“We will manage,” he assured her, and she nodded. He took over the rudder, his superior strength needed to keep the boat on track, while she peered ahead of them as if she could see where they were going.
The lugger literally bumped into the shore. The boat shook with the force of hitting land. They were thrown forward, but Beckett didn’t wait a beat. He jumped into the water, found his footing, and held his arms out. “Come, Gwendolyn. Jump,” he commanded.
She leaned over the side. Beckett’s arms grasped hers. He half swung and half dragged her toward him, even as wind and waves lifted the boat, freeing it from what little land was beneath.
He carried her the few steps toward shore while the current bore the boat away.
In spite of the rain pouring down on them, Gwendolyn wanted to collapse. Beckett refused to let her. He picked her up in his arms and held her until they reached the shelter of trees. He dropped to his knees, and the two of them fell to the ground side by side.
For a several long moments, all Gwendolyncould do was catch her breath. The spot where they had sought shelter was relatively dry. A canopy of leaves protected them somewhat from the rain.
She listened to it, wanting it to stop. The air smelled of the shore, of rotting wood and fish mingled with grass and leaves. Her heart slowed from its frantic beating.
Beckett sat up on the wet earth. She joined him.
“Now what?” Her legs stretched in front of her. Her kid slippers were soaked, but at least she still had them. She could have lost them.
She sensed rather than saw him smile in the darkness. “We find someplace safe while we decide our next actions.” He paused, then added drolly, “You wanted adventure.” He was right. Had she not longed for anything other than the endless balls and social calls? Hadn’t she longed for him?
And now she had both.
Suddenly Gwendolyn started laughing. He laughed with her, until a sob escaped her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed, but that is when the tears started.
Beck didn’t chastise her. He pulled her into his arms. He said, “You have been brave, Gwendolyn. So brave.”
“I’m not afraid,” she answered, but that wasn’t true. Now that she was safe, what could have happened overwhelmed her.
He didn’t press her to stop her show of emotion. He held her, her face against his shirt andher hand gripping the wet lapels of his jacket, and eventually she began to recover herself—but she didn’t move. She stayed there in the haven of his arms, savoring his quiet composure. “You are safe,” he whispered to her. “We’re safe.”
She didn’t move but released the breath she’d been holding. “When do you think Lady Middlebury will know we escaped?”
“Who will tell her?” he asked. “The men she paid for a job that will not be done? Or the coachmen driving north, thinking their part is finished?”
“So, what arewegoing to do?”
“Find someplace safe for the night. Think over our next steps,” he said. “And find dinner. I’m famished.”
Gwendolyn realized she was as well. “Isn’t it late?”
“Perhaps nine? Possibly ten?” He rose to his feet. She immediately felt the loss of his warmth. “The rain is tapering off. Let’s discover where we are.” He held out a hand. It touched her shoulder and she took it, letting him help her up.
He offered his jacket to her. She shook her head.
“Take it,” he ordered. “The dress you are wearing wasn’t made for the rain.”
Only then did she realize how the damp muslin clung to her figure. She slipped on his jacket. The wool sleeves reached below her fingertips. The hem was heavy and wet from their adventure. She wrapped it around her. Her hair was a bedraggled mess down her back. Shethought some of the pins still held out, but she didn’t bother trying to find out. She couldn’t waste energy on vanity.
In truth, he didn’t look much better. The sleeves of his shirt seemed to be adhered to his arms. His waistcoat was intact but ruined. His boots squished as he walked. Hand in hand, they set off in search of help.
It wasn’t easy, even when the rain stopped. There were branches that thwacked them in the face and vines across the ground that tripped them. She hated the thorns. They were feeling their way through the woods, but Gwendolyn refused to complain, even when she almost twisted her ankle. At another point, a rock in her shoe made her hobble a few steps. Her wet stockings had come untied and gathered at her ankles. She didn’t try to pull them up because they would just fall again. Her kid slippers were not made for a trek through a wood. She longed for her walking shoes, and while she was making wishes, she would appreciate a warm fire and a roasted chicken.
They trudged along until Beckett noticed a light. They made their way toward it and came across a village of whitewashed cottages. Their walls stood out in the darkness. Beyond them was what appeared to be a small posting inn.
Beckett and Gwendolyn hurried toward it. Two men sat out on a bench under the torchlight of the inn’s front door. Gwendolyn held back.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My hair.” She reached up and felt a pin. She pulled it and two more out before quickly braiding the wet mess as best she could. “You might need your jacket.” She shrugged out of it and handed it to him. “We don’t wish to appear completely disreputable.” She shook out her skirts. The muslin had dried a bit so it didn’t cling to her legs.
