Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
The path down to the sea was narrow and rocky and the light was fading fast. James, Elizabeth, and Joley picked their way slowly down, leaning close to the face of the cliff and stopping frequently when the wind blew them back, or the rocks and shells skittered from beneath their feet and clattered over the edge.
“To think,” Elizabeth murmured as she clutched James’s hand over a particularly difficult stretch, “I once did something very close to this wearing a blindfold.”
“I’d rather not think about it; the sight of it nearly killed me. Promise me you’ll never take such a risk again.”
“At least, not that sort of risk.” She let go of his hand so she could gather her skirts to maneuver around a particularly narrow turn. “Although,” she added when they reached a wider stretch of path, “I should point out that you haven’t formally asked me.”
“I intend to. When the moment is right and the ground is more level, I shall get down on one knee. And what do you mean by ‘not that sort of risk’?” “I’m thinking after we marry, we might honeymoon in France.”
“Elizabeth—”
“We shall discuss the matter later”—she tossed him a mischievous glance over her shoulder—“when the moment is right.”
When they reached the beach, they found several sailors from Grenville’s crew were waiting.
They’d drawn a dory up upon the rocky shore and scrambled forward to help Elizabeth, Joley, and James into it.
“Is this your entire company, my lord?” a burly sailor, who’d identified himself as the first mate, inquired.
“It is.”
“Did them Frenchies give you any trouble, sir?” The first mate cast a curious glance toward the cliff and the path that was rapidly disappearing in the darkness.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle. Shall we be off?”
“Yes, my lord.” The first mate issued a rapid series of orders and the sailors remaining on shore heaved the dory off the rocks.
Splashing through the surf after it, they scrambled over the sides.
Grappling with the oars, they fought against the waves that seemed determined to sweep them back to France.
Spray washed over the bow where Joley sat unflinching, eyes fixed on the lights of Lord Grenville’s sloop.
Elizabeth glanced back at the shore. She could just make out the swaying light of David’s lantern. They’d exchanged all-too-brief farewells and wishes for good luck before he’d started back up the path. Returning her gaze to the comte, she whispered to James, “Why doesn’t he look back?”
As if he heard her question, Joley spoke, his voice carrying above the sounds of the sea.
“I will keep forever in my heart the memory of the France that was. I have no wish to see the France that is, the France that would murder a king. I will devote myself to the downfall of the accursed traitors. But I shall never return. And when I have my Marguerite back by my side, I will keep her safe with me. No more adventurers like Gerard.” He shook his fist as if affirming a vow. “Never again.”
Joley did not speak again, nor turn his head, not even when they reached the cutter, a sleek vessel that seemed almost to dance with impatience to be off across the channel.
Grenville’s captain greeted them as they climbed aboard the rope ladder.
He had sailors standing by with warm blankets and mugs of brandy.
“We’ve a fair wind,” he said. “We should be in England by dawn. And if the Frenchies try to stop us, no offense, Monsieur le Comte, they’ll be no match for us.
You’re welcome to stay on deck, but I’ve had the stateroom prepared for you, my lord, and my cabin for monsieur. ”
Joley immediately accepted the captain’s offer, but James stood with Elizabeth, staring at the coast of France until it disappeared in the darkness.
His heart felt like the sea, he thought, rising up with love for Elizabeth, then falling back, drawn down by the weight of responsibility for the lives of the three men he’d left behind.
But unlike the Frenchman who’d sworn never to return, James Dinsmore vowed that if he could, he would.
When the door of Lord Grenville’s stateroom closed behind them, James knew that it was not food, or drink, or sleep that he needed, but to bury himself in the sweet promise that was Elizabeth.
He gathered her in his arms, his mouth and hands desperate to make up for all the time he’d sat beside her in the carriage, or lain beside her in a bed, wanting to touch her, needing to touch her.
“I love you,” he murmured against her closed eyes. “More than I can ever say.” He felt her lashes flutter against his lips.
When she spoke, her breath seemed to flutter as well. “Then show me.”
The room was small, but elegant, the walls lined with shelves and drawers and a surprisingly fine writing desk.
It boasted the luxury of a small red and gold Persian carpet tacked upon the floor.
And tucked into the angle formed by the bow of the ship, flanked by two gently swaying lanterns, was a bed, a red-and-gold-striped coverlet tucked into its polished wood frame.
With the persuasive pressure of his hips, James backed Elizabeth toward the bed, leaving a trail of his shoes, his coat, his stock, and his waistcoat upon the fine carpet as he did so.
When the bedframe barred their backward progress, his hands took over, his deft fingers unlacing tapes and ties and strings and stays.
And when he’d unfastened the last bit of her clothing, he pulled her forward and slid the tangle of linen and cotton and lace down around her ankles.
She looked up at him, one arm across her breasts, the other covering the tangle of curls between her slender legs.
Though his hands had touched the most intimate parts of her body, his eyes had never had such complete liberty.
“Botticelli’s Venus,” he murmured, his eyes caressing the length of her.
“Except for one thing.” He drew the pins and ribbons from her hair, and wind-tangled curls fell about her shoulders and down to her waist.
The intensity of his gaze made her nervous. She spread her fingers wide as if to cover more of herself. “No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Then, you.” She nodded at his shirt and breeches.
He pulled his shirt over his head, feeling her eyes travel with it, up along the flat of his belly, following the trail of fine gold hair that fanned out over his chest. And then he felt them travel down with his hands to the buttons of his breeches, following the slide of fabric from his hips, to his thighs, to his ankles.
He stepped out of them, and as he straightened up, he could feel her eyes as they were drawn to that part of him that showed just how very much he wanted her—now.
He reached for her, unfolding her arms and placing them around his neck.
He didn’t want her to fear his body; he wanted her to feel it, and he wanted no bar to the passage of his hands or his lips.
Gently he began to kiss her, his tongue tracing the shape of her mouth, the sweetness of its contours.
He felt her lips close around his tongue and tug.
He toyed with her mouth and when her hands began to wander down from his shoulders, he took advantage of the loosening of her embrace.
He kissed her neck and shoulder, trailed his tongue down the valley between her breasts.
He felt the muscles in her body begin to loosen, and he tumbled her back onto the bed.
Her eyes flew open in surprise, then closed as he covered her, the hair of his chest sliding up her thighs.
His tongue circled the base of her breasts, suckling at the soft flesh, teasing a path to the taut nipple.
He captured it, sucking gently at first and then harder, drawing the top half of her body up, off the bed, pressing the lower half down with his hips.
He felt her legs part, felt the rough curls between her thighs against his flesh and, for a moment, the urge to push them farther apart and plunge into her was nearly blinding.
Her hands gripping and smoothing the skin of his back told him she would have allowed it, but it would have been wrong. She was a virgin, and it was too soon.
He eased his hips down and satisfied himself with the taste of her belly.
His tongue dipped and swirled in her navel, a portent of intimacies to come.
And then he kissed his way farther down, to the place he wished most to be.
She’d be wet, he knew, but he’d make her wetter still.
He stroked her and his finger slid into slickness.
Her hips rose and he pushed her legs farther apart, stroked and slid, and parted the delicate folds of her body.
He blew softly against her, and she shuddered.
He lowered his head, his tongue poised to taste the sweet saltiness of her, and suddenly he felt her hands upon his shoulders.
Elizabeth was sitting up. Her hands were locked like a chastity belt across her thighs and her eyes were wide.
James raised himself up on his elbows. “Elizabeth?”
Her lips were tight and her face was flushed.
“Sweetheart? What is it?”
“What you were doing…” Her voice quavered.
“Didn’t it feel good?”
She nodded. “But...”
He cocked his head. “But what?”
Her flush deepened. “I’m not…it’s not…”
“Right?” he offered.
“Clean,” she squeaked.
“Clean?” He started to laugh, and then caught himself when he saw how deeply mortified she was.
“You’re natural, my love.” He sat up and ran his hands reassuringly down her shoulders.
“Everything about you, about me, about what we are going to do, is as natural as…” He gestured toward the planked wall of the ship.
“As natural as the sea. Indeed, you taste of the sea.”
“That’s because I haven’t had a wash. I’m sticky, I smell, I’m repulsive.”
James heard the quaver of tears in her throat. “Elizabeth, I love you. You are the most desirable woman I have ever known. I want you, I want to make love to you, to touch and taste every part of you.”