Chapter Thirty-Five

S am ran out of the cave dragging Ysella by the hand. Their feet splashed through the shallow water that before had looked inviting and gentle but now seemed to have morphed into a threatening, unstoppable upsurge. The small headland between this little cove and the main beach was already lapped by waves breaking against the jagged rocks. The one they needed to get back around to Jem and the horses.

"Quick. Run," Sam shouted, barely hesitating, but setting off across the sand as fast as he could. If it got any deeper, they'd have to swim for it, and Ysella couldn't swim. As he ran, he glanced sideways at the cliffs, rising sheer and steep to the headland above, in case they might present a way out if they were trapped. Nothing, and by the look of the wet sand, the tide would reach right to their feet when fully in.

They reached the rocky outcropping. The waves breaking on the rocks were increasing in size and ferocity as the water deepened. They had no other way out, and the longer they left it, the worse it was going to get. No time to waste.

Ysella tugged on his hand. "If I drown, will you carve my face on the rock in that cave beside that other girl's face? Promise me?"

He swung round. "If we have to swim for it, I won't let you drown. That's what I promise." He tightened his hold on her hand as her pale, terrified face looked up at him. "This way."

He led her into the surf. He should have realized going into that cove, and then that cave, was a dangerous and foolish thing to do. He should have found out about how fast a tide could come in. The boy would have known. He could have asked Jem if it was safe to walk that far along the beach. What would he say to Kit if he let Ysella drown? It didn't bear thinking about. If she drowned, then he would go with her. He couldn't go on without her, not now they'd found one another at last.

At least the waves were smaller than the other night. But when they came, they soaked both of them up to the neck and threatened to lift them off their feet. Even Sam, who was over six feet tall and solidly built. Putting himself between Ysella and the waves, he transferred his hold on her to an arm around her waist lest she be washed away from him. Her own arm wrapped around his waist, seizing a handful of his soggy gansey in a tight fist.

The tide was coming in much faster than he'd thought it would. Why had they lingered in that cave? Was that what the drowned girl had done? And now Sam had done it to Ysella—brought her into danger. They were almost halfway around the headland now, the waves getting stronger every time one rolled in. Branok Bay lay ahead of them, much reduced by the incoming tide. There was Jem with the three horses, standing not where they'd left him but at the water's edge, staring in their direction.

Sam fought the undertow that was threatening to drag them both out to sea. Ysella's head went underwater and he snatched her back up. She came up gasping and spitting water, her hair plastered to her head. What a fool he'd been to trust the deceptive calmness of the treacherous sea. This wasn't like the night of the storm. Then he'd had a rope around his waist on his swim out to the ship. Now he had nothing at all except the weight of Ysella in his arms.

A large wave swept him off his feet and he nearly lost his hold on Ysella. She clung to him, pulling him down, her dark eyes full of fear. "Help me," she spluttered. He had to fight her to turn her in his arms so she was lying on her back, his hand hooked under her chin and holding her face barely above the water. She struggled against him, arms and legs thrashing.

But he had her firm at last and kicked out for the beach, towing her with him. She stopped struggling. Another wave came in and carried them towards the shore. As the wave swept past him, Sam felt sand beneath his feet, the sand being pulled back into the sea by the strong undertow. Clutching Ysella, he threw himself forward and the next wave went over both their heads. But they were on the beach, with solid sand under them.

Jem came splashing through the waves, the horses abandoned. He reached for Ysella but Sam had her tight. "Get back to the horses," he managed, in between spitting out salty water. Dripping wet, he struggled to his feet and pulled Ysella to hers. Arms wrapped around her to hold her up, he staggered onto the sand.

Jem had retrieved the horses. "I did think you was goners then," he announced, the light of glee in his eyes, presumably at having witnessed the drama of a near drowning. "I was a-wondrin' what I was goin' to say to Ma when I come home wi'out you both."

"I trust you're pleased that we're not drowned," Sam said, his tone dry, unlike his clothes and hair. This boy seemed to be a bit of a ghoul.

Jem shrugged, possibly annoyed at losing his role as bearer of bad tidings. "You gotta know the tides round here, or you're in trouble."

"We worked that out for ourselves," Ysella retorted, wiping her wet hair out of her eyes. "You might have warned us."

Jem shrugged again. "I dint know you was goin' to walk round into Merrin Cove wi' the tide comin' in, an' then dawdle about there an' not see as the tide was near right in. I don't have the Sight, like old Doryty do."

Ysella nestled against Sam with a shiver, whether at the cold or the thought of having nearly drowned, he didn't know, but he tightened his arms around her. She might well catch a chill in these wet clothes. How awful would it be to have rescued her from drowning to see her fall ill and die from something as simple as that. She had to be kept safe. Lochinvar pawed the sand with an impatient hoof. Sam reached for his reins. "We'd best get my wife back home as quickly as possible before she takes ill from her soaking."

"Why is it called Merrin Cove?" Ysella asked, her voice muffled against Sam's gansey. "It anything to do with the carving in the cave? The carving of the woman with the poem beneath it? I want to know."

Jem wrinkled his freckled nose. "I don't know nothin' about any writin'." He shook his head. "If there were any, I couldn't read it, anyways. But they do say, or old Doryty did say, that is, as the woman's face in the rock was Merrin Tremaine, a girl what was drownded in that cove a long time ago." He shrugged his skinny shoulders. "P'raps she did the same as you did—stayed too long and let the tide come in." He regarded Ysella. "Wi'out Mr. Beauchamp to pull you out, I don't think as you'd'ave made it on your own. Same as her."

"Tremaine?" Ysella repeated, shifting in Sam's arms. "That was her surname?"

The boy nodded. "Same as old Jago."

Ysella twisted in Sam's arms so she could look into his face. "But my mother was a Tremaine. That must surely make Merrin Tremaine a distant relation of mine."

Of course. No wonder Sam had thought the carving looked like Ysella. "Jago will know the story," he said. "But we can't go and ask him that now. We need to get you home and out of those wet clothes. Let's find our boots, and then I'll give you a leg up onto Lochinvar."

*

By the time they reached home, Ysella was beginning to dry out in the warm breeze and see what had happened to them as a big adventure. Nearly having drowned was nothing like having really drowned, and all she could see was that Sam, her hero, had saved her life. Thinking about this caused a glow that went some way to warming her up. He was certainly clocking up a nice tally of brave deeds of heroism. Quite the dashing gentleman. Quite the romantic hero from a book, only she didn't really want to see him in that way in case it made her think of Oliver. She never wanted to think of that young man again.

They dismounted in the front drive of the Court and left Jem to lead the two horses and his pony round to the stables. For a moment after the horses had departed, Ysella stood irresolute on the gravel, peeking sideways at Sam.

She caught him watching her and held out her hand.

He took it, threading his fingers between hers in a curiously intimate gesture. "Shall we go in?"

No one was in the wide hallway, which was probably a good thing considering the state they were both in, clothes still damp and hair akimbo.

"Shall we go upstairs to change?" Sam asked, his gray eyes meeting hers. Was that hot passion she read in them?

Ysella's insides turned to liquid. Did he mean what she wanted him to mean? That this might be the moment . Could she do it as she'd said she would? Be his wife, his true wife in every way. He wasn't Oliver. He'd stop if she didn't like it. He'd said she didn't have to do anything she didn't like. She was in control of this. She nodded.

Hand in hand, they climbed the stairs and turned right on the half landing. Hand in hand, they walked along the gallery. At Sam's bedroom door, he halted and reached for the handle, but she gave his hand a tug. It was for her to invite him in.

Their eyes met, his questioning and hopeful. She tugged again and took a step towards her own bedroom.

He followed her.

At her door they halted again, eyes locked for a long moment. Then Ysella opened the door and stepped inside, pulling Sam after her. She closed the door with a well-aimed foot.

The four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room, a stark reminder of what they were here for. Ysella's breath came fast and her skin blossomed with heat. She could put up with anything, even this, for Sam. All she wanted to do was make him happy, but at her own pace.

Still beside the door, they faced one another, unmoving, eyes still locked.

Ysella pulled her damp gansey off over her head and let it drop to the floor. After a moment, Sam did the same with his.

The silence between them stretched out, fizzing with electricity. Then Sam reached up and undid the top button of her shirt. His fingers strayed to the pale skin at her throat, oh so gently.

Ysella drew a shuddering breath and, with shaking fingers, began to unbutton his waistcoat, a hot sensation forming in the base of her stomach, and crawling lower. Was this how she should feel with the man she loved slowly undressing her?

With unsteady fingers Sam undid the next button on her shirt, and then the next. Her shirt gaped, revealing her stays and the swell of her small breasts. Would he touch them, like Oliver had. She knew now that had been an invasion. Would Sam do the same?

He didn't. Instead, he shrugged off his waistcoat and tossed it to the floor. How hot his eyes were. Hot with passion. The sight of them frightened her a little. Only the fact that she knew he was a gentleman and she could stop whenever she wanted kept her going.

He pushed her braces from her shoulders and his hands went to her shirt, pulling it out of the top of her breeches to hang almost to her knees. It was much too large for her.

She should do the same for him. Dark hair, much darker than the hair on his head, curled across his chest, where purple bruises from the shipwreck blossomed, and down his belly to the top of his breeches. With a tentative hand, she touched his well-muscled chest, letting her fingers skim the bruises and run over his taut stomach. His body tensed beneath her touch. How warm his skin was, how his muscles rippled under it. She caught her breath as he did the same, and for a moment his eyes closed. The thought that her touch was giving him pleasure coursed through her. She let her fingers stray across his chest, wondering at the hair on it.

He caught his breath again, and his hand cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin. "I love you, Ysella, and I will never hurt you. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I don't want you to feel you have to do it for me. If you do it, it must be for you."

She shook her head. "I want to." Her other hand joined the first, exploring his torso, running up and gliding over a nipple. She felt him jerk in response to her touch and knew her power. And in that moment, she knew that power was what she needed. Oliver had deprived her of all power, taking choice away from her, but here, now, she held the power because Sam had given it to her, willingly. She let her hand return to his nipple and was rewarded by his sharp gasp of pleasure.

She could do this. He was letting her.

In one swift movement she pulled her shirt off over her head to stand there in just her stays and breeches. Let him look. It was her allowing this, not him taking it.

Sam let out a quick gasp, his hand lifting towards her, then falling back to his side. "I think we need to take our boots off." His voice was husky with passion. "Sit down and I'll pull yours off, then you can do mine."

He yanked her boots off with no trouble, but she found his harder to do, collapsing backwards onto the floor as the last one finally came free. He helped her up off the rug and for another pregnant moment they stood face to face, drinking one another in.

Ysella broke the silence by putting her hand on the top of his breeches, feeling his stomach contract as she did so. "I believe these will need to come off."

"And yours."

She undid one of the buttons on his fall, her fingers skimming the definite bulge, still a little afraid. But she was in control. She had nothing to fear. She undid another button, and another. His breeches fell to the floor, but the long tails of his shirt covered his arousal. She let her hand skim against it beneath the linen, more curious now than afraid, and felt it jerk as though it had a life of its own.

He suppressed a groan, badly. Men clearly found it very pleasurable if a girl touched their cock. She congratulated herself for having named it. That too, imbued her with confidence and diminished her anxiety.

"Shall I undo your stays?" he asked.

She compressed her lips. Once he'd done that, she'd be practically naked, and, for some reason, the act of him undoing her undergarment seemed to poach her sense of control. However, she nodded. She could allow him that.

He moved behind her and she felt his fingers fumbling with the laces. The realization that he was too nervous to do it properly gave her back her feeling of power. Here was a man who was perhaps as afraid as she was. She allowed for different reasons.

Her stays loosened and her hands came up out of instinct to cover her breasts, but he didn't turn her around. That was for her to do. Still with her back to him, she undid the fall on her own breeches and let them fall to the ground. She was naked now, with not enough hands to cover her modesty.

Behind her, she heard him remove his own shirt.

Still with her back to him, she gave a nervous giggle. "This is the middle of the day."

"I know."

"What will the servants say?"

"Do I care? Do you?"

"They'll know."

"They'll be saying ‘about time too'."

She giggled again. "Is that what you think?"

His hands came up and rested on her shoulders. Was he going to turn her around? "I don't think anything. All that's in my head right now is how much I love you, and how much I want to please you."

"Please me?"

"Yes. Please you." His voice dropped. "You know this act you're fearing doesn't need to be feared. A man derives pleasure from it, and a woman can too, if it's done correctly."

"Oh." She digested his words. "Have you done it before?"

He was silent a moment before he spoke. "Yes, but not for quite a while. I know how to give a woman pleasure. I learned from an expert, when I was hardly more than a boy."

But he wasn't married. So who had he done it with? Who had the expert who'd taught him been? On second thought, she didn't want to know.

She waited, but he said nothing more, just stood there with his warm hands on her shoulders, waiting.

She was in control. "Close your eyes." Taking a deep breath, she dropped her hands from her breasts and turned around.

His eyes were closed. "Keep them like that," she said.

He did as he was told, his dark lashes splayed on his cheeks. She surveyed him with slow precision from head to foot. His sandy hair was still tangled from the sea and wind, his cheeks had a healthy flush to them that might either have been from being outside all morning or from how he felt right then. Possibly a mix of both.

She studied his wide shoulders and the muscles of his arms, the little hairs along his forearms, the curling, much darker hair on his chest. Her eyes dropped further to where his cock stood out from amongst more dark hair, long and thick.

"You can open your eyes."

They flicked open and met hers. For a long moment he held her gaze before his eyes fell, and he took in her body.

When his gaze returned to meet her eyes again, she took his hand and led him to the bed. With a little, inviting smile, she lay down on her back, her head on the pillow. This would be all right now. She was in control.

*

Some considerable time later, Ysella lay awake on the bed, listening to the sound of birdsong carrying in through the open window, more content than she'd ever been. Beside her, Sam had dozed off on his back, one arm thrown back above his head, his fingers, those clever, loving fingers, slack and relaxed.

She gazed at his sleeping face, so handsome, but above all so kind, and so gentle. He'd been more than gentle with her. He'd done things to her she'd never dreamed of doing, asking every time if she minded, and touched her in places she didn't know could react in the way they had done. He'd brought her to the point of desperation before he'd finally consummated their love, and it had not been as it was with Oliver. It hadn't hurt because she'd been ready for it, and because he'd ensured she was on the point of the ultimate in physical pleasure.

And my goodness, what an experience that had been. How could a girl not like what had happened when he'd finally slipped inside her. She gave a little shiver of pleasure, her own hand running across her skin. Skin that he'd called beautiful as he'd peppered it with kisses, starting on her lips, then descending to her throat, her breasts, and lower still. Another shiver trembled through her, and a longing for more of the same.

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at Sam. How peaceful he looked. It would be a shame to wake him, but… She bent and kissed him lightly on the mouth and felt him stir under her touch. Emboldened by their new familiarity, she set her hand on his belly, and slid her hand southwards.

His lips moved under hers, his mouth opened as hers did, their tongues met. Under her questing hand she felt a stirring. What fun it would be to do this all again.

The End