Clandestine (25 page)

“Not at all! It's a bit of a climb, but I believe that you'll like it.”

“Then it's a mystery?”

“Better than that—the fulfillment of a myth.”

There was really no other choice. The gig was gone. It would be absurd to stand in the mud and complain, and dangerous to stalk away alone, only to get lost in a network of country lanes.

Sarah tied the strings of her bonnet more firmly beneath her chin and smiled up at him.

“A nice, stomping walk before bed with something magical on the way? Yes, I'd like that!”

Guy helped her over the stile onto a path that angled up through a patch of dark woodland. He did not dare to offer her his hand again, though the occasional root made the path tricky. Yet Sarah strode confidently at his side, almost as if nothing at all lay between them.

The woods thinned. They walked out onto the short turf of the headland, and the footpath split. A stone wall with its wind-stunted hedge loomed up on their right; a field full of sheep sloped away to the left.

The right-hand path led down through a gap in the wall to the inlet that divided the Buckleigh estates from the manorial lands that ran with the village of Stonecombe. Their path ran beside the wall, straight along the top of the ridge toward the cliffs.

Guy led Sarah across the close-mown turf to a gate in the corner, which took them into an empty field, where long grass rippled in the warm breeze off the ocean.

Sarah was glowing from the exertion, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, yet she walked out like a boy, her strides vigorous and eager. Guy strode beside her and silently cursed fate. She was remarkable. She was lovely. She was forbidden.

He helped her over another stile, but this time only by allowing her to set her hand on his steadying forearm. Desire for her thrilled and demanded. He was determined never to give in to it again.

The sun dropped behind a low bank of cloud. Fat sheep lay in shadowed huddles. The air held an eerie stillness as if holding its breath in the face of the oncoming night.

When they reached the next stile, Sarah was panting.

“We can stop here,” he said.

She climbed up unaided to sit on the top of the stile facing him, then tugged off her bonnet to smooth the slightly damp hair from her forehead, dangling her hat by its ribbons from the other hand.

In the field behind her, where the sheep had been moved out earlier that spring, their path wove drunkenly on toward the cliffs: a swath of springy, short turf, stunted by the trampling of feet, with the longer grass rippling beside it.

Guy leaned both forearms on the rail next to Sarah, trying to ignore the lion roaring in his heart. A little wind blew darkly off the sea to blow wayward strands of hair about her cheeks. Beneath her green cloak, her skirts shimmered: some cream-colored muslin with tiny sprigs of red petals and green leaves. Even in the dim light, her fingers were elegant and enticing, fascinating and lovely, entangled in the ribbons.

If he had wished it, he could have jumped her down off each stile with both hands at her waist, caught her against his chest and kissed her again.

If he had wished—

He clenched his fists and stepped back, just as the sinking sun broke dazzling through a break in the clouds. Yellow and gilt and green, color raced back over the landscape. Flames flared in Sarah's hair, a halo of copper and chestnut about her bright face.

Guy grinned at her and pointed to the path behind her, where it stretched ahead toward the cliffs. She spun about to look over her shoulder.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh!”

A bright ribbon of white against the longer grass, the path—and only the path—glimmered like snow.

Sarah dropped her bonnet, spun about, and clambered down from the stile. Lifting her skirts in both hands, she raced away up the white track toward the sea.

Guy reached down to retrieve her bonnet, sprang over the stile, and ran after her.

She spun about to face him as he caught up, her eyes brilliant, strands of red hair whipping about her face. Color burnished her cheeks, almost as if she saw the lion gazing from his eyes.

“It's Olwen's path!” she exclaimed.

He stood arrested as she crumpled down onto the short turf to brush one palm over the masses of daisies that bloomed at her feet. Her face and eyes were glowing, lovely.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I can think of more prosaic explanations for why the flowers grow only on the path, but the effect is still remarkable.”

She plucked a flower and held it up, as if she beheld a miracle. “Oh, perhaps the rest of the daisies are hidden by the longer grass, or perhaps they can grow only where the turf has been beaten down by so many feet, but I shall always choose to believe that the goddess walked here, and white flowers sprang up in every footprint.”

Regret suddenly lanced through him. He had no idea why. It seemed mad.

“I thought you'd like it,” he said. “Though the petals are already starting to close up. We should go.”

“And so Olwen's white track will disappear into the mysteries of the night.” Sarah stood up and brushed off her hands. “Where does this path go?”

“It's one of many that leads down to the beach.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Because I've already had several days to explore. That village we just passed through—Stonecombe—is owned now by an absentee landlord, but it's part of a manor that's existed since the Conquest.”

“The Conquest? You mean the Norman Conquest? William the Conqueror?”

“I don't think England's been successfully invaded since then,” he replied dryly, “unless I was sleeping and missed it.”

Her laugh was so genuinely merry and carefree that his heart catapulted into his throat.

How easy to catch her by the waist! How easy to tumble with her onto the warm turf! How easy to make love to her, up here on this cliff top, only a hand's breadth from heaven!

Instead, with a bow, he held out her bonnet. She nodded and took it.

A handful of seagulls broke crying up over the cliff to toss out over the water, as if they would fly straight into the setting sun.

Her skirts flared as she turned to gaze out across the Channel.

“May we go down there?” she asked. “I've never been to a wild beach.”

He knew it was a mistake, for he would be forced to take her hand. Yet he could not deny the longing in her voice.
A wild beach.

“The cliff path is both steep and treacherous,” he said. “And it's getting dark. Will you allow me to help you?”

She tied the bonnet ribbons loosely, so her hat hung on her back. “Yes, of course.”

Guy held out his hand and she took it.

The cliff path was damp, slippery where the rock broke through the turf. The lion circled, roaring its awareness of her small, gloved hand, her neat waist, her grace and suppleness as Guy guided her step-by-step down to the beach.

Yet he hated to rob her of such a simple pleasure as this, and they were safe for the moment. Nothing dangerous was likely to happen until well after dark.

As soon as they reached Stonecombe Cove, the breeze stopped as if shut off with a tap. Black rocks jutted up like small castles from the white sand. A stream from the valley behind them spread into a delta of tiny rivulets. Far out on the horizon, a fiery sun was sinking into the sea, sending its last long rays up across the clouds. The stream flared into a river of gold and fire, entangled with the lapping waves like skeins of her hair.

And everything changed.

Tears blurred her eyes. Distress creased her forehead.

“It's so lovely here,” she said on a breath. “Lovely!”

Moisture gathered to overflow down her cheeks. Her nose tip turned pink. She bit her lip and swallowed, then covered her mouth with one hand.

Her need overwhelmed him. Without a word, Guy gathered her in both arms.

“Don't!” he whispered against her hair. “Don't! It's only the ocean.”

His lips found salt as he kissed her wet face, then sweetness as his tongue found her mouth. She kissed back with simple, undiluted fervor, as if she would seek succor from his tongue for all the ills of the world.

Her body pressed against his, her breasts crushed against his chest. He stroked the tangled hair back from her face, cradling her head in both hands, and kissed her again. She clung to him with both hands, still kissing, as he sank with her to kneel on the still-warm sand.

His ardor was direct and hot, firing lust in the groin, filling him with urgent, all-consuming desire. Yet a terrible, soul-deep longing also flooded his mind: to make everything right, to heal and protect, even when he knew that he had nothing to offer her but heartbreak.

The red disk plunged at last into the ocean. Guy slipped his hands down to her shoulders to set Sarah at arm's length. They were both still kneeling like suppliants on the sand. Her eyes swam with moisture beneath her shadowed lashes.

“I'm sorry, Sarah,” he said. “I'm possessed.”

He helped her to stand, then he walked away a few paces. A faint glimmer beckoned far out to sea, as if the water still remembered the day. White grains, like dense clusters of stars, clung to her skirts. For several moments they both stood in silence, gazing at the breakers teasing the shoreline, listening to the grind and splash as smaller waves broke over the rills of dark slate.

Had the sun torn the heart from his body to drag it down with the daylight into the Underworld?

“The tide's coming in and it's getting dark,” he said. “There won't be much moon tonight. We must go.”

Sarah jammed the bonnet on her head and turned to face him. The oncoming night left her face a pale oval, her expression impossible to read.

“But how do we find our way back now? The daisies will have closed up completely, so Olwen's path will have disappeared. Are there are other paths?”

“To forgetfulness? I don't know. But there are certainly other footpaths back to Buckleigh.”

They turned together, as if nothing more needed to be said. Guy led Sarah back across the sand, until they were able to step over a narrow spot in the stream. Although its entrance was hidden amongst the beds of reeds, another well-beaten path led straight up the valley beside the water.

They strolled side by side without speaking. Within another quarter mile the path plunged between high banks, so that it was like walking through a tunnel.

Should he try to offer more apologies, or should he ask why the beach had made her weep? He had no idea where to begin. He only knew that his heart was racked by tenderness.

“You're right about the dark allowing confidences,” she said quietly. “Will you take it amiss if I offer a few more?”

“God! No! I'd be honored, Mrs. Callaway.”

“Sarah,” she replied dryly. “When a gentleman kisses a lady more than once, he may generally use her given name.”

Her brave humor took him by surprise, though the lion pricked its ears, as if warning of dangerous ground.

“Mine, as you know, is Guy,” he said. “In the dark we are only conspirators.”

“I wished merely to say that I'm glad that I was able to tell you about John the other night. I've never been able to tell anyone the truth before.”

“It must have been very dreadful for you,” he said. “And a worse burden if you've had to bear it alone.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I never thought about it quite like that, but, yes, it does help to pour out one's heart to a stranger.”

“A
stranger
, Sarah?”

“A clumsy choice of words. I meant someone one can trust, yet doesn't expect to number among one's friends in the future.”

“And that's what I am to you?”

“Ours is only a temporary alliance, sir. We both know that.”

“Yet I may still call you Sarah?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said lightly. “Don't you?”

They strode on up the dark path. Trees clustered now on one side, offering glimpses of the little valley where the stream dawdled into marshy pools on its way down from the hills.

She put a hand on Guy's arm, stopping him, so they stood facing each other. “And the beach—”

“It's all right,” he said gently. “You can tell me.”

“Toward the end John ran a fever. He cried out for the sea. He wanted to go home. He didn't mean the home that we'd shared in our brief marriage. He meant the place he'd been born. He'd described it to me once. Not a house in a busy port full of ships like Yarmouth, but a little house by a wild beach, where he'd played as a boy. That was home!”

Guy touched her cheek silently, then he tucked her hand into his elbow, and they began to walk on up the path.

“I brought him some dried seaweed,” Sarah said. “I thought the scent might comfort him. But he shouted at me and dashed it to the floor. By then he wanted oranges, instead. Yet no fresh oranges were to be had. I couldn't save him! I couldn't even—”