Chapter Two

1811

Kit hauled in his net over the side of his little sailing boat, the Rosenwyn, with a frown of disappointment and the ache of hard work between his shoulder blades. Her brown sails flapped loose in the light summer breeze. Nothing, again, even though he'd sailed out a long way to cast his nets. He might as well head back to Nanpean Cove and home.

However, despite all indications that today was not a good day for fish, he possessed the fisherman's optimism that trying just once more would give him something to take back to Jenifry, Uncle Jago's housekeeper and long-term bed companion. She would clap him on the back in congratulation and fry the fish in butter for their supper that night with some of her delicious bread to mop their plates. Then they'd wash it down with a pint or two of his uncle's finest cider, and maybe afterwards take a glass of good contraband French brandy as they sat in front of the fire together.

Shrugging his shoulders, his mouth watering, Kit threw his net over the side one last time. He might get lucky. He sometimes did close by the cliffs.

The net sank into the gently undulating surface of the sea, down and down, floating out of sight. One turn of the boat to gather up whatever he'd caught, and he'd haul it in. He pulled on the tiller, and the wind caught the sails. No point spending too much time. He gave the net a tentative tug, feeling the weight of something caught in it. Felt like a lot of fish.

Heart banging in the anticipation only a fisherman could understand, he began to haul the net in. With every heave of his strong, callused hands, his excitement rose. Whatever nestled in weed at the bottom of his net was heavy.

For a moment, he hesitated as the catch came into view. Something large and definitely not fish shimmered through the water. Through the weed, wet blonde hair trailed across the pale, blue-tinged skin of a face. Where the legs should have been—was that a blue tail?

Oh God, he'd caught a mermaid.

He couldn't have. They didn't exist. And on top of that, fishermen who caught them, according to the tales, either went mad or ended up dead.

Or both.

He nearly pushed the net and the mermaid back into the water, but then common sense took over. Firstly, it wasn't his net but Uncle Jago's, who would no doubt be furious if he lost it, as nets were either expensive to buy or a trouble to make. And secondly, that wasn't a tail, but legs in breeches.

Oh God, again. He'd dredged up a corpse. Hardly any improvement on finding a mermaid. Not that they really existed. Did they? Although his mother, a firm believer in all things fae, would have had something to say about his denial.

The net hung heavily on the side of Rosenwyn, making her heel hard to starboard. Much as he didn't want to, he'd have to pull the corpse on board. He'd have to touch it. He'd rather have touched a mermaid than the body of a drowned girl. A drowned girl in breeches.

Kit's hold on the net slackened, and for a moment the body in the net sank beneath the water again, the girl's light-colored hair floating ethereally about her beautiful pale face like weed. Then, squaring his shoulders for the unwelcome task, he heaved net and body onto the deck of his little boat as the sails flapped in the breeze.

A girl indeed, and not long dead by the look of her.

Her long hair once more clung to her pale skin, giving her a look of the mythical sea creature he'd first thought her. Dark lashes brushed her cheeks, and her lips were blue-tinged. Much as he recoiled from the task, he'd better disentangle her from his net.

Letting the Rosenwyn drift on the gentle swell, he rolled back the net from around the girl's body with some difficulty and, hauling her forward, sent her flopping onto the bottom boards. Water trickled out of the corner of her mouth as he freed her limbs from the clutch of the weed she'd become entwined in. Rotten bits of old netting snagged her feet, both of which were clad in some strange white footwear the like of which he'd never seen before.

What on earth was he supposed to do with a dead body? Today, of all days, as well.

He received an answer to his question quickly enough. As she slumped forward, she coughed. More water cascaded from her mouth.

She wasn't a mermaid, and she wasn't dead, thank the Lord. A wave of immense relief washing over him, despite a quick misgiving that it might be harder to deal with a live young woman than a drowned one, Kit leapt into action.

With deft hands, he propped her on her side against the thwart and thumped her on the back until she coughed again, and more water spurted out. "That's it," he said. "Cough it all up and you'll feel better in a minute."

She didn't look up but took his advice to heart and kept on coughing and spluttering, hunched there on the deck of his boat like a piece of flotsam. By the look of her, he'd better get her to the beach and onto dry land. Fast.

But where on earth had she come from? He gave a quick scan of the horizon as he gathered in the trailing ropes for his sails. Nothing. No sign of any boat, big or small, and definitely no larger ships. The horizon was empty. No boat but the Rosenwyn had been out fishing that day, and yet, he'd managed to catch a girl in his net.

A mystery.

Leaving the semi-conscious girl to cough her guts up, he took down the sails and slipped the oars into the rowlocks. Far quicker to row than to try to tack against the wind. With practiced skill and powerful pulls on the oars, he steered the little craft deeper into the cove.

As he drew closer, the sound of the waves rolling up the beach, magnified by the high, surrounding headlands, assaulted his ears—stronger surf than when he'd set out this morning, but he could do it.

He glanced down at the girl again. "Nearly at the beach. I'll have you on dry land before long."

No response.

Where the breakers began, he pulled in the oars and, grabbing the painter, jumped into chest high water to drag the boat behind him. By the time he had it pulled out on the sand above the high-water mark, he was soaked to the skin.

Lucky for the hot sun.

Now he could turn his attention to the girl lying crumpled on the wet boards. She couldn't stay there. And for the first time he paid a bit more attention to what she was wearing. He'd thought her legs a tail, and he could see why now. Her tight breeches were of a faded blue-grey color not unlike the skin of a dolphin. Or of a mermaid. How very odd. And what was more, they rather disconcertingly revealed her exact shape from the waist down, something no young lady should consider doing.

He glanced at her top half and had to take a step back. All she wore at the top was some kind of thin chemise—and being wet it was almost see-through, revealing something black shining through from underneath—something black and lacy.

For a girl who'd attired herself in a man's breeches, this black lacy thing seemed quite out of character, but what it actually was escaped Kit. Perhaps she'd lost the rest of her clothes in the water, and all of this was some sort of undergarment?

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to carry you. I apologize in advance for any impropriety—it's not intended." There, that should cover him.

Not quite sure where to put his hands on this very underdressed female, he bent into the boat and scooped her into his arms, her head lolling unresponsive against his chest. Then, with the sand hot under his bare feet, he strode up the sloping beach toward the narrow group of dunes. Laying her down, he knelt by her side.

Damn it. He really didn't need this. Not today.

What should he do now? She'd coughed up most of the water, but her skin still had a worryingly grey tinge and her body had felt icy cold in his arms. She hadn't opened her eyes, but at least she'd stopped coughing, although that might not be a good sign. He glanced about in indecision. No blanket, and his own clothes were so wet there was no point in offering her his shirt, which was all he had anyway.

He took her cold hand in his and chafed it. "Miss?" he tried. "Miss, are you all right?"

He felt a fool. She clearly wasn't all right at all.

The girl stirred a little and her eyes opened a crack, enabling him to see they were startlingly blue. The bright summer sunshine must have dazzled her though, because she closed them again in a hurry.

"Josh?" she whispered, her voice feathery and light.

Who was Josh? A wave of unexpected annoyance washed over Kit that her first words had been for someone other than himself. He'd rescued her, after all, and not this Josh, whoever he was. Wherever he was. He cast a quick glance back at the sea, but it still remained devoid of all craft. No Josh in sight.

He patted her hand in what he hoped, not being used to rescuing damsels from watery graves, was a comforting way. There was nothing for it. He'd have to take her up to the farm despite what Jago would say about tonight. "You're freezing. I need to get you somewhere warm. Do you think you can stand?"

Her eyes opened again, a little wider this time, enabling him to further appreciate their mesmerizing color. He'd never seen eyes of such an intense blue. She licked her lips. "I—I think so. If you can help me up."

This meant touching her again, and despite the fact he'd already done so, reticence washed over Kit. If only she were wearing more clothes. He steeled himself and put a wary arm around her shoulders, propping her up into a sitting position. The effort made her close her eyes again.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I think I'm going to be sick." She leaned away from him and cast up her accounts on the sand—a mixture of seawater and what looked like bread. She wiped her mouth and spat a few times. "Gross," came her whisper. "Don't look."

Obedient to her wish, he averted his eyes and peered down the beach towards where Rosenwyn sat. Still not a single other boat marred the blue horizon.

"I feel better now," the girl whispered, after a minute. "I'll get up if you can give me your arm."

Kit scrambled to his feet and bent to help her to hers. Once upright, she stood swaying slightly, eyes closed, as though dizziness threatened to overcome her, or the urge to further cast up her accounts. He kept a steadying arm around her shoulders, acutely aware of the chill of her skin against his own warm body.

Should he carry her? A difficult job through the soft sand of the dunes even though she wasn't very heavy. He was about to offer when she spoke again.

"Where am I?"

At least she was showing some interest in her surroundings now. "Nanpean Cove. I pulled you out of the sea. You nearly drowned."

She blinked up at him as though barely seeing him. "Where's Josh?"

Despite the sand now sticking to her wet hair and the pallor of her skin, he could see she was a pretty girl, made beautiful by those eyes. He shrugged. "I don't know, but I have to get you somewhere warm and into some dry clothes. Can you walk, do you think?"

She nodded. "I'll be okay now. Lead the way."

The quicker he got her in front of the warm fire in Jago's kitchen, the better.

He slid his arm down until it encompassed her slender waist, far too aware of the paucity of her clothing, but manners dictated that he couldn't let her walk unaided. Not after nearly drowning. That thin undergarment felt like the next best thing to bare skin. A hot flush radiated through his body at the thought of touching this girl, or any nicely brought up young lady in fact, in such a state of undress. Usually, they were protected by their very considerable upholstery.

Together, they slogged up the heavy going of the dunes until they reached the path that led inland from the beach. This was where Kit had left his boots that morning, having run barefoot down to find his boat, carrying his oars.

He lowered his charge onto a hummock of tussocky grass. "I just have to put my boots on. Will you be all right sitting here for a minute? The next bit's steep. Don't talk if you don't want to."

A shaky nod.

In a hurry to get back to her, he pulled on his top boots over bare, sandy feet, stuffing his stockings into his breeches' pockets. The girl didn't look up once, her shoulders rising and falling with the effort of the walk through the loose sand, and her hair falling in sandy rats' tails over her face. Perhaps he should have obeyed his first instinct and carried her.

"Can you go on?" he asked, and she managed a nod.

Once he had her on her feet again and they were on the sounder ground of the stony path, Kit was able to lessen his hold on her. A relief. He'd been becoming more and more aware of the rise and fall of her unprotected ribcage against his arm, and that hot glow of embarrassment he'd felt earlier had grown.

Why on earth was he feeling like a green boy? It wasn't as if he'd never touched a naked female form before. Annoyance at his own reaction only served to make him more awkwardly aware of the girl at his side.

The steep walk up the dunes had brought some color back to her cheeks, bestowing an altogether healthier shade to a skin that was surprisingly tanned, as though she spent a lot of her time out of doors. Just as he did. How strange in a young lady of obvious delicate birth. Experience had taught him that ladies of quality normally abhorred being outside in the sun without a parasol in case they developed freckles. Did she have any? He took a quick glance and saw that a few sprinkled her small nose and cheeks.

"Not much further now. I live just up here. Do you still feel able to walk?"

A nod.

Every twist of the path from the beach was as familiar to Kit as the back of his hand, but it had never felt so long, nor so steep as it did today. The warm air hung in the narrow valley, redolent with the scent of the heather, and the cry of gulls rose above the hot summery sound of gorse popping on the steep hillside.

They paused for a breather halfway up and he lowered her onto a large rock where she sat with her head down, chest heaving with the effort.

"I'm so sorry to be such a nuisance," she whispered, without looking up, her voice croaky.

Kit shrugged, even though she couldn't have seen him do so. "I'm just glad I was there to save you and you're not dead." Not much else he could say. He fidgeted awkwardly and shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to do next. "There's a fire in the kitchen to get you dry, and I can make you something to drink. Brandy? Water?" Why was he gabbling like this?

The girl took away the necessity for any decision, though, by getting unsteadily to her feet. "I'm as okay now as I'm going to be. Let's keep going before my legs give up on me."

He put a cautious arm around her, and she leaned into him, her body warmer now than it had been. Awareness of her almost naked proximity cascaded over him again.

At last, the brambles and hawthorns to either side of the path fell back, allowing the path to widen and reveal Uncle Jago's farmhouse on the brow of the hill. Tall chimneys poked above the horizon like pointing fingers, and the silvery woodsmoke from the kitchen range twisted up into the clear blue sky.

Within a few short minutes Kit was supporting the girl up the cart track between drystone walls, his heart a heavy, foreboding weight in his chest. Jago was not going to be happy about their unwelcome visitor.