The battle on the beach ended. To his disgust but not his surprise, Dalziel’s forces won.
For the immediate moment he was safe, but he had to get away—out of the area—cleanly. Leaving no trace. None at all.
This time, Dalziel had got far too close.
He didn’t waste much time cursing, wondering how his nemesis had so unexpectedly and frighteningly appeared, all but nipping at his heels; the answer was played out on the beach before him. He hadn’t recognized Crowhurst as one of Dalziel’s men, but St. Austell he knew by sight. The way the three consulted made it clear Crowhurst was one of them—and the damn woman—Madeline Gascoigne—was equally clearly Crowhurst’s. Which made her brothers far too dangerous to pursue. If he’d known the connection, he’d never have drawn so close.
He’d survived this long by avoiding Dalziel and his crew—always.
Now…now he had to cover his tracks and get out of the district quickly. If Dalziel so much as set eyes on him down there, he’d guess, and know it all in a blink. If that happened, he wouldn’t see another dawn. Dalziel would act, and in the circumstances he’d be entirely without mercy.
If Dalziel saw him in the area, or in any way linked him with the traitor’s enterprise, his life would be measured by the time it took for his nemesis to reach him. He’d known that from the first; it was now part of the thrill, the lingering satisfaction. Dicing with death and winning was exhilarating.
Reminding himself of that, that he’d thus far triumphed through every twist and turn, he watched Dalziel leave the beach, striding up the path to the clifftop.
Relief slid through him; he hated feeling it, yet he did.
Jaw setting, he determinedly turned his mind to his plans. He knew better than to leave anything to chance, to leave any thread leading back to him, however tenuous, unbroken.
Although chilled to the bone, he remained where he was, watched and plotted—striving to keep the fear that had earlier chilled his marrow from resurfacing and paralyzing his mind.
He saw them round up his improvised army, but none among it knew his name. No threat there. They were marshaled and led away under guard, toiling up the cliff path, some supporting the injured up the steep slope. Other men returned to the boats; he wondered if they might leave one until the morning, but all were pushed back beyond the breakers. Two went south; the others headed north, passing a mere ten yards away. He clung to his rock and made no sound, no movement; in the dark, they didn’t see him, a dense shadow against the black rock.
He waited long after the beach was deserted—then waited still longer. He gazed across the waves at where he’d believed his lost cargo had been buried. Given the complete disinterest shown by Dalziel and his crew to the area lit by the now-guttering flares, and the caves lining the beach, he knew beyond doubt that the boys—both of them—had lied.
Ironic that he, who could lie so well himself, had so easily swallowed their tale. But they’d both looked so innocent, so incapable of guile. So young.
He’d like to get his hands on them and beat the truth from them, but he knew when to cut his losses and run. Even though some part of him presently submerged beneath the necessity of escaping, of staying unidentified and thus alive, howled and cursed and screamed at the loss of his precious cargo, his saner self knew that no amount of gold and jewels, of priceless ornaments and miniatures, would warm him if he were dead.
Would count for anything if Dalziel ever caught him.
He’d always viewed his collected prizes as tangible evidence of his victory over Dalziel, but the true if intangible measure of that victory was his continued existence.
He would, he told himself, make do with that.
After the beach had been deserted for hours and the flares had long died, letting Stygian darkness reclaim the scene, he hauled in a huge breath, eased out of the crevice, and pushed away from the rock. He struck out for the shore. The currents were no longer so strong; he reached the beach, managed to get his legs under him, and staggered up and across to the cliff.
In the dark, it took him a while to find the narrow path leading upward; he climbed it slowly, his boots squelching with every step. He shivered, but now the storm had blown over, the wind had changed; his clothes would dry soon enough.
Reaching the clifftop, he looked north, along the line of the cliffs, the edge of a dense shadow visible against the shifting gray of the sea. Far ahead, he saw a pinpoint of light bobbing, then it disappeared. They’d be searching the cliffs and the coves below, hunting him. He couldn’t risk taking the cliff path, but as it happened, that wasn’t the way he needed to go.
Head down, he struck out across the fields. After scouring the peninsula’s beaches for weeks, he had a decent map of the area in his mind. He plotted a direct course that would take him inland, past several tiny hamlets and isolated farmhouses where he might find a horse. Even if he didn’t, he could easily walk the distance and reach his necessary goal before dawn.
Then, after he’d dealt with the one last thread he had to break, he’d vanish. Once and for all.
Chapter 20
In the wee hours of the morning, Gervase, Madeline, Edmond and Charles trudged into the castle forecourt and slowly climbed the front steps. They’d followed the coast all the way from Kynance Cove, and as Gervase had prophesied, seen nothing.
Along the way they’d farewelled those of his workers who’d fought with them and who lived in villages they’d passed. On the top of the steps, Gervase turned to the small band remaining. Grooms and stablelads, they were wilting, feet dragging, but their faces stated they’d enjoyed being a part of the adventure, and catching the wreckers had been worth every rough moment.
He smiled. “Thank you for your help. We might not have caught our gentleman villain, but we’ve done well by the district in rounding up the wreckers. Off to your beds—I’ll tell Burnham you’re excused until midday.”
They grinned sleepily, bobbed their heads in salute, then shambled off, some to the stables, others around the castle.
With Madeline beside him, her hand in his, Gervase turned and followed Charles and Edmond into the front hall.
Sybil, Penny and Sitwell were waiting.
“Thank Heaven!” Sybil enfolded Edmond in a hug, then looked at Gervase and Madeline. “Just look at the pair of you—did you have to swim?”
He and Madeline glanced down at their clothes; once the storm had passed, the night had turned mild, but they were still damp and plastered with sand.
Tightening his grip on Madeline’s hand, he met her eyes. “We’d better go up and change out of these clothes.”
“Indeed,” Sybil said. “We don’t want any chills.” She looked at Edmond, still within her arms. “And as for you, young man, there’s a warm bed waiting upstairs—we’d best get you into it before you fall asleep on your feet.”
Edmond grinned at her; the fact he didn’t argue but allowed himself to be steered toward the stairs screamed louder than words that he was exhausted. He waved sleepily back at Madeline and the others. “Thank you for coming to rescue me. Good night.”
Madeline and Gervase smiled, waved and echoed his good night.
Penny, meanwhile, had been welcoming, then inspecting, her husband. Finding a cut on his hand, she hissed in disapproval. “Men and their swords.”
Charles chuckled and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Come on—if the dogs are in our room, we’d better get up there before they start barking. You can tend my injuries there.”
Penny frowned at him. “How many are there?” But she consented to be towed to the stairs. She nodded a good night to Gervase and Madeline as they passed. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Late.” Charles didn’t look back.
Gervase and Madeline grinned. He caught her eye. “We’d better head upstairs, too.” He lowered his voice. “And get out of these clothes.”
They started toward the stairs. Behind them, Sitwell coughed. “I assume Mr. Dalziel and the marquess wi
ll be returning tonight, my lord?”
“They will.” Gervase didn’t halt. “They’re mounted—they shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Very good, my lord. I’ll lock up once they’re in. I’ll leave a message for Burnham that his boys should be allowed to sleep late. And we’ll hold breakfast back until nine.”
“Thank you, Sitwell.” His gaze locked on Madeline’s sea-green eyes, Gervase wound her arm with his. Slowly they climbed the stairs.
They reached the gallery to see the light from Charles and Penny’s candle fading down one corridor. One candlestick remained on the side table; Madeline picked it up and sighed. “Dalziel’s going to be disappointed, isn’t he?”
Gervase steered her to the right. “I fear so. If they’d caught our villain, word would have reached here before us. I don’t know how he got off that beach…perhaps he didn’t, not safely.”
Madeline studied his face in the flickering candlelight. “But you don’t believe that.”
His lips quirked self-deprecatingly. He met her gaze. “It’s the logical, most likely explanation, yet…no. I think he managed to slip past us somehow. He’s made a career of that—of slipping through Dalziel’s nets.”
“I can imagine that goes down well.”
He grunted. “Indeed.”
They strolled slowly along, then he said, “You called Dalziel fixated, and to some extent he is, but just like the rest of us, now the war is over he must have a life waiting for him, one he has to return to.”
“You think after this he’ll give up—resign?”
“Christian said some weeks ago that he thought Dalziel was ‘tidying up.’ This villain—our last traitor—is almost certainly the last item on Dalziel’s list. If after everything else is settled that item remains unresolved, then yes, I think Dalziel will lay the list aside, walk away and get on with his life.”
She considered, then murmured, “For one of his ilk, that will require considerable resolution.”
He nodded. “Now you’ve met him, do you think he hasn’t it in him to close the door and leave the past behind?”
She thought, then conceded, “No, but it won’t be easy.”
Gervase guided her toward the door at the end of the wing. “Agreed, but ultimately he’ll have little choice. He’s not a career soldier, like all of us were. He doesn’t hold any commission. He was never in the Guards or any other regiment. Quite how he got to where he is, how he came to fill the position, we’ve never learned. But when he leaves it, he’ll leave Whitehall altogether—he’ll leave it all behind.”
“As you all did—but it’s followed you, hasn’t it?”
He grimaced. “True, but when Dalziel walks away, I suspect that truly will be the end.” He paused before the door, captured her gaze. “We’ve come close to this villain twice. The instant Dalziel appears, or as in the previous case, was about to appear, our villain drops everything, kills anyone who knows his identity, and vanishes. That’s why I think he escaped us on the beach—because he saw Dalziel and did something so desperate none of us can even guess what. You saw him, one of the smugglers saw him. He was there—but then he saw Dalziel, and he wasn’t there any longer.”
“I imagine most villains would run from Dalziel. Whoever he is.”
Gervase nodded. “That’s why I think we won’t see him again, and why it’s unlikely Dalziel will get another chance to lay hands on him. He was here, in the district, to pick up his thirty pieces of silver, but by their nature and by his leaving them so long in France it’s clear he doesn’t need the money. Now he knows Dalziel knows of his lost cargo, he won’t risk coming back to get it. No matter the attraction, it’s no longer worth the risk. And that—taking possession of his thirty pieces of silver—was the last act in our villain’s game. The war’s over—there are no more moves to be made.”
She frowned. “So Dalziel himself represents some special threat to this villain?”
He opened the door. “For whatever reason, for this man, Dalziel himself is the ultimate risk—the ultimate threat.”
He ushered her into the room, closed the door, watched as, pensive, she walked to a chest of drawers and set the candlestick upon it. Stirring, he followed her. She turned as he reached her. Raising both hands, he framed her face, looked into her lovely eyes. “But now that’s over for us, for all those here. The danger’s passed—Ben’s safe, Edmond’s safe….” He held her gaze. “Above all, you’re safe.”
She looked into his eyes, her own clear and unshielded, then she smiled, closed her hands in his jacket and tugged him nearer. “And you.”
He lowered his head and kissed her—she lifted her face and kissed him back, generous, welcoming, infinitely giving.
Releasing her face, he reached for her, closed his arms around her and drew her flush against him. Angled his head, deepened the kiss.
And gave them both what they wanted.
Simply let loose the pent-up passion, the inevitable reaction to those fraught moments on the beach. Suppressed until now, passion became desire, and desire transmuted to need; it swirled up and through him, and flowed into her, welling, swelling, seeking release.
His unqualified surrender let her do the same, let her gift him with her passion, her desire and her need, in response, in reply.
For long moments, nothing else mattered but that simple communion, that long-drawn-out kiss, that recognition, that savoring, that elemental understanding.
They needed this. For much the same reasons, they had to have this—this moment, this time, this reassurance.
This knowing. A primitive acknowledgment that they’d both survived, that both were there, whole and unharmed, triumphant and victorious.
That underneath all, regardless of all, each meant the world to the other.
Need welled, burgeoned, filled them.
Their lips parted; they caught their breaths, lips burning, lids lifting, eyes meeting from only inches apart, and suddenly, desperately, they needed it all.
Had to share all they were. Had to seize all, each heated second, each heartbeat, each touch, each burning caress.
Clothes shed, peeled from damp flesh, then let fall unheeded to the floor to scatter and heap as they would. Getting their wet boots off left them both laughing, an insane moment of indescribable relief before their gazes clashed, and hunger, both familiar and different, somehow edged with something finer, keener, some deeper shade of meaning, flared anew.
Took hold and drove them.
Into each other’s arms.
Into heated nakedness where the only thing that mattered was to feel hot skin against skin, to grasp and caress, to touch, to worship—to possess.
To want.
Beyond words, beyond description.
Gasping, nearly blind, they tumbled onto clean sheets, onto a thick mattress that cushioned and cradled, amid pillows that tumbled around them.
She spread her thighs, clasped his flanks; he rose over her, reached between them and cupped, caressed, and she cried out.
Shifting, he bent his head, captured her lips, took her mouth, then with one powerful thrust joined with her.
Whirled them into the familiar dance.
Familiar, yet different.
Acceptance, a knowing; closeness, a giving. The moments spun out, spiraled, stretched.
Together they strove, together they gloried.
They reached the familiar peak and clung…until ecstasy shattered them, fractured them, fused them—left them floating, drifting as one, exquisite satiation flowing through their veins, the slowing thunder of their pulses a soothing rhythm in their ears.
With love, simple and pure, a shining magnificence filling both their hearts.
Dawn broke; about them, the castle awoke. Slumped amid the tangled covers of his bed, they slept on.
The sun was slanting in through the windows when Gervase awoke.
Even before he opened his eyes, even before his mind engaged, he knew. At some primal level he recognized, not just
the warm body lying half over him, her breast pressed to his chest, his arm cradling her, her long legs tangled with his, but what had changed.
What had lent their familiar landscape that gilded edge.
His lips were curving even before he opened his eyes. He glanced at her, at the jumbled tumble of rippling locks that screened her face. Felt her stirring, as if sensing his wakefulness, she was waking, too.
Then awareness reinfused her limbs. Raising a hand, she brushed her hair out of her face and glanced up.
He smiled—at her, into her eyes. He couldn’t recall ever feeling so joyous, let alone letting it so blatantly show.
Puzzled, she searched his eyes. “What?”
His smile only deepened. He looked up at the canopy to hide any smugness in his grin. “You’re going to marry me.”
She didn’t immediately reply. He glanced down—and saw it was taking her a moment to assemble a frown. She managed one, of faint disgruntlement rather than anger, and directed it at him. “Why do you think that? I haven’t agreed to accept any offer, nor have you made one, if you recall.”
His grin returned. “I know. But I will, and you will. You’ve made your decision. You’ve made up your mind.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t know that.”
Holding her gaze, he smiled, a softer gesture. Lifting one hand, he smoothed back her hair, but kept his eyes on hers. “I do know. You’re in my bed. Naked in the Earl of Crowhurst’s bed where only countesses of Crowhurst have ever lain.”
Arching her brows, she struggled up; leaning on his chest, she made a show of looking around the large room.
He laughed, rocking her; he closed his arms loosely around her. “You knew that last night when we came in. You didn’t bother mentioning it because in your mind it no longer mattered.”
When she looked back at him, he tightened his arms in a gentle hug. “And you were right. You belong here. In this room, in this bed, with me. This is where you should—and will—spend your nights for the rest of your life. Here, with me.”