Olivia hesitated. Anthony said quietly, “Go, Olivia.”
“I want to know what he knows about Brian,” she said, standing her ground.
“So do I.”
She looked once again at Godfrey, demanding with soft ferocity, “Is Brian here, on the island?”
Godfrey made no answer. He spat blood onto the sand.
“Olivia, would you go, please? I want to get this over with.”
“No, I want to stay,” she said. “I want to hear what he has to say. I need to hear it.”
“Very well,” Anthony said shortly. He turned back to Godfrey and his eyes were pure agate. He wiped his dagger on his britches and said softly, “So, where will I find Brian Morse?”
Godfrey stared back at him in silence. Anthony nodded to Mike, who seized Godfrey’s wrists, dragging them behind his back. Jethro roped them together. Anthony placed the tip of his knife against Godfrey’s ear. “I wonder whether simply slitting your ears would be sufficient penalty for a wrecker. Maybe I should just remove both of them, and then slit your nose? Mark you indelibly as a felon.” He drew the tip of the dagger behind Godfrey’s ear, leaving a thin red line.
Godfrey was sweating and Olivia realized that Anthony had known her better than she’d known herself. Much as she loathed Channing, she couldn’t watch this. She turned and ran off down the beach towards the men dealing with the wounded. A scream shivered through the rain behind her.
It seemed a very long time before Anthony walked back along the beach. Olivia was on her knees beside one of the wounded men. She didn’t look up as Anthony stood beside her. She noticed how long his bare sandy feet were, the big toes slightly knobbly, and she wondered why she’d never noticed them before. “Did he tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Is Brian on the island?”
“Yes.”
Olivia looked up at him then. “Where?” she whispered. Her eyes were suddenly haunted, her earlier elation vanquished by the thought of Brian’s proximity.
“In Ventnor, apparently.”
“He came back to hurt me… or my father,” she said with conviction. “He must have some plan, some-”
“It seemed he had the idea that you would make the perfect wife for Channing. The perfect rich wife. His idea, if I understood our friend aright, was that he would share in the financial windfall.” He shook his head in mock amazement. “The ideas people come up with.”
“It would be more than that,” Olivia said. “Not just the money. He’d want to hurt us in some other way.”
“And what better than seeing you married to a man like Godfrey Channing? I doubt the Granville pride could stand the truth.”
“Vile man. You hurt him, didn’t you?”
“As much as was necessary,” Anthony responded calmly. “And he is now walking to Yarmouth, tied to Mike’s stirrup, where he will take ship to the Sublime Porte. I think he might find it quite difficult to find his way home from there.”
“The Turks will probably sell him into slavery,” Olivia said in awe. “Isn’t that what they do with foreigners?”
“Quite possibly. It seems a well-deserved fate. I was thinking he and Mr. Morse might care to make the journey together.”
“But… but how could that happen?”
“With a little ingenuity, my flower.” He laughed at her astounded expression. This was the Anthony she had first known. A man with rakehell amusement in his eyes, a merry quirk to his mouth; a man exhilarated by whatever life had to offer, certain of his utter competence to deal with whatever twist and turn fate presented him. This was the Anthony from the early dream days of entrancement, and her spirit rose to join his as it had done then.
He pushed her soaked hair from her face and said, “I shall need your help to enhance my ingenuity.”
“How?”
“Nothing too difficult. I’ll explain all in good time.”
He bent over the wounded man, examined the wound in his shoulder. “You’ll live long enough for the hangman,” he said dismissively. “You and the rest of your murdering friends.”
He stood up, took Olivia’s hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Adam?”
“Aye?” Adam came over to them.
“What’s the damage?”
“Tim ‘as a scratch, ’an it looks as if Colin’s broke a finger.”
“That’s it?”
Adam nodded. “Sam’s gone fer the watch. They’ll pick up this lot.”
“Good, then let’s get dry. Tell the men to find berths in the village. We’ll not get back to Wind Dancer in this.”
Adam glanced at Olivia. “Like a bad penny, you are,” he said. “What in ‘ell’s teeth are you doin’ out ‘ere?”
“It certainly is a puzzle,” Anthony said. “A distinctly puzzling volte-face. But I’m about to find the answer.” His fingers closed tightly over her hand that he still held.
He said almost as an afterthought, “Adam, I want three men in Ventnor, in the taproom of the Gull at dawn.”
“More mischief, I suppose,” Adam grumbled.
“Of the most necessary kind,” Anthony said with an edge to his voice, an edge that Adam knew boded ill for someone.
“Come, Olivia,” Anthony said quietly.
Olivia found herself half running to keep up with his lengthy stride. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere where we can dry out and you can tell me what brought you out here in the middle of a gale.”
Olivia’s spirits sank abruptly. She knew she would have to tell him the truth, and she dreaded having to make such a confession. Would he understand how she had come to make such a mistake? Would he understand how much of it was his fault? He had told her nothing about himself, nothing about why he did what he did. Nothing about his family, except for the embroidering aunt. A man who believed in nothing, followed no rules, had no scruples. She had had ample excuse for her mistake. But would Anthony see it that way?
Chapter Eighteen
Anthony strode up the snaky path to the clifftop. He held Olivia’s hand tightly. When she stubbed her toe on a rock and stumbled, he caught her up against him. “You’re so cold and wet,” he said in almost chiding tones, trying for a minute to warm her shivering body against his own icy wetness. “What madness could have brought you out on such a night?”
“I knew… I just knew there was going to be a wreck. I thought maybe I could stop it. It was c-crazy, I know, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.” It was the best she could do for the moment.
“It took twenty men to stop it,” Anthony pointed out. “And why would Lord Granville’s daughter have any interest in wrecking? It’s a vile and vicious thing. Not to mention dangerous. If we hadn’t been there, or if the battle had gone the other way, and you’d been spotted by the wreckers, they would have killed you as soon as look at you. Surely you understood that?”
Olivia made no answer. Her teeth chattered.
Anthony shook his head and began to walk fast again. They were striding along the undercliff path, and the wind and rain were less fierce under the overhang. He stopped suddenly and Olivia almost ran into him.
“Where are we?”
“A safe place,” he said. He pushed his rain-darkened hair out of his eyes. “It’s not the most comfortable spot, but at least it’s quiet and dry.”
He turned aside from the path and seemed to walk into the cliff, Olivia’s hand firmly in his. And they were in a dark place, suddenly silent, as the storm raged outside. It was cold and Olivia’s teeth were chattering like castanets. The hood of her cloak had long since blown off, and water dripped from her hair down her neck.
“This way.” He drew her with him across a floor where the sand scrunched beneath her boots. Her eyes grew slowly accustomed to the darkness, and she could see that they were in a large cave. Then they were in a passage, narrow and dark, and she clung to his hand, the flat dry warmth of his palm comforting her. The passage opened out into a smaller space than the first.
Anthony dropped her hand and she stood still in a darkness that was more profound than it had been before. She heard him moving around, then flint scraped on tinder and light glowed from a lantern.