“It’s too dangerous. Don’t do it.”
Her words of caution were flung wide by the wind as Walker leaped off the roof and grabbed the trail-rope.
Seizing the edge of the basket, she leaned over trying to catch a glimpse of her husband as he dangled far below. His added weight caused the balloon to lose altitude, and they dipped closer to the tree-covered terrain. Branches smashed into Walker as he worked to haul himself, hand over hand, upward toward the basket. All the while, Lucien worked at untying the rope from the inside, but the tension on the sisal was too great, and he couldn’t work the knot.
Down below a man was running along the west wall of the Abbey. She recognized him now—it was Sam Colt. He mounted one of the tethered horses, caught the reins of the other, and chased after them. Renewed expectations for a happy ending quivered in her breast until Lucien tore the sleeve off her dress. At first she thought he was attacking her then she realized it was a far worse scenario. He wrapped the fabric around his hand and ripped a metal brace off the funnel used to direct the scorching-hot air into the balloon. Employing the still glowing metal he worked to sear through the rope upon which Walker dangled. It was a slow process, but promised eventual success. She wrestled with him, trying to slow his progress.
A cold blast of wind sent them rushing toward the coast. The atmosphere nearer the ocean was blustery, their path chaotic. The basket tipped from side to side, causing Walker to swing riotously beneath them. At least he was no longer battered by the trees. But as the balloon’s shadow flittered crossed the sandy beach and slipped beyond the shoreline, her palms began to sweat. They were heading straight out to sea.
The rope Lucian labored over smoldered, and then burned halfway through. She pummeled his back and slapped at the line trying to put out the sparks. Ignoring her assault, he began sawing the line with the jagged edge of metal.
Peering over the edge of the basket, she squinted against the rush of air coming at her full force. They were gaining altitude. Her panic increased, and she decided when the rope holding Walker broke, she would be on it too. Better to die with Walker than live without him. Hiking up her skirts, she shimmied over the edge of the basket, and with one hand still on the top rail she reached for the twisted hemp draped over the side. Wedging one foot in the cross-rigging beneath the basket she secured a tenuous position.
Walker grappled up the last few feet. His hand clasped the calf of her left leg then her thigh.
“What in God’s name are you doing? Get back onboard,” he ordered, coming face to face with her. The sight of the bloody cuts and dark bruises on his face and hands made her wince.
They clung to one another near the bottom of the basket. “The rope is almost burned through,” she warned. “It won’t last much longer.”
He slid his foot in the rigging beside hers, and wrapped one arm around her.
Without thinking, she glanced down. Then she snapped her eyes shut, and began to shake. She wanted to be strong, but all she could think of was how they were never going to raise a family, or grow old together.
She began to cry, couldn’t stop, the hysteria welling up in her chest.
“Can you swim?” he asked.
“Not a stroke,” she uttered, between great sobs, eyes still closed.
“Not to worry,” he said, “the drop will probably kill us.”
At his sarcasm, she gave him a horrified look, as well as her full attention.
“That’s better,” he said, with the grin she so favored. “Do you trust me?”
“Always and forever,” she sniffled.
Reaching down with one hand, he pulled off his left boot and then the right. Freeing a pistol from its holster, he fired at the balloon.
The air began to leak out, sending them on a wild descent. Visions of a wet crash landing flooded her thoughts. Then the rope broke, and her mind went blank.
She buried her face against Walker’s shoulder. He held her tight and wrapped his legs around her. They plummeted like a rock, hit the water, and went under.
Having no idea which way was up, she thrashed about, sucking in saltwater. Strong hands pushed her to the surface, and sputtering and choking she gulped great breaths of air as Walker bobbed up beside her.
“Hang on,” he instructed, dog paddling to keep them both afloat, “and try not to drown me.”
He swam for shore, one powerful stroke after another. She held onto his belt, barely keeping her head above water as he dragged them toward land. The tide was out, offering a sandy beach rather than deadly rocks, and the waves were surprisingly cooperative.
Sam Colt was waiting. He slogged through the shallows, helping them to their feet and shepherding them to dry land.
“Enjoy the ride?” Sam asked, slapping Walker on the back.
“The view was nice, but the accommodations lacking.”
“Glad you’re all right, Mrs. Garrison,” Sam said, handing over his coat.
Walker snuggled it around her, and in unison, they turned toward the horizon to search for the balloon.
“I’ll be damned,” Walker said, and pointed. “He’s losing altitude, but still airborne.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Trelayne’s physical injuries, being relatively minor, quickly healed. The scars on her mind ran deeper, her emotions slower to recover.
At first she feared to leave the house. And when they weren’t in bed together, she insisted on knowing every minute where Walker was and if he was safe. Ever patient, he finally convinced her that allowing her fear to rule her life was keeping her as much a prisoner as Lanteen ever could.
Taking Walker’s advice, she worked hard at relegating thoughts of Lucien to the wasteland of her mind. There was nary a word regarding his whereabouts, or if he had even survived his maniacal escape. Walker was correct. There was too much happiness in her world to spend one moment on unsettling reflections. Her parents were making great progress, and now she discovered her best friend was soon to be married.
“Oh Pen,” she laughed, clapping her hands, “what positively splendid news. I’m so happy for you and Jeffery. A winter wedding sounds beautiful,”
“Are you sorry you didn’t have a proper wedding of your own?” Penelope asked. “One with all the trimmings?”
She thought about it for a moment then shook her head. “Perhaps a few more flowers and a suitable dress would have been nice,” she admitted. “But being whisked away to Gretna Greene was utterly romantic. Just like in the books we used too read.”
“Used to? You mean we have to stop reading them now?”
“No, of course not. If we don’t keep reading, we won’t keep learning. But we must take care our husbands never find them, lest they think we are dissatisfied or dreaming of another man while in their arms. They’re funny that way.”
“I’m afraid of the first time,” Pen admitted. “You promise it didn’t hurt over much?”
“Only a little. And only for a little while.” She squirmed on the settee recalling the first time Walker had made love to her—or as he put it, the first time they shared lust and desire. “You want it so badly,” she confessed, “the trepidation gets lost in the passion.”
Penelope leaped up, starry eyed and flighty as a hummingbird. “You must help me with the wedding plans, Laynie. You have brilliant ideas, and this way it will be partly your wedding, too.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you Pen, it sounds wonderful. I’d love to be your co-conspirator.” She gained her feet, and arm in arm the women ambled to the front door. “Can’t you stay a little while longer?”
“I dare not. Madame Bodane has just received a new shipment of tulle. And before the best of the collection is taken, I must select what is to be used for my veil. Come visit later this week. The sketches she prepared are divine. It’s to be a wedding gown beyond compare.” Penelope’s voice held a dreamy quality, and her eyes shone with visions of her perfect wedding and her perfect future.
“I’m sure it will be the best of the season, and I promise to see you soon.”
She gave her friend a hug and a farewell peck on the cheek then watched and waved as Penelope took to her carriage. Alone and left to her own devices she wandered through the house. It was quiet as a mausoleum. Where was everyone?
“Do you know where Aunt Abigail might be?” she asked Merrick, as he sat reviewing tenant records in the east wing.
“I believe,” he replied, with a grin, “she’s enjoying a carriage ride with Mr. Colt.”
“Do tell.” Her aunt was seeing quit a bit of Samuel Colt. His visits put a glow in her cheeks and spring in her step. “And Walker? Has he gone to town?”
The older man looked up. “He rode out to inspect the lower forty. He seems to like the out-of-doors. I expect he misses being at sea, Miss Trelayne…I mean Mrs. Garrison.”
“Oh Merrick, you mustn’t call me Mrs. Garrison. It makes me feel ancient. Besides, you and Wynona are family. Simply call me Trelayne. Please,” she added at his contrary expression. “I insist.”
“It isn’t the natural order of things,” he grumbled. “And you know I’m a stickler for orderliness.”
“Well, at least give it a try. Do you think the Captain misses his former lifestyle?”
Merrick considered his answer before speaking. “He’s the kind of man accustomed to open spaces, and if I may say so, to adventuring.”
His words rang true. She hadn’t thought enough about what their marriage meant to Walker in this respect, or what he had given up. How selfish. She just assumed he was happy living here at Royston Hall. But perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps his needs and desires were not being met. A prickle of unease poked at her. Walker was a man of action—he’d been a soldier and a sailor. How dull for him to worry over whether or not the crops were growing properly, or how disappointing for him to monitor the docks and watch the ships leave port without him.
“He’s probably back by now,” Merrick said. “Most likely in the stable.”
She grinned and snared her old wool cloak on the run. At the barn, she silently slipped inside and paused. After the noontime glare, the atmosphere seemed muted. Dust motes twirled through the streaks of sunlight boldly spearing between cracks and holes. It was very quiet, not the usual melody of snorting, stomping, and hay munching. After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she spotted Walker.
His back to her, he brushed the only horse in the stable, crooning to the beast as he worked. She held back to admire his broad-shouldered physique. He was so big and tall and solid. She still marveled every time he held her in the shelter of his embrace. He was her fortress.
Having tossed aside his tweed jacket, he stood clad only in shirt, vest, tight breeches, and those rugged American boots—of which he seemed to have an unending supply. She liked that he maintained his own style. His big black hat and tickly mustache were two of her favorite things about him, although at present, thoughts of the rest of his body and the desire to see it here and now, took precedence. She pressed her thighs together to ease the throbbing brought on by her thoughts. She could never get enough of loving him, and prayed he felt the same.
Quiet as her cat, she sneaked up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. With no hint of surprise, he continued brushing the horse. Nudging her hips against his backside, she slid her hands lower, covering his crotch. The brushing stopped, and what lay beneath his trousers came alive and alert.
“Is that you, Mrs. Garrison?” he asked, over his shoulder.
“Well, I should hope so. Who did you think it was?”
“There was a quite fetching maid traveling with the tin monger. They came by only this morning. I thought perhaps she’d returned alone for more than pleasant conversation.”
“You rogue. What a wretched thing to say. Besides, the woman who travels with Mr. Brisbane is no maiden. She’s at least forty years old, and the way she’s always complaining about her chilblains, she would never survive a tussle with you.”
“A tussle? Is that what they’re calling it now days?”
“A proper rogering then,” she dared to say.
He turned to face her.
“What unexpected vocabulary from such sweet lips.”
Dipping his head, he captured her mouth with his, stifling further discussion. He dropped the currycomb, and grazed one hand across the bodice of her dress—quickening her heartbeat. They were kissing in the daylight, right here in the barn. It was outrageous, it was daring. What if they were caught?
Coming up for air, he eased her away from his chest, and smiled down at her. The horse whickered and bobbed his head as if in approval.
She glanced around. “Where are Jeb and all the other horses?”
“The farrier is here. Except for Mr. Darcy, Jeb’s taken the lot to the far paddock for trimming and shoeing. They’ll be at it for hours.”
He slid one hand down to the apex of her thighs and pressed his fingers into the yards of fabric, finding the spot that led to bliss and the point of no return.
“I can think of something I’d like to be doing for the next few hours,” he said.
With a come-hither look, she braced her hands against his chest as he rubbed between her legs and nuzzled her neck. A moan stuttered in her throat, and eyes closed, she was once more transported to a world holding only pleasure.
Shifting his hands, he gripped her bottom, held her close, and propelled her backward across the stable toward a mound of hay. His gaze never leaving her face, he loosened the clasp on her cloak. The garment tumbled to the ground, coming to rest beside the woolen jacket he’d abandoned earlier.
Taking her hands, he dropped to one knee, encouraging her to follow. The fragrant smell of grass-hay billowed around them as they stretched out side by side. Before he could distract her beyond her capacity to think clearly, she levered upward and boldly shifted to straddle his thighs.
Perched astride his body, her hands on his chest, she stared down at his wonderful face, and when he gave her that crooked smile that said he intended to make love to her no holds barred, a tremor quivered through her. He reached to make good his objective, but she captured his hands, and stayed the action.
“What’s the matter, too good to do it in the barn?” he teased.