Rakecombe let himself be herded to his bathing device, not caring the water was cold as sleet.
Now he would revert to type.
He would be ruthless in declaring undying love for his wife. Pitiless in claiming her. Merciless with his touch. All control focused on winning her back. Aideen wouldn’t stand a chance in the well of ashes seven miles below hell.
Chapter Twenty-six
“He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity’s sunrise.”
William Blake
For two days, sideways slashes of rain had pounded the Welsh harbour town of Milford Haven and even when it had taken leave for a moment, a heavy fog had descended in its absence. All-pervading and dense.
But that wasn’t why Aideen wished she was in London.
During the endless hours in the carriage, which she now realised needed to be re-sprung as a matter of urgency, she had passed an inordinate amount of time reflecting on her short, married life. There had been little else to do, as attempting to read in the swaying box had become unbearable, nausea looming every time the words bounced around the page like scuttling ants.
No, she wished herself back in London because she felt a coward.
Never had she been one to run away from problems. In fact, quite the reverse – she normally confronted them head-on, relishing the contest.
But she had run from Alexander.
She consoled herself that it was only for a short while, to gather her strength and visit home, but the devil on her left shoulder scolded that she should have ripped that newspaper from Alexander’s nose and swatted him over the head with it.
Scowling at the dawn sunshine, which now beamed through the Nelson Inn’s meagre window, she gathered her valise.
The packet boat’s departure had been delayed due to the weather, but this morning, at this unspeakably early hour, the Welsh stone glittered under a low sun and the trees began hauling themselves to upright after the storm’s battering.
She had thought…maybe… Perhaps… Alexander would…
But he hadn’t. And why should he? She’d told him not to follow after all, and he had his ordered life, his vocation and he needed very little else.
Perturbed at her contradictory thoughts, she meandered from the inn, the poor maid and guard who had accompanied her to Wales dragging their feet behind.
Puddles of water sluiced the lane to the harbour, forcing one to hop for dry ground, but people bustled briskly after the rain, and she spied several of her fellow inn guests waiting by the modest packet boat.
Her title had procured one of the few cabins aboard – or the captain’s, she suspected – and she couldn’t quite believe that barely a few months earlier she had made this trip to England a mere Miss Quinlan, taking the stagecoach to Fetter Lane and the White Horse Inn.
Such mundane thoughts, she groused, as the passengers manoeuvred to board, and she glanced back at the harbour wall, a light salt breeze fanning her cheeks. A few onlookers waved from the stone quay and she scanned the heads for no good reason.
Straightening her shoulders, she vowed to enjoy the voyage on a rippling sea, to take pleasure from sighting Waterford’s coast and being greeted warmly by her uncle and his hounds.
The Irish captain, with flashing smile and weather-beaten skin, personally helped her aboard – little wonder with the amount she’d paid for the cabin. Her maid scrambled below but Aideen stayed on deck, a rosy Irish woman making room for her at the bow rail.
“Are ya off home then, darlin’?” She nudged Aideen’s elbow.
“I… Yes, madam.”
“The name’s Mrs O’Driscoll. And did ya like England? The bread’s appalling but the shops are mighty fine.”
Aideen smiled. “You have the way of it,” she replied, watching as they hauled up the boarding plank.
“And the fellas? What did ya think?” the woman asked, blue eyes bright.
“I think…” One of the sailors gave the word to weigh anchor and panic settled within her. “I think I’d like to get off.” But it was too late and too crowded. Passengers pressed from behind, waving to well-wishers, and a few pigs had joined the laden boat, which two boys chased while a lady shrieked.
“Ya canna, darlin’.” And the woman patted Aideen’s gloved hand, cold despite the leather. “Did ya leave a handsome English lad behind, then? I’ve noticed they’re hopeless with feelings, although our lads could do with saying less and meaning it more, I’d sa–”
