What a Duke Dares

Chapter Thirteen

As the boat slid into the stone harbor, the cessation of pitching seemed a miracle to Pen.

Her body felt made of wet string. Battered wet string. Even breathing hurt. She was shaking and her teeth chattered, despite Cam’s best efforts to keep her warm. He must curse her for the loss of not only his yacht, but his crew.

He should have let her drown.

But of course he wouldn’t. He was too honorable. The offer he’d made before the ship foundered was the exception that proved the rule. She’d been so furious with him. Right now, having come so close to dying, it was hard to reawaken her outrage. Especially when he’d nearly died himself trying to save her.

The boat bumped against the pier and rocked as the sailor at the bow tied it to a metal hook. Daylight gradually returned as the storm abated.

When Pen struggled to stand, her legs folded beneath her. Predictably Cam caught her.

“Let me help you,” he said softly.

Once they were safely on the dock, Cam swept her into his arms. She curled into his powerful body against the onlookers’ curiosity. Taking those first painful gasps of air after nearly drowning, modesty had been the last thing on her mind. Now despite the weather, a crowd surrounded them and she was grateful for the concealing blanket.

“Come away to the Leaping Mackerel, sir,” a man said at Cam’s shoulder. “There’s food and a fire and we’ll fetch the doctor.”

“Thank you.” Cam sounded remarkably like his usual self, instead of the shaken man who had rescued her. He spoke over her head to the crew who had saved them. “And thanks to you. We owe you our lives.”

“It’s nothing, laddie,” the bearded man said.

Pen couldn’t imagine anyone calling haughty Camden Rothermere “laddie” since he was breeched. Probably not even before then. “Nonetheless, your gallantry won’t go unrewarded.”

“Thank you,” she choked out.

The man nodded before turning away to stow the boat. Her hands tightened around Cam’s shoulders as he strode along the quay. Rain sheeted down, but they were already so wet it made little difference.

Cam’s ordeal had hardly been less taxing than hers. “I can walk.”

“Don’t be a fool.” His grip tightened as if he’d fight anyone for the right to carry her.

Pen surrendered to the forbidden luxury of his touch. She was too tired and sore to resist. Feeding her senses with his salty, clean scent and the heat of his body, she hid her face against his bare chest. For a dangerous interval, she floated in a world where Cam’s arms welcomed her forever.

Cam marched through the crowd, responding briefly to congratulations and good wishes. Pen’s contentment was short-lived. The onslaught of noise and warmth when they entered the inn dazed her as if she’d stumbled into civilization after being lost in the wilderness.

“Is the doctor here?” Cam shouldered his way through the packed taproom. Gently he placed her on a padded bench near the fire.

“Aye, sir.” A thickset middle-aged man appeared behind Cam. “I’ll see to the lady.” Although she missed Cam’s arms, Pen sat quietly while the doctor took her wrist to check her pulse.

“She’ll want a nice cup of tea. And you’ll have brandy, I’m sure, my lord.” A woman who must be the innkeeper’s wife bustled forward with a brimming glass that she shoved at Cam. “I’m Mrs. Skillings. Welcome to the Leaping Mackerel, Ramsgate’s finest inn.”

Cam looked like a ragamuffin, wet and filthy in his tattered clothing. But Mrs. Skillings hadn’t mistaken his accent or bearing. Cam could stand naked surrounded by polar bears in Greenland and he’d still appear exactly what he was, an English nobleman of the highest standing.

“Thank you.” He accepted the brandy, but instead of drinking it, he offered it to Pen.

“You’re too kind.” How true that was.

Wincing, she extended one hand from under her blanket to take the glass. She felt like she’d been through twelve rounds with Tom Cribb. And the boxer had won. Now that she was safe, she felt the sting and ache of innumerable scrapes and bruises. Despite the fire in the hearth, she shivered. The chill extended to her bones. When she drank, the spirits settled in her belly and stirred her sluggish blood.

“My lady needs a coat,” Cam said to the room at large.

“So do you,” Pen said softly. Cam looked magnificent with his bare chest and torn breeches. Like a marooned pirate king. But he’d been immersed in cold water as long as she had.

Mrs. Skillings addressed the man behind her, obviously the innkeeper. “Take the lady to our best chamber, John. I’ll bring her one of my dresses to tide her over.”

Pen caught a flash of quickly hidden amusement in Cam’s eyes as she returned the brandy glass. Three of Pen would fit into anything that went around the woman’s ample figure.

“I haven’t finished my examination,” the doctor protested.

“Aye, Frederick Wilson, and what sort of lady would she be to let you fuss over her in the middle of a public taproom? Can’t you see she’s quality? Do your poking and prodding once she’s upstairs, away from nosy parkers and resting in a nice featherbed.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Skillings,” Pen said gratefully, clutching her blanket. “Is there any word of our crew?”

“Oh, dear me, you wouldn’t know, would you?” the woman said. “The other boat came in before yours with three men. They’re in the private parlor waiting for Dr. Wilson.”

“Thank God,” Cam whispered. He addressed the stocky sailor who had steered them to safety. “Two more men went missing when the ship sank.”

“I’m sorry, laddie. The sea was bloody cruel today.”

Cam was still “laddie.” She noticed that he was careful not to reveal their names. Here in England, the Rothermeres were so well-known that the Pembridge title would provide no protection. After just escaping death, Pen found it difficult to care about scandal. But Cam had so much more to lose if word emerged about their travels. The thought soured the brandy in her stomach.

“Hiram Pollock, watch your language. There’s a lady present,” Mrs. Skillings snapped.

Remembering that two good men had perished made Pen want to cry. “Mr. Pollock, after what you did tonight, you can say anything you like.”

The man laughed. “Well said, my lady.” He shifted closer. “May I carry you upstairs?”

“That’s my privilege.” Cam passed his empty glass to the innkeeper and bent to lift Pen.

Gratefully she turned her face into his chest. The crowded room, stinking of wet wool and people of dubious cleanliness, made her feel faint. That, and her pummeled, aching body.

Cam hitched her higher and followed Mrs. Skillings. The crowd parted reluctantly. Pen had visited enough small towns to recognize the hunger for excitement that infected people who led generally uneventful lives. The Windhover’s wreck and the rescue of these well-spoken strangers would fuel conversation for years.

“I’ve had word of a yacht lost in the bay.” A pompous tenor cut through the babble like a knife through butter. “I demand a report. I take it most amiss that I am the last person to learn of this disaster.”

Cam’s breath caught in dismay. The muscles beneath Pen’s cheek turned hard as stone.

“Sir Henry.” Mrs. Skillings’s lack of welcome was audible. “We were about to settle his lordship and his lady in their rooms where they can recover in peace. I’m sure you’ll agree that was our first duty.”

Mrs. Skillings stood firmly in their path. Pen couldn’t see past her bulk, although she had a suspicion that Cam knew the man.

“Your first duty was to inform the local magistrate. Just who are these people you call lord and lady?” Sir Henry’s doubt of the castaways’ status was clear.

“Why, here they be.” Mrs. Skillings made a triumphant gesture.

“Who, sir, are you to claim the privileges of the peerage? You might gull a parcel of ignorant fisherfolk, but I’m a member of parliament and a regular visitor to London. I’m familiar with our ruling classes.” Rudely Sir Henry shoved Mrs. Skillings aside.

After his blustering claims to know the great and good, Pen had expected to recognize him, if only from sketches in the papers. But the red-faced, rotund man dressed too fussily for a country inn was a stranger. She sucked in a relieved breath.

Until she saw astonishment then delight transform his expression. “Your Grace!”

“Good evening, Sir Henry,” Cam said coolly. Only Pen, held close in his arms, knew how his heart raced. “I owe my life to the brave men of Ramsgate and Mrs. Skillings has been the soul of hospitality. If they delayed notifying you, they had due cause.”

“Your Grace, this is an unexpected pleasure. But what odious circumstances bring you to our humble town! I’ll make immediate arrangements to transport you to Kellynch House. The Leaping Mackerel doesn’t befit your dignity.” His eyes sharpened on Pen, who struggled to hide her sick apprehension.

After weeks of subterfuge, their efforts came to nothing. They were trapped in a scandal. Cam’s grand plans lay in ruins and she loved him enough to regret that to her soul. He’d spent his life compensating for his parents’ notoriety. Now, he’d face public disapproval as a man who, at the very least, kept a mistress even as he launched his courtship.

“I hadn’t heard that you’d married, Your Grace. May I wish you and the new Duchess of Sedgemoor every happiness?”

“Thank you.” Cam’s arms were like steel. There wasn’t a chance in Hades of containing the news that the Duke of Sedgemoor had survived a shipwreck. Not only that, but he’d gallantly rescued a female companion.

Pen waited for Cam to deny the marriage, until she saw that Sir Henry’s glittering eyes focused on the gold signet. Strange that so much had been lost in the wreck, yet that lying proof of their union remained.

“Or have I mistaken the situation?” Sir Henry’s voice lowered as no introduction to the new Duchess of Sedgemoor eventuated. “If so, you may rely on my discretion.”

Pen had no idea how he meant to fulfill that promise. Fifty people must have heard Sir Henry identify Cam as the Duke of Sedgemoor.

“Not at all, Sir Henry,” Cam said as coldly as she’d ever heard him speak to anyone. Then words that rendered her dumb with horror. “My wife has undergone a terrible ordeal. She requires quiet and privacy. I’ll take her upstairs and tend to her. Should you require details of the wreck, you may call tomorrow.” He marched past an openmouthed Sir Henry. “Mrs. Skillings, pray direct us to our rooms.”

The throng fell completely silent to witness Cam at his most ducal, although curiosity swirled around them as powerful as the lashing sea that had nearly drowned her.

“Cam—” she began, uncertain how to avert catastrophe.

“Later, my dear.” His words sounded more reprimand than endearment. “Your servant, Sir Henry.”

Cam bowed to the magistrate with insulting brevity. Carrying a quaking Pen, he followed the innkeeper from the taproom.