"Yes, hurry, you don't want to be blown into the sea," Corisande said with a wryness that would have matched Donovan's if he'd just seen this ridiculous little episode.
Oh, Lord, Donovan.
She began to walk quickly toward the parsonage, trying not to think of how angry he might be once he discovered she'd stayed behind in Porthleven. Of course, she had no intention at all of journeying across the heath alone; if the storm proved too bad and Donovan couldn't come for her, she would just spend the night in her own bed, her narrow single bed, not anything like the huge bed she'd shared those two nights with Donovan . . .
Corisande shivered, not wanting to think of that either. Nor how he'd stared at her so strangely all through supper last night, looking at her almost as if he'd never really seen her before. Of course, it could have been because her hair was mussed and her dress askew; she'd pulled on her clothing in the dark after all. And certainly she didn't want to think about how vastly disappointed he must be to have to wait longer for his inheritance-Oh, for heaven's sake! Why think of Donovan at all?
So she tried not to, wondering instead when she was going to be able to write down all the figures of Tuesday's landing in the ledger she kept hidden in the church. She supposed after she visited her family she might have some time, that is, if the gale grew worse and there was no chance of Donovan coming to fetch her- "Donovan again, always Donovan," she said aloud, resignedly, grateful that the parsonage was only another few houses away. A blast of wind, laced now with cold rain, hit her with tremendous force and so suddenly that she half spun, looking back down the darkening street as she braced herself against a cottage wall.
Villagers were rushing outside to close banging shutters and shoo their children indoors while dogs barked at the low, heavy clouds scudding across the sky. And the harbor was alive with activity as boats were lashed to the docks, a few larger vessels anchored farther out bobbing upon the angry, steely-looking waves, their masts dipping and swaying. Other than that, the streets were nearly empty where she stood, well, except for those three men huddled as if talking among themselves down the hill.
Corisande turned and kept walking, then slowed down.
Three men? Strange. She glanced over her shoulder to see that they were no longer huddled but coming up the street at her pace, their capped heads lowered against the wind and shoulders hunched. She'd scarcely thought twice about it at the inn, but could they be the same ones who'd bumped into . . . ?
Corisande began to walk faster, glancing behind her to see that the men were now walking faster, too, which made her heart jump. Then she immediately told herself she was being silly. It was growing dark, but there was still enough light to see quite well, and she was in the very center of the village. Surely she had nothing to fear. So why, then, was she suddenly so nervous?
She didn't want to, but she hazarded a quick glance behind her to find to her immense relief that the three men were gone. Where, she could not say, but she didn't waste time wondering. She half flew into the parsonage, where the comforting warmth of the place and the smell of Frances's leek and potato pie greeted her like an old friend.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
At once a clatter arose from the kitchen as wooden chairs scraped against the floor and Luther began to yip, and her sisters came spilling down the narrow hallway at a run.
"Oh, Corie, is she here? Is she here?" That from Marguerite, who embraced Corisande excitedly while glancing past her into the parlor.
"The duchess, Corie! Where's the duchess?" piped Estelle as Luther spun and pranced and yapped at her feet.
"Oh, so you heard Donovan and I have important visitors?" Not surprised that the news must have flown like tonight's gale through Porthleven, Corisande bent down to give her youngest sister a hug and then moved on to Linette, who flung her slender arms around her neck.
"I don't care about any silly duchess, Corie. I'm glad just to see you."
"And I'm very glad to see you too," Corisande murmured, giving Linette a good squeeze before releasing her. "But I'm sorry to say the duchess decided to go home. Charlotte doesn't much like storms. Doesn't like much of anything, for that matter."
"Did she take her shiny black coach with her?" Her voice very small, Estelle looked crestfallen. "Johnnie Morton saw you riding in a huge, shiny black coach-with men in fancy clothes sitting on a funny little seat. He came hollering back into the school to tell us."
"Yes, it was quite big with a crest and silver mountings and footmen in fancy clothes, and I'm afraid they all went home with the duchess. But I'm here, and something smells very good in the kitchen. Do you think Frances made enough for me too? Where is Frances?"
Suddenly there was an uncomfortable silence as all three girls looked at each other, none of them looking at her.
"She's not in the kitchen? Marguerite?"
"She's out trying to get Papa to come in for supper, Corie. She told us to stay inside-the storm coming and all -and she knew, too, that you might be stopping by-"
"What do you mean, trying to get Papa to come in?"
Again the silence, Estelle looking up with very big eyes at Marguerite while Linette chewed her lower lip.
"Well, is somebody going to answer me?"
"He doesn't want to come inside, we don't know why," Marguerite said in an uncertain voice. "He's too busy digging holes."
"Holes?"
A chorus of nods greeted her incredulous query; Corisande stared at them in confusion. "Where? Why?"
"I told you we don't know." Tears filled Marguerite's eyes. "He's been outside in the garden-"
"Well, of course, that explains it, then," Corisande broke in as she moved down the hall. "You know how he loves to spend time out there tending the flowers."
"But all day long, Corie, and into the night?" Marguerite called after her while Linette and Estelle followed closely at Corisande's heels, and Luther skittered ahead into the kitchen. "I don't think he's slept at all for two days."
Growing concerned now, Corisande said as reassuringly as she could, "Go on, all of you, sit back down and eat your supper. It smells wonderful. I'll go see if I can help Frances, all right?"
But they didn't sit down, instead following Corisande to the kitchen door until she spun and said in her sternest voice, "I said to go finish your supper. Everything will be fine, you'll see."
They silently obliged with long faces, their chairs scraping dully, not at all the boisterous girls who had greeted her only moments ago. It was as if seeing her had given vent to unspoken fears, but Corisande couldn't worry about them now as she went outside into the garden, astonished at how dark it had grown. A thick rain was falling, too, scratches of lightning cutting across the pitch-black sky. And the wind, the wind had become a wild thing that tore at her clothes, her hair, whistling shrilly as it whipped across the heath.
"Frances! Papa!"
She ran deeper into the garden, but she didn't see them anywhere, a great sense of unease swamping her.
"Frances?"
"Here, Corie! Here!"
She whirled, relief overwhelming her as she spied Frances and her father just outside the garden wall. She ran and pushed open the metal gate, barely dodging a yawning hole some two feet across illumined by a great flash of lightning.
"Be careful, they're all around!" Frances warned, waving her back inside the garden. "The good passon's fine, Corie, never 'ee fear! Go back now! I'll have him into the house quick as a wink!"
Corisande doubted it would be quick as a wink since her father walked more slowly and more stooped than she'd ever seen him, his snow-white hair plastered to his head, his clothes drenched. She made a move to come and help, nearly slipping into another hole just inside the wall. Good Lord, how many holes- "Oh, God!"
Corisande's hand flew to her throat as two cannon explosions in close succession rocked the earth, rumbling over the village as loud as any thunder. As lightning flashed brilliantly around them, she could see Frances's stricken face that must have surely matched her own.
"Lord help us, Corie, that alarm hasn't sounded in over a year! 'Tes a ship! They've sighted a ship in trouble!"
Chapter 29.
Corisande gasped as a third cannon blast shattered the night-which meant only one thing: the ship must have already struck the shore, with who knew how many lives at stake.
"Get Papa inside-see to him, Frances!"
Corisande ducked her head against the slashing rain and ran back through the garden to the house, taking care to watch for any treacherous holes. Her three sisters scattered away from the door as she burst inside the kitchen, their faces pale and their eyes wide.
"Papa's fine. Frances is bringing him back to the house," she explained hastily, wiping the moisture from her eyes. "See that he eats, and drinks some hot tea. A ship's in trouble, and they may need him to . . ."
Corisande didn't finish but raced down the hall, her sisters well understanding that their father might be needed to perform a burial service if anyone drowned-though she prayed that help would arrive in time for those poor desperate souls. To her relief, she saw as she stepped outside that the village was alive with commotion, men and their wives, too, tugging on cloaks and caps and coats as they rushed from their houses and jumped onto pony-drawn wagons already rumbling down to the harbor.
She ran to a passing cart; villagers outstretched their arms to give her a lift up, and she clambered aboard, breathlessly murmuring her thanks as she joined the flight to help strangers in trouble. It seemed in only moments they'd reached the water and there everyone set off on foot, running north along the beach. Some men had huge twists of rope thrown over their shoulders while still others half dragged, half carried rowboats across the sand. A tar barrel stood lit and burning brightly atop a nearby cliff to show them the way.
It only took a brilliant flash of lightning to spot the distressed ship fifty yards from shore being buffeted by a tremendous sea, her eerily white sails split and tattered. It looked to be a fishing vessel, and Corisande's heart pounded hard for a moment when she thought it might have been the Fair Betty returned home because of the fierce gale. At once a hue and cry went up to man the boats, while a host of villagers suddenly dashed into the boiling surf to drag a limp survivor to shore.
Corisande was stunned to see another exhausted swimmer struggling through the breakers to reach the safety of the beach, and she rushed with four others to help. The water was bitterly cold and dragged heavily at her skirt, while the sand shifted dangerously beneath her feet with the powerful undertow. But she managed to grab onto the man's collar while the others grabbed his arms and legs and hauled him to dry land.
"There's seven hands . . . seven hands still aboard without Hodge an' me," the man gasped, coughing up water as he looked to where the other sailor was surrounded by villagers farther up the beach. "An' Captain Briggs an' his young son . . . we were bound with a load of mackerel for Falmouth . . . tried to run the storm . . . we're the only ones who know how to swim . . ."
As the man fell into a fit of violent hacking, Corisande did her best to lift his shoulders so he wouldn't choke.
"I'll stay with him. Tell the others there are still nine people on board!" she shouted above the roaring wind to the villagers who had helped her drag the sailor to shore, waving them away to alert the men climbing into the rowboats. But already several boats had headed into the crashing waves, only to be tossed about like bits of cork and overturned, spilling their occupants into the sea.
At once people forged into the heavy surf to save their own. Corisande's heart sank as another streak of lightning lit the sky and she saw that the ship now listed ominously. God help those poor people, there wasn't much more time- "Hell and damnation, woman, must you forever place yourself in harm's way?"
Corisande gasped as she was hauled to her feet, barely able to see Donovan's expression in the darkness although she could hear the scowl in his voice. She could tell, too, from how tightly his hands were gripping her shoulders that he must be furious she'd not returned in the carriage with Charlotte, but there was no time to think of that now.
"Donovan, this man swam from the ship, but there are still nine on board including a little boy! They've already tried to launch some boats . . ."
Corisande's words were drowned out as a great anguished cry went up along the beach when another rowboat was cast back onto shore by the churning sea. She saw then that several men with ropes tied around their waists were plunging into the water in a valiant attempt to reach the ship before it foundered. Donovan must have seen them, too, for he turned back to her and shook her hard, his voice brooking no argument.
"Stay here, Corie, where I'll know to find you. Don't move an inch!"
She didn't have a chance to reply as he left her and ran to the water's edge, where a cluster of villagers gathered round him to tie a lifeline about his waist as well. Then Donovan was gone, disappearing into the waves while Corisande's heart flew to her throat.
That's what she had meant to ask him-if there might be some way he could help-but now that he was swimming out to the ship as the storm was shrieking and thundering and blowing all around them, she had never felt more frightened. The water was so cold, the waves like mountains. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord . . .
Corisande dropped to her haunches as another fierce fit of coughing seized the sailor, but to her surprise he waved her away as if sensing her unease.
"I'm all right . . . go on if 'ee want to join the others."
Corisande shook her head, but when three women came rushing over with blankets, one of them saying that he should come with them to the overhang of a cliff where a bonfire had been lit, she was only too relieved to see the man helped to his feet and led away.
She knew Donovan had told her to stay put, but she hurried down the beach anyway. She wanted to make sure that the villagers holding his lifeline were ready to haul him in as soon as they saw him swimming back to shore-and not to pull too hard either. Last year a rescuer had been swallowed up by the sea when his rope had snapped . . .
"No, Donovan will be fine. He's going to be fine," she intoned to herself, dodging two men who had suddenly gotten in her way. But she was no sooner past them than she felt a jarring tug that nearly felled her, her sodden cloak yanked from behind as someone else grabbed her around the neck and clamped a rough callused hand over her mouth before she had a chance to scream.
And she tried to scream, struggling in mute terror as she was half dragged along the beach, realizing with a horribly sick feeling when no help came that everyone was too intent upon watching the desperate rescue to see her plight. It was so pitch-dark at this far end of the beach, too, so dark and the wind howling so bitterly that she could hear nothing but the blood thundering in her ears.
Two men now held her, one with his arm curled around the back of her neck and his hand still clamped firmly over her mouth while the other gripped her right arm cruelly, twisting it as if daring her to try to escape. Then to her horror, a third man suddenly appeared almost out of nowhere and strode toward them, and Corisande was sickeningly certain that these were the very same men who must have been following her to the parsonage, who had bumped into her so rudely at the inn- "Let her go! No one can hear her scream now."
Corisande recognized that harsh voice at the same moment she was knocked forward onto the sand, an ice-cold wave hitting her full in the face. She'd had no idea they were so close to the water. Her eyes burning from the salt, she tried to rise but instead found herself hauled to her feet and then thrown forward again, and this time the water was much deeper, another frigid wave breaking over her head.
"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.