Only You: Duke of Rutland Series III Page 6

  His mouth went slack. Had she divined the heavens? When he turned to follow their path back to the beach, a great gust of wind blew from across the sea, laying its hand upon the land and billowing out his shirt.

  Alexandra squealed. “Look, down there. Do you see it?” Without waiting for him to answer, she plunged into the forest, descending the mountain. Nothing. There was nothing to be seen. The woman was crazy.

  She disappeared in the dense growth, her chattering and exclamations marking her progress. “Hurry, Nicholas. You must see.”

  Nicholas skulked down the steep incline. He loathed wasting energy and time on a useless gambit. The earth buckled out from beneath him. His arms flailed in the air. Everything sailed past him. Plummeting down a steep embankment, he grabbed at vines, branches, clawing roots, and dirt to brake his fall. A thorn jabbed in his backside. He slammed into wet leaf mold, his breath whooshing out of him. His shirtsleeve was torn. Not bloody likely he could summon his valet and order a new shirt.

  “Hurry, Nicholas,” prompted the source of his demise.

  He pushed through ropy vines, forded a small river, tripped on a rock and fell into a depression. His head sank beneath the surface of the water. He burst to the top, shaking his head. He’d break his neck if she had her way.

  He moved into a small clearing, radiating with light. He found her then, standing next to a dome of vines. Nick massaged the back of his neck. “What?”

  She whirled in delight, “Oh Nicholas, we are saved. I worried about a shelter and here we are.”

  He drew closer, blinked. Vines grew wildly over an edifice and cloaked its existence. “I can’t believe this. It is a miracle you saw this place, Alexandra.”

  She tipped-up on her toes. Never would he forget the rapture lighting her face, the triumph in her eyes, and the satisfaction in her smile. He crossed the distance between them, picked her up and twirled her around, a prisoner to the joy emanating from her soul.

  They had shelter.

  He put her down and she blushed. How he longed to sample her full, moist lips. No. That would be crossing a line he didn’t want to cross.

  She cleared her throat. “No one has lived here for a long time.”

  “Must be fifteen years of growth, but hard to tell, things grow faster in the tropics.” He pulled the knife from his belt, slashed through the tangle blocking the entry while Alexandra yanked the loosened creepers, tossing them in a growing pile. Nicholas grabbed a black pod and sniffed. “Must be vanilla bean.” He held it to her nose.

  “Heavenly. I can cook with this,” she said delighted. “If I had milk, I could make a pudding.”

  An entry emerged flanked by hand-hued coral limestone blocks. Nick lifted the handle. The door stuck. He put a shoulder to it, and shoved. Dust colored the air and settled on his head. He entered the dark interior. “Civilization.”

  Alexandra followed, then crossed the room to open a window shutter. “We need to remove more vines to let in the light.”

  Nicholas went outside and removed the growth around the windows. She pushed and he pulled. The shutter fell off. “That will have to be fixed.”

  He worked his way around the house, cutting the vines, releasing the windows from their prison. Fresh air and sunshine spread into the domicile, chasing away years of musty gloom. He passed a lean-to he’d explore later.

  With the added light, he surveyed the interior. Tools hung on the walls. Machetes. Drills, hammers. Two flint lock dueling pistols ornately engraved. Two muskets. Numerous barrels were stacked in the corner. He cranked open lids. He sifted his hands through five barrels of wheat berries, one moldy and four good, worthy to be ground into flour for bread. A barrel filled with cones of sugar and one of salt. They were like children experiencing a million Christmases and drunk with joy.

  “Whoever occupied this dwelling, did so for the long haul.” He took one of the muskets off the wall. “A Brown Bess, range eighty yards. I’ll take down one of those wild pigs that roam. The gun is a little rusty but filing it down with sand, I can return it to its original condition. Not much use unless we have gunpowder.” He checked the powder horn on the wall and grimaced. “The contents are trifling.”

  A bed filled one corner covered with quilts. He saw where her gaze was riveted, the way her hands twisted together. She caught him staring at her, cleared her throat.

  He took a breath, satisfied with her embarrassment, and appraised her sudden attention to the cottage’s contents. Was she more innocent than he had presumed?

  She ran her finger through the dust across a table, and then pointed to objects. How he relished her delight over benches, chairs, iron pots, copper pans, knives, forks, a tea kettle, a tea set decorated with roses and violets, pewter plates and tankards, forks and knives, box of beeswax candles, a compass, books, seeds, even a Bible.

  She held up a silver chess set. “Will you teach me how to play?”

  He laughed. “Adversaries claim I’m brutal. I play to win.”

  “Then I shall find you a wonderful tutor,” she laughed.

  She dusted a clock on the shelf. “Will you wind it?”

  Nick turned the key. The clock started ticking.

  “Oh, you are wonderful.” Alexandra clapped her hands together as if he had parted the Red Sea.

  She held up the quilt to the window. Light poured through moth eaten holes. “I will wash and mend this and it will be good as new.”

  When her back was turned, Nick tugged canvas from beneath the bed, inspecting its condition. Good enough to use as a hammock. He kicked the canvas back under, preferring not to say anything about the sleeping arrangements, the devil in him choosing to draw out her discomfiture.

  “We will clean this out. Here is a broom. Start sweeping,” Alexandra ordered, her face lit with pure resolve.

  Nicholas stared at the broom she’d placed in his hands, as foreign as any object he’d ever observed.

  He handed it back to her and she stamped her dainty foot. “We have to start somewhere.”

  “I’ll look under the lean-to.”

  When he crossed the threshold, he heard her mumble, “typical man,” as he headed to the rear of the house. He shoved open the door of the lean-to, assessed the contents, shovels, hoes, pick-axes, three iron crows, a wheelbarrow, a dozen hatchets, a grindstone for sharpening knives and tools, three barrels of musket bullets, another fowling piece, kegs of gunpowder, boards, sword, barrels of nails, two buckets, a screw-jack, adze, ropes, crocks, a couple of empty barrels, good for storing rainwater. In the rafters, he had discovered a sealed wooden box full of reams of muslin, linen, and cotton. He returned to Alexandra.

  “Good news, we have a hogshead of rum.”

  “Of course, the rum, a vital necessity for you,” she teased, opening a basket. “Needles and threads. I can improve my wardrobe if there is any fabric.” She flipped through the last trunk and sighed. “Naught. Did you find a chest of fabric in the lean-to?” she said hopefully.

  “Nothing.” He lied smoothly. Did he have any remorse? No. As far as he was concerned, the sheer Irish linen shift she wore, as revealing as a cobweb was just fine.

  Her shoulders dropped. To take away her disappointment, he said, “There is another structure we need to investigate.” He didn’t need to look back, perceived her footsteps in his wake. They worked together pulling vines off a small domed structure. He frowned. “What is it?”

  Her mouth tilted into a smile. “My father told me of such a device. A beehive oven used for cooking outside to spare the heat in the house.” She pointed to the lower cavity scorched with soot. “Wood is fired in the lower chamber, heating the closed area up above to bake breads. There is an iron shaft for turning meats to roast.” She swung a bar back and forth to demonstrate, and then studied the mysterious door in the back, her face lighting with approval.

  “This oven is more sophisticated than I have seen. You can divert the smoke from the fire to a back chamber for smoking meats.”

  “W
e can preserve meats?” he said and watched her scan the unchecked vegetation that rioted across the terrain.

  “Oh,” she said breathlessly. “All of this was once a well-tended garden.”

  She bent to pluck a green plant and sniffed. “Rosemary. I can use this in stews.” She traversed the grounds, growing more excited, pointing and naming everything. “Mangos, papayas, lemons, oranges, limes, tomatoes, sugar cane, licorice pods, bananas and plantains. Some of the fruits are varieties I’ve never seen. Everything will have to be trimmed and cut down to allow sunlight for our gardens.”

  His leg brushed against spikey plants and he cursed.

  “Nicholas, you have found us pineapple, and it is ripe.” She twisted and twisted until the fruit cracked and raised her trophy in her hands. Dinner.”

  He strode to the front. A great many feet below, palms fringed like a green necklace along a stark, white beach, and a frothy creaming of waves broke upon an outer reef. Nicholas was again struck by the soft, compelling beauty of these seas. “Whoever built this dwelling did well to conceal its location. There is a fair view of the sea beneath, the angle and height of the cliff, obscures the house from the sea and hostile intruders, yet offers the inhabitants a clear vantage point of anyone who comes close.”

  Curling a lock of hair around her finger she considered what he said, and then took a breath. “I wonder who lived here and what happened to him.”

  “He probably died.”

  Fists plunked on her hips, she said, “Must you always be so cheerful?”

  He grinned. “Why? When you will guarantee a list of sunny optimisms.”

  “You are smiling, Nicholas, and I’ll remind you that to tug that smile out of you has been a colossal effort.”

  He smiled and it felt good. She ran into the house, retrieved two buckets. “The stream I passed through may be far away but at least it is a source. Please, get water so I may start cleaning, and don’t tell me you have to look in the lean-to.”

  Alexandra commenced dusting and sweeping, and putting things to order. Starting from the top down, she took the broom and standing on a chair, brushed the cobwebs from the rafters. Remembering Lord Rutland’s reaction when she had given him the broom to sweep, she laughed. How his lips had twisted with the kind of grimace that made her feel she was an unwelcome guest at a party and couldn’t find the door.

  With certainty, he was accustomed to servants attending him. Cast ashore with nothing, he’d have to learn to endure and work with his hands. A little humility was good for him.

  A breeze blew in from the sea, lifting her filthy chemise. She heard the slosh of water from behind, felt him staring at her. He must think her a ragamuffin. Or worse. He had assumed on the ship she was a thief and a loose woman, and now with her lower legs exposed, she must have confirmed the foulest of his suspicions.

  She dropped the broom and stepped down from her chair. Nicholas placed the buckets filled with water on the table. He peeled a banana, taking overlong to eat the fruit. Her palms sweated and the fluttering behind her ribs increased until it felt like a hundred hummingbirds were trapped there, desperate to escape.

  She straightened, swept back the damp hair from her face. Be calm, Alexandra. Be dignified. “If the wind hadn’t blown I would never have seen the house.”

  She stopped midstream, rag held in her hand. Even she had possessed uncertainties about their future, but had hidden her fears from Nicholas. Now all those doubts were erased.

  “Very lucky,” Nicholas said with a smile, a smile with enough quiet charm to send every single young lady in London to dreaming.

  She plunged the rag in water. “Not luck. Providential. Fate brought on by more than coincidence. Think about it. We have survived the evil of the Santanas. We have survived a hurricane when seemingly not one member of the crew endured. We were spared from being smashed against sharp rocks, delivered to a sandy beach, and have found shelter when we needed it the most.”

  She took the quilts outside and shook them free of dust, laying the bedding on top of brightly colored crotons to air out in the sunshine. She returned to the house, perusing what else had to be done. “Never in my wildest imagination did I expect to have nearly all the pleasures of home and I vow to be judicious of what has come into our possession.”

  From an opened chest, Nicholas lifted a telescope, hooked his leg over the window frame and perused the sea, looking for nonexistent ships. “Tomorrow I will travel to the beach to retrieve my coat.” He restored the scope in the trunk, and per her instructions, lifted the heavy feather mattress off the rope bed, placing it on a huge boulder outside.

  She followed him outside. “Why do you have to perform an insignificant task when there is so much to do? I need your help weeding out the extra vegetation.” With the broom, she beat the mattress free of dust, pretending it was his lordship.

  “There is no pressing need to be anywhere. While I’m at the beach, I will build a pile of driftwood to set a signal fire in case I see a friendly ship.”

  That was the real reason. Stubborn man. “Ships sailing by are not as frequent as they are on the Thames and I doubt if we shall see a ship for a month.” She angled her head to the overgrown garden. “We need to start there.”

  A muscle tensed in his jaw. “I’m going to the beach.”

  “Teaching a bear to genuflect is easier than getting you to work.” A gust of wind wafted the choking bite of dust motes around them to underscore her words.

  “Pardon me,” he thundered.

  How dare he try to stare her down. “You are free to do whatever you like while I am left to do everything.”

  “Michel de Montaigne.”

  Her broom froze mid-air. “Pardon me?”

  “You quoted a French statesman,” he bellowed.

  “You are like a blast of trumpets wasting moments in loudness, and I’m ready to add my own quote but I don’t think you’d like it,” she snapped.

  He grumbled a lot but made many trips with fresh pails of water, helping her to move the heavy trunks aside, while she dusted and washed down the shelves, walls, drawers, table, and chairs.

  “You surprise me with your industry.”

  “You think I’m immune to labor?”

  Didn’t he look like St. Sebastian, pierced with a million arrows? Of course, he’d seethed martyrdom. In four long strides, he loomed over her. Mocking him and his damned integrity had been a miscalculation on her part.

  “A fire swept through one of the villages of the Rutland Estate. With my own hands, I helped rebuild several cottages, and then helped the tenants get their crops in the field.” His voice dropped lower, husky. “I have many other skills that you are unaware of, Miss Elwins.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, skewered with his double entendre. He was gone in a trice, buckets banging against the doorframe and his long legs churning up the distance to the stream.

  She had hit a nerve. Her energy flagged, and she didn’t want to start an altercation. Dusk settled over the house. So much more to do. Tomorrow she’d sweep and mop the floorboards until they shined.

  The feather mattress had been returned to the rope bed and quilts thrown on top. She swallowed. The bed yielded an intimacy she could not allow. Last night, Lord Rutland had been asleep when she had moved next to him. Safe.

  Nicholas set buckets of water on the table and dropped into a chair. His long legs stretched out in front of him, and he turned the pineapple in his hands, scrutinizing it. How he arrested her attention. Without considering the propriety of it, she studied him with thoughtful curiosity, tall, lean, full dark beard, and a countenance revealing every arrogant line of his aristocratic features. She even found beautiful the hand that rose to wipe the moisture from his brow, and the most amazing blue eyes—and realized they were staring back at her.

  Startled, her heart shuddered, stopping for a moment, and then began beating anew at a frantic pace. He’d been angry most of the day, had pushed long and hard through the jungle, and ma
de her leave the lagoon with barely an explanation. She had discounted his annoyance from not knowing what had happened to his family and being stranded in a foreign environment.

  Yet, she didn’t know what emotion it was he caused to rise within her. It could not be fear. She grew flustered. It wasn’t fear. She resisted the same curious sensations as she observed him. Something leaped along her spine. He was devastatingly handsome, forbiddingly severe. Overall, she thought his countenance one of the most compelling and fiercest she had ever seen.

  He was all a Duke would be.

  Her face grew warm as the seconds eclipsed and nothing was said. Her embarrassment became complete when she beheld his half naked dress. He had no shirt and his breeches were wet and clung to powerful thighs, the corded muscles rippling beneath, in what could only be considered indecent. She raised her eyes, the expanse of muscles in his arms and chest weren’t dissimilar, but with the lean grace of gentlemen she’d seen in London.

  How disgraceful she was to gawk at him.

  She looked across the room, at anything to thwart the heat of his gaze.

  “I bathed in the river. I’m exhausted and need sleep.”

  She looked at the bed and cleared her throat. No way could they share the same bed.

  “You haven’t had much to eat,” she said, the words tumbling off her tongue as if she were no more than a simpleton. His state of undress bunched her thoughts together like overcooked porridge, and because she couldn’t think of anything less mundane to say, she looked twice as obtuse.

  She took the pineapple, sliced it in half and shoved it toward him. Moaning, he ate greedily, plunging his mouth into the fruit and sucking the sweet juices from the skin. Alexandra nibbled at her portion.

  When he finished his repast, which wasn’t anywhere quick enough, he stood. All she could focus on was his impressively wide shoulders, the light furring on his chest, following a line down to his waist. He chuckled and her eyes snapped to his face. Did he think she was inspecting him?