He raised his lantern, but the light it provided was not enough to conquer the darkened abyss where she lay crumpled. The low glow strictly adhered to its purpose of ensuring he knew where to place his foot when he took his next step.
Then lightning again defiantly zigged across the sky, and it was as though every speck of illumination in the heavens touched her as he wanted to. She was no apparition but flesh and blood. How the hell had she ended up marooned on his shore?
She moved not at all. Had she drowned?
Pivoting, his greatcoat flaring out, he raced toward the path that would lead him down to her.Perhaps she’d been a passenger on a ship. In this storm, it would have been destroyed. He imagined her flailing about in the rough seas, desperate to reach land, her sodden clothing and hair dragging her down. The salty swells filling her mouth, her lungs, until she no longer had space for air. What a ghastly way to go.
He was far too familiar with ghastly ways to die.
Shoving back the gruesome thoughts that thrived among his horrid memories, he focused on her. The trail was muddy and slick. Scrambling along it, he lost his footing time and again. But finally, he reached the narrow shore that the sea was striving to capture.
Again, lightning flashed, serving as a beacon to direct him toward her. He rushed over, dropped to his knees beside the inert form, and set down the lantern. Gently he rolled her over. She wore little more than a chemise and drawers. Placing his hand on her ribs, he felt the movement of her drawing in air as well as her almost violent shivering.
Not dead, not dead. Thank God.
Slowly, gingerly, his fingers brushing lightly over her cold skin, he swept aside her hair to reveal her pale sand-dotted face. “Miss? Madam?”
Nothing. No response. Not even a whisper of a stirring.
His curse rivaled the storm in its intensity. Using the lantern as his guide, with an impartiality he’d been forced to master on another night such as this, he swept one hand over her, searching for wounds, signs of bleeding. He could detect a few scratches and dark splotches that probably signaled the beginningof bruises. What concerned him the most, however, was that she was as frigid as a block of ice.
A small woman, she wasn’t going to survive much longer if he didn’t get her warm.
He shrugged out of his greatcoat and wrapped it around her as though she was a gift from the Fates who could easily break if not handled with care. He feared that somewhere she was indeed broken, and he simply couldn’t determine where precisely she might be hurt.
In spite of her drenched undergarments, he easily lifted her into his arms, her head lolling into the nook of his shoulder, as if that part of him had been designed specifically for her. He would have preferred to have kept her positioned like that so she might be a bit more comfortable, but he needed to be able to carry the lantern. Therefore, he maneuvered her until she was draped over his shoulder, her backside resting beside his head.
Reaching down, he grabbed the lantern before shoving himself, with a great deal of effort, to his feet. Staggered, caught his balance. Straightened further against the blinding onslaught of the storm.
The path he’d followed to get to her was slick with mud. However, in the opposite direction was another trail, rocky and firmer, that led up to the residence. He would have steadier footing along that route, even if it was somewhat slippery. He wanted to ensure he wouldn’t drop his precious cargo.
How she’d come to be in so few garments was a bit puzzling. Perhaps she’d sensed that the ship was not destined to reach land and had unburdened herself of anything that would have prevented her from doing the same. He couldn’t imagine a lady of quality being so bold or practical. Heaven forfend, they should be caught not properly attired—regardless of any precarious circumstances that required not being so. While something about her teased at the edge of his memory, he couldn’t recall meeting her at a ball or any other Societal affair. Which meant she was, in all likelihood, not a lady of the highest caliber.
Was she some man’s fancy piece, fallen from his yacht? Being engaged in a bit of naughtiness might explain her reduction in clothing. But the mystery of her was for sorting another time.
It worried him that she was exceptionally quiet and inert, that his uneven and jarring movements over the rough terrain did nothing to bring her out of her lethargic state. He’d seen people who hadn’t moved because of the sudden shock of the situation. He’d known some to survive catastrophe only to succumb to death a few days later. Whether from disbelief, fright, or sorrow. The mind, he was discovering, could be a powerful influence over the body. But he would do all in his power, limited though it was, to ensure she didn’t die.
Finally, the soft, welcoming glow from the windows of his ancestors’ fortification came into view. According to family legend, ages ago, this isle had served as the first defense against any invaders. Later, a lookout spot so smugglers—who used the coves and caves on the distant shore—could be warned with torches lit on high when trouble was arriving via ships. Not everything in whichhis forebears had engaged had fallen within the boundaries of the law. His family’s estate edged up against the sea in Cornwall, a few miles across the water from this narrow strip of land that his ancestors had long ago claimed. On a clear night, he could see a faint glow from their far-off manor that occupied the top of a rise. On a moonless night, when smugglers usually dealt with their contraband, they would have easily seen flames flickering from lighted torches atop the walls of a walkway that stretched between the towers of his present dwelling.
He knew that to be true, because it was how he communicated with his family. But not tonight. Tonight, the storm would not allow unprotected torches to remain alight. Not that he would have summoned his family to traverse the dangerous swells that the tempest had roused from slumber.
He rushed up the dwelling’s steps, hung the lantern on a peg beside the door, grabbed the latch, and shoved open the heavy oak. He stepped into the warmth of a large living area. So much bloody wonderful warmth provided by the fire on the hearth.
He’d left lamps burning in this room, his bedchamber, and at the bottom as well as the top of the stairs. He’d known before the night was done, with his belly filled with booze, he’d be in no state to light them.
He shifted his burden until she was settled in his arms. She emitted the tiniest soft mewling that he could have sworn burrowed its way through the layers of his armor to settle within his chest. It feltas though his heart had released an erratic beat to accommodate the unexpected arrival. He wouldn’t soften toward her, wouldn’t soften at all, because anything that was not rock-hard could break. Even steel and iron could shatter with enough force. The only way to protect a heart was not to have one at all.
He turned for the stairs and his lower back protested. It plagued him since that fateful night when his world—when he—had changed. He ignored the pain as he did most of the reminders that his life was no longer as it had once been. He started up the steps. The woman made another whimpering sound.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.”
“Bawl... une,” she muttered. “Lost.”
Christ, she’d been traveling with someone. He’d known there would probably be others but had dearly hoped none had been close to her. He couldn’t quite make out the name, not that it mattered. All that mattered was that she didn’t succumb to the horrors she’d endured before washing ashore.
“We will find them,” he tried to reassure her. He didn’t need sorrow weighing her down. He often wondered how many people involved in catastrophes died from the heartbreak of losing someone rather than any physical wounds sustained. “Any and all of your companions.”
“No... one... else,” she mumbled.
