Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (17 page)

It was not cold, but it felt it. Her feet sank into the soft golden sand. The water lapped at her ankles, her knees, made her gasp as it reached the top of her thighs and then her waist. She turned to see Iain not far behind her. A rather delightful sight that made her forget all about the possibility of being discovered.

‘I've only ever swum in the Clyde,' he said. ‘Even in the height of summer, it's cold enough to freeze the— It's freezing.'

‘I've never been in the sea before,' Cordelia said.

‘So this is a first.'

He caught her by the waist, pulling her up against him. Cool water lapped on warm skin. ‘The second first of the day,' Cordelia said.

‘Second? What was the— Oh, you mean that.' Iain laughed, pulling her closer. ‘Did you like it?'

‘I believe I've already pointed out that you're the last man on earth to need his ego boosted, Iain Hunter.'

‘All the same, I like to be sure. I wouldn't like to do it again, if you didn't like it.'

He hitched her legs up around his waist, and slid his hands under her bottom, supporting her in the water. She wriggled, enjoying the lapping of the sea against them, between them, enjoying the way their skin clung. Then he began to walk out. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Admit you liked it.'

The water was up to her chest now.

‘I will not be blackmailed.' She was laughing, but she was also clinging tight, for she could feel her body trying to float away. ‘Iain, I can't swim.' There was a note of panic in her voice.

He stopped. ‘I can. Don't you trust me?'

In the clearness of the water, she could see the reflection of their joined bodies shimmering. She could feel the bump of his heart against her skin. Above them, the sun beat down. His expression was serious. She looked down at him, and something twisted inside her. This was the kind of day she would remember in all its perfection when she was old. She didn't want it to end.

‘Cordelia?'

She blinked. ‘Of course I trust you,' she said, ‘but if you don't mind, I think I'd rather stand on my own two feet.'

‘As ever.' He waded a few paces into the shallows and let her slither down. ‘I'm going for a swim.'

Had she offended him? It was difficult to tell, but she did not want to take the risk of spoiling the day. ‘Iain,' she said, catching his hand as he turned away. ‘I admit it. I liked it rather a lot.'

He laughed, as she had intended he would, and waded out, executing a shallow dive. She watched him, dipping under the waves so that the water covered her to her neck. He swam splashily across the bay twice, then turned to float, arms spread, gazing up at the sky. Though she had no desire to swim, she envied him this, for it looked so relaxing. It could surely not be that difficult. She tried to emulate him, but her body refused to straighten, and her bottom pulled her down. She stood up, spluttering and cursing. Iain was still floating, blissfully unaware. She tried again. This time the problem seemed to be that her neck wouldn't straighten. The effect was the same, only she sank deeper. On the third try, she went completely under, and emerged, hair dripping, eyes stinging, spluttering the very, very salty water she had inhaled, to find Iain standing only a few yards away, laughing.

‘I could have drowned!'

‘I'd have saved you. You look like a mermaid.'

‘Drowned rat, more like. And you were far too intent on enjoying yourself out there to save me.'

He pushed her hair from her eyes. ‘I wasn't enjoying myself out there. I was recovering my strength, so that we could both enjoy ourselves. Together.'

He pulled her to him and kissed her, and she discovered that her body too, was fully recovered. She took his hand, and made to wade into the shore, but Iain shook his head. ‘It's a day for firsts,' he said, stopping in the shallows, and pulling her down on to the sand.

He kissed her with as much hunger as he had kissed her before, and she found in herself the same hunger. His hands stroked her body, rousing her into passion, as the waves licked at her feet, her calves, her knees, and the grit of the sand in her back contrasted with the soft sureness of his touch. This time it was seamless, the transition from kissing to touching to joining. They moved with the fluidity of sea creatures, arching and bowing, clinging, skin to skin, muscle to muscle, the rhythm of the tide, ebbing and flowing, their passion not violent but something deeper.

When she started to come, he kissed her, drawing her climax out from deep within her, holding back until she was done, rolling away from her into the sea as his own shook him. Turning his back on her, as if he did not want her to see what he felt.

A day for firsts,
he'd said, which meant that the other two had not been, not for him. Cordelia shivered. Once before, and only once she had felt this emptiness, a sense of loss. She got to her feet, covering her breasts with her hands, and made for the cave and her clothes. It was the cold, that was all. She was not a mermaid, and she had been in the sea too long.

* * *

Watching from the shallows as Cordelia walked across the sand, her shoulders hunched, her arms protectively around herself, Iain wanted to run after her, to console her, but for what? He wanted her more than ever, but he was pretty certain anything more between them would be a mistake.

It frightened him, what he'd felt making love to her. The first time today—that had been—well, it had been powerful. Every bit as good as he'd remembered, but on reflection not at all what he remembered. It was the second time that left him feeling wrung out, and that's what he'd felt the next day in Glasgow more than a year ago now. Turned inside out. As if some sort of storm had passed through him. Confused. And strangely desolate.

By the time he joined her, Cordelia was dressed, sitting tucked tightly into herself on the rug. Iain pulled on his own clothes hurriedly. The picnic he had so carefully selected was delicious, smoked kid, little parcels of rice and lamb wrapped in vine leaves, a salty cheese, olives and flat bread, but neither of them did justice to it.

They talked in a desultory manner of their onward journey. She tried to rouse him with a reference to their former captain's short-sighted attitude to the advantages of sail. He managed a brief eulogy on the power of steam, steel, paddle and screw, but his heart wasn't in it.

A brooding silence fell. Cordelia began to arrange the quartered, but so far untouched, segments of an orange on her plate. ‘It was a perfect day,' she said eventually. ‘I think it would be a shame to spoil it with something less perfect. Which is what it would be if we—you know—again.'

He ought to be relieved. And flattered too. Instead, contrarily, he was annoyed that she had pre-empted him.
‘If we—you know,'
Iain said sarcastically, ‘it's not like you to be so prudish. Though now I come to think of it, I hadn't thought you'd be so inhibited either. Maybe you're a wee bit more conventional than you like to imagine.'

She coloured, looking offended. ‘I thought I'd overcome my inhibitions rather well. Obviously, I lack your experience. Only one first for you today, compared to my three.'

And now he'd hurt her. He felt like a right bastard, and at the same time he felt a ridiculously male sense of pride that he'd been the first to do
that.
And now who was being prudish! ‘I'm sorry,' Iain said gruffly.

‘I was not being prudish,' Cordelia replied. ‘If you must have it, I simply don't know how to describe what we did. And, no, I pray you, do not use the Latin term, for that is not what I meant. I meant the second time, in the sea, I meant...'

‘I know what you meant.' Iain reached over to remove the plate and the orange from her restless fingers. ‘Perhaps we shouldn't try to put it into words,' he said. ‘Perhaps there aren't any.'

‘Do you think it was a mistake?'

Dear God, but what he was thinking was that he wanted to pull her into his arms and start again, but that really would be a mistake.
Too much.
Cordelia's words, that first night. He should have listened. He was damn sure he'd pay attention now. He'd caught himself just in time. ‘I think you're right,' Iain said heavily. ‘It was perfect. Let's just leave it at that.'

‘For good, do you mean?' Cordelia asked. She sounded a little desperate. ‘Despite the fact that familiarity has not bred indifference?'

Iain forced himself to nod. ‘A misjudged ambition, on reflection, don't you think? Apart from anything else,' he said, attempting levity, ‘we are alone on so very few occasions that it would likely take us years, and we don't have years.'

‘We haven't really discussed how long we do have.' She blinked. If he did not know her better, he'd suspect she was trying not to cry, but her next words gave that impression the lie. ‘You are quite right.' She got to her feet and began to pack up the remains of their meal. ‘It would be a mistake for us to repeat this—this exercise. We have far more important things to be thinking of than planning our next—our next conflagration. I have a guidebook to write and more importantly, I have my sister to see. And you—you have your boats to build.'

‘Ships.'

‘What?'

‘Ships. They are not boats, they are ships.'

‘Ships.' She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. ‘So we are agreed.'

‘I'm afraid we are.' Iain sighed. ‘Your honesty puts me to shame. It was perfect, and it was too much. I would have said it had you not. You stole my thunder by doing so, that's all. I don't want to be—preoccupied—any more than you. I have my business to attend to, as you so rightly pointed out, and I don't want to be distracted.'

‘Well then. That's—that's good.'

‘Cordelia.' He got to his feet, removing the empty plates from her hand and placing them in the hamper. ‘Now that's out of the way, do you think we can put it behind us?'

‘I don't know. I have never— Do you mean we shall be friends?'

Iain shrugged. ‘Must we have a name for it?'

‘A friendly alliance. That is what Sir Edmond, the British Governor in Athens, calls his relationship with King Otto.' Cordelia held out her hand. ‘We should shake on it, as gentlemen do.'

He took her hand, covering it with both of his. ‘Neither of us is a gentleman, thank God.'

He meant to let her go, but instead found himself closing the distance between them. She tilted her head, and he bent towards her. His mouth hovered over hers. Time seemed to stop. Then start far too quickly. He jerked away. She yanked her hand free.

Chapter Nine

F
rom the moment they returned that night to the Governor's official residence later that day, Lord Armstrong's far-reaching influence could be felt. The talk at the dinner table was all of London, the King's health and the implications for the Government. Cordelia, dressed more formally than she had been since they set sail from Plymouth, smiled politely and spoke when she was addressed. She retired with the Governor's wife and the other ladies to drink tea, while Iain was forced to watch as the Governor and his male guests drank port, cracked warm jokes and discussed the private lives of people he had never heard of and would certainly never wish to meet.

* * *

From Zante they sailed to Athens and on to Cairo on the cargo ship
Ariadne,
where conditions where even more claustrophobic than aboard the
Pique,
in the presence of a surly and sullen ship's company who obviously resented having their foreign passengers foisted upon them. Iain seemed preoccupied with his plans. Cordelia tried to preoccupy herself with her guidebook. There were times when that
thing,
as she called it, caught her by surprise. When they found themselves staring into each other's eyes, or when Iain's forearm brushed hers as they leant on the deck's railing, or when their hands crept unchecked towards one another. Then, they would jump back, pretend it had not happened.

* * *

In Cairo, they learned that King William had died on the twentieth day of June. During their brief visit to the Consul-General's residence, they toasted the new queen, Victoria, and raised a reluctant glass to Lord Armstrong too. The heat in the city was stifling. The noise and the dust and the smells were quite alien. The nearer they came to the end of this much longed-for journey, the more nervous Cordelia became, the more she dreaded their arrival not as a beginning but an ending.

* * *

‘Whatever happened to Peregrine?' she enquired of the Consul-General's young and extremely raw-looking assistant. The man looked blank. ‘I met him only the once, but he played rather a pivotal role in the marriages of both my sisters,' she explained, turning to Iain, who was seated beside her in the shade of the veranda. ‘A very portly young man, I remember, and he used to turn the most astonishing colour of puce whenever one addressed him. Mr Finchley-Burke, that was his name.'

‘Ah, yes, Finchley-Burke.' The assistant looked uncomfortable. ‘Most unfortunate.'

‘Oh, surely he did not—is he dead?'

‘As good as,' the young man said drily. ‘Really, Lady Cordelia, it is not a tale that I would sully your ears with.'

‘Goodness, I can't believe it can be that bad. Mr Finchley-Burke was most frightfully proper.'

‘And now he's gone native and is frightfully rich and very definitely
persona non grata
here.'

Iain laughed. ‘That, my lad, was exactly the wrong thing to say. Both Lady Cordelia and myself are very fond of outcasts, I'll have you know. What heinous crime did the poor man commit?'

‘I believe I told you, he has gone native,' the young man said stiffly.

Quite unaccustomed to being teased, Cordelia surmised, or perhaps, if he too were an Old Harrovian as every member of staff at the Consulate appeared to be, he was far too accustomed. She smiled encouragingly at him. ‘I liked Mr Finchley-Burke, and he was very kind to my sisters, in his own way. Please do tell me what happened.'

‘He married a Bedouin princess—at least, she claimed she was a princess,' the young man said, unbending in the light of Cordelia's smile. ‘By all accounts, a most ample woman, just like Finchley-Burke himself, though not a tooth in her head, I'm told, and not a word of English either. How they communicate I don't know, for the Consul General says that Finchley-Burke mastered not a single word of Arabic in the ten years he was here. I am told that they are very happy.'

‘Perhaps the language barrier is the reason they are so happy,' Iain said.

‘I trust they will continue to be so,' the assistant said primly, ‘for his family have disowned him. He is the son of an earl too. Such a waste. You will excuse me now, Lady Cordelia, Mr Hunter. I have important business to attend to.'

‘And good riddance to you,' Iain muttered under his breath. ‘Pompous wee arse.'

Cordelia chuckled. ‘I suppose I ought to pretend not to understand your meaning, but your words have a poetry quite their own, and you are quite right, he is. My brother James is very like him. Do you suppose they breed it into them at school?'

‘Very likely they empty their head of brains, stick a poker up their...'

‘Arse,' Cordelia said softly. The word sounded much more shocking than she expected. Iain looked quite appalled. She stifled a smile, and gave him an innocent look. ‘What would you prefer? Nether regions? Backside? Bottom? Buttocks? Or perhaps you would rather I said
derrière?
'

‘I'd prefer you didn't mention it at all,' he said.

‘Because it is vulgar? I would remind you that you said it first.'

Iain tugged at his stock. ‘Because you have a particularly delightful one. I have a very vivid memory of it, swaying in front of me on the beach, and I'm not allowed to think about it.'

Colour flamed her cheeks. She picked up the fan which lay on the rustic table in front of her, and waved it frantically.

‘I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have—I'm trying, but there's only so much a man can do to distract himself. There are only so many times I can strip back a steeple engine in my head.'

‘Is that what you do?'

Iain shrugged, looking sheepish. ‘Sometimes I count rivets. I try to work out the number you'd need depending on the size of the hull.'

‘And do you—arrive at a number, I mean?'

‘Oh, I always get
a
number. Whether it's the right one or not—well, that's another question.'

‘I calculate odds,' Cordelia confessed. ‘If coal goes up by a shilling, what will be the impact on iron? When will it become cheaper to import American printed cotton than to merely import the raw material? Is the cost of investing in one of the new gas companies outweighed by the risk of them blowing themselves up?'

‘And I thought I was daft. Does it work?' Iain asked.

‘Like you, I always arrive at a number.'

‘And like me, you've failed to answer the question.'

They had done it again. Somehow, while their minds were engrossed in conversation, their bodies had moved of their own accord. Iain's arm rested against hers on the table. His knee was brushing her thigh. She knew she ought to remedy the situation, but she lacked the will. What she wanted was for him to kiss her. Just one kiss. What harm could it do? ‘Do you think that we were precipitate when we agreed we should not— That that particular element of our relationship had been concluded?' she asked.

‘I do at the moment.' Iain moved his hand closer, so that his thumb could stroke the inside of her wrist.

Cordelia's eyes drifted closed in pleasure. But if she kept them closed she would not see what was happening, and she had discovered that she liked to see. Iain's face. Iain's hands. Iain. She leant over, and touched her fingers to his temple, then let them feather through his hair. It was longer now. He had not had it cut since they left England. ‘Do you think that once more would be a mistake?' she asked, following her fingers with her lips, whispering the words into his ear.

‘Cordelia, I can't think when you're this close to me.'

‘I should move.'

‘No, you're missing my point. Don't move. I don't want to think.'

His arms slid around her waist, pulling her towards him. She half slid from the chair, but his knees caught her. And then his mouth captured hers, and their lips clung, her breath quickened, her body began to thrum and his mouth began to move against hers, and she thought, yes, yes, yes, and gave a sigh of relief, and a voice that belonged to neither of them gave her such a shock that she would have fallen, had Iain not caught her.

‘I say. I am most terribly sorry.' The Consul-General's assistant was blushing furiously.

Iain helped her to her feet. ‘What is it?' he snapped. ‘Could you not have knocked?' The assistant looked around at the open veranda in confusion. ‘Or made a noise, stamped your feet, coughed?' Iain said. ‘Maybe you could even have gone away and left us to it, since it was perfectly obvious that we thought ourselves alone?'

‘I have word from Prince al-Muhanna. I was under the impression that you were somewhat anxious to hear from him.' The assistant held out a sealed letter.

‘Right.' Iain took it. ‘Sorry about that.'

‘As indeed am I. You will, I am sure, excuse me.'

‘And you will not, I am sure, be forgiven,' Cordelia said, watching the stiff-backed young man retreating.

‘An annoying but timely interruption.' Iain broke the royal seal and began to read the letter.

Cordelia watched him, trying to regain control of her breathing.
Annoying!
If that is all it was, then she was glad she had not surrendered. Because she'd had no intentions of surrendering. It was just a kiss. ‘Annoying,' she said, ‘yes, but you are right, very timely.'

Iain looked up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned her face. He cannot read my mind, Cordelia told herself, and even if he could, all he would see would be exactly what he is thinking himself. A timely interruption. It would have been a mistake. ‘Well?' Her voice sounded snappy, but that could not be helped. ‘The letter, what does it say?'

Iain handed the heavily embossed paper over. ‘Read it for yourself. We're expected in A'Qadiz. The royal barge awaits our convenience.'

* * *

It was not a barge which awaited them at the end of the journey south from Cairo, but rather a larger and extremely ornate version of the traditional dhows that ploughed up and down the Red Sea. The long thin hull came to a point like a gondola. There were two large triangular sails, one at the front, a smaller one in the middle. A second deck was built aft, with cover provided by a fringed gold canopy. They were welcomed aboard by Prince Ramiz al-Muhanna's captain, immaculate in the traditional white tunic which bore their kingdom's discreet embroidered crest depicting a falcon and a new moon. Each member of the crew, ten in all, was lined up to meet them, similarly clothed, their heads covered by a red-and-white checked head-dress, bowing low as Cordelia and Iain made their way aboard. On this ship, as with all the others, they would be well chaperoned.

* * *

The journey took several days. The Red Sea was as busy as a river, with dhows of all shapes and sizes, one-, two-and three-masted, contesting for the best part of the channel with feluccas and caiques. Oranges, lemons, dates, bananas, grapes, limes and a host of fruit and vegetables Cordelia, for all her travels could not name, were transported up towards Cairo from the lush, fertile banks.

The deep waters were amazingly clear. Shoals of multi-hued fish moved in apparent synchronicity from one side of the dhow to the other, forming and reforming, morphing from arrow to triangle to a sphere and then a rhomboid. Coral reefs of every shade, from the palest of pinks to vermilion red, could be seen shimmering below the surface, shaped like starbursts with willow fronds, magical places where the tiniest of fish darted about their business.

Cordelia spent a great deal of time leaning precariously over the narrow rail of the main deck, fascinated by the endlessly changing seascape. Iain, who had in his possession one of Robert Moresby's precious maps of the Red Sea, was equally fascinated, tracing their journey carefully, marvelling at least five times a day, at the accuracy of Mr Moresby's work.

‘I hear that Captain Haines of the HMS
Palinurus
is even now surveying the southern coast of Arabia,' he told Cordelia. ‘It is a vital exercise if we are to put steamships on the route to India,' he explained.

‘So your interest in building a shipyard in A'Qadiz, it's not only to provide ships for Celia's husband?'

‘If Prince Ramiz is the visionary his reputation would have us believe, he'll already be thinking beyond the Red Sea. I believe the British have their eyes on the port of Aden. If you look at the map, you will see that A'Qadiz is halfway from Cairo, halfway to Aden, and so perfectly placed for refuelling and repairs. And here you see is India.'

‘You are set to conquer the world with your steamships then,' Cordelia said, studying the map, marvelling at the breadth of Iain's ambition. ‘Prince Ramiz is not the only one with vision. If you are right, my new guidebook will be in great demand.'

‘Then I hope I am right.'

Iain rolled up his map. They climbed the shallow steps which led to the upper deck. Here was their main living quarters. A thick carpet covered the varnished decking. Two low divans strewn with mountains of cushions of velvet, satin and silk, sat at right angles to each other, with a very low marble table between them. Dusk was falling, and they were nearing the shore, for the dhow did not sail through the night. The scent of jasmine perfumed the air, and soon it would mingle with the delicious smells of cooking coming from the main deck.

Dinner was delicate, fragrant, a series of tiny morsels designed to entice the palate. Pastries filled with goat and minced lamb. Olives stuffed with almonds. Vine leaves stuffed with rice and herbs. Tomatoes and the lush purple fruit called aubergine, grilled and dressed with olive oil. Yoghurt flavoured with rose-water. They ate with their fingers, rinsing between each dish in the glass bowls scented with orange blossom.

Afterwards, Cordelia gathered a heap of cushions on to the floor, leaning against one of the divans, while Iain stretched out upon it, as relaxed as she was with this strange but infinitely comfortable arrangement, which allowed a view of the shore on one side, the sea on the other. ‘The night falls so quickly here,' she said, ‘like a curtain coming down. And the stars are so big, they seem so much nearer.'