It made no sense—a misadventure on a fox hunt, a fall from his horse, even a curricle accident...but drowning off the coast of Cornwall? He did not even like the sea and why would he have walked out in the middle of a ruddy storm?
They drank in silence. The boat was moving less and the wind had decreased, although they could still hear the steady patter of rain mixed with the creak of beams and waves slapping against the sides.
The torch illuminated the small space and Sam studied Miss Lansdowne’s features, trying to remember when or where they’d met. He couldn’t and her features had an arresting, unusual quality so it seemed strange that he would forget her so entirely. Large eyes dominated a thin, pale face. Her mouth was well shaped but somewhat unsmiling and her brows were dark and straight, giving her countenance a somewhat severe expression. Her forehead was high with wisps of hair escaping from a sailor’s cap and her chin jutted forward.
‘You said the Captain wants to see us?’ the woman asked the giant of the man, breaking the silence.
‘Aye.’
‘Would you know the Captain’s plan as it pertains to us?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘But you have a notion?’
‘I told him as how you was very handy with lace.’
‘Lace? I know nothing of lace,’ Miss Lansdowne said.
‘Yer mum’s a fancy lady. You must have picked up summat. Besides I needed to convince the Captain that you had greater use alive than dead. Sal will not forgive me if you ends up dead.’
‘Oh.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I would be somewhat put out, too. He still has a mind to kill us?’
‘Aye.’
‘And my knowledge of lace will save us?’
‘Aye.’
She swallowed. ‘I know nothing about lace,’ she repeated.
‘Well, learn fast. The Captain’s been a tad tetchy of late.’
‘Tetchy?’
‘Not himself. Worried like. Too many excise men about, you know, since the wars ended. Too many wrecks as well, ’e says.’
‘Not quite what we are wanting to hear,’ she muttered, her lips twisting into a slight smile which softened her expression.
‘The Rising Dawn’s a good ship. Besides, he’ll keep you around. Lace is a growing market, ’e says.’
‘Easily hidden, I suppose,’ Sam added. ‘I heard that the patrols have been stepped up along the coast.’
‘Aye. More excise men ’ere than a dog has fleas, begging yer pardon, miss,’ Jem said. ‘So just make certain we do not get any shoddy cloth, you’ll be fine. Might even keep you on for a bit.’
Miss Lansdowne nodded somewhat distractedly. Her fingers rubbed against the rough fabric of her trousers. Sam could feel her anxiety growing. Strange that she could row through a storm, rescue him, conspire with smugglers, but panic over lace.
Perhaps that was a characteristic of fear, like grief. He’d been stoic when his mother died and dry-eyed when sent to school to ‘toughen up’. Indeed, even his father’s passing had had little impact. Then when Annie Whistler broke their engagement, he’d been a man drowning, shattered. All rational process stopped. One managed for so long and then one did not.
‘I... I do not...know if I can pretend...to...to know...about...lace.’ Miss Lansdowne’s words, punctuated with breathy gasps, brought him back to the present, as her fingers continued to work nervously against the coarse cloth of her trousers.
‘Miss Lansdowne. I’d give you a brandy if I had one. Look, if we’re going to get out of here alive, you need to be calm.’
She inhaled and nodded, but her eyes still looked too huge in her thin face, as though the panic was there, lingering under the surface.
His years at school had felt like that, a calm surface hiding the panic underneath. He’d survived only by showing a confidence he’d seldom felt. That was always the key to survival: pretence. Indeed, that was Annie’s attraction. He’d fallen so totally, absolutely in love, he’d felt himself complete, invincible, whole. Until, of course, she met a duke with double the fortune and double the lands and he’d learned that life was a solitary enterprise.
‘Miss Lansdowne.’ Sam took her hands. He felt her start of shock, but continued to hold them within his own. ‘You are able to do this. Remember you do not need to know more than your mother. Or your sister. You need only know more than the Captain.’
For a moment, she did not react, as though requiring additional time to process the words. Then he saw her exhalation. Her face relaxed with just the tiniest softening of her lips. She looked at him and then away. In the torchlight, her lashes formed a delicate lacey pattern against her cheeks.
‘Indeed, he doesn’t look the type of gentleman to have a deep appreciation for fine cloth.’
Millie felt the anxiety lessen. The painful bands which had constricted her chest eased. Mr Garret’s hands felt warm against her own. She found herself conscious of him as a person. She’d recognised him previously, connecting the features of the half-drowned man with her brother’s friend, but that had been an instinctive act of survival. She’d grasped at his identity as she might any tool which could delay execution.
But as his grim expression gentled, she found herself thinking of him not only as a half-drowned body, but as a person, a man. He had a strong jaw, dominant cheekbones and straight nose. His eyebrows were well-shaped and he had a lean strength about him. Even the bloodied, swollen welt on his forehead was not as unpleasant as it should have been. Rather it gave him a warrior appeal.
She frowned. He had undoubtedly received the wound in some drunken scuffle or mad gamble which had led to his near death. He was, as Tom had been, a risk taker. Anyone who ended up half-drowned off the Cornish coast did not seem to be an individual of caution—although, obviously, she had a similar failing.
She should move away from him, but there was a comfort in the warm strength of his grasp. There was an intensity
