Chapter Thirty-Two

T he rescued sailors remained at Nanpean until the morning was well on, Captain Danvers having insisted on sending for the authorities to try to recuperate some of the goods the locals had salvaged. This was despite Sam pointing out that he was seeking to deprive the same men who had helped haul his crew ashore and saved their lives. And of course, there were the bodies of the three who had drowned to deal with before the crabs and gulls got to them.

Behind Captain Danvers's back, Jago dispatched young Jem off to warn the people of both the villages which had benefited from the unexpected largesse on the beach about the imminent arrival of the revenue men. No doubt, by the time the authorities arrived in the form of one of the volunteer constables from Penzance and a few revenue men, all would have been safely stashed away.

A warm feeling pervaded Ysella at the thought of foxing the authorities, and she felt a deep understanding of why Kit had taken to smuggling. It must surely not have been so much for the financial gain, which he didn't need, but the joy of outwitting those in charge, much as she herself had felt at Ormonde when she'd escaped the nursery, or, later on, the schoolroom. The fear she'd felt last night vanished with the coming of the bright rain-washed day, and only the excitement of the night's activities, and in particular the stormy sea and how it had looked, remained. Perhaps she could take up smuggling herself while she was down here at Carlyon Court. So long as it didn't involve going in a boat of any sort—she'd seen enough of what the sea could do to ships.

The sailors and their officers from the merchantman returned to the slim pickings remaining on the beach with the constable, and the arrival of Sir Joshua Penveen, the local magistrate, absolved Sam of any further responsibility for their welfare. As Jago said, "Let someone else take on the ungrateful sods, and you and I shall look after our own." After last night, her feelings for Jago had changed and he was no longer the rather frightening ogre she'd thought him.

Sam sent all the tired servants back to the Court, and Jago and Jenifry provided a plate of thick, meaty stew for a midday meal only Sam and Ysella ate with them. Ysella, who hadn't slept a wink, unlike Sam, discovered herself famished and finished off two platefuls of the food, washing it down with several horn beakers of what had to be contraband brandy. With that washing about in her veins, she felt ready for anything as she and Sam set off back up the track towards home.

Home. They'd only been here a little over two weeks and yet already it felt like home. More so than ever after last night, as though those frightening events had put the seal on their tenancy of the Court.

In the mellow warmth of the late afternoon, so surprising after the ferocity of the storm, Ysella and Sam walked back up the still muddy track towards Carlyon Court. The tranquil sky rose in an arc overhead, devoid of all but the normal sea breeze, and only a few fluffy white clouds scudded across a cerulean backdrop. The storm of last night might never have happened.

As he'd done the night before, Sam had a firm hold on Ysella's hand, as though he were determined not to let go of her. Ysella, for her part, had no objection to this and was happy to walk between the high, rain-washed banks, leaving Jago's farm well behind them.

The sun beat down on her back as she strode along beside Sam, still, of course, dressed in her boys' clothes. How much easier it was to move about in them than in the confines of a long gown. The unfairness of it all swept over her. "I wish I could always wear breeches," she said, on a sigh.

Sam, who'd been gazing into the distance with a faraway expression on his face—was he suffering from shock?—turned to look at her, a smile flickering. A large bruise marred one side of his face, which he'd insisted didn't pain him too much. "I must admit that you do look very becoming in your breeches, Ysella, but I fear that the sight of you in them shocked old Sir Joshua Penveen to the core." As her hair was hanging in loose curls to her shoulders, it had been impossible to hide her gender from the ruddy-faced magistrate. Not that she'd cared. And he'd been more shocked than ever when he'd discovered her identity.

"Pah," Ysella snapped. "As if he counts. And he's a man, anyway, and has always had the pleasure of the freedom of movement breeches give one. Unlike us females. I have to say that the more I wear my breeches, the more I don't want to have to take them off." She bestowed a smug smile on Sam. "How would I have helped to haul the sailors ashore last night had my legs been tangled in the wet skirts of a dress ?"

He laughed. "I think Kit would have something to say about you wanting to gad about dressed as a boy the whole time."

Ysella laughed back. "Kit's not here." This repartee with Sam reminded her of the way it had used to be between them, of how it had been with her and Kit as well. Relaxed and carefree. She hadn't felt like this in a long while, but now adrenaline coursed through her veins, along with Jago's brandy, and she felt strong enough to meet the world.

But perhaps she wasn't quite ready to meet Sam. Not in the way she half-sensed he would have liked. A way she didn't want to think about. Not now. Not yet. Not after the offhand way she'd treated him for the last six weeks. The memory of how she'd kissed him, and he'd kissed her back, before he'd gone into the water, brought hot color to her cheeks, and she looked away from him, suddenly tongue-tied and shy. Had she shown herself up? Did he despise her for having done that? Did he think her a tease?

She let go of his hand and skipped on ahead. "I don't intend to take my breeches off today, that's for certain." How daring she was being, and how deliciously naughty it made her feel. How alive. The thought that down on that beach last night Sam might have died crept back into her head only to be pushed aside. She wouldn't think of that, even though his survival might be the reason for her high spirits.

Sam stopped, hands on his hips and legs apart. "You don't?"

She turned around, walking backwards with small steps. "No, I don't. And you can't make me."

That she was baiting him, and it was fun, she was dimly aware of. The urge to tease had risen like a tide, and all she wanted to do was exchange daring remarks with him. To push him to what, she had no idea, but the excitement of it tingled through her body. Did she, perish the thought, want him to take her in his arms right now and kiss her again? A funny feeling developed in her stomach as she remembered yet again the way he'd kissed her on the beach.

She watched him from beneath her lashes, all girl, despite her boys' clothes.

Sam took the bait and sprang towards her. "Well, in that case I might have to make you."

With a squeal, she turned and fled, booted feet pounding up the narrow, stony lane, more suitable for the Gentlemen's pack ponies than for a laughing, running girl.

She'd gone fifty yards with him gaining on her fast when beneath her boot, a stone turned and she missed her footing. Her arms stretched out to break her fall as she crashed to the ground, the air shooting out of her lungs. She lay winded on her face for a moment.

Hands seized her shoulders. "Ysella, are you all right?" How strong he was as he rolled her over. She kept her eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure he'd hear. She felt his fingers on the side of her neck as he searched for her pulse. "Ysella?"

She could sense him kneeling beside her, looming over her, see his worried face inside her head. She couldn't help it. A giggle escaped, and she flicked her eyes open. "Fooled you."

He didn't move. One hand rested on either side of her shoulders, his face hovered over hers, his eyes fixed on hers. He wasn't smiling. Instead, his face had gone suddenly serious. "Last night," he said, still not moving. "Why did you kiss me?"

She sobered. "I thought you might be going to die."

He compressed his lips. "I know. I thought so myself. But why did it make you kiss me?"

His gray eyes bored down into hers, the color of the sea on a misty day. The color of storm clouds. The color of a gull's feather. "I don't know," she whispered, as though their proximity had reduced the requirement to talk normally. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I-I didn't want you to die and me not having ever kissed you. I wanted to know what it would be like if… if you kissed me."

She could hear his breathing, coming fast now to match her own. Did she want him to kiss her right now? The thought intoxicated. Of course she did. Every cell in her body vibrated with the desire to have him take her in his arms and… What if he leaned forward now and pressed his lips to hers? And after that, what next? She would like very much to be kissed, here, lying on her back on the grass and mud, in her boys' clothes and with the sun shining down on them both, as though nothing else in the whole world mattered.

He removed his arms and sat back on his heels. "Come along, we'd best get back to the house before you shock any more local dignitaries with your appearance." As though he was talking to a child.

She sat up, bristling. Was that how he saw her still? As the child who'd trailed round Ormonde behind him and Kit? She was not a child. She was a woman, and he needed to be made to see her as that.

He rose to his feet and held his hand out to help her up, but she ignored it and stood up on her own, one hand out to the wall for support. A woman who didn't need help from a man.

No longer holding hands, their short-lived intimacy fled, they continued back up the path to the Court in silence.

*

Sam could have kicked himself. Why the hell hadn't he kissed her when he had the chance? She'd been lying there on her back in the path, humor dancing in her eyes, and with it an invitation, and he hadn't kissed her. She'd said she hadn't wanted him to die without her having kissed him, without knowing what it was to be kissed by him. Was that not enough of an invitation for any man?

He glanced furtively sideways at her but she was walking with her head down, her chestnut curls bouncing on her slim shoulders. How pretty she looked, even dressed in those dreadful breeches. How beguiling. And he'd let the opportunity slip through his fingers because he was a coward. Because he feared she hadn't done it because she loved him, but merely to try to make up for the fact that in six weeks they'd never so much as kissed. So that he wouldn't die without ever having kissed his wife.

At the house they parted, and Ysella disappeared upstairs, presumably to find the cowardly Martha and change into something more befitting the mistress of the house. He watched her slender figure as she ran up the wide wooden staircase, then stood for a long minute in silence, cursing himself afresh. He could still have caught her in his arms right here and snatched that offered kiss, but he felt it would have been a cheat's kiss, and he couldn't do it.

Rosie emerged from the door to the servants' hall, carrying a vase of flowers. Seeing Sam standing, staring up the stairs, she stopped beside him. "Penny for your thoughts, surr?"

Sam sighed and shook his head. "Just feeling rather tired, Rosie."

"Me an' all. 'Twas a good thing what you done. A brave thing. There's many masters round here wouldn't ha' done such a thing for folks they didn't know."

He shrugged. "Someone had to do it. I couldn't just stand there and watch them all drown."

She nodded. "Gone upstairs, has she? To her smart lady's maid?"

Sam glanced sideways at her. How did she know he was staring after Ysella? "Gone to change her clothes."

"She do make a good boy. A right pretty one."

He nodded. "But she can't stay like that, no matter how much she'd like to."

Rosie grinned. "Fair lovestruck, aren't you, my ansum?"

For a moment, Sam considered reprimanding her for her affrontery in commenting on his feelings, but he was too tired for an argument, and he felt sure there'd be one. And besides which, she was quite right. Instead, he just shrugged.

"She do like you too. Only she won't say."

Sam turned to face her. "She does? I mean, I know she likes me as a friend. But I fear not in the way I'd like her to like me." What was he doing saying this to his housekeeper? But she had about her the comforting air of someone he could confide in. Someone with an innate wisdom he could draw on. "What do you think I should do then?"

Rosie's face broke into a wide grin. "Why, woo her, thass what, lad. A girl, any girl that is, she do like bein' wooed. You can't just expect a girl to give of herself if you don't put no effort into it. Love don't just happen overnight, no matter what you've heared. Thass a girl what needs wooin', mark my words." She patted his arm. "She's got feelin's for you, thass for sure. But she won't be showin' them to you lessen you puts some effort into it."

Sam straightened up and managed a smile back at her, even though it made the side of his face hurt afresh. "Thank you for your wise words, Rosie. I had no idea you dispensed wisdom as well as pies and stews."

Rosie set the vase of flowers down on the small table at the foot of the stairs. "Been married three times m'self, so there don't be a lot I don't know about wooin'. You put yourself out to spend time with Miss Ysella, 'stead o' workin' all day in your office or visitin' the farms. She needs to be with you if you want her to love you, which I can see you do, plain as the nose on my face. You mark my words. That girl loves you already, but she just don't know it herself yet." She wiped her hands on her apron. "And now I'm off back to the kitchen to get dinner on, or you'll be givin' me my marchin' orders. Wise words don't fill bellies."

With no more ado, she abandoned the vase, whether it was where she'd intended it to be or not, and bustled back through the servants' door. After she'd gone, Sam stood for a while longer, contemplating what she'd said and the way Ysella had behaved on the beach. Perhaps Rosie was right. Perhaps Ysella needed some gentle wooing.