnified, every shift of wind suspect. The guard tower loomed to one side, its faint light sweeping intermittently across the ground, but it did not linger upon them.
At last, Lucien leaned closer. “We go.”
Darcy nodded.
They moved swiftly but with care, keeping low as they made their way along the shoreline, putting distance between themselves and the looming presence of the castle.
The sand gave way at times to rock, uneven and treacherous beneath their feet, but they pressed on, driven by urgency and the knowledge that every step carried them farther from captivity.
The sea lay at their side, its dark expanse stretching endlessly outward, the sound of waves breaking against the shore a constant companion.
They came upon the boats suddenly and unexpectedly. A small cluster of fishing vessels lay drawn up along the edge of the water, their shapes dimly visible in the starlight. Darcy’s gaze swept over them quickly, assessing, selecting.
“This one,” Lucien murmured, already moving toward it.
Darcy followed.
The boat was smaller than he had hoped, little more than a fisherman’s skiff, its worn boards silvered by salt and time, but it would serve—or it must. Darcy steadied it with one hand as Lucien slipped in first, the faint creak of the wood sounding, to his strained senses, as loud as a pistol shot.
The tide had just begun to turn, as Lucien had insisted it must, drawing the water outward in a steady, unseen pull toward the mainland.
Darcy cast one last glance toward the dark outline of the fort behind them, its walls already receding into shadow, and then pushed them off.
The oars bit into the water, each stroke deliberate, as they committed themselves to the crossing.
The Solent stretched before them—narrow, though treacherous—and the opposite shore lay somewhere beyond the darkness. Darcy did not look for it. To hesitate now was to fail.
He fixed his attention instead upon the rhythm of the oars, the cold air, and the unyielding certainty that whatever awaited them on the far side, it must be freedom—or nothing at all.
The water was not calm. As they moved westward, rounding the edge of the island, the gentle pull of the tide gave way to something more forceful. The waves rose higher, their motion less predictable, the small craft rocking beneath them with increasing intensity.
Darcy gripped the side of the boat, his knuckles whitening as the vessel lurched.
Lucien, however, seemed entirely at ease. “Hold on,” he called over the wind, his voice calm despite the conditions. “We are nearing the stacks.”
Darcy did not reply. His attention was fixed upon maintaining his balance, upon keeping the boat upright as it pitched and rolled beneath him.
The Needles rose ahead, pale shapes looming against the darkness, their chalky forms stark and unforgiving. The water churned more violently here, the currents shifting unpredictably as they met the jagged formations.
Lucien adjusted their course with practiced precision, guiding the boat toward a narrow gap between the rocks.
“Are you certain—” Darcy began.
The hull scraped suddenly against stone, the sound harsh and jarring.
Darcy’s breath caught.
Lucien did not falter. With careful adjustments, he steered them onward, the boat slipping through the narrow passage with scarcely more space than it required. The rocks loomed close on either side, their presence oppressive, their edges sharp and unforgiving.
Then, just as suddenly, they were through.
Darcy drew in a breath, his lungs aching with the effort.
Ahead, the shoreline curved, revealing the faint outline of Alum Bay, its pale cliffs ghostly in the dim light. It seemed impossibly distant, impossibly difficult to reach from where they now were.
Lucien did not pause.
He guided the boat toward a darker opening in the rock—a low, narrow cave scarcely visible until they were nearly upon it. The entrance yawned before them, swallowing what little light there was.
They passed within.
The darkness closed around them at once, the sounds of the sea muffled by stone. The boat drifted forward, its movement slowing until, with an unmistakable bump, it grounded upon sand.
For a time, neither man spoke. Then Lucien exhaled. “We are well hidden here. No one will think to look.”
Darcy released his grip on the boat, his hands trembling faintly now that the immediate danger had passed.
“We rest,” Lucien went on. “At first light, we will see what may be done.”
Darcy nodded, though the motion was scarcely visible in the darkness.
He sank down onto the sand, the exhaustion he had held at bay returning all at once, pressing heavily upon him. Beneath it—threaded through the fatigue and the lingering tension—there was something else.
Exhilaration.
The protracted period of being restricted had finally eased, even if only partially. The air, even here within the cave, felt different—freer.
He closed his eyes, the sound of the sea a distant murmur, and allowed himself, at last, to sleep, not even realizing he had not looked up at the stars once.