Secrets of Midnight (34 page)

"No . . . please, no!" she sputtered
tearfully, scrambling through the churning surf on hands and knees as she tried
frantically to get away. She shrieked when a third time she was dragged to her
feet and again she was pitched forward, her body tossed and rolled like flotsam
as a violent wave crashed over her, then another and another.

Her fingers clawing at the sand, she feared in that
moment that she was going to drown. And when she felt a heavy foot settle atop
her back to hold her face down in the icy water, she was certain of it.

She wildly flailed her limbs, her lungs ready to burst,
the pounding so fierce in her temples she felt her head was going to explode.
Until something suddenly gave way deep inside her, her struggles growing
sluggish, her clothes become so heavy, dragging her down, down to drift around
her like a watery shroud . . .

"
Non, non,
madame
, I did not bring you here to kill you."

Corisande cried out as she was slapped hard across the
face, scarcely aware that she'd been dragged from the water until she felt
another brutal slap that made her see blinding white light in front of her
eyes. The next thing she knew, she was staring up at the sky, rain stinging her
face as she gasped and coughed and sputtered for air.

"Now you know when you hear from me again, madame,
you will not doubt that my words are true. You will not doubt me!"

Corisande heard gruff laughter and low voices
conferring and then nothing more, the wind sucking up all sound but the waves
crashing upon the beach. It wasn't until long, heart-pounding moments later
that she dared to believe she was alone. Curling onto her side, she
lay
there numbly, her limbs and her wet clothes so heavy
that she wondered if she could move. It was only when she heard a faint cheer
coming from the opposite side of the beach that she remembered . . .

Donovan.

Somehow she rose to her hands and knees, crawling
across wet gritty sand until she felt she could rise. She stumbled, fell, and
rose again as another cheer split the night, much louder this time, the distant
orange light of a bonfire drawing her like a moth to a flickering flame.

Somehow she made herself walk faster when she heard
another cheer, finally managing to run as lightning flashed overhead, a
thunderclap booming seconds later. She might have thought she was coming upon a
joyous celebration if not for the tension suddenly cutting the air: at least a
hundred villagers were gathered in a tight crowd at the shoreline and staring
out at the sea.

"What's happening?" she rasped, nearly
falling into two men who turned to look at her, clearly stunned that she was soaked
from head to toe, her clothes caked with sand. "Tell me! What's happening?"

"Why, haven't 'ee seen, Corie? The ship's
splitting apart, but all the crew
are
saved except for
two."

"Two?" she echoed hoarsely, peering through
the crowd to see the hunched blanketed figures being led across the beach to
the bonfire. But she didn't see Donovan anywhere and she began to push her way
through to the water, mounting fear clawing at her throat, until finally she
came upon two sets of grim-faced men who were pulling hand over hand at thick
ropes stretched taut.

"Is he still out there? My husband? Lord Donovan?"

"Ais, Corie," one man spoke up, though none
of them turned for even a moment from their crucial labor to glance at her. "Lord
Donovan and John Killigrew, bringing in the last of 'em, the captain and his
boy—
There
, lads! There! I can see 'em now, pull easy,
pull
easy!"

Corisande felt scalding tears jump to her eyes as she
saw four distinct shapes emerging from the surging darkness that was the sea,
the fisherman John Killigrew with a small boy clutching to his neck and Donovan
only a few feet behind holding fast to a heavyset man who appeared to be
unconscious. As cheers went up along the shore, Corisande held her breath.

They were still some twenty yards out, but already
villagers were wading into the breakers as far as they dared, and she waded
out, too, a sudden violent gust of wind nearly knocking her off her feet. She
heard a loud cry and glanced behind her to see one of the groups of men who'd
been pulling suddenly rushing into the waves. It was then that she saw a rope
had snapped, and she cried out, too, spinning back to see with horror that
Donovan and the captain had disappeared under the waves.

"No! Donovan! Donovan . . .

Desperately she lunged for deeper water, the sand
slipping beneath her feet, only to feel someone grab her from behind.

"Corie, Corie, 'ee can't help him! The waves will
take 'ee out too!"

"No, let me go! Let me go!"

She fought and flailed her arms, but her captor refused
to release her, dragging her back even as villagers rushed to help John Killigrew
and the boy as they were hauled exhausted onto shore. Nearly choked by rasping
sobs, Corisande stared in shock at the black churning sea, full of debris from
the shattered ship white bits of sail, planks of wood—

"Over there! Help him, men! We can grab him
now—the water's not too deep!"

Corisande found
herself
suddenly free as people began to run farther down the beach. Her heart began
clamoring in her breast as Donovan emerged from the waves hauling the limp
captain in his arms. Both men were at once surrounded and helped to shore by a
cheering, jubilant crowd. But she couldn't reach him, her legs suddenly giving
out beneath her, and she went down in the sand, unable to see for the tears
blinding her eyes.

Unable to see anything until what seemed no more than
an instant later, when someone fell to his knees in front of her and pulled her
into his arms.

"Corie . . ."

She held on to him for dear life, not caring that
Donovan seemed a block of ice, his skin and his clothing as wet and cold as her
own. But suddenly they were borne to their feet by a host of villagers and
swept along to the bonfire where all the other rescuers and survivors sat
huddled, both she and Donovan soon enveloped in blankets, mugs of hot tea laced
with brandy thrust into their hands.

But she couldn't drink, merely staring at him as he
stared back at her, his breathing still labored, his eyes the color of midnight
as, incredibly, a wry smile came to his blue-tinged lips.

"You look as much a mess as I feel, woman. Sand in
your hair, on your clothes. What happened?"

Chapter 30

Corisande didn't know what to say; there were so many
people gathered beneath the rocky overhang. Thankfully Donovan was distracted
as the captain of the fishing vessel was suddenly brought round by a shot of
brandy poured down his throat, the man breaking down and weeping openly as he
embraced his son.

As more cheers went up, and many villagers crowded
forward to commend not only Donovan, but also all the other rescuers for their
bravery, Corisande drank her tea, grateful for its warmth. But nothing could
thaw the chill that was descending over her, and she stared silently into the
sputtering bonfire, her attacker's cryptic words echoing in her mind . . . "
Now you know when you hear from me again,
madame, you will not doubt that my words are true. You will not doubt me!
"

She sat there and stared even as people began to leave
for their homes, and one by one the survivors were helped to their feet and
taken off to eat a warm, hearty meal and spend the night in beds generously
offered by strangers. She was scarcely aware of anything until she felt Donovan
touch her arm and she jumped, dropping her mug into the sand.

"Corie, I said it's time we leave. Didn't you hear
me?"

Donovan got no reply, only a mute shake of her head;
Corisande's face was so pale, her teeth still slightly chattering, that he
couldn't wait to get her home.

Good God, she had probably helped to drag the survivors
to shore—no wonder she was soaked to the skin. She must have been knocked from
her feet a time or two and won a good dunking for her efforts to have so much
sand clinging to her, too, her hair matted to her head. She didn't protest when
he helped her to her feet and wrapped the blanket more snugly around her
shoulders, but her legs seemed so wobbly that he lifted her into his arms and
carried her out from underneath the overhang. The wind was not so strong now,
the gale having lost some of its wild fury.

He was amazed he didn't feel worse after battling the
waves. When that rope had snapped and he'd gone under, nearly losing his grip
on the captain, he'd known apprehension, yes, but he hadn't allowed himself to
doubt for an instant that he would make it back to shore. He'd had only to
think of Corisande, dammit, how she had defied him again, putting herself at
grave risk, and how he planned to let her know just how furious he'd been when
he had met the ducal carriage rumbling at a breakneck pace toward home and
discovered she was not inside with Charlotte.

But not tonight, Donovan thought to himself, wondering
at how strangely still Corisande was as he strode to a narrow outcropping where
he'd left Samson. His horse was soaked, too, snorting almost in indignation at
him, but at least the animal had had protection against the wind.

He hoisted Corisande into the saddle and then mounted
behind her, thinking she must be exhausted, indeed, when she leaned back
against him, again making no protest when he wound his arms tightly around her
and kicked Samson into a gallop. This wasn't at all the Corisande he'd left
earlier in the day, when she had hardly spoken to him and more often than not
refused to meet his eyes. That woman was nothing like the one who had hugged
him so fiercely back there on the beach as if . . . as if . . .

Sighing heavily, Donovan told himself to be content
that she was safe and sound in his arms. Yet he wasn't content, God help him,
he wasn't.

***

"Here's some nice hot tea, my lady, I'll put it
right here next to the bed. I don't like to see you still shivering so. The bath
should have helped. If you'd like I could fetch another blanket for you—though
we're a bit short right now with Their Graces being here and all their
servants—"

"I'm fine, Ellen, really," Corisande
murmured, plucking absently at the sleeve of her flannel nightgown. "I
think maybe if I just get some sleep . . ."

"Oh, my, yes, of course, sleep is probably the
best thing for you, my lady. To think of you outside in all that wind and rain
and sloshing about in the sea. I'll be grateful that you don't come down with a
bad cold or worse!"

Corisande closed her eyes as the housekeeper tucked in
the covers one last time, then turned down the lamp by the bed. "If you
could give the duke and duchess my regrets—"

"Ah, no trouble there, Her Grace has already
retired for the night, but I'll say as much to His Grace. He's waiting
downstairs in the library for Lord Donovan to finish his bath and join him,
though I heard him ask Ogden to let His Lordship know he wouldn't mind at all
if Lord Donovan decided to retire, too, after the night he's had. Actually, His
Grace was humming. Seemed quite content to be alone. I can't say that I blame
him—oh, dear, I'm rattling on, and you need your sleep. Good night, my lady."

Corisande had already rolled onto her side, listening
with half an ear as Ellen stoked the fire one last time and then left the room.
Fleetingly she wondered if Donovan was making as much of a mess at his bath as
he had at the washbasin that one night, water splashing everywhere, but she
immediately pushed away the image, not wanting to think about water at all.

It had been terribly difficult even getting into that
tub, and when Ellen had poured a pitcher of water over her head to rinse the
sand from her hair, her heart had begun to race so fast that she at once had
wanted out. She imagined her pillow would be covered with the gritty stuff come
morning, but she didn't care. She just wanted to sleep, please, please, to
sleep so she wouldn't think anymore—

"
Non
, non, madame, I
did not bring you here to kill you.
"

Corisande gasped and pitched onto her back, the harsh
voice so loud in her head it was as if she had heard it all over again.

". . .
kill
you
. . .
kill you
. . ."

Dear God, the man almost
had
killed her, nearly drowning her! What was happening? Why was
she living this nightmare? What had he meant about not doubting him?

Corisande threw back the covers and half stumbled from
bed, trembling to her toes. She tried to take a sip of tea, but the cup was
shaking so fiercely in her hand that she at once set it down again, fearing she
might drop and break it. Instead she walked unsteadily to the curtains and
peered through the rain-spattered windows, wondering if her attackers were out
there, watching the house, watching her.

Three men, but only one had spoken to her, a Frenchman,
she was certain of it, and they were at war with France! Rebecca had denounced
the men staying at the inn as foreigners. Hadn't she guessed their origin? What
of Oliver? A Frenchman who had said Corisande would be hearing from him again.
Dear God, did he plan, then, to kill her?

"Corie?"

She shrieked and spun, embarrassment flooding her as
Donovan came toward her, the soft lamplight streaming through the sitting room
from his bedchamber limning his powerful silhouette. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't
hear you knock—"

"I didn't knock, woman. Are you all right?"

She gave a small laugh, a shaky, empty laugh, and spun back
to the curtains. "I'm fine, of course, I'm fine—"

"Screeching when someone says your name is fine?"