Ann Lethbridge - Regency Proposal

‘C-c-can’t feel my legs.’

Oh, hell, what had he been thinking? It was all right for him to swim in the ocean, he’d been brought up on it, swimming in the cold lochs in the hills when there was nowhere to bathe, but this delicate creature wasn’t used to such hardship.

He swept her up in his arms.

‘No. You must be tired.’

‘Aye.’ He was. But he was used to battling on, no matter how exhausted. Hardship was a fact of life in the Highlands.

He staggered up the narrow beach, clicking his tongue for the horse to follow. Rocks jutted out from the cliffs, forming a natural inlet invisible from the overhanging cliff top. From the sea at high tide, one needed a boat, but right now, the entrance to the cave was a gentle slope into the dark. A cave wrought by seawater and an ancient underground river.

He ducked inside.

The sound of the waves became a muffled roar—a bit like listening to a shell up against your ear.

The fragile body in his arms vibrated. Shivers. He was feeling chilled himself, but out of the wind it wasn’t so bad.

Beau shook himself, water drops flying. He obviously approved of the dry and followed Ian willingly.

The incline got steeper, rockier. The horse’s hooves slipped here and there, but the animal kept close behind, trusting. God, the whole clan had trusted him to bring this off tonight. And now he was stuck here with no idea what was happening.

If not for the girl, he’d probably be dead. And now she lay lifeless in his arms, her dark hair hanging like seaweed over his arms, her body cold and suddenly still. He should have called the whole thing off the moment he saw her. Got the men away. Ignored the boat.

Either that or given himself up instead of plunging into the sea. Please God, he could get her warm and dry before she succumbed to the cold.

The cave was black as pitch and freezing, but he knew it as well as he knew his own bedchamber in the dark. His senses told him when the passage opened into the cave proper. That and the light touch of air rushing by his cheek. He set the fragile female in his arms down on the sand. She struggled to a sitting position and he felt relief flood through him at the sound of another round of clattering teeth.

‘Wait there,’ he said and felt his way to the corner where he found several oilcloth-wrapped parcels.

It wasn’t long before he had candles lit, tinder and peat laid out for a fire and blankets spread on the floor. He lit the kindling from a candle and nursed the fire to life, gently blowing on the embers until flames flared up and beat back some of the darkness.

‘W-w-what is this p-p-place?’ Her voice was an echoing whisper.

Thank God, she was alert enough to talk. ‘‘Tis an old cave used by fisherman.’ He kept his voice matter of fact. No point in letting her know how much he had feared for her. He strode to her side. ‘Sit by the fire. There are more blankets. We’ll get you out of these wet clothes.’

He helped her to her feet. Made to pick her up.

‘I can walk,’ she said. She staggered a few steps, but, unable to stand the sight of her weakness, he picked her up and carried her to the warmth of the fire.

‘I’m cold too, lass. I’ve no wish to be waiting a week for you to get yourself by the warmth.’

He put her down on the blankets and handed her another. ‘Put that around you and take off your wet things.’

He turned his back, more and more aware of the sodden cloth clinging to his legs and dripping onto the floor. He grabbed Beau by the bridle and led him to an iron manger some enterprising ancestor had attached to the rock wall. There were oats and hay in a sack, waiting for just such an occasion as this: a need to hide from the authorities or to save a fisherman caught out in a storm.

It hadn’t been used for a good long while, as far as he knew, but one of the local fishermen had the job of keeping it stocked in case of a wreck.

After emptying the hay into the manger, he used the sack to rub the horse down, then went farther up the tunnel on the landward side, to the rain barrel. The water was peaty-tasting, but clean and fresh. He filled a small pan for the horse and a couple of leather flasks.

Busy work, because all he could think of was her slipping out of her clothes, baring her lush body. He gritted his teeth. He was not the adolescent he’d been that long-ago summer, fancying himself in love with a girl he should have nothing to do with. None the less, the images were certainly warming his blood. And that wasn’t such a bad thing.

By the time he got back, Lady Selina’s clothes lay near the fire and the blanket was wrapped tightly around her delicious curves. She looked beautiful. Pale, her lips a little blue, strands of damp hair curling around her face, sticking to her skin. A legend come to life.

He grinned. ‘You look like a selkie.’

‘A sea witch? I feel more like a bit of jetsam washed up on the shore.’ The brave smile on her lips as she dragged her fingers through her hair caught at his heart.

‘Are you warmer?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘What about you? Shouldn’t you …?’ Her words trailed off and she looked away, embarrassed.

Noble lasses like her didn’t think about men taking their clothes off. Indeed, they probably didn’t think a man had anything beneath his clothes. Clothes made the man, if the strutting peacocks in Edinburgh were to be believed.

Well, he wasn’t going to stand here and drip to save her sensibilities. ‘Aye. There’s a spare kilt here, but nothing fit for a lady to wear. You’ll have to dry your clothes before we leave.’

He grabbed the supplies put there for men prevented from landing their fishing boats at the quay during a storm. Or smugglers forced to flee the long arm of the gaugers.

He moved out of the light of the fire, wrapped a blanket around him and stripped off to his coat and shirt, using another blanket as a towel.

When he turned back she was eyeing him from beneath lowered lashes. She probably didn’t realise the light from the fire, while distorting her features with flickering shadows, did not hide her expression of interest.

Heat travelled up his neck to his face.

Blushing like a lad. Surely not?

‘What the hell did you think you were doing, coming down to the beach?’ he said, his voice gruffer than he intended. ‘What you did was brave, but foolhardy.’ There, that was less ungrateful if still grudging.

‘You are a fool, Ian Gilvry,’ she said scornfully. ‘All that danger for brandy.’

Stung, he glared at her. ‘The brandy pays for other things.’

She gazed at him blankly.

He shrugged. What would a privileged lass like her know or care about the hardships his people faced? All her father cared about was the hunting and the grouse. ‘As soon as your clothes are dry I’ll get you home.’

Her gaze wandered to his horse. ‘I have never seen a horse swim that way.’

‘I lost a horse in a river once. He went in at a ford and got confused. I swore I would never lose another horse to the water.’

She rested her chin on her knees. ‘I can see why. They become like friends …’ She hesitated. ‘Your mother gave me permission to ride him.’

‘Did she know who you were?’ He sat down beside her on the blanket. The fire’s warmth was painful to his icy skin.

‘Yes.’

That did surprise him. His mother had always been opposed to everything English—it was a point of honour. If she ever learned Ian had sent Drew off to America at the behest of Albright’s daughter, she would never forgive him.

He’d done it for the memories of a short time when he’d felt happy and carefree, when he’d forgotten his duties and responsibilities. Very selfish reasons wrapped around youthful dreams and wishes. Reality in the shape of his brothers’ shock at seeing them together had brought him back to earth, but he’d never stopped feeling guilty for the hurt look on her face at his rejection and cruel words spoken in parting. That guilt had sent Drew to his death. He would not let her influence him against his family again. But she had made up for it in part, at least, with tonight’s warning.