Page 348 of From Rakes to Riches

Raphael broke through the surface of the warm waters off the Antiguan coast with a mighty surge of his limbs. The sun felt like the very smile of God on his face, and he wiped the ocean from his eyes to be greeted by a view that never ceased to strike him with pure wonder.

The gleaming white sands and the indescribably clear blue water provided the perfect backdrop for a tangle of vibrant vegetation and exotic trees. The opulent Villa de la Sol was part Spanish cathedral, part Persian palace, resplendent in the noonday brilliance.

But what made this place paradise, was the goddess draped in a hammock beneath a tasseled umbrella.

The sight of her humbled him into stillness, and Raphael treaded water, taking advantage of a rare moment to observe his wife unaware.

He woke every morning anxious to make certain he hadn’t dreamed his good fortune. Mercy Goode had consented to make an honest man of him at sea—provided they omitted the part about her obeying or submitting to her husband.

When asked what word might replace the original, she’d studied him for a moment, then decided “adore.”

They’d been true to their word. They loved, cherished, honored and most assuredlyadoredeach other.

She nestled in a pool of thin white skirts; her bare leg draped over the side of her hammock. In her hand wasThe Affair of the Benighted Bride, the latest adventure of Detective Eddard Sharpe. The gentle ocean breeze teased locks of her unbound hair, only shades darker than the sand she kicked at with her toe, encouraging a gentle sway.

She glanced up as the Duchesse—Amelie—filled her dainty glass with a juice made from the local guava fruit she’d mixed with champagne.

The women toasted each other, and Amelie must have said something witty because Mercy tossed her curls back, exposing her elegant throat as she laughed with unrestricted abandon.

A wave of joy threatened to drown him.

Christ, he worshiped her with such uninhibited devotion, he became jealous of the sun’s own caress on her skin.

Raphael disrupted a school of tiny, colorful fish as he displaced the water with powerful strokes. He swam until he could use his feet against the sand to propel him through a tide that tried its utmost to hinder his advance.

By the time he’d reached the beach upon which the women reclined, the two were locked in an animated discussion, gesturing wildly.

“... And that is why women belong on the bench and in juries.” She waved her book. “J. Francis Morgan is plainly saying that surely such a gross miscarriage of justice would not have occurred should a woman have had ought to do with the case. She would have seen through the ruse right away. Why must it be a man’s world when they do a right proper job of cocking it up?”

Raphael kept wisely silent on the subject as he made his approach.

Amelie wrapped her arms around her bent legs and rested her chin on her knees. “Women know that it isn’t a man’s world. Not completely. We simply have a more subtle influence. We change things when men are not looking, thinking they are important to play at war and conquest.”

“But they do more damage than we can repair,” Mercy said with vicious passion. “I don’t want my influence to be subtle. I want to change things while they watch. While they weep.”

“I’ve no doubt you will.” Raphael retrieved a towel from the small stand he’d driven into the sand, upon which his clothing hung.

“You, my love, are merciless.”

“Andyouare not the first person to tell me that.”

As he applied the towel to his skin, Amelie finished her drink in two impressive swallows and pushed to her feet. “If you will excuse me, those of us with red in our hair are wise to get out of the sun after noonday,” she said with a languorous stretch. “Besides, I need to pack if we are to leave for the States, where we will no longer be allowed to lounge about in the half-nude, more is the pity.”

She flashed them both a cheeky wink before lifting a hem that had been cut like a riding kit. Flowing and feminine, but certainly more trouser than skirt.

Raphael bid her adieu before draping the towel over his head and scrubbing as much of the ocean water from his scalp as he could.

“For a life on the lam, I say we’re surviving rather well,” he remarked before drying his face and neck.

“I dare say I’m enjoying my time as an exile,” his wife replied blithely. “And I certainly have no complaints regarding the view.”

He surfaced from beneath the towel to find her eyes making a lazy, appreciative journey up his torso.

His body responded to the heat in her gaze, though he decided to allow her a respite as she’d declined to join him in the water due to the arrival of her monthly courses and complaints of fatigue.

Still, he joined her on the hammock, his weight forcing her to roll toward him, allowing him to gather her close and fuse their mouths for a deep kiss that tasted of passion, guava, and a hint of brine.

“Tell me, wife, about what sparked your indignance at your novel?”

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