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To be plain, he wanted to know more of her. Once they were bedded, he doubted not, he would become bored. Putting Clarissa from him when their kiss got so out of hand, when she had rubbed so sinuously against the throbbing evidence of his desire as to almost overset him, had not been easy. But passion was enhanced by anticipation, so postponement there would be—for a day or so, at least. Pouring the last of the claret into his glass, Kit looked up to find Clarissa’s green eyes fixed on him with resolution. ‘Speak, fair Clarissa, I can see you are pregnant with words. I am, as they say, all ears.’
This was said with a lurking smile that she found reassuring, as he had intended. She was in no danger for the present. Returning the smile tremulously, Clarissa pushed aside her plate. ‘I take it, sir, that there is no point in my wasting time trying to persuade you to delay this undertaking?’
A shake of the head was her reply. Well, she had resigned herself to this. She knew she had taken a risk when setting out on this whole preposterous journey, and she had been foolish enough to ignore the warnings her Aunt Constance had delivered as to the perfidious nature of the man before her. Beguiled by his physical attractions, drawn on by her desire to know him better, Clarissa had fashioned her own fate. And now she would pay for it. But at least if Kit was aboard a boat sailing for France, he would not be in London waving his plentiful purse under her sister’s nose.
And, oh, she so much wanted to go! There, she had admitted it to her deepest soul. The Earl of Rasenby understood her desire for adventure very well. He could not, in fact, have selected a more enticing trip. To sail out to sea on his yacht, to be part of a rescue mission, perhaps to be chased by the customs men—it was so much like a romance she could not resist. And she would not, simply would not, behave like a simpering miss when faced with the challenge. If she must go—and she must, she must—then she would go with flags flying and battle colours held proudly aloft. Kit would not intimidate her. On the contrary, she would make sure to enjoy every minute of it.
Kit watched in amusement, reading Clarissa’s face fairly accurately, surprised and more than a little impressed at her courage in the face of adversity. He had thwarted her, but she would not submit easily to his will. ‘Well? Your eyes give your thoughts expression, but really I would rather have them spoke plain, lest there be any misunderstandings between us. Are you ready to commit to our adventure, Clarissa?’
An answering smile, tinged with something—fear? Again, he repressed the urge to reassure. She did not need it. He would play along with her only so far.
‘Yes. You give me no choice, Kit, but I will not pretend to go unwillingly when you are offering something that interests me so much. In fact, I’m already looking forward to it. How long shall we be gone?’
The question, almost casual, did not fool him. The lady was already planning her escape. ‘One night only, if the winds are with us—and they usually are. Two at most, I believe. Had you something of longer duration in mind?’
‘No, no, not at all.’ Short enough a time, but surely sufficient for things between Amelia and Edward to flower? Resolving to put Amelia and Edward and everything else aside for now, and to extract the most from the situation which would surely be the adventure of a lifetime, Clarissa gave Kit a direct and steady look. ‘You could not have picked anything more exciting for me, you know. I was not in jest last night when I told you that I find the idea of rescuing these poor émigrés completely enthralling. Since reading Mrs Wollstonecraft’s account of the revolution, their plight has moved me. I’ve never been to sea before, though—I hope I’m not taken poorly.’
He made no comment on her reference to the infamous and now dead Mrs Wollstonecraft, being unsurprised at her sympathies with that lady, but stored the information up with which to annoy her later. He enjoyed pitting his wits against Clarissa, so rare it was to find a woman with a brain worth testing. Sea sickness, however, had not occurred to him as a possible issue. Immediately it was brushed aside. ‘I am very sure, Clarissa, that if you decide not to be sick, then you will not be. I imagine there are few things—or people—you cannot subdue to your wishes.’
‘What a strange thing to say. If you knew more of me, you’d realise just how constrained and burdened with other people’s wishes my own life has been. I am not used to indulging myself, you know.’
‘Well, if I am your chosen indulgence then I am flattered. But be aware, Clarissa, that I am not an indulgence to be abused. Once and for all, I remind you of your promise. When we go forward from this inn, you are not just committed to a trip to France. You will pay for it with that delectable body of yours. And you will not pretend that the payment will be anything other than desired by us both. Are we understood?’
The urge to tell the truth passed fleetingly across her mind, followed quickly by the urge to admit that she would be delighted to pay with her body. Both urges were suppressed. There could be no question of it, and she would deal with denying him later. But the lie that her tremulous agreement required sat heavy on her conscience.
Kit noticed, but ignored it. Time was against them. Checking his pocket watch, he rang the bell and demanded the bill. Clarissa, clad once more in her less than adequate spencer and gloves, was ushered out through the passageway and into a closed carriage. A hot brick was placed at her feet, and a fur rug tucked around her legs.
‘I will ride alongside. There are not usually highwaymen on this stretch of road, but I prefer not to take the chance. Try to sleep for a while, we have a journey of some hours ahead of us.’
‘Kit?’
‘Yes?’ The terse voice was intimidating. He was impatient to be off.
‘I trust you.’
‘What am I to take from that?’
‘To keep me safe. To share the experience with me—properly, I mean, don’t just bury me below decks. To leave me unmolested for the while. I trust you.’
‘Then you are a fool. Rakes, my purported innocent, are never to be trusted. But I will allow you to be right, just this once. You may trust me thus far. But no more.’
‘Yes, but you will keep me safe. For now.’
Leaning back into the warmth of the carriage, Clarissa was unaware of the anger she had aroused in Kit. And confusion. The urge to tell her he would keep her safe always had been unaccountably strong. Once more, Kit’s instincts warred with his mind, as he told himself she was merely a very clever actress playing him like a professional. ‘For now’, however, was the only reply he vouchsafed.
The door of the chaise was banged shut. The ostlers let go of the horses, and the carriage leapt forward into the dark of the falling night, the tall man astride his powerful black stallion riding alongside. Clarissa was left to her own reflections, but the long day and her lack of sleep the previous night took their toll. Exhausted, the gentle rocking motion of the carriage soothed her and, to her surprise, Clarissa drifted into a sound sleep.
The carriage was stationary when she woke, and she could smell the salty tang of the sea air. Rubbing her eyes and casting off the rug, she descended to a scene of ordered but frenetic activity. They were at a small quayside. The boathouse, doors open and an oil lamp blazing inside, was waiting to shelter their carriage. There was a stable at the back for the horses, but no other sign of buildings, and the track they had come ran through deserted marshland.
On the quay she could see Kit, wrapped in an enormous black greatcoat, barking out orders to two men, one on the deck of the sleek yacht, and one beside him on the jetty. It was a cloudless night, and the stars were bright, much brighter than they ever were in London, where lights dimmed them to a soft glow. Here in the middle of nowhere they glared like so many burning braziers lighting up the heavens.
Shivering in the cold wind, Clarissa picked her way carefully down the jetty, avoiding the coils of rope and boxes of supplies stacked ready to be taken on board. Calling out a final instruction to the man on deck, Kit came towards her smiling, his eyes shining with anticipation as he trod with cat-like grace on the boards. He was obviously in his element here.
‘Take care not to trip on those nets. When we’re not out on these night runs, John and I—that’s my captain, on the deck there—take the Sea Wolf out on fishing expeditions. You’d be surprised at what we catch. And, of course, fishing provides an excellent cover, should we meet a customs cutter. Are you rested?’
Shivering now, for the cold was biting, Clarrie looked up into Kit’s face, her own eyes reflecting his gleaming anticipation. ‘Yes, thank you, I slept almost the whole journey. Please, will you show me around? And tell me everything? I want to make the most of this trip, for it’s unlikely I’ll ever get the chance of another. Tell me about your yacht.’
Laying a small gloved hand on his arm and making to urge him forward, she was treated to one of Kit’s rare, genuine smiles. ‘Very well. But wait here for a moment. You are ill equipped for the cold; I have a cloak in the boat house.’ Returning quickly, he fastened the enveloping wool around her throat. ‘There, that should keep out the chill, although you must take great care not to trip on it, especially when we’re on board. I would hate to lose you to the sea!’
Laughing as the wind whipped her hair from under her bonnet, she snuggled the soft folds around her and turned back towards the gangway. ‘Since I can’t swim I would be lost indeed, and you would lose out on your payment. Even I am not such a prize as to risk a wetting in a rescue attempt.’
‘I’m beginning to think that you’re more of a prize than I realised. But rest assured I wouldn’t get wet myself. I would send John in. Or more likely I’d pull you back with the boat hook I use to haul less alluring catch on board.’
‘Well, I’m flattered indeed to be held more attractive than a fish, my lord,’ Clarrie said with a grin, but her words were lost in the sudden gust of wind that swept in from the sea.
‘Tide’s on the turn, Master Kit,’ John said, ‘we’d best be going.’
The Sea Wolf, riding high against the jetty, was straining at the ropes that held her. The constraining hawsers creaked. John was looking anxiously at Kit, keen to be away. He had a bad feeling about this trip, and it wasn’t just because of the close call with customs a few weeks ago. Someone was informing on them, he knew that. Bringing a woman on board, obviously one of Master Kit’s flighty pieces, was a new departure, and one he could well have done without. He didn’t hold with women on board unless absolutely necessary. They got in the way, to say nothing of bringing bad luck.
Standing at the foot of the gangway, Clarissa was shaken by a sudden attack of nerves, unable to move, one hand on the rail, but both feet still firmly on shore. Boarding this ship was madness. What was she thinking? The wind ripped across the bay, making the yacht pull, anxious to get away now that the anchor was up. The riggings creaked and moaned, and the gangway shifted, to Clarissa’s eyes, treacherously.
‘Last-minute qualms, brave Clarissa?’ Kit’s words were mocking.
The taunt was sufficient to urge her to action. With a defiant toss of her head and a silent prayer, Clarissa put first one foot, then the other on to the slippery walkway, and boarded the Sea Wolf. Feeling none too steady, for the deck rocked and swayed even though they were still berthed, she stood still for a moment, trying to find her balance. Aside from a curt nod, Captain John ignored her, making his resentment at her presence clear.
Carefully clutching the cloak around her, and taking care to avoid the plethora of ropes, boxes, and goodness knows what else that made the deck an obstacle course, Clarrie found her way to stand by Kit at the wheel. A distracted smile was all she received, for they were in the process of putting to sea. John was casting off, making the ropes safe, loosing the sails, and in an instant the yacht responded to her freedom and leapt towards the open sea, riding the waves effortlessly.
As they left the cove behind, tacking to catch the wind, the waves rose higher, the spray soaking their faces, the Sea Wolf tilting up, then down, in a rhythmic, lulling motion that filled Clarrie with a wild joy. Lifting her face to the wind, she looked up at the stars with a strange, exhilarated expression on her face. This was what freedom must feel like. Freedom from all the trammels of her mundane life. Freedom from her mama, from Amelia, even from her staid Aunt Constance. Freedom from her past and her depressing future. There was only here and now. This man. This open sea. These stars.
A gust of wind blowing directly over the starboard side jolted the yacht, and would have knocked her over but for an iron grip on her arm. Looking up to thank Kit, Clarissa caught an unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated lust on his face and blinked at the sheer force of it. She blinked again and it was gone, replaced by his usual sardonic expression.
‘You should go below. The crossing is likely to be fast but vicious, and I have to give my full attention to the Sea Wolf—I have not the time to be constantly making sure that you are safe.’ Nor the time to be constantly distracted by the wild joy on the beautiful face beside him, if truth were to be told.
Deflated by his cold words, Clarissa turned to hide the hurt on her face. She had expected to stay above decks in order to see and experience everything to the limit. Being confined below was not her idea of an adventure. But she was too sensible to argue, for she could quite see that the stormy conditions were likely to be taxing. Quelling an instinctive protest at the command, therefore, she bit her lip and turned obediently towards the stairs.
Her obvious disappointment was too much for Kit to bear. He felt like an ogre stealing sweets from a babe. He had been watching her face more closely than she had realised, gratified to see the look of unadulterated pleasure that suffused it when the yacht set sail. Gratified and aroused to perceive his own feeling of joy at the freedom of the open sea reflected there. And disturbed, too, for it was not an emotion he had expected to share with a woman. And now she was thwarted yet uncomplaining.
‘Clarissa.’
She turned at his call, a hopeful smile curling her full mouth, her skin bright with the sting of salt, her curls entrancingly dishevelled around her heart-shaped face.
‘Kit?’
‘Once we are settled in to the journey, I’ll hand over to John, and you can come back up on deck, then, if that is what you wish.’
She clapped her hands with excitement, leaving him in no doubt.
‘Contain yourself. If the weather worsens, you must stay below. Now go, before I change my mind.’ He turned from her as she made her way gingerly below decks, before he could call her back regardless of the danger. Having Clarissa by his side at the wheel felt just a bit too right for his own comfort. Some space between them was a sounder idea.
The spartan cabin was built on practical rather than luxurious lines, with few fixtures other than the bunks that doubled as seating. Not a place for seduction, that was for sure. In fact, Clarrie thought with wry humour, as the yacht rolled with the waves, they would like as not end up on the floor, even had they managed to cram two bodies on to the narrow bunk. Still, having nothing else to occupy her mind for the while, she gave some time over to imagining how such adversities could be got over. She had just concluded that with determination two people could overcome such difficulties as a narrow mattress on a heaving yacht, when the door opened and Kit entered, bringing with him a cold gust of air.
Blushingly thankful he was not privy to her thoughts, Clarissa stood rather hurriedly, her foot catching in an uneven board, and fell unceremoniously on to the opposite bunk. Lying sprawled there, presenting Kit with her deliciously rounded posterior, Clarrie managed a soft laugh at the indignity of the situation. Her attempts to scramble to her feet were hampered by the continued rocking of the boat, and her sense of humour finally got the better of her. She succumbed to laughter, and lay for a few moments helpless, face down on the bunk.
‘Kit, help me up, for goodness’ sake. Now I know you’re no gentleman, standing there and watching me.’ Another abortive attempt had her on all fours on the bunk.
‘You present such a very attractive picture that I’m loath to move, Clarissa. Your position may be uncomfortable, but I should tell you that it displays your curves very well.’ Extremely well, in truth. His body was reacting rather vigorously to the display. Had it not been for the circumstances …
Restraining an urge to lift her dress above the bottom so pertly presented and thrust himself into her sweetness there and then, Kit reminded himself that John was above decks, and they were in the middle of the English Channel in a storm. That there was a cargo awaiting them in Normandy. That there was likely to be an excise cutter waiting for them on their return. That Clarissa was a perfidious, scheming actress. That … None of it worked.
Like an automaton, he moved towards the tempting bundle sprawled in front of him and grasped her by the waist, pulling her rear into his hard body, noting her laughter change to a surprised gasp, and then a soft, accepting moan. Clarrie wriggled slightly against him, causing him to throb almost uncontrollably. His hands tightened on her waist to pull her close, and his breathing quickened, coming in harsh gasps in the confines of the cabin. Steadying his knees against the base of the bunk, he allowed one hand to trace the line from her tiny waist along the curve of her spine, and to cup one soft buttock through the wool of her dress, aware, from the soft panting of her breath, that she was as aroused as he. Bracing himself more securely, Kit moved to the hem of her dress, preparing to lift it up over her in order to grant him the access he craved. He met with no resistance.
The sea saved her. A violent movement that sent them both sprawling, as John called urgently for help. Kit was gone at once, leaving Clarrie alone again. Alone with her feelings—of despair at her easy submission, of anger at herself for her lack of resistance. But most of all, the one that really scared her, a feeling of deep frustration at the unconsummated act. Clarrie could fool herself no longer. When Kit decided to take her, there would be no question but that she would submit. No matter what the consequences.
Chapter Six
The tossing of the ship had become less violent, or perhaps she had simply accustomed herself to it. In any case, to stay below and nurse her feelings of frustration would, Clarrie decided, be as fruitless as it was a waste of the precious time she had on board the Sea Wolf. She prepared to brave the upper decks and to pretend that nothing of note had happened below.
The yacht was holding a steady course in the face of the wind. Kit had the wheel, idly maintaining conversation with John, whose talk was of the future, his plans for life once this last mission was completed.
‘I’ll not be sorry, Master Kit, I tell thee true. It’s old bones I’ve got now, too old to be chasing after them Frenchies and running away from the excise men. I’ve enough set aside to buy my own smack and do a bit of legal fishing for a change. Won’t net me a fortune, but it’ll keep us well enough, I reckon. I’ve my eye on a little beauty I spotted for sale down Romney Marsh way, fore-and-aft rigged like the Sea Wolf, but smaller, just big enough for me and a lad to handle. And Sal, she’ll be glad to have me home at night regular again.’
‘How is the lovely Sal, your good lady wife? The last time we met, she threatened me with a rolling pin for getting you into mischief.’
A gruff laugh greeted this remark. ‘Aye, you know her ways, Master Kit, she means no harm, just frets for my safety is all. She’s never liked me going off on jaunts like this, but she’s not one as would ever complain neither. A good woman, Sal, she knows her place. And she deserves some peace of mind, after all these years. She’s earned it.’
‘You both have, John. I really envy you, the way you’ve got your life all mapped out. I have no idea what I’ll do without these trips. My sister wants me to marry, but lord, what a dreadful husband I’d make. I’m afraid I’m destined to be the devil’s own, one way or another. I’ll miss these trips more than I can say.’
‘Aye, well, Master Kit, like as not summat’ll turn up, you’ll see. I’m a great believer in fate, myself.’ With this laconic reply, John turned his attention seawards, scanning the horizon for signs of sail, leaving Kit free to pursue his thoughts.
As if summoned by them, Clarissa appeared head first, ascending the cabin steps gingerly, struggling to contain the cloak that whistled around her in the wind. She had abandoned her hat, and her bright auburn tresses whipped around her face, temporarily obstructing her view. Tottering, she grabbed the rail and righted herself before smiling and offering a tentative greeting. ‘I thought I’d take you up on the offer of a tour. That is, if you are not otherwise occupied.’
A terse nod from John, who took over the wheel, gave Kit no option but to accede to her request. ‘We’re about an hour away from landfall, we’ve made excellent time. I’ll be happy to show you round—she’s small but beautiful, my Sea Wolf—and then you can stay on deck as we berth.’
The technicalities were lost on her, but she listened with intelligent interest as Kit explained everything from the rigging to the sleek lines of the yacht, comparing it favourably, and with obvious pride, to the slower, clinker-built cutters still used by the Revenue. Pointing out the key navigational stars high above them, he talked a little of his early sailing days, his fishing trips with John when he was no more than a child, sailing his first skiff and learning the hard way about the tides and vagaries of the coast line. That Kit loved the Sea Wolf and was an expert sailor, Clarrie had no doubt. That she too could learn to love sailing, she had no doubt either. At his side, with his tuition, she was sure she would quickly become adept.
Standing at the guard rail, watching the yacht cut cleanly through the waves and the coast of Normandy looming into view in the distance, Clarissa felt a rush of freedom like champagne fizzing through her blood. At home, so far away as it now seemed, freedom had meant her sister married, her mother comfortably settled and herself earning a living as a governess. Such a vision seemed merely a new set of fetters compared to this. How had she ever imagined that life at the beck and call of an employer would be any different to life at the beck and call of her family?
No point in thinking about such things now though, no point in spoiling this moment. Turning to Kit, standing so close she could feel the heat of his body even through the thickness of their clothing, Clarissa asked about the people waiting for them on the French shore.
‘We can never be certain that they’ll be there when we arrive,’ he explained. ‘There are so many things that can go wrong. On occasion we’ve had to wait—usually a few hours, but once it was a whole day and night. We went ashore, but John did not take to the French cooking!’ Kit laughed at the memory of John’s face when presented with a huge piece of beef, the blood pooling beside it on the plate. ‘Tonight, we’re to pick up a man and his daughter. Their name is Renaud. Madame Renaud is dead by the guillotine, and Monsieur Renaud and his daughter have been in hiding on a country estate in Burgundy. He is a classical scholar; of her I know naught more than that she is young and unwed. Needless to say, they are rich no more. They are alive, that is the main thing. Or they were when last I heard a few days ago,’ he added bitterly. ‘To come out of hiding and journey north to the ports is hazardous even after all these years. There are informants everywhere.’
‘They cannot have been in hiding all this time, surely? It is almost ten years since the revolution.’
‘Aye, ten bloody years. But remember, the Terror grew slowly at first. The wholesale slaughter only really started when Louis was beheaded, four years after they revolted. For many, especially those of the lesser nobility such as this family, it seemed possible to keep their heads down—if you’ll forgive the gallows humour—and survive the killing. Monsieur Renaud, whom you will meet tonight, God willing, is not himself of high rank, but his wife was the younger daughter of a duke. The blue blood was hers. And so, in the end, it was she who sealed the fate of the whole family. ‘Tis certain they would not have been spared had they been found.’
‘But is it not safe enough now in France under the Directorate? Are they not more tolerant? Surely it’s becoming possible to start again in their own country, rather than to take such a drastic step as these people make tonight?’
‘For some, yes, perhaps you’re right. But for others, those who have lived the life of privilege, to accustom themselves to the new regime seems unnecessary, when in England they can bear their titles proudly once more.’
‘With no money, how can that mean so much? Money is by far more important than a title, as I should know, Lord Rasenby.’
‘And what, Clarissa, do you know of such things?’
She shrugged. ‘My own father was titled, my widowed mother still bears his name. It means naught, for he was cast off and poverty-stricken just the same. At times, I would happily swap my birth right for the wealth of a merchant family—at least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the coal seller at quarter time.’ An embarrassed laugh concluded this admission. She had not meant to say anything so revealing, being merely caught up in the need to understand more of the situation in France. But looking into those piercing eyes above her, Clarissa realised Kit had missed none of what she had said.
‘So you claim to be of noble birth? And may I be allowed to ask what this family name is, for I know—have known all along, of course—that the name you gave me is false.’
‘No, there’s nothing to be gained for either of us in that. Rest assured, my real name is Clarissa. That should suffice, for the duration of our brief acquaintance.’ Smiling nervously, for she had no wish to continue this turn in the conversation, Clarissa resolutely faced away from that all too penetrating look, back towards the approaching land. ‘You were telling me about Monsieur Renaud.
If he has no title and his poor wife is dead, I still don’t understand the need for him to leave France.’
Thrusting aside the urge to probe into Clarissa’s background—for like as not it would only lead to more lies—Kit focused instead on the Normandy coastline, anxious to catch the first glimpse of their destination, a tiny fishing village, where a beacon to guide them would be lit if all was safe. ‘The likes of Renaud leave because the future is still so uncertain. True, he has no title, but he has a daughter to protect. And he has the sense, as anyone who has studied the situation can see, to realise that this regime is every bit as volatile as the last. There will be war soon, do not doubt it. In England he’ll be sleeping with the enemy, but at least there is less chance there of invasion, more chance of a respite from bloodshed. France has not come to the end of its sufferings, mark my words. For all these reasons, and others, too, these trips on the Sea Wolf are, however, coming to an end. I must find some other occupation to sate my appetite for danger.’
The bleakness in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Giving up this life was hard for him. Having tasted the thrill of it for herself, Clarissa was not surprised. Laying a hand on his arm in an attempt to convey her empathy, her words were yet hesitant. ‘I can see that you’ll miss this life. But you must take comfort in the good you have done, the lives you have saved. All these émigrés, they must be so grateful. I expect, when you meet them in London, as you must often do afterwards, you are something of a hero to them.’
‘You are much mistaken, Clarissa, to set me up for a hero.’ The habitual cynical drawl had returned. ‘I don’t rescue these people for any more noble motives than a desire for adventure spiced with danger. I care naught for their fate. I take no sides in their politics. Their country can gnaw at its own entrails until it has consumed itself in the process for all I care. Do not attribute to me any heroic virtues, for you will find yourself far from the truth. These people are just cargo, like the silks and brandies we will carry tonight alongside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud. And as to recognition from those I rescue? Never. They are under strict instructions not to acknowledge me once they leave the Sea Wolf. I am not, nor never will be, a hero.’
‘You may choose to deny it. Indeed, to do so is in your character for you are overly fond of your raking, care-naught reputation, Lord Rasenby, as I have pointed out to you several times now.’ His determined cynicism was having a rousing effect on Clarrie. She would not allow him to be so harsh on himself. He was not a complete villain, no matter how much he played the part.
‘I notice that I become Lord Rasenby and not Kit when you are lecturing me, madam. I do not take to it kindly either, for you have not the right to lecture. No one has that right but myself. And believe me, no one could be harder on me than myself either. But to no avail. I am destined for the devil. You would learn, if you chose to spend more time in my company, that I can neither be reformed, nor am in wont of it.’
‘No, you’re not in need of reform, because you’re not anything like as black as you paint yourself. You are not stupid, you told me so yourself. Well, neither am I! You would not have continued with these trips, which put John as much as yourself in danger, had you not felt they were worthwhile—and I don’t mean for the brandy. These rescues mean something to you, would you but admit it, if only to your own heart. To these people at least, you are a hero, I doubt it not. The only need you have of reform is to think as well of yourself as you are entitled.’
‘You persist in this belief at your peril, foolish Clarissa, but be warned. Such determinedly positive appraisals of my character will not change it one jot. Nor will you, by applying such soft soap, beguile me into releasing you from your promise. Now let us have an end to this conversation, for we have important work to attend to. Look straight ahead and slightly to starboard—there is our beacon. We are expected. You may watch, but you must keep silent and take care not to get in the way.’
With that he was gone, joining John at the wheel and leaving Clarissa to her reflections. Anger at his abrupt dismissal and pity for the contempt in which he held himself were foremost in her mind. But there was, too, a growing desire to be the one to bring him to a sense of his own worth. Not to reform him, that phrase he so despised, but to raise his sadly low esteem. She believed in him, and she could prove it to him, too, if only the situation was different.
But to wish things were different was to wish their whole adventure away. Increasingly all Clarissa wanted was for their time together to go on—and on. The thought of an ending to it was a thought she thrust firmly from her mind. A future without Kit Rasenby was not a future she wished to contemplate just yet.
John dropped the sails, and the ship glided smoothly into calmer, shallower waters, navigating by a beacon lit at the end of the harbour wall. Watching Kit’s face as he guided the yacht through the treacherous rocks that guarded the bay, Clarissa realised how truly handsome he was when his countenance was not marred by his habitual cynical frown. Kit’s eyes sparkled with anticipation as he steered the difficult course confidently. The gleam of excitement was contagious, stirring her own heart with a longing to be at his side, to face the danger with him. Here was a Kit released from the constraints of his London life. Here was the real Kit, the bold rescuer, not the dissolute rake. Like a shooting star brightening the cold, crisp night sky, Clarissa saw the truth. Here was her Kit. The Kit she had begun to love.
Breathless with the realisation, she clutched the rails, trying not to allow the elation that the admission brought reflect in her face. For just a moment, the thrill of finding herself truly in love was all-encompassing. She was soaring upwards towards the stars, the brilliance of the flame inside her outshining even the brightest of lights in the night sky.
But her spirits plummeted back down to earth all too quickly. That man standing so proudly at the helm of his yacht felt more for the ship shifting beneath them than he could ever feel for any woman, especially not the deceiver he believed Clarissa to be. He wanted her body, nothing more, a wish that would no doubt prove both fleeting and quickly sated.
Even Clarissa’s dauntless spirit was downtrodden by such a thought. For a moment she stared blankly ahead at the approaching shore. But long experience of coping in the face of adversity stood her now in good stead, and, ever the optimist, she resolved to enjoy the present, and to let the future take care of itself. It was enough for now to be here with Kit, sharing this experience. Enough to know that he desired her body, at least. With resolution renewed, Clarissa turned to the scene before her, determined to extract the last ounce of enjoyment from it. Enough to last her a lifetime.
They had reached the bay and were dropping anchor, the tide being too low for the yacht to pull alongside the jetty. The night was still, the wind almost gone, the only sound the gentle splashing of the oars from the small boat that was making its way towards them, two passengers huddled together in the bow. John was lowering a rope ladder over the side, and as the small dinghy neared, called a greeting in rough French to the oarsman, obviously a familiar face.
Responding to Kit’s nod, Clarissa moved to stand alongside him at the wheel, which he held steady with one hand, his other outstretched towards her. ‘Well? Are you enjoying yourself, fair Clarissa?’
‘Oh, yes, how can you think otherwise? It’s perfect.’
All enmity was gone from him, caught up as he was in the thrill of the rescue, the constant awareness of danger, the unaccustomed warmth of sharing the experience with this feisty, self-assured female at his side. One minute passionate wanton, next as curious as a child, and next again launching into a defence of his character like a lioness guarding her cubs. Nary a trace of fear at their situation, never a hint of a tear, not a single recrimination had he heard from her, only staunch fortitude and sparkling enjoyment. It was a potent mixture.
Clarissa was watching the small boat and its precious cargo tie up alongside. She was right, of course, these people were precious. Transporting émigrés to the safety of England’s shores was of deeper import to him than he cared to admit even to himself. Her hand remained tucked in his own as she watched, and she nestled close, the length of her body safe against him.
‘They look so frightened huddled down there,’ she said softly. ‘How much they must have been through to get here. It’s a humbling thought, but they must know they are safe, now you are here.’
