Now the storm drove prying eyes away, let her walk unquestioned with a man. The wind masked their words. The rain buried them. They alone were alive out here; they alone, without society, clothes dark and dripping, hair flattened, rain and salt mingling, the taste of the sky on her tongue, breathing the sea with every breath…a wild baptism.
The rain fell even harder, a grey-brown curtain, blurring the way. Lord Cotereigh darted glances at her, worried for her. Hebegan to unbutton his coat. “Madelaine…Mrs Ardingly…” She touched his hand, stopping him, giving a shake of her head.
She was fine. She burnt on the inside. Every breath seemed ten times its normal size. She was light. She could fly away. She was steady and strong as rock.
“Are you really sorry?” She had to shout to be heard over the wind and the rain, not slowing her pace but increasing it, Lord Cotereigh hurrying after her.
“Am I sorry?” He dragged a hand across his dripping face, water in rivulets down his jaw. “Yes!” He shouted too, the word angry but clean with it, pure and certain.
“Good. Do you have sealegs?”
“What?”
The harbour was ahead, yellow light flickering in fisherman’s shacks, wind making masts and ropes scream. It was good the tide was low. All the sails had been furled, but the heavy rain-slicked bundles shuddered, canvas trying to break free. The harbour was deserted. Every sane person was inside. Madelaine strode to the jetty, onto the creaking wood.
“Stop! For God’s sake, where are you going?”
“I have a boat.”
She didn’t look behind her but let the wind carry her words. She heard his heavy tread on the boards.
“A boat?” His tone said,Are you crazy?
“My brother’s boat. It has a cabin.”
He might not be able to hear her, but he followed, his own protests drowned by the weather. She reached the gangplank. Only a little water pooled low around the boat’s hull, the keel sunk in mud. It was upright, more or less, moored tightly along its length but shuddering, groaning, as the weather sought to set it free.
Lord Cotereigh swore as she stepped onto the deck, but he followed, his expression stormier than the weather. If he orderedit to stop, it would probably listen. She laughed, which only made his scowl darker.
“Can you swim?” she asked.
“Yes, but—”
She crossed the deck, confirming the tide was heading in, swirls of dirty, foamy water exploring the glistening rain pocked mud. “Look there,” she said, pointing at nothing.
Already convinced she was a madwoman, he only gave her another frown before doing as she said.
She leant far over the low rail, and so did he, straining to see whatever it was she saw.
“No, a bit further…do you see that mud?”
“Yes. Why—”
She pushed him in.
Thirty-Two
It stank.
Good heavens, it stank.
The mud was thick and gelatinous, studded with sharp sticks and worse.
A coil of wet rope landed with a sudden slap by his head. He wiped mud from his eyes, flat on his back, and caught a glimpse of a white face looking at him from high up before it disappeared back over the side of the boat.
Did he deserve it?
In truth, yes. But the knowledge didn’t do much to abate his anger.
