Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

“The boat is ready,” he said. “She’s tied up at the jetty, so we won’t have to row out to the mooring.”

Antoinette tried to read his face but he kept it lowered, his coarse hair flopping over his forehead and into his eyes. She needed to ask questions, but even as she opened her mouth he was turning and moving away, calling over his shoulder that the boat was in that direction.

Coombe walked swiftly. She panted along behind him, holding up her skirts with one hand to prevent herself from tripping over them, and holding her bodice with the other, as if afraid the letter might fly out and sail away over the sea. By the time she reached him he’d jumped down onto the deck of a boat tied up to the narrow wooden jetty that ran along the harbor front.

Except the boat wasn’t just a boat. It was a yacht, built on sleek lines, the timbers glossy from the care lavished upon them, ropes carefully coiled and sails lashed to the masts. As her gaze took everything in, Antoinette’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

Coombe had already jumped down and was standing on the deck, his feet apart as the vessel rocked, like an old sea dog. He reached up his hand. Instinct caused her to give him hers, and the next instant she felt his strong grip. Almost at the same time she experienced a sense of danger so intense that she tried to pull away. But it was too late. He gave a hard tug on her hand, and with a shriek she fell forward. He caught her, hands gripping her waist, and swung her down onto the deck beside him.

She tried to catch her breath, stumbling as the yacht rocked with their movement. “There’s plenty of room below,” Coombe said, proceeding to a hatchway and sliding it open. “Go down and settle yourself while I get her under way.”

Antoinette stared at him. With every passing second he seemed to be expanding beyond the Coombe she thought she knew. His shoulders were no longer hunched and he was moving confidently about the yacht, unfurling ropes, checking equipment. He wasn’t the same man, and yet how was that possible?

She looked beyond him, to the jetty and the tavern, but she could hardly climb back up there now. She was stuck on the boat with Coombe, and she no longer trusted him.

Reluctantly Antoinette went below. In one room—cabin, she supposed it was called—there was a bed built into the wall, with cupboards above and a lantern swinging from the low ceiling. When she peered into the other cabin she found a table with bench seats, more cupboards, and the means to cook and prepare food.

This wasn’t just any boat and it certainly wasn’t a fishing vessel or a coastal trader. It was clear this was a yacht belonging to a man of means. Hardly a description of Coombe.

Something was very, very wrong.

Coombe was a groom, a man of few words and fewer wits. Remembering how he had busied himself on deck, his confidence and sense of purpose, she felt a terrible dread squeeze her chest.

Slowly she climbed back up the companionway, and popped her head through the open hatch.

He’d cast off and set one of the sails and was now busy hauling on the ropes as the yacht turned and began to move slowly out through the narrow harbor entrance. He had his back turned to her and he’d stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, the muscles of his arms rippling with his efforts. There was a pistol tucked into his belt at the small of his back. He’d taken off his cap, too, and his hair wasn’t coarse and dark after all, but curly and fair. In fact—her eyes widened—his cap lay discarded on the deck and there were tufts of coarse dark hair attached to the sides.

As he turned his head to check they weren’t too close to the wall, Antoinette took a hard look at the man’s profile, and she could no longer doubt who he was. The highwayman, and her lover. A sick sensation twisted in her stomach as she understood the extent of his betrayal.

“You!” Her voice shook with emotion.

He finished negotiating the boat past the wall before he turned to face her, one hand on the tiller. His expression was watchful, as if he wasn’t quite sure how she was going to react.

“Sparrow, don’t be angry. If you’d known the truth you would never have come with me…”

“You tricked me!” she cried. “How could you do this to me? Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you asked me to help you get away,” he said evenly.

“You’re taking me to Lord Appleby, aren’t you?” Her hands were clenched into fists.

The yacht rolled as it hit the swell beyond the safety of the harbor and a burst of spray peppered the deck. “No, I’m taking you away from him. I promised I would. You said you trusted me.”

“I don’t understand. You’re Lord Appleby’s man. Why would you—”

“I’ve changed my allegiance,” he said.

She didn’t believe him. “Let me off.”

“Too late, Miss Dupre,” he said, and there was that smile she knew so well. “I hope you don’t get seasick. It looks like we’re in for some rough weather.”

As if to illustrate his warning, another burst of spray came up over the side of the yacht and washed across the deck, all the way to the hatch. It soaked Antoinette’s hair, trickled down her face, and the salt water splashed her spectacles.

She spluttered and choked, and he laughed at her.

“Let me off!” she shrieked, just as the boat rolled again. Her feet slipped on the companionway and she fell, landing on her bottom on the steps, and bumping the remainder of the way down.

As Antoinette sat, dazed and wet, a shadow fell over her. She looked up, and he was peering down at her. “Are you all right, darling?”