Page 11 of To Love A Spy
Her lips quirked as she shifted her hold on a jug of spirits. She rarely drank, but this was a particularly good vintage, and its warmth had been most welcome last night. After her swim, she would leave it as a gift for Harry Holcroft, the elderly farmer who often shared his catch of rabbits with her.
Valencia’s smile faded as she spotted a splintered spar and scrap of canvas floating in the surf.Why were men so reckless?The Channel coast was notoriously treacherous at this time of year. What reason was worth risking a life for, she wondered grimly. Any captain worth his salt should have known better than to challenge the storm.
More wreckage littered the beach. She stepped over a tangle of rigging and swore softly. “Damn fools,” she began—and then broke into a run.
The body had washed ashore at the far end of the crescent cove and was lying face down on the smooth stones.
Valencia crouched down and took gentle hold of the man’s sodden coat. There was no movement, no sign of life as her fingers felt for a pulse. His flesh was cold as marble.
Poor devil.It would take a miracle for him to have survived the storm. Gritting her teeth for the worst, she slowly turned him over.
And nearly swooned in shock.
Despite the muddled bruises and tangled hair, the face confronting her was all too familiar. A ghost from another life, come back to haunt her.
Valencia bit back an oath. As if her own thoughts were not disturbing enough.
The man suddenly stirred, a whispered sigh slipping from his salt cracked lips, along with retching sound that brought up a spill of salt water.
“Hell and damnation.” This time she said it aloud.
Of all the cursed luck.There were countless coves and rocky beaches along the jagged coastline of her island. And yet, by some perverse twist of fate, the Marquess of Lynsley had landed here.
Forcing her to come face to face with her past.
Waves of crimson buffeted his body. His hands, his face, his clothing were wet with burning blood. He tried to move his feet, but the swirling currents held him down. The cry for help was growing fainter. Too late, too late. Her voice was lost in a scream . . .
“Milord?”
The dream ended as always—engulfing him in a wrenching feeling of helplessness. But as Lynsley slowly opened his eyes, he thought for a moment that he was hallucinating.Were his past sins now coming back to plague him in consciousness as well as sleep?The Bournemouth mission had been the worst of his failings. He should have anticipated the trouble. He should have aborted the attack. He should have . . .
“Awake, are you?”
Her voice was not quite as he remembered it. A note of cynicism overshadowed the confidence of old, giving it a harder edge.How many years had it been?Nine? Ten?
No doubt they had both changed past recognition.
“Here, you had better try to drink something,” added Valencia.
“Thank you,” he murmured, after a swallow of the hot broth. “Where am I?”
“The isle of Sark,” she said brusquely. “Near Maseline. I assume your ship foundered in the storm.”
“Yes.” Lynsley closed his eyes, recalling the fury of the wind whipping through the rigging. “We would have weathered it, but the rudder pin snapped and we were at the mercy of the wind and waves.”
“The captain should never have chanced a journey with such a gale blowing in.”
“It was not the man’s fault,” he replied. “The matter was most urgent. If anyone is to blame, it is I.”
Valencia didn’t answer. Turning away, she began to fuss with a tray on the bedside table. He heard the clink of cutlery and the rattle of earthenware dishes. “Can you manage a bite of porridge?” she asked. “I’ve brought hot water and can make some tea as well, if you like.”
“Tea would be most welcome.”
The flickering candlelight illuminated her profile as she worked.Valencia.The Spanish name had a sinuous, sultry sound that suited her looks. She was still breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair, lustrous as polished ebony, fell in shimmering waves over her shoulders. If anything, the years had strengthened the line of her cheekbones, the arch of her neck. There was a new depth to her seagreen gaze, and the ripple of shadows beneath the surface only added to the allure of mystery.
A man could drown in such eyes . . .
Lowering his lashes, Lynsley found himself wondering if she had ever married. Many men must have asked.
