Henri barely nodded in response, having become wretchedly seasick from the listing of the boat. The bile rose in her tight throat, made worse by the dryness from having been gagged for so long and thus preventing her from voiding her stomach properly. She began to choke, panic flooding through her as she struggled to breathe around her body’s rebellion.
Lord Trenwith was beside her instantly. “Easy,” he murmured, supporting her as she leaned over a basin he had somehow procured. “Let it come, Miss Bigsby. Fighting it will only make you feel worse.”
Henri was too miserable to appreciate the irony of receiving comfort from her captor. She retched violently into the basin, her body shaking with the force of her illness, and found herself grateful for Lord Trenwith’s steady presence. His hand rubbed soothing circles on her back, and he held her hair away from her face with surprising tenderness.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly as her stomach finally began to settle. “I had hoped we might make a calmer crossing.”
Henri wiped her mouth with the cloth he offered, trying to muster the energy for renewed anger. But exhaustion and illness had drained her reserves, and she found herself slumping against him despite her best intentions.
“Where are you taking me?” she whispered, barely audible over the sound of waves against the hull.
Lord Trenwith’s arms came around her, drawing her more securely against his chest. She felt his lips brush against her hair, the touch so fleeting she might have imagined it.
“To France,” he admitted quietly. “But only temporarily, Miss Bigsby. I promise you will return to England soon.”
“France?” Henri tried to pull away, but her weakened state made resistance impossible. “Lord Trenwith, you cannot mean to … This is lunacy. Why France?”
“Because it is the only place where certain matters can be resolved,” he replied, his breath warm against her ear. “You will be safe while I complete what I came to do.”
Henri wanted to demand more answers, to rail against his high-handed treatment of her, but another wave of nausea swept over her. She found herself clinging to Lord Trenwith’s coat, using his solid presence as an anchor against the relentless motion.
“Breathe slowly,” he murmured, low and rumbling. “Focus on something steady. The sound of my voice, perhaps.”
Despite everything—the kidnapping, the restraints, the terrifying ride to an unknown destination—Henri found his presence oddly comforting. There was something infinitely reassuring about his calm competence, the way he anticipated her needs before she was even aware of them herself.
“I do not understand any of this,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I know.” His hand moved to stroke her hair, the gesture tender. “And I am sorrier for that than you can possibly know. But I swear to you, Miss Bigsby, upon my honor as a gentleman, that no harm will come to you while you are in my care.”
Henri closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink into the unexpected comfort of his embrace. She could feel the vessel pitching and rolling as it fought its way through rough seas, but wrapped in Lord Trenwith’s arms, she felt oddly secure.
It made no sense. He had kidnapped her, transported her against her will, and was now taking her to a foreign country for reasons he refused to explain. By all rights, she should be terrified of him, should be fighting with every breath to escape his hold.
Instead, she found herself thinking of the way he had rescued her from that armed man in Sir Alpheus’s library. The careful consideration he had shown even while binding her wrists. The gentle way he tended to her illness, as if her comfort mattered to him despite the circumstances.
Lord Trenwith was many things. High-handed, secretive, infuriatingly controlled. But Henri knew that he was not, at heart, a villain. Which only made her situation more confusing.
As the ship carried them through the storm-tossed Channel toward France, Henri allowed herself to rest in the arms of the man who had turned her life upside down. Tomorrow, she would demand answers. Tomorrow, she would find a way to assert some control over her fate.
Tonight, seasick and exhausted and more confused than she had ever been in her life, she simply held on and tried to trust in Lord Trenwith’s promise that he would see her safely home.
Alaric Devayne wasa victim of his own obsessions. He slept poorly, ate too little, and attacked his interests with such fervor that it verged on a madness, a disease of the soul for which he would have been well-advised to take a long and brisk constitutional to pay his surroundings some mind.
Obsession was why, from a rocky outcropping above the cove, he watched the dark vessel slip away into the storm-lashed night. The wind whipped his coat around him as he strained his eyes to follow the ship’s lanterns until they disappeared entirely into the churning darkness of the Channel.
He had followed them from Danbury’s estate, keeping well back on the muddy roads until the storm had forced him toseek shelter at a wayside inn. Rather than reveal himself to the other travelers, he had bedded down in the stables with his horse, wrapped in his greatcoat and listening to the wind howl through the night. When dawn broke clear, he had ridden as hard as he dared to pick up their trail again, eventually finding the wheel ruts in the softening snow. The pursuit had been arduous, but his determination had been rewarded when he had spotted their vehicle making its way down the steep path to this secluded cove.
What he had witnessed from his hidden vantage left him deeply unsettled. The woman had clearly been struggling against the man, fighting him with desperate energy as he carried her aboard the vessel. Her hands had appeared to be bound, though the darkness and distance made it difficult to be certain.
Alaric frowned, trying to piece together what he had observed. The man had rescued the woman from his attack in the library yet now appeared to be taking her against her will. Why save her only to kidnap her? The manuscript was valuable, certainly, but why take the woman from England altogether? There had to be more at stake, some larger game being played that he could not yet comprehend.
The proximity to Dover gave him hope. If they were using this cove for their crossing, they might well return the same way. Smugglers were creatures of habit, preferring routes they knew to be safe from the revenue officers.
Alaric made his decision quickly. He would ride to Dover and establish himself near the docks, watching for any sign of their return. A few coins in the right hands would secure him information about unusual arrivals. Perhaps he could even find a local boy to keep watch on this particular cove, someone who knew the tides and could alert him to any nighttime activity.
The manuscript was still within his reach, but now his curiosity extended far beyond the ancient text. Whatever the man was truly after, whatever had driven him to such desperate measures, Alaric intended to discover it.
He had no choice but to be patient. But patience, he reflected grimly as he made his way back to his horse, had always been one of his particular strengths.
