Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

One unarmed man against seven with oars, knives and possibly pistols did not seem good odds. Ross showed his teeth; if they touched Meg, he’d kill the lot of them with his bare hands. ‘I am Brandon. Get off this beach.’

‘Going to stop us, are you?’ A big man vaulted over the side into the surf, knife in hand. ‘You and your mermaid?’

Ross backed up. There was no point in heroics yet—if he was knifed, Meg would be at their mercy. He had to buy her enough time to run clear. If he could lure the man in close enough to grapple with him…

Then something flew past his ear and hit the big man square on the chest, something else splashed into the water beside him as he roared with rage. Ross looked over his shoulder. Far from running, Meg was on the beach hurling stones at the boat.

He turned and made for her, hearing the creak of oars as the boat was driven towards the beach. ‘Get behind me,’ he ordered as he reached the sand. He backed up the beach, assessi

ng the situation. There were too many of them, he was in a completely indefensible position and already they were splitting up, flanking him to cut off his retreat to the lane.

At his back Meg was silent, although he could hear her breathing. ‘Listen. In a moment they will attack. You run, do you hear me? Tell Heneage to open the gun room, arm the footmen, grooms, tell them to get down here and make as much noise as they can as they come.’ If he could provoke them to all go for him, she might have a chance to get away. By the time she returned with any help this unequal battle on the beach would be long over…

‘Leave you? I—’

Whatever Meg was going to say was lost in the blast of a shotgun. The men turned as one towards the caves as a figure walked out on to the sand, gun in hand.

‘Billy.’

‘Aye. Damn fool time to go fossicking about in the water, boy. You lot, get out before I blow someone’s thick head off.’

‘What about the casks? You promised delivery today.’ The big man took a step forwards and the barrels of the shotgun lifted. He stopped.

‘You can whistle for them. You don’t threaten my boy and his maid and still do business with me. Go on, shift and take your money with you. I’ve got both barrels loaded if you want them.’

The language and the threats they hurled were predictable, but they backed down, shambling back to the boat. Ross reached out a hand and pulled Meg to him, wet and shivering, but he watched the sea until the rowers were swallowed up by the darkness.

With Meg tight against his side, he looked at Billy. ‘Thank you.’ There was not a great deal more to say, not in front of Meg. He could strangle the old ruffian for getting involved with smugglers and he could kiss him for saving Meg.

The old man grunted. ‘You take that maid back home and her clothes with her. Catch her death, she will, water’s that cold.’ He stooped and picked up a bundle. ‘Here’s her clothes. And where’s yours, boy? Downright indecent, the pair of you.’

Meg gave a choked laugh. ‘He sounds like my father,’ she whispered. There was a shake in her voice, Ross could hear it under the bravado, and it was nothing to do with the temperature. He felt like shaking himself, with her near-naked body so close.

‘Mine are at the foot of the lane—make a bundle of the lot, would you, Billy?’ Ross bent and scooped Meg up in his arms before she could protest. Her chilled wet body against his bare chest made him catch his breath. That was nothing to do with temperature either.

‘Ross? What are you doing?’ Her voice was breathy now, both her vulnerability and her bravery making him want to kiss her. His heart was pounding from the aftermath of action and the unfulfilled violence that he had been ready to unleash.

‘Carrying you home. Can you manage the clothes?’ She nodded as Billy dumped the bundle into her arms, her wet hair clinging to Ross’s skin. ‘I’ll come and talk to you tomorrow, you old fool.’

The poacher had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Not going anywhere,’ he muttered as he melted into the shadows.

‘You can’t carry me.’ Meg was beginning to wriggle. ‘Your leg—’

‘I’m not limping any more.’ It was half-true. If he concentrated and ignored the deep ache that still came back when he was tired, he did not limp. And it gave him a ridiculous pleasure to be able to carry Meg in his arms, although he expected her to start protesting and struggling at any moment. Instead she gave a little sigh and snuggled in to him.

‘Are you all right?’ Ross asked, suspicious of her sudden docility.

‘I am sorry,’ Meg said, so softly that he had to bend his head to hear her. ‘I should never have gone down to the sea at night.’

‘I had no idea you could swim.’ Ross slowed and looked up at the house. There was a light in the hall, but he could hardly march in through the front door half-naked with his equally undressed housekeeper in his arms. ‘Have you got a back-door key?’

‘Yes, in my pocket.’ She fell silent, then, as he veered off the path towards the rear of the house, added, ‘I learned to swim in the millpond when I was very small, when Mama was still alive. I thought I might be able to remember how and I wanted to…to get away for a while.’

‘So did I.’

‘Penelope Hawkins might do. The Vicar’s niece,’ Meg suggested, following his unspoken meaning. ‘I liked her. She seems rather sweet.’

Ross grunted. ‘I do not want a wife who might do. I wish I did know what I want—other than to make love to you.’ She gave a little gasp, but did not struggle in his arms. ‘Here we are. Home. Can you stand up a moment and find the key?’