Helena edged closer, her heart racing. He was wealthy, there was no doubt about that. His shoes were the flimsiest she had ever seen, and that meant money. Now that she was a little closer, she could see that the jacket was not made of gold, but embroidered so finely with gold thread that it seemed to shimmer and glitter with every movement that she made.
His hands were outstretched, as though he had been reaching for something. Helena stared at him, and then the direction which he was facing.
Her candle. The candle in the window: ‘twas the only sign of civilisation for a mile in any direction. Her father had loved being far out from the town, and Helena had accepted it.
Now it may have saved this man’s life.
Helena took another step towards him, and she swallowed down the nerves that she felt in being so close to a stranger. Why, he could be a vagabond, or a criminal! He could be anything or anyone, and here she was, alone with him in the dark!
The storm still pounded her with its gusts, and a drizzle of rain started to fall. She shivered, and took that final step to find herself beside the shipwrecked man.
For there was no doubt about that: his boat was done for, almost destroyed. But how far had he come, and why did he not dress more suitably?
“Merci, that will do nicely, Jean-Paul,” murmured the man suddenly. “But the chicken will do for tomorrow, tell chef for me…”
Helena had jumped back, clutching her greatcoat around her against the battling wind, but the man did not seem to waken.
That had been French. He was a Frenchman! The nerves that had started to creep up her spine heightened at the knowledge. Why, were they not at war with France? Or Napoleon, at least; so out of the way as she was, she depended on Teresa’s news to keep her abreast of foreign policy.
Well, if they were at war, then he was a prisoner of war, Helena reasoned with herself, teeth beginning to chatter. And a prisoner of war had no business being so wealthy.
She hated herself for it, but necessity drew it from her. Kneeling down hastily, she started to pat him down, looking for a pocket, a ring, a watch, anything of value.
A huge intake of breath and the opening of his eyes startled her as he rolled over onto his back, causing Helena to almost fall backwards onto the beach.
As she rose and peered over him, he shouted, making her jump again: “Mon Dieu, what is to become of me?”
Helena swallowed, and cried out against the gale: “What is your name?”
“Mademoiselle!” His eyes grew wide, wider than she thought possible, and in them she saw fear and confusion. “Aidez-moi, s'il vous plaît, I am lost, I am trying to find – ”
He broke off: Helena, staring wildly into his dark brown eyes, taking in the sand splattered face, the paleness of his cheeks, and now the way that his hands were clutching at what appeared to be a bloody wound in his thigh.
“You – you are injured, sir!” She shouted, feeling stupid for stating the obvious but unsure exactly what else to say.
The man stopped moving, and stared at her in wonderment. “English?” He whispered.
Helena nodded, eyes transfixed on her Frenchman. It was not crab that the sea had delivered to her then, but sailor.
“English,” he repeated under his voice, and then stronger, “Pardon mademoiselle, my English is not strong, but it should be enough. Please help me – take me inside, and warm me! I have friends, I have money, s'il vous plaît…”
Helena stared at him, and bit her lip. With her father gone to the Anchor – and then to goodness knows where – she would alone in the house. Well, alone with him. Even soaked to the skin, exhausted, and what looked like stabbed, this Frenchman was still devilishly handsome. To be alone with him for a few hours would be…uncomfortable.
And what if anyone found out? An unmarried woman alone in a house with a man – and a Frenchman!
“S'il vous plaît,” he said faintly, and she saw the pallor on his face grow. “Mademoiselle belle, s'il vous plaît…”
It was not really a decision, after all. How could she leave this poor man, for all he was a Frenchman, to freeze, or drown, or die of his injuries?
“Try to stand up,” she said moving quickly, pulling under his arms and struggling with all her might to raise him up. “‘Tis not far.”
Historical Note
I always strive for accuracy with my historical books, as a historian myself, and I have done my best to make my research pertinent and accurate. Any mistakes that have slipped in must be forgiven, as I am but a lover of this era, not an expert.
About the Author
Emily Murdoch is a historian and writer. Throughout her career so far she has examined a codex and transcribed medieval sermons at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, designed part of an exhibition for the Yorkshire Museum, worked as a researcher for a BBC documentary presented by Ian Hislop, and worked at Polesden Lacey with the National Trust. She has a degree in History and English, and a Masters in Medieval Studies, both from the University of York. Emily has a medieval series, a Regency series, and a Western series published, and is currently working on several new projects.
You can follow her on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find her on facebook at www.facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read her blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com
Emily Murdoch, Drenched With a Duke
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