God, how he longed to touch her. She was so close, so lovely. It had been so long. He wanted to reach out and skim his chilled, callused fingertip over that lacy border and the creamy perfection of her collarbone.
A dozen armed soldiers hovered about, ready to gut him in moments, should he dare. Even so, the idea tempted. One stolen caress might have been worth his life.
But there were other lives at stake. Lives more important and worthy than the life of Corentin Morvan, a humble farmhand. So he closed his eyes and pushed temptation away.
When the stitching was finished, the flame-haired woman put away her vials and implements. She spoke with the officer. Plans were being made. Men were being dispatched.
The girl in emerald silk nodded as someone handed her a pair of gloves. Fine gloves of soft leather, lined with fur. Gloves meant for wearing in the cold.
Which meant she was leaving. They would part him from his angel.
No.
Mustering what remained of his strength, he threw an arm about her waist and flung his head in her lap. She startled and froze, but she did not recoil. Cool silk teased against his cheek, and beneath it he felt the warmth of her skin.
“Only her,” he muttered in Breton. “No one but her. She alone understands. You cannot take her from me.”
And then he made a true ass of himself.
He fainted dead away.
“He’s collapsed,” Susanna said. “From the pain, most likely.”
Violet gulped, staring at the man so indecently sprawled face-down in her lap. She could view the stitches Susanna had used to mend his injury. They were neat work, but the wound was ugly. A ragged, red gash carved through his dark brown hair.
Lord Rycliff moved toward her. “I’ll get him off you.”
“It’s all right.” Violet laid a tentative touch across the man’s broad shoulders. “He’s wounded and confused. It’s only natural that he’d cling to the one person who understands him a little.”
“Whether you understand him or not…” Rycliff shook his head. “I don’t trust him.”
I’m not sure I do either, Violet thought. But she wasn’t prepared to abandon him. Not until she learned more.
“Do you mind him being in here, Papa?” Susanna asked her father. They’d all migrated to the library of Sir Lewis Finch. It had been the nearest room to the great hall with a fire in the hearth.
“Not at all, not at all,” Sir Lewis answered. “You know I collect curiosities of all sorts. But we might send in some footmen with a tarpaulin.” He cocked his head and surveyed the growing puddle beneath the dripping man.
“And dry clothing,” Susanna added. “He ought to fit something of Bram’s.”
Just then, Rufus Bright and Aaron Dawes entered the room, breathing hard with exertion. When the stranger had disrupted the ball, Lord Rycliff had dispatched some militiamen to assess the situation in the cove.
“Did you see anything?” Rycliff asked.
“No ships,” Rufus answered, huffing for breath. “And all’s clear at the castle.”
“But when we took the path down to the cove, we found the remnants of a small boat,” Dawes added. “Wrecked and washed ashore.”
“This is bollocks.” To the side of the room, Finn Bright spoke up. “Can’t believe you lot went down to the cove without me.”
“Of course we did,” his twin said, unapologetic. “We had to run.”
Finn didn’t argue. He just punched the floor with his crutch.
Violet hurt for the youth. Everyone did. Finn was fifteen years old, full of energy and cleverness. And since an accident a few months ago, the lad was missing a foot. For the most part, Finn masked his frustration with a brave face and his characteristic good humor. But the fact that he had an able-bodied twin in Rufus—an exact copy of himself who could still run, march, climb, and dance with ease—had to make it more difficult.
“A boat, you say?” Susanna peered at the man in Violet’s lap, dabbing his scraped temple with a moistened cloth. “Perhaps he’s a fisherman who drifted off course and met with an accident.”
Rycliff was clearly skeptical. “A fisherman from Brittany, blown all the way off course to Sussex and washed up in our cove.” He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Susanna said. “But I’ll admit, it seems rather unlikely.”
“He’s a smuggler, I’ll warrant.” This declaration came from Finn. “Separated from his mates when the Excise come calling. My father consorted with enough of the rogues. I should know.”
“A smuggler. Now that I’d believe,” Rycliff said. “Good thinking, Finn.”
“Glad I’m still good for something.” Finn crutched his way over from the corner. He gave the intruder an assessing look. “Take care with him, my lady. You’d wake tomorrow to find him gone, and all Summerfield’s silver with him.”
Rycliff said, “I’ll send for a magistrate in the morning. But in the meantime, we can’t rule out other possibilities.”
“What other possibilities?” Violet asked.