A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

ingered until reality stepped in and she sat up quickly. Heavens, had she been dreaming of Lord Randall? She crossed her arms and hugged herself, trying to recall her dreams, but they had flown, leaving only the vague sense of well-being.

Pure foolishness. Mary turned up the lamp fixed to the wall and proceeded to tidy herself, ready to disembark. Her gown was sadly crumpled, but there was no help for that. She fastened her cloak about her shoulders, picked up her reticule and went out. Ascending the steep steps to the deck presented little problem. She gathered her skirts into one hand to climb up, thankful that there was no one to see her since everyone, including the earl, appeared to be on the deck.

It was growing light, the silvery moonlight replaced now by a uniform greyness of both sea and sky. Mary clutched her cloak tightly around her as the wind tried to whip it away. To the east she could make out the darker line of the coast. She could see two buildings on the skyline, one recognisable as a church tower, the other the Ostend lighthouse. As they drew nearer to the town they were joined by a number of other craft all heading for the port.

Amongst all the hustle and bustle on deck Mary saw the earl at the centre of a small group standing near the gunwale and she made her way towards him. The crew moved aside as she approached, and Randall drew her closer to the ship’s rail.

‘There is too much shipping for us to enter the harbour,’ he explained. ‘We shall be rowed ashore and make our way to the inn. It’s the one with the sign of the ship; you can see it from here. We will have breakfast there while the crew offload the carriages.’

She looked over the rail. A small boat was bobbing alongside, the sailors resting on their oars while they waited for their passengers to join them. If she had considered the steps leading below deck to be steep, the rope ladder dangling down the side of the yacht looked to be vertical. Robbins was already descending and the ladder was shifting alarmingly with every step.

‘Do not worry,’ said Randall, reading her mind. ‘I shall carry you.’

‘Oh, no, not again!’ She stepped away, but not quickly enough. She had put up her hand to tell him nay, but he merely grabbed it and pulled her close. In an instant he had thrown her over his shoulder again. She tried to kick, but he clamped one arm like a steel band around her thighs while the other pushed the voluminous folds of her cloak and skirts away from his face.

‘It will be better for you if you stop fighting me and hold on,’ he advised her as he threw one leg over the ship’s rail.

He was right. There was nothing she could do now. Struggling would only result in them both being thrown into the water. She closed her eyes and clung to him, trying to ignore the dreadful swaying and lurching as Randall made the perilous descent. At last she was dumped unceremoniously into the longboat and the earl sat down beside her. She was too full of mortification and anger to speak to him, and huddled beneath her cloak as the oarsmen rowed them towards the sandy beach. Even then her ordeal was not over. They were grounded several feet from dry land and the earl dragged off his boots and handed them to Robbins before jumping over the side. The water reached past his knees and silently he turned to Mary. One glance at his implacable face told her there was no going back. She allowed him to lift her out of the boat. At least this time she was in his arms and not over his shoulder like a sack. It was impossible not to slip her hands around his neck and try as she might she could not avoid breathing in his scent, an elusive hint of spices mixed with sweat and brandy and the salty tang of the sea. He strode through the water, his step never faltering despite the rolling waves that broke against his legs. She glanced up at his strong profile, the long nose, determined set of his jaw, his eyes fixed firmly ahead of him. There was no denying his was a commanding figure. If one was interested in such things, which of course she was not.

At last they were free of the water and he set her on her feet.

‘There you are, Miss Endacott. And your shoes are quite dry.’

He still had his hands on her waist and was looking down at her, eyes glinting and a faint smile curving his sculpted lips. It sent her heartbeat skittering wildly, but did nothing for her temper. Did he think he could placate her with such pleasantries?

As soon as her legs would bear her weight she pushed herself away from him and marched off towards the inn.

* * *

What on earth was wrong with the damned woman now? Randall watched her stalk away, cloak flapping in the breeze and her dainty feet leaving a trail of footprints in the sand. Would she have preferred that he leave her to her own devices, to ruin her skirts by wading through the water?

‘Here you are, Colonel.’ Robbins was holding out a towel. ‘I’ve a fresh pair of stockings for you in my pocket, too.’

Randall glanced again at Mary’s retreating figure before sitting on a convenient barrel and taking the towel from his man. He would follow her to the inn once he had put on his boots. It would be better for everyone if their words—and he knew there would be words—were exchanged in private.

The inn was an expensive establishment and Randall wondered how Gaston would receive the small, soberly dressed Englishwoman who stormed in through the door. He had caught up with her sufficiently to hear the short explanation she gave the landlord of her presence there. It was delivered in excellent French and had Gaston bowing until his nose touched his knees. They were shown into a private parlour, where the landlord pointed out the meats, bread and little cakes he had placed on the table for milord as soon as he had seen that milord’s vessel had arrived. He had also brought in his best wine for milord, and if there was anything else he required, or mademoiselle, they only had to tell him and it would be theirs.

Randall eased their voluble host out of the room and closed the door. Then he stood with his back against it, watching Mary. She had discarded her cloak and now paced about the room, dragging her gloves through her hands with sharp, agitated movements. There was a becoming blush on her cheek and her green eyes positively glittered with wrath. When she realised he was watching her she stopped and threw the hapless gloves on to a chair.

‘How dare you treat me in that manner,’ she declared angrily. ‘Without so much as a by your leave—’

‘Ladders and skirts are not a good combination, Miss Endacott.’

‘I would prefer to make up my own mind about that. It was bad enough that you threw me over your shoulder to take me below deck last night, but to do the same thing here, with everyone watching—’

‘Have ever tried climbing down the side of a ship?’

‘No, but—’

‘I did not carry you down for my own benefit, believe me.’

‘I have never been so humiliated—’

‘You would have been a lot more humiliated if you had attempted to descend by the ladder,’ he retorted. ‘The breeze would have whipped your skirts up around your—’ He broke off, realising he could not use soldiers’ language in front of her. ‘Let us just say that the oarsmen would have enjoyed far more of you than was seemly. There was a hoist that you might have used, but in this wind the effect would have been the same. It would not have been just your garters on display, believe me.’

He watched with satisfaction as the meaning of his words hit her. The hectic flush on her cheek deepened and her eyes widened in horror.

‘Just so,’ he said grimly. ‘The men would go wild if any doxy was to flash so much flesh at them, let alone a—’ He turned away, trying to hide his final words in a cough. ‘Beautiful woman.’