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“But surely there are some which are used by smugglers?” Elizabeth shuffled closer to the edge, peering downward. She casually grasped Wickham’s forearm to steady herself and heard him hiss in response. Good. His attraction to her might help cloud his judgment. “Do you know of any real smugglers’ caves?”
Mr. Wickham paused, clearly torn between the need for secrecy and the desire to impress a young woman.
She allowed excitement to show on her face. “You do! I can tell. I would love to visit a smugglers’ cave! It would be like a scene in a novel!”
“I do know the location of a few caves,” he conceded.
“Would you take me to see one? Please!”
“The climb down is long and dangerous.”
“I do not mind. I like a long climb. It will be an adventure!” How could she overcome his reluctance? “Oh, I can just imagine it!” She pitched her voice lower, more enticing. “You and me…alone in a cave…”
Mr. Wickham swallowed hard before seizing her hand. “Very well, I will take you to the cave. But I did warn you about the climb.”
The path down to the beach was indeed steep. Although she had worn her sturdiest half boots, Elizabeth’s feet slid on the loose dirt more than once. Mr. Wickham held her hand, and she did not fall.
The beach was narrow and completely deserted, too rocky and inaccessible for casual visitors. Waves crashed onto the shore with magnificent sprays of water—far more ferocious than at the ladies’ beach. If only she could stay and admire the sight; under other circumstances and with different company she would have loved to linger. But Mr. Wickham was already tugging impatiently at her hand.
They tramped along the beach for several minutes until they came to the cave—its entrance almost completely concealed by a large boulder. Elizabeth had to turn sideways and squeeze between the boulder and the cliff face to enter, but the interior was surprisingly large and dry, with a sandy floor and craggy stone walls. Surveying the space, Elizabeth focused on memorizing the details of the location—only belatedly realizing she should be “impressed” with her companion’s cleverness.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth and imagining how Lydia would react. “This is a real cave. I do not believe I have ever encountered a real cave before! How thrilling!” Wickham preened. “It is ever so much larger than I thought it could be,” she warbled as she explored the space, hoping to find useful clues for the colonel. Deeper into the cliff, the cave narrowed and disappeared into darkness. “What is back there?” She gestured.
“I don’t know. Perhaps others have explored it, but I have not,” Mr. Wickham responded.
Elizabeth’s shiver was not entirely feigned. “Perhaps there is a secret passageway.”
The officer smirked. “Perhaps.”
Finding nothing else of note in the back of the cave, she returned to the cave’s mouth. Unfortunately, this also brought her into greater proximity to Mr. Wickham. When enticing him, Elizabeth had weighed the danger that the scoundrel might make improper advances. She did not believe he would try to force her while she was under the colonel’s protection, but still…
As he drew closer, she whirled away, searching for some distraction. She pointed to a pile of crates stacked against the cave wall. “What is the purpose of those?”
“Don’t touch them!” he said with a hint of panic in his voice. “Who knows what the smugglers might do if we disturb their wares.” Hmm. That would definitely be of interest to the colonel.
Elizabeth giggled as if thrilled by this thought. “Have you ever seen the smugglers? How do they appear? Are they at all like pirates?”
“No. They’re a rather rough lot.”
She faked a shiver of fear. “They could arrive at any moment. Perhaps we should leave!”
Mr. Wickham chuckled. “I believe they mainly work at night.”
“Oh.”
The officer was close to her—far closer than was appropriate. Before she could duck away, his lips were on hers. Suppressing her natural revulsion, she drew upon every ounce of thespian skill to act the part of the besotted lover. The man did not make it easy. His lips were dry, the stubble of his beard scratched her chin, and his breath stank of gin.
She attempted to return h
is kisses with equal ardor but found that attraction was difficult to feign in such close proximity. Mr. Darcy would be more pleasant to kiss. His lips looked quite soft, and he would no doubt hold her gently and lovingly—not roughly as if he wanted to possess her. Indeed, kissing Mr. Darcy would not be a hardship.
The man she kissed moaned, and Elizabeth was jarringly reminded that he was not Mr. Darcy.
Why am I thinking of Mr. Darcy now? Why am I thinking of him at all?
Lost in fantasies about the master of Pemberley, she had apparently returned Mr. Wickham’s kisses rather enthusiastically. His tongue was in her mouth! His hands had wandered up her legs and over her thighs to her waist—and threatened to travel higher. This needed to stop immediately.
Pulling her mouth from his, she said, “Mr. Wickham, perhaps we should—”
