Chapter 19

It wasn't long before the rain did get worse. For the first few miles, it pattered lightly, and they passed under bright breaks in the clouds. Even when it began to pour, they could see patches of sky in the distance, and as they crested a hill, Muriel heard Griffith shout with glee, and a moment later she understood why. Colored bands of light shimmered overhead and seemed to touch down behind the next hill. With one glance, they made an unspoken decision, standing simultaneously on their pedals. They rode faster, chasing the rainbow's end, until the clouds reconfigured, and the diaphanous ribbon dimmed to nothing. By then, Muriel was panting, collapsed on the seat, rain streaming on her face and up her sleeves. She was still wrung out from all she'd said, but she didn't feel depleted. Her chest ached, a hundred emotions expanding into the space she'd opened. As the road sloped down, the wind pushed at her back, aiding her effortless acceleration, and it seemed for a moment she might leave the ground and fly. She cackled for joy.

There was a gradual rise into more hills, and then they descended into a deeper valley. The clouds followed them down, nearly black, and suddenly, the rain came from all directions. It sprayed up from their tires, and blew in sideways sheets, and drenched them from above. They kept riding, but ever more slowly, as the road divided into rivulets.

"Dismount!" called Griffith.

"No!" she called back.

"What?" His shout was disbelieving. "Dismount!"

"We can't be far," she protested, splashing through a puddle.

"It doesn't matter how far we've left to go if we break our necks now!" came the response.

He meant her neck, of course. And she'd slowed them down enough already.

When he jumped off his bicycle, she kept riding.

"Don't strike off alone!" she upbraided him as she passed.

"You are striking off alone," he retorted.

"I'm continuing along the agreed-upon route!" She didn't trust herself to steer in the wet dark while yelling over her shoulder, so she yelled into the storm. "You are obstructing the path!"

She laughed wildly. Her skirts were soaked and slapped the bicycle's iron frame.

"Penny." He rode up on her left.

"I love storms."

"Penny."

"We'll make it in no time," she told him, blinking the water from her eyes.

"Dismount," he commanded.

At that instant, her front wheel plunged down into sucking mud. The world blurred, and she whipped around with the bicycle, limp as a rag doll. As she slid to a hard stop, her head jerked forward and back, and her outstretched foot skidded on the gravel.

"I dismounted!" she gasped, dragging her leg over the frame. The bicycle was perpendicular to the road. Her vision wobbled, and her neck seemed simultaneously too stiff and too loose.

She heard Griffith cursing as he circled back to her.

"That wasn't a dismount," he said. "That was a narrowly averted disaster."

"I hit a bit more mud than I expected." After the fact, she was trembling with nerves, gruesome versions of the spill she'd just avoided flashing through her mind. She fetched up a wobbly smile. "Now what? We walk to the Lizard?"

"We're going to walk to the inn in the nearest village." Griffith swung off his bicycle and came right up to her. "And leave tomorrow at first light."

"Won't it hurt your pride?"

"The hot meal and the dry clothes?"

"The giving up."

He shrugged a shoulder. "I don't care if Deighton celebrates a premature victory."

"I care, though."

"Picture the look on his face tomorrow, when we coast into Falmouth."

She shook her head. "Given that this is all my fault, I should get—"

"Penny," he interrupted. "If we're going to stand here in the rain, I'd rather not argue."

"That's a ridiculous statement. Arguing is why we're standing here in the rain. If we weren't arguing, we wouldn't be standing here in the rain."

"We could do something else."

"While standing here in the rain?" She scoffed. "And what's that? Play cat's cradle with a bootlace? Look for frogs?"

He pushed his bicycle away, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. She tasted rain, cool and clean, and then the heat of his mouth obliterated every other perception. For a heartbeat, she forgot everything. Forgot that they were ankle-deep in mud on a country lane, soaked to the skin. Forgot the bicycle race, and her lecture, Cornwall and New York. There was only this conflagration. Two mouths in the dark. His tongue slid between her lips, and she gasped. She let her bicycle fall as he pulled her against him. His gloved hands stroked the sides of her face, and then he was tipping her head, angling her chin, so he could kiss her ever more deeply. She drew a shuddering breath. Rain kept slipping down between them, rolling over their cheeks, into their mouths. She was going to drown, drown in rain and kisses.

Griffith broke away first, acknowledging the sounds she'd noticed only dimly. The clop of hooves and the creak of a wagon.

"Are ye spirits?" The old man hunched on the seat behind his horse was all but hidden by his greatcoat.

"Wayfarers." Griffith stepped forward. "Searching for a place to lay our heads. Is there an inn nearby?"

"Iss," said the man. "I'll take ye there."

"Terribly kind," said Griffith.

"It were never time wasted to do good," said the old man philosophically, and with just a touch of reluctance. "Get in, then. Weather's too dirty for a rat. Not that yer rats, nor spirits."

"No," affirmed Griffith. "Neither."

They loaded into the wagon, the bicycles causing their guide no small degree of consternation. Griffith crouched near to him, proselytizing about the wonders of the machine, or so Muriel thought. She couldn't be sure, pinned as she was near the back of the wagon, half under the bicycles' dripping rear tires. Eventually, she saw twinkling lights, which, as they drew closer, resolved into the small windows of a squat two-story building that seemed to swim toward them through a sea of total blackness.

The old man climbed down to assist Griffith with the bicycles.

"Do ye stable them?" he asked, sounding honestly confused, and Muriel hurried over to pluck necessary items out of her panniers. While the two men walked the bicycles around the side of the inn to the mews, she sheltered under the eaves, running her tongue absently along the inside of her bottom lip. When Griffith rounded the corner, his gaze arrowed to her mouth. She froze midlick, his knowing expression summoning a fiery blush. Her face was still red as they entered the inn. The old man led the way down a short corridor and into a large room dominated by an inglenook fireplace. A middle-aged woman and two half-grown boys occupied the benches set on opposite sides of the cheerful blaze.

"Mr. Hendy!" The woman rose. "What brings you by on such a night?"

Muriel found his mumblings unintelligible. She lingered just inside the door, eyes wandering to the bottle-crowded bar, where a few patrons had swiveled on their stools to inspect the newcomers. Battered drinking vessels hung from the low beams, and nautical memorabilia filled the niches in the stone walls. The stained shades on the gas wall brackets glowed with a grubby light. She started to shiver, the warmth of the room revealing by contrast the chill in her bones.

"I'm Mrs. Glanvil." The woman approached Griffith, and included Muriel in her sympathetic smile. "Stranded on the road, were you? Poor ducks. Our Mr. Hendy's a good soul. He's taken you to the right place. This is my family's inn, and the finest in Cornwall. You'll be wanting dinner, and a bath. My Jenny will see to it. She'll collect your wet things too, and wash and dry them. Just set the basket outside the door."

She turned.

"Tell Jenny now," she called, and both boys shot up from the benches. Mrs. Glanvil sighed. "Not you, Peter. You take the luggage. You do have luggage?" She turned back to them.

Muriel looked down at the bundle in her arms, a small dressing box and her wadded shift. Water dripped from the brim of her hat. She'd been pleased to find it—caught in the hedge by her bicycle—but it had done precious little to protect her from the rain. She could feel her braid leaking down her back.

When she looked up, she saw that Mrs. Glanvil's lips had bent into a concerned frown.

"We're traveling light," said Griffith smoothly, and gave the innkeeper his widest, most devastating smile.

"On bicycles, I hear." Mrs. Glanvil looked slightly dazzled—by the smile, Muriel suspected, not their means of transportation.

"You heard right," said Griffith, and Mrs. Glanvil blushed.

"You and the missus are bold ones."

Muriel coughed. "We're not—" She stopped herself. Mr. Hendy had come upon them as they'd stood locked in an amorous embrace. What was there to say? We're not anything so respectable as married?

"We're not…very bold." She coughed again. "A bath sounds lovely."

"Let's get you signed in," said Mrs. Glanvil to Griffith. "Then I'll show you up to your room."

Room. Singular. For the married couple.

Muriel's throat worked as she swallowed.

Griffith cut a glance at her, brows lifted questioningly. He'd try to get them out of it if she made a sign.

She gave a small shake of her head, and something kindled behind his eyes.

"We'll take your best," he said to Mrs. Glanvil.

The tub was some time filling, and so after Griffith returned from his transacting, they dripped awhile longer on the flagstones, Griffith standing Mr. Hendy several pints, although he limited himself to a single brandy, offering her the same, and clinking their glasses.

When they finally retired to their room, Muriel gaped. The tub was enormous, a great copper oval, capped with mountains of suds. Rose-scented steam curled toward the ceiling. A scrawny girl with carrot-colored braids was coming and going with linens and dinner trays, looking humid and surprisingly good-humored.

"That's all, then," she said, hands on her hips. "Dinner's there. Tub's there. Bed's there. Basket's there." Darting them each a swift glance, bright with curiosity, she whirled. "Evenin'."

The door clicked shut behind her, and they were alone. Muriel's eyes bounced between the tub and the bed. The bed was as big for a bed as the tub was big for a tub. Both seemed out of proportion to the room itself.

"You should take off your clothes."

Muriel's eyes bounced to Griffith. He was lounging against the wall, wearing the heavy-lidded expression of an inveterate seducer. She felt a flutter, and then a nip of annoyance, that he should find all of this so navigable.

"I've figured it out," she informed him. "You're not charismatic. It's just that some people are charmed by overconfidence."

"Are you?" He tossed back his wet hair and grinned.

Yes.When it came to him, she couldn't help herself.

She lifted her chin. "Not in the least."

His gaze traveled over her. "The laundry can't wait. Mrs. Glanvil's orders." He let his knapsack thump down on the threadbare rug. "I told her we're setting off early."

Laundry. Of course. She flushed, then frowned. Now he toyed with her. Her nerves were wound too tight for this type of teasing. She enjoyed their banter, but she had to know where they stood, how far he wanted this to go.

"To be clear, then." Her brows knitted. "You aren't trying to seduce me?"

"Hell." He peeled off his jacket. "I hope I haven't given you that impression." The basket was just to the right of the door. In went the jacket. The vest. His necktie. He pulled his braces over his shoulders.

Muriel started, then spun. She faced the curtained window, pulse at a gallop.

On her wedding night, she'd waited for Esmé under the blankets, in a nightgown that buttoned to the throat. The nightgown hadn't come off in the course of the night. The act she and Esmé performed together had felt both insignificant and monumental. Beyond the ungainly mechanics, there wasn't much to it, and yet it signified that her marriage had been validated, that she'd crossed a threshold and put her old life irreversibly behind her.

This too felt like a threshold.

"Pasties, pilchards, heavy cake," announced Griffith, and she peeked over her shoulder. He was inspecting their repast, laid out on the rickety table, which had been jammed awkwardly between the side of the bed and the wall, to allow space for the tub.

"I could cry." He made a happy noise in his throat and hopped as he tugged off his stockings. He regained his balance, feet bare, and caught her gaze. "Here's the sequence." He sent the stockings flying at the basket. "First, strip. Second, devour food with irresponsible haste. Third, bathe."

She turned. "Shouldn't bathing come second?"

"Then the food will be cold."

"But if bathing is third, the water will be cold."

"That's why I emphasized haste."

"And we're naked in this scenario?" She'd hoped to sound wry, and a little scathing. Instead, her voice was hoarse.

"I skipped a step. We strip, then we quickly protect our modesty." His eyes were glinting. "That's optional, of course. Don't let me stop you if you prefer to dine in the buff."

"If I did, I wouldn't let you stop me." She paused. "I don't, though."

"We're agreed, then, on the plan of action."

She sighed. "How officious you are."

"Officious. Overconfident. Overbearing. Insufferably arrogant." He shook his head. "I'm surprised you like me so much."

"No, you're not," she muttered. "That's the most annoying part."

"You like me, then?" He couldn't hide his smile. "So much?"

"Stop talking," she suggested. "Or everything will get cold."

He was laughing as she sidled between the bed and the tub.

God above. She liked him. So much. Apparently, they were agreed on that.

She set her dressing case near the washbasin. Ducking as much as she could behind the tub, she struggled out of her dress and underthings, her stockings and shoes, and yanked her shift over her head. It was damp and badly wrinkled. She straightened, arms piled with filthy garments, and gave a squeak. On the other side of the tub, Griffith stood with his back to her, sliding his arms into his nightshirt. Her eyes followed the fabric as it slid over the taut curve of his bottom and curtained his hard thighs. As he padded to the table, she stared at the intricate play of muscles in his calves, her stomach tightening. She felt lightheaded. Too much exercise and too little food. Lunch in Penzance was a lifetime ago.

She dumped her clothes in the basket, shoved it out the door, and joined him at the table. At the first bite of pasty, she wanted to cry too.

"God, it's delicious," she mumbled.

"I've never tasted anything better." Griffith sighed. "Or more briefly."

She blinked. He'd finished his pasty with truly irresponsible speed. She intensified her own efforts.

"I maligned Egg in my mind," he said. "Earlier today, for his table manners. But I think I'm going to lick this clean." He was looking wolfishly at his empty plate.

"It's a sport in itself, maligning Egg." She took a sip of wine. "You saw how the others treat him. He says it was worse at school. And his father calls him useless."

"Seems you and Egg talked plenty as well."

"We did. He feels unvalued."

"Ah, yes, the upper-class English male has his cross to bear." As he turned his head, his ironical smile shifted. "An elephant could bathe in that tub."

"A baby elephant." The suds had flattened slightly, and the steam was more diffuse. The room had a pearly haze.

"Or the two of us."

Her eyes snapped back. He was sipping his wine, brows arched.

Her mouth went dry. "Together?"

"Mmm." He nodded.

"You want to bathe together." Her pulse surpassed gallop. It began to whir. "Because that's how we ensure a hot soak for us both?"

"No, in fact, the tub's all yours if you wish. I don't need a hot soak. A tepid sponge bath will do the job." He put down his glass. His eyes were hooded, and his lips curved. "I want to indulge a purely salacious impulse."

"Oh." She felt breathless. "What would that involve?"

"You tell me."

Shyness gripped her so hard she could feel little pinpricks of anticipated rejection. "I'm not very imaginative."

"Everyone's imaginative."

She looked at the tub, heart pounding. "Couldn't you do the imagining?"

"I could," he said. "Is that what you want? You won't think me too officious, overconfident, overbearing, and arrogant?"

She looked at him. There was humor in his face, and something more.

"Insufferably arrogant," she whispered.

"Say if you do." His eyes were suddenly serious. "I'll stop at a word."

She gave a nod, and he was out of his chair. She caught another glimpse of his firm rear as he whipped off his nightshirt and sank into the tub. He went all the way under the water, then emerged, hair slicked back, soap dripping from his ear.

"Come here," he commanded.

She went on unsteady legs.

"Get in." He slung an arm over the side of the tub. Suds collected at his armpit. Glistening bubbles trapped themselves on the ledge of his collarbones. She rucked up her shift and stepped into the tub, hot water swirling around her sore, overstrained calves.

"Are you taking that off?" he asked, amused.

She flushed. "Shut your eyes."

He complied, and for a moment, she stared at his angular face, its hard lines and the soft, sly curve of his mouth. The black silk of his lashes. Someone—not her—could write poetry about such a face.

He was also flushed, from the heat.

She pulled off her shift and sat, tangling with his legs, water lapping up to the tub's rim.

"Now turn around," he said, and she floated, trying to rotate with minimum contact.

His arm wrapped her middle, and he guided her, until she sat between his thighs.

"I'm going to unbraid your hair," he said, with a raggedness to his voice that made her toes curl. She felt the gentle tugs as he set to work, separating the thick sections, moving up toward the roots. She was breathing deeply, sweat and steam beading on her cheeks.

"I've been wanting to do that all day." His fingers slid into her loosed tresses, combing and smoothing, stroking her scalp in slow circles. Time had no meaning. The steam was inside her now. She was hazed and drifting. He pushed the mass of hair over her shoulders and put his mouth on the nape of her neck.

She moaned and felt his smile on her skin before he pulled away. He kneaded her shoulders, and her neck, thumbs releasing the tense muscles along her spine. When he had her lolling with the relief of it, he reached over the side of the tub for the cloth and the soap. He soaped her with the same lavish thoroughness he'd devoted to massaging her aching back, lifting her arms one by one, turning her so he could lather her feet and calves. He held her gaze when he touched her breasts, and at her gasp, he let the soap slip and closed his hands on her hips. He towed her up his legs, until she straddled his waist, knees bumping metal.

For a second, he stared. Then he kissed her hard. He bent her backward, so that the weight of her wet hair dragged her head toward the water. She felt supple as a plant, as suffused with radiant energy, yet she drew it not from the sun, but from the questing heat of his mouth, the dark light of his eyes. He broke the kiss, and she sucked air into her lungs, hand flattening at the base of his throat. His pulse thundered through his jugular. He shared it, this storm of desire. Her excitement doubled. She stroked her palm down, over the solidity of his upper chest.

He caught her wrist. "Just there." He met her eyes, smiling wickedly as she jerked a nod.

"And how is this?" he murmured, fingers sliding to the crease of her thigh, fanning across her lower belly and teasing through the curls. "Here?"

He stroked the slippery inner flesh. A liquid sensation rolled through her, thick and sweet as glycerin. She collapsed forward, pressed her forehead to his, gasping as his finger stirred impossible sensation.

"Quick?" he asked, demonstrating. "Or slow?"

"Both," she gasped, but the slow strokes were torture, so a moment later she was moaning: "Quick, please. Quick."

She pulsed, her body seeming to tighten and dissolve at the same time. With a cry, she began to undulate against him, unable to curb the pleasure rising within her. Movements, noises—they were beyond her control. He stood, lifting her with him, water sluicing down, and pulled her up into his arms. Suddenly, she was sprawled on her back on fluffy towels in the bed, and he was pressing her down, heavy and urgent, his tongue deep in her mouth, his hand buried between her thighs.

She almost wished she'd said slow, that she could soften and sustain the quivers moving down from her belly, but she'd waited so long, for him, for this feeling—unlike any she'd ever known. She couldn't wait more. He had her on a knife's edge, tense and wild, and she was going to scream if he wasn't quicker, if he kept her there, if she couldn't tip over into bliss.

"Kit." His name was a plea. She moaned it as her spine arched, head pressing the mattress. He gave a purr of satisfaction and pulled back. Roughly, he hooked her legs over his shoulders, canted up her hips. She felt the tickle of his wet hair on her thighs, then his mouth latched, and she was lost. The whirlpool of pleasure sucked away all reason.

Sometime in the night, she woke up, alone in the bed, and for a few untethered moments, she didn't know where she was. She bolted upright. Before memory returned, Griffith rejoined her, and with him a strange comfort, as though she'd found something, or been found herself.