Chapter 5

Off the Cornish Coast

April 1879

Langdon had needed to escape the bedchamber. More specifically the nearness of Marlowe. Stretched out on his settee with nothing

adorning her except a blanket, while the glow from the nearby flames danced over her, lighting upon and caressing her skin.

He’d wanted to march over, take her in his arms, and warm every inch of her with his own flesh gliding over hers.

While initially the thought had been innocent enough, a result of taking pity on her because of her bloodless pallor and her

minute trembling, her tart tongue had soon shifted his musings toward the direction of a more sensual basking in heat, one

that would keep cauldrons burning for centuries, oil continually boiling for defense. More than once with acerbic wit she’d

made him want to laugh, and it had been far too long since he’d been amused by anything.

He’d heard her speak on fewer than half a dozen occasions, but he’d always been taken with her confidence. Not to mention the slow manner in which words rolled out of her mouth in the same lethargic way that a sated woman rolled out of bed. Nothing about her didn’t scream with sexuality, wasn’t calculated to arouse the senses to their maximum heights.

Even now with her bruises, scrapes, and tangled mess of hair, she appealed. God help him for viewing her as anything other

than an injured woman in need of care. Hell’s teeth. She’d crashed into the sea, for bloody sake. What did it say of a man’s

character if he was the least bit enticed when he should be focused only on bringing about an end to her torment?

Even if it added to his.

He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and his desire had only increased that evening nearly a year

ago when she’d been offered to him. He’d actually admired her for the horror that had crossed her lovely features when Hollingsworth

had made the inappropriate risqué suggestion. That her protector would share her as though she were a bottle of scotch to

be enjoyed between friends had sickened Langdon. Her reaction had assured him that it was the first time Hollingsworth had

ever made such a dastardly proposal. Still he hadn’t been of a mind to take advantage of it because to do so would have made

him no better than a thief. Stealing what wasn’t rightfully his to take, no matter that permission was being granted by Hollingsworth.

But it wasn’t being granted by her, and that was all that had mattered to him.

That night he’d been unable to take his gaze from her because he’d found every aspect of her intriguing. She didn’t walk through a room. She glided in a sensual manner that involved the entirety of her body. She looked at a man straight on as though her power was equal to his. In any situation she could hold her own against him. When she studied a man, she left the impression that all his secrets had become hers, and she would guard them with her life.

And now having her here, knowing she belonged to another, was pure torture. Being stretched out on a medieval rack would have

been preferable.

His mood souring, he stomped the rest of the way down the stairs. Not that he made much noise since he had failed to put on

his boots. When he’d been drawing on his trousers, he’d felt a strange sensation of being watched—no, of being admired—traveling

up and down his spine. After dragging on his shirt, when he’d turned and caught her staring at him, he’d had the absurd need

to puff out his chest, like some randy peacock. He hadn’t, but then neither had he secured any buttons. He knew women found

no fault with his physique.

It was ridiculous to want to preen for her. She was spoken for. Had been for a few years now. He liked Hollingsworth. He certainly

had no intention of cuckolding her benefactor. He didn’t think she would either. He’d never heard a whisper of her being unfaithful

to him. As a matter of fact, her loyalty was one of her more redeeming qualities.

With a resounding curse as he finally reached the kitchen and began warming water, he wondered if perhaps he should dump a pot of cold water over his head in an effort to douse the fever striving to take hold of him and convince him to surrender to his animalistic desires. He needed to turn his thoughts elsewhere.

He walked over to the large wooden table he used more for preparing food than eating it, pulled what remained of the loaf

of bread his mother had brought over a few days earlier, and sliced off some pieces. He began slathering butter on them. She

had to be starving after her ordeal. He could take her something to eat while she waited for the tub to be filled.

The weather was fierce, demanded that a body remain indoors. Earlier, he should have stayed confined, but he’d been fighting

his demons and had thought that, somehow, he could face them in the storm. He didn’t want to contemplate what might have happened

to her if he’d not been out there—if he hadn’t spotted her. Deuced silly woman. To go off on her own, into the sky.

He didn’t find fault with that sort of independence. He’d grown up surrounded by strong-minded women who never hesitated to

voice their opinions or preferences. He had a feeling Marlowe would fit right in with them—if not for her... unusual choices

in life. To not hide the fact she was having relations with a man out of wedlock, her actions unsanctioned by the church.

Most people considered her sort of indulgences sordid. But he wasn’t so much of a hypocrite as to enjoy the pleasure a woman

provided and then judge her poorly for delivering it.

But she wouldn’t be delivering anything to him. As long as the storm raged, she’d be his guest. With her bruised and swollen bottom lip, she should probably limit speaking, which shouldn’t be a problem because he couldn’t imagine they would have much of anything to say to each other.

Fortunately, the first things he always packed when planning his journey here were books. An avid reader, he enjoyed a wide

assortment of material: philosophy, history, mystery, even the occasional romantic tale. He wondered how Marlowe’s tastes

in reading ran. But at least reading could occupy her. Although he suspected she was skilled at occupying herself.

He was in awe of her fortitude. And her not backing down from verbally sparring with him was actually more thrilling and enjoyable

then he cared to admit. Few women had ever dared to be anything other than incredibly polite and congenial where he was concerned.

Marriage to him would one day make some lucky woman a countess. Even if she wasn’t interested in marriage, a lady never seemed

to want to do anything that would make her fall out of his favor. Marlowe Whatever-the-Deuce-Her-Surname-Was didn’t seem to

care one way or the other. He respected her speaking her mind.

Even more, he admired that after the ordeal she’d survived, she wasn’t cowering or weeping or giving the tempest any sort of victory over her. He’d once attended an afternoon soiree in a garden, where a woman, screeching as she was being chased by one of the owner’s peacocks, had swooned into Langdon’s arms once she was safe from attack when another gent distracted the fowl. He couldn’t imagine Marlowe screeching as the storm had tossed her about. Good Lord, she’d maintained the presence of mind to discard any clothing that might have dragged her beneath the waves. She’d sacrificed her modesty, and he suspected she’d done it with nary a thought except for survival.

He wondered if survival had been at the root of her decision to become a courtesan. She struck him as being willing to do

whatever necessary when faced with difficult choices, even if it meant traveling the more difficult path.

After placing the bread on a plate, he filled a pail with the water he’d warmed and put more on to boil. With sustenance in

one hand and the handle of the pail in the other, he headed up the stairs.

Strange how it felt as though it had been eons since he’d seen her, how his legs picked up their tempo as though delivering

him to her in haste was of prime importance. As though each moment not in her presence was intolerable for them both. Which

was utter poppycock. Based on the way she’d looked at him in horror with the realization she might be spending the remainder

of the night with him if his hand had been better than Hollingsworth’s, he suspected even now she was dreading his return.

He could well imagine that if he so much as glided a finger along her cheek, she’d scratch out his eyes.

He would just have to convince her that she appealed to him not in the least and was perfectly safe from his advances—poor

girl. Not to experience what he could deliver.

He strode into the bedchamber, came to an abrupt halt, and felt the agony of air backing up in his lungs. She’d donned one of his shirts. It fairly swallowed her arms and torso.

Gazing in the mirror hanging above his washbasin, she was standing on an uneven heap of books. He had no shelves in here,

but always piled his books around the chamber because he loved being surrounded by them, and no matter where he alighted,

one was always near, within easy reach. Her calves, so lovely and unblemished by her ordeal, were clearly visible because

his shirt left a good bit of leg exposed—so much leg. Small feet, tiny toes, lovely, lovely calves. The sort deserving of

a hundred kisses. While he tried not to look, he was, after all, a man and possessed some sort of instinct when it came to

noticing when a woman was enticingly revealed.

With eyes wide and filled with dismay, she quickly turned toward him, which threw off not only her balance but that of her

support. Books began shifting, sliding out of place. Her arms began windmilling—

He dropped what he was carrying and rushed forward.

During one heart-stopping second, Marlowe knew with certainty that she was going to land on her backside or worse, crack open

her skull.

Instead, she found herself pressed up against a firm chest, her feet dangling over the floor, and strong arms locked around her waist, holding her in place, while hers circled broad shoulders. The shirt she was wearing had ridden up her thighs and was very close to revealing her bum, but she could hardly care. She’d never known anyone to move with such swiftness. She’d certainly never seen so much worry and concern directed her way. He’d looked as if he might die if any harm came to her.

His brow was furrowed, his breaths were rushing in and out fast and hard, and those silver eyes had gone a darker pewter.

“What the devil were you doing standing on something so unsteady? Did you not think to simply take the mirror off the wall?”

The storm had stolen her ability to think any rational thought. Which was evident because at that precise moment, she should

be shoving against him and demanding he unhand her. Instead, she wanted him to carry her to that huge bed and slip beneath

the blankets with her so his body could cover hers, return her to a place of safety and protection and so much heavenly warmth.

Ever since she’d opened her eyes to the sight of his backside, she’d been fighting not to remember the terror that had gripped

her when she’d been plummeting back to earth. How she’d screamed even though no one was about to hear or to help or to save

her.

She’d been completely and absolutely alone and had realized, at that most inopportune time, that she’d been alone for a good

long while now.

But somehow, by some miracle, she’d been spared death, and she wanted to get on with living. Hence, while he’d been gone, she’d decided to at least brush the tangles from her hair. But within this chamber was no cheval glass or dressing table with a mirror. Only the small mirror on the wall that she was certain he used when he took a razor to his square jaw—which he hadn’t done for several days based on the thick stubble he was now sporting. She hadn’t been certain he’d appreciate her making herself quite so much at home as to take the mirror down. She’d been unable to locate anything to give her the height she required to gaze into it, anything she could easily move, other than the books piled around the room. But when she’d finally managed to view her reflection—

She was surprised he recognized her because she barely recognized herself. “Is my nose broken?”

Sympathy touched his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“But all the swelling.” On either side of her red nose and beneath her eye. A gash also marred her nose. A huge scraped and

discolored lump rested on the upper curve of her right cheek. It hurt like the very devil. Then there was the gash at the

corner of her lower lip and a bump on her skull near her hairline.

“The sea definitely battered you. I suspect it bashed you against rocks a few times as it delivered you to shore.”

“ Delivered me to shore? You say that as though it had been benevolent.”

“To be honest, it could have killed you.”

For a while she’d thought it would. She had no memory of it kindly delivering her anywhere. She did recall being dashed against a rock, pain ricocheting through her head as she fought to find purchase,

just before being sucked back out into the unforgiving waves.

“How long will I look like this?”

He shook his head. “I’m no physician but I’ve had experience with bumps and bruises. In a few days, the swelling should lessen. The bruises will no doubt darken and then fade.”

And hopefully all the injuries elsewhere would simply go away. She’d been so comforted by his holding her and his attentions

that she’d barely noticed the discomfort in her ribs, but they were beginning to protest. “You can put me down now.”

She was surprised by how slowly he did it, like setting down a fragile raw egg. Inch by inch, as though he drew as much solace

from holding her as she did from being held.

Suddenly, he fairly leapt back. “Ah, Christ, the water.”

“It shouldn’t have cooled too much.”

“I was referring to that which I left heating in the kitchen.”

Then he was gone.

And she couldn’t help but think that while a storm raged, they were going to be locked in a strange sort of fellowship.