The Least Likely Bride

Chapter Twenty-one

Olivia kicked Grayling’s flanks and pursued them. The castle was still in an uproar, fires hurling flames into the darkness, gunpowder exploding in rhythmic succession.

Olivia kept the men in view but stayed well back. She didn’t know if Anthony was aware that she was following, but she didn’t care. Everything seemed very clear to her now. At some point in this wild night, the emotional turmoil of the last weeks had smoothed out, the maelstrom had become a millpond. She didn’t question herself or what she was about to do. And she wasn’t going to waste time and mental energy on discussing her epiphany with Anthony.

It was half an hour later when Anthony and Mike drew rein on the clifftop. It was a place unfamiliar to Olivia. And it was deserted, the only sound the occasional mew of a gull. The crescent moon shone on the quiet sea and there was the sense that the world held its breath. Anthony and Mike dismounted and Olivia brought Grayling up to them.

Anthony looked at her. “Why?” The single word cracked like a pistol shot.

“Because you need my help,” Olivia said simply, swinging down from her horse. Her legs quivered after her two long rides, and she had to stiffen her knees when she stood on the ground. “Where are we?”

It was Mike who answered her. “Binnel Point, miss.” He went to the very edge of the cliff and, kneeling, pulled aside a thick patch of undergrowth. Olivia saw a pale trail, barely thicker than a hand’s span, creeping downward through the undergrowth. It reminded her of the path she had taken to the wrecker’s beach. Such a short time ago, and yet it felt like someone else’s lifetime.

“We takes the path, miss. It winds a good bit along the cliff afore goin‘ through an ’ole in the cliff just above the beach at Puckaster Cove.”

“So we avoid the ambush on the clifftop.”

“That is certainly the hope,” Anthony said dryly. He took her shoulders in a hard grip. “I do not need you, Olivia, do you understand that?”

“Well, you see, I think you do,” she responded. She reached up and put her hands over his. “Should we not go now? Every minute we wait, the ship is in danger.”

“I do not need you to remind me of that,” he declared, his frustration obvious in eyes and voice.

“Then let us go.” She broke free of his grasp and headed for the cliff path where Mike stood. She felt a powerful burst of exhilaration, the same she had felt whenever she and the pirate went adventuring.

Anthony overtook her. “Stay behind Mike,” he instructed her. “When we get to the beach, you will stay on the path. You can see everything, but you will not be seen. Understand that, Olivia. You will not show yourself. I have no need of your help, and you will only hinder me. I’m not going to lose my ship for some childish impulse of yours.”

It was harsh but Olivia said nothing. She took her place on the path behind Mike. After two steps, she turned and went down backwards; it was far too steep for a head-on descent. Soon she had no time or inclination for exhilaration. The path seemed to wind sideways and down forever. But the men didn’t stop and she wasn’t going to show weakness herself by pausing to catch her breath. Once she turned carefully to look out over her shoulder at the smooth waters of the Channel, where the sea lay silver under the starlight. Wind Dancer rocked gently at anchor at the mouth of the cove.

She was still safe. Olivia almost cried out with relief. The men’s pace increased and she scrambled down after them, slipping and sliding, heedless of grazes and scratches. A jut of cliff seemed to block the path, but then she saw there was a small gap and Anthony and Mike disappeared through it. She edged through after them and found herself standing above a gently undulating cove at whose entrance rocked the pirate’s ship.

Anthony and Mike jumped lightly to the beach and Olivia, in a shower of pebbles, sand, and gravel, landed beside them. Sweat trickled into her eyes despite the cool breeze from the sea. She listened for a sound, any sound that would tell her her father’s men were gathered in ambush. But she could hear nothing, not a snapping twig, not a breath.

Up on the cliff, Cato gazed out at the elegant ship at anchor.

“Should we give the signal to fire on ‘er, my lord?” Giles as always sounded impatient for action.

“She’s not doing anything illegal or harmful out there,” Cato pointed out. “I don’t see the justification for damaging her when she’s just sitting there. What d’you think, Rothbury?”

Rufus was meditatively chewing on a piece of grass. “We don’t even know for sure that she is this Wind Dancer. We’re too far to read her name.”

“Of course it is, m’lord,” Giles said. “She’s waitin‘ fer someone, or something.”

“Let’s signal them to send a warning shot across her bows,” Rufus suggested. “See how she reacts.”

Giles was already issuing orders to his men to light their flares.

“What the hell’s that?” Anthony looked up at the clifftop as a pattern of lights began to dance across the sea. He had his answer almost immediately. A cannon boomed from the headland and water rose in a great spume of foam just astern of the frigate.

Olivia drew a sharp breath. Anthony turned to her. “They’re on the clifftop. Stay here out of sight until it’s all over, then go home.” He still sounded harsh and angry. He seemed to hesitate, then, as if against his will, he grasped her upper arms and bent and kissed her hard on the mouth. He released her immediately. “Let’s make a dash for the dinghy, Mike.” They ran across the sand, dark figures in the shadows of the cliff.

Olivia now saw the dinghy, pulled up on the sand and concealed from the clifftop by an outcrop of rocks. The first shot came from the clifftop as they reached the rocks. Her heart jumped into her mouth, but they had dodged and ducked and were dragging the dinghy down the beach, keeping low against its side so it served as a shield. But when they had to push it in the water, they would be exposed.

Olivia raced into the middle of the beach. She faced the cliff, waving her arms, leaping in a mad dance of distraction.

Cato stared down in disbelief. The sea breeze pressed her pale gown against her body; her loosened black hair swung around her, obscuring her face. But he knew his daughter.

“Hold your fire!” he bellowed.

“Should we rush the beach, sir?” Giles Crampton was utterly bewildered at what he was seeing. “Get Lady Olivia out of ‘arm’s way?”

“What the hell’s she doing down there?” Rufus demanded.

“God only knows!” Cato hesitated for an instant. The two men had the dinghy in the shallows. Its sail was loosely bundled around the boom. It would take only a few moments to unfurl and hoist.

“Charge the beach!” he ordered. “But there’s to be no firing while Olivia’s there. She’s not to be put at risk.”

Anthony and Mike pushed the dinghy, desperate to get it into water deep enough for them to lower the centerboard and run up the sail.

“Lord love a duck,” Mike muttered. “Whatever’s Miss doin‘?”

“Proving that she makes her own choices,” Anthony said grimly. He shoved with his shoulder and the little dinghy was suddenly properly afloat. The cannon boomed again but he didn’t waste time looking up to see if his ship had been hit. One shot would not sink Wind Dancer. But she needed her master at the wheel.

Now Olivia heard the sound of feet. Feet on the regular path from the clifftop, the one they hadn’t taken coming down to the beach themselves. She ran towards the shore where Mike, up to his waist in water, was pushing the dinghy into the deeper channel, turning it into the wind, as Anthony, already aboard, unfurled the sail from the boom.

The thunder of feet behind her was suddenly so loud it filled her head. Yelling voices, the ominous click of muskets. She spun around, instinctively extending her arms as if to make herself a human shield while Anthony hauled on the sheets to raise the sail.

Silence fell. Olivia turned back to the dinghy. She could feel behind her the presence of the armed troop in a collective breath, a collective shift of feet on the sand.

Anthony seized the tiller. Olivia stood in the surf and slowly turned once again to face the beach, defying her father’s men to rush the boat before she was under sail. She knew she had to wait for just the right moment, to make her move at the only possible moment when it would succeed. When the dinghy was free and under sail, but before she was out of reach.

Anthony stood holding the tiller, then he swung it and the sail caught the wind. He was still standing, looking back at the mass of men on the beach. Their muskets were aimed but Olivia was in the way.

The marquis of Granville stood a few feet in front of his men.

“Olivia?” he said quietly, questioningly.

She looked at him, feeling where she couldn’t see the dinghy moving away from the beach. She felt it as if her skin was being flayed inch by inch.

And she knew that she had no more time.

She held out her hands, palm up in a gesture of helplessness. “Forgive me,” she said simply. “I have no time to explain, but it must be this way.”

Then she turned and plunged into the lapping waves. The dinghy was reaching deeper water. “Anthony!” she yelled as the water reached her waist. “Anthony, damn you! Wait for me. You know I can’t swim!”

Behind her now came Cato’s men, surging through the surf. She was just ahead of them, floundering as the waves swelled against her body and her skirt caught in her legs, hampering her movements.

Anthony brought the boat head to wind. He reached over the stern and lifted her bodily out of the water. Olivia tumbled into the dinghy onto her knees. Anthony moved the tiller and the sail caught the wind again.

“Hold your fire!” Cato bellowed again as his men still plunged through the water in a last-ditch attempt to seize the dinghy.

Olivia had her hand at her throat. “Will they catch us?”

“No, we’re over the shelf now. They’ll have to swim, and we can sail faster than they can swim.”

As if in confirmation the pursuit suddenly stopped. Men stood in the water at the point where the sandy bottom shelved steeply, and watched as their quarry sped from them.

Olivia stared at the scene on the beach. She could see her father standing where she had left him. What she had done was irrevocable. Phoebe and Portia would explain, but would he ever forgive her? Would she ever see him again?

Another boom from the cannon banished all but the present from her mind. “They’re going to blow Wind Dancer out of the water!”

“They seem to be firing across her stern for the present,” Anthony said calmly. “Once I get on board there’ll be nothing to worry about.”

Olivia looked and saw that the frigate now had her mainsail raised. She saw too that they’d dropped the rope ladder over the side, ready for their approach. She could hear on the still night air the strong rhythmic singing as the men turned the winch to haul up the anchor. There was a sense of purpose, but not of alarm. Both here in the dinghy and on Wind Dancer. There seemed little point worrying herself when no one else was.

The wind was much brisker as they approached the mouth of the cove. She shivered. “Why is it that I always get soaked when I’m with you?”

“For some reason I find you exceptionally appealing when you’re wet,” Anthony said solemnly. “It must play to my mermaid fantasies.”

“Mermaid fantasies!” Olivia exclaimed. “You never said anything about them before.”

“Perhaps because I’ve only just realized I have them,” he responded with a grin. “That dress is clinging to you in the most seductive fashion.”

Olivia glanced down at herself. The pale muslin seemed to have become transparent. “How can I go on board looking like this? It’s as if I’m wearing nothing at all.” She became abruptly conscious of Mike’s presence. His ears were rather red and he looked as if he wished he were anywhere but within earshot of this conversation.

Anthony merely laughed and unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, shrugging out of it, exchanging hands on the tiller as he did so. “Here, this’ll make you decent until you can change into one of my nightshirts. You know where I keep them.”

Olivia slipped on the shirt. It was warmed from his skin and carried his own special fragrance of salt and sea. She sat in the bow as they came alongside Wind Dancer and Anthony dropped the single sail. He secured the dinghy and steadied the rope ladder for Olivia.

She scrambled up and willing hands helped her over the side. No one seemed surprised to see her, and she assumed that they had been watching events on the beach through the spyglass.

“We gettin‘ out of ’ere, master?” Jethro stood at the wheel.

“Yes, it’s getting a little too hot for comfort.” Anthony jumped the steps to the quarterdeck. Jethro stepped aside and Anthony took the wheel. “Go below, Olivia, and change out of those wet clothes,” he called.

“I can do that later.” She came up beside him. “What are you going to do? If they dismast you…”

“They won’t. Fortunately cannon have a poor aim if they’re not right up against you.” He looked down at her and his eyes were sparkling with exhilaration. This was an adventure worthy of a pirate.

There was a loud report, a whine as a cannonball crossed the ship, missing the rigging by a hair. It splashed into the sea just beyond the bow. Anthony laughed and turned the wheel. “A little too close, that one. They seem to be getting serious. Hoist the topsail.”

Men swarmed up the rigging just as another ball crashed into the sea from the other headland. If Anthony hadn’t adjusted the wheel when he did, it would have smashed into the ship’s side.

“That would have been on target,” Olivia observed, astonished at her own objectivity.

“True… Wear ship,” Anthony called without any indication of haste or dismay. The frigate turned onto the starboard tack and seemed to Olivia’s astounded eyes to be on a direct path to the right-hand cliff. It took them well clear of the range of the cannon on the left headland, but it seemed to be taking them directly into the line of fire of the other one.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming in under the gun,” he told her, his voice exultant, his deep-set eyes afire. “You see, they can’t hit us if we’re beneath them any more than they can if we’re out of range. We’ll sail against the cliff, under the headland, below the one and out of range of the other.”

“But the rocks! Won’t you run aground?” Even as she asked the question, she knew it was absurd. Anthony wouldn’t run aground in these waters with his eyes shut.

“Not if I pick my way,” he responded.

Olivia fell silent. Anthony was whistling softly between his teeth as he sailed his ship almost into the cliff and brought her about the instant Olivia was certain they would drive into the cliff face. Above them, the cannon boomed, balls falling harmlessly across their bows, sending up fountains of spume.

Hugging the cliff, Wind Dancer rounded the headland, and open sea lay glinting silver before them. The crew cheered and threw their caps in the air as the cannons acknowledged defeat and fell silent.

Olivia looked back at the island as the ship picked up speed in the freshening wind.

She glanced up at her pirate, who was still whistling to himself, his eyes on the big sail. Sensing her glance, he looked down at her. “No regrets?”

“No,” she said definitely. “Have you?”

He shook his head and smiled his wonderful smile, and Olivia knew that she had seized her only chance of happiness. She would never love like this again. Only one man could bring her such deep, deep joy. To throw away the promise of such happiness would be to spit in the face of the gods.

“Go below,” he said softly. “Get dry. I will come to you when we’re clear of the island.”

Olivia looked again across the water to the receding hump of the Isle of Wight. “Will we come back?”

“You will need to make peace with your father.”

“Yes,” she said, and went below.

“So, you decided to run away to sea?” He gazed down into her face, holding himself above her as dawn fingered the sky and a soft ray of pink light fell through the open window across the bed.

“So it would seem,” she agreed, caressing the hard, taut cheeks of his buttocks. “We shall go adventuring and never be ordinary.”

“Of course not,” he agreed gravely. He withdrew to the very edge of her body, and her dark eyes took on a luminous glow.

“Not at all ordinary,” she repeated.

“Not in the slightest degree.” He eased himself into her again, delicately, fraction by fraction.

She bit her lower lip on a little exhalation of delight. Her finger probed wickedly and he threw his head back with a moan. “How did you learn to do that?”

“Instinct,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m a pirate’s doxy now. I know such tricks.” She was fighting to hold herself back from a climax that would bring to an end this wonderful loving.

Anthony watched her face, searching her eyes. When he saw she was about to give up the fight, he withdrew again, waiting for her urgency to subside a little before sinking himself within her again.

“I don’t want this ever to stop,” she said, stroking his inner thighs, loving the stretched power of his muscles against her hand.

“This is but the beginning, my love,” he whispered, bending to take her mouth with his own. She tasted his sweetness as his tongue moved within her mouth and he moved within her body, hard and fast now until she thought she would explode. And yet still she hung on the edge in ever astounding bliss, meeting and matching his thrusts with her own, her tongue engaged with his in a savage dance of delight.

Her fingers raked his back, bit deep into his buttocks, pulling him against her as if she could make them one. And then the world flew apart and she clung to him like a drowning woman to a spar as the torrent took her, tossed her and tumbled her, and she cried out his name with wild abandon.

The sun rose out of the sea, flooding the sky with orange. He gathered her to him as he fell to the bed, smoothing her damp hair from her cheek. “How is it possible to love so much?” he whispered. “It terrifies me. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“You won’t,” she returned, turning her lips into the hollow of his throat where the pulse beat fast against his sweat-slick skin. “We are meant for each other. We will live and die together, my love.”

He took her head in both hands and kissed the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, the tip of her chin.

“But we won’t marry,” Olivia declared, her tongue darting to lick the tip of his nose in turn. “Wives don’t make good pirates.”

“I’m not the marrying kind myself,” Anthony said lazily. “I’d rather have a doxy any day.”