Page 71 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Very near,” he lied.
The crevice turned out to be more than it appeared. He pulled away some vines and dead branches and realized it went farther back than expected. In fact, as he pushed deeper into the relative warmth out of the wind, he had the sense of space. He put out one arm and touched nothing. It was almost like a cave—and then he kicked something that skidded along the ground with a metallic clang.
“Wait a moment.” He went down on his knee and groped around to discover a lantern and, a few fraught moments later, a flint and tinderbox. “Stay here,” he told Penelope, barely able to make out her pale, drooping figure. “I’m going to try to light this.”
It took several tries to find the right position that allowed enough protection from the wind yet enough light to see, but finally he coaxed a flame in the small, rusty lantern. Penelope was where he’d left her, slumped down against the rock. He lifted the lantern, and she raised her face greedily toward the light.
“We’ve got to get you dry.” He turned her around and began undoing buttons. The once-white wool of her walking dress was now gray and swollen with water. He finally just ripped the buttons away, desperate to get it off. It was only chilling her further. She clumsily helped as he peeled off the dress, leaving her in translucent undergarments. He tossed the dress aside and took her out of the rest of her clothes, wringing out each piece as much as possible before putting it back on her. Damp clothes were only marginally better than wet clothes, but everything counted.
“Now yours.” Her teeth chattered as she wrapped her arms around herself and sank back to the floor.
More to please her than for his own sake, he stripped off his shirt and wrung it out. There was a considerable pool of water on the floor now, and he looked toward the back of the crevice. The wavering light of the lantern pierced the darkness for only a few feet, and it wasn’t revealing an end to the narrow opening. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Where are you going?”
He went down on his knee for a quick embrace. “If there’s a lantern, there may be something else useful here. It looks like a small cave.”
“I can come with you...” She started to struggle to her feet but he stopped her.
“Rest,” he told her. “Catch your breath. We still have a stroll uphill. I swear I won’t leave you for long.”
After a moment she gave in. Benedict let out his breath in relief—if she’d pleaded with him to stay, he didn’t think he could have left her—and impulsively he kissed her. “Rest, love,” he whispered again, then caught up the lantern and picked his way into the gloom.
It really was a small cave. The passage was narrow, but only for a few feet. He marveled; how many times had he explored this shore, on his own and with Sebastian, and neither of them had ever discovered it? For a moment he wondered if this led to the elusive Hart House grotto, but quickly discarded the idea. It was too close to the water, and would probably flood from time to time. And Penelope had promised to show him the grotto. His mouth firmed and he lifted the lantern higher. Once they were safely at Montrose Hill House, he’d be sure to remind her of that.
He trailed one hand along the wall to keep his balance. The ground was coarse sand, and more than once a sharp rock bit into the bottom of his foot, clad only in stockings. The wall at his side curved away, opening into a cavity of some size. Benedict swung the lantern in a circle, but couldn’t make out much; the flame was too small, and the space too big. But there was something there... He raised the lantern over it. A stray piece of canvas. He shook it out, surprised by the size of it, and knocked something else over. A quick circuit of the space revealed a few discarded crates, broken open, and a pile of straw to one side. He stared at the odd collection, then scooped up the canvas and hurried back to Penelope.
“I d-don’t know which is more frightening,” she said, her voice shaking as he came back down the passage. “The wind, or the dark.”
“The wind.” He lifted her to her feet and wrapped the canvas around her. It was stiff and scratchy but it would break the wind. “There’s nothing to fear from the dark.”
Her blue eyes seemed to fill her face as she looked up at him. “There is. When I fell in the water, it was so dark. I’ve never felt so alone.”
God help him, she had been. Thank God that wretch Clary had come up on deck. If Benedict hadn’t realized she’d gone overboard when he had... He pushed the thought from his mind. So far all he’d done was get her out of the water. Without dry clothes and a fire, they were both flirting with terrible illness at the least. He pressed his lips to her temple. “You are not alone—not now, not ever. We’re going to walk to your sister’s house, where there will be a hot bath and tea and a warm bed.” She nodded, slumping against him. He looped her arm around his neck, secured his arm around her waist, and started out into the night.
Chapter 25
Penelope was terribly afraid one of them was going to die that night.
The thought had been hovering over her mind ever since she hit the water. At first she had scorned it, filled with righteous fury and determination that Clary would never have the satisfaction of disposing of her so easily. When Benedict had found her, she’d been buoyed again; she was no longer alone, and he knew the river. His fierce promise that they would spend the night at Abigail’s, warm and safe—along with his vengeful words about Clary—gave her renewed strength.
Still, that strength was nearly gone by the time they made it to shore. Despite telling him she could swim, her limbs had become leaden. Her mind seemed to be receding from her body, pulling away until her senses felt attenuated and muted. She barely heard Benedict’s voice, urging her on, breaking in relief as he dragged her ashore. She was only dimly aware of her body moving, although she did feel the shudders that racked her from head to toe as the wind cut into her soaked clothes.
She had never explored as much as her sister had, but Penelope had walked in the woods. She knew Montrose Hill House was just that: a house atop a hill. A hill they would have to walk up, in this wind, sopping wet. Like a moth transfixed by a flame, her thoughts circled around those few facts. There was no strength in her legs; she could barely walk. Benedict, who had just swum across a stormy river pulling her weight behind him, must be even more exhausted.
And then he took the lantern away and left her. She pressed herself against the rock, trying to quell the horrible shivering, and closed her eyes to the darkness. The sky was as dark as night above her, and the weak lantern light vanished with Benedict. She knew he was only a few feet away and would be back soon, but it was hard not to feel utterly alone.
There was no denying that she had been wrong about a great many things. Lord Stratford was a far, far worse man than she had ever expected. It was one thing to be strict, and many fathers thrashed their children. When Benedict told her he’d been whipped as a boy, even as a young man, she’d blithely thought it was akin to the way her father had thrashed her brother on a few occasions. When Benedict said his father had no pity for others, she assumed it was wrapped up in the general arrogance associated with being an earl. When he said he hoped she and his father never met, a small part of her had wondered if that was because he was somewhat ashamed of her. She had been wrong, wrong, wrong.
Even if Benedict had wanted to keep her away from the earl because of shame over his marriage, she should have counted her blessings that she wouldn’t have to deal with Lord Stratford. Instead she had convinced herself that it was best to stand up to him, to assert their—her—independence from the tight control he had always exerted over his family. If Benedict had married her because her dowry freed him from the earl’s authority, she reasoned, shouldn’t he demonstrate that? Showing weakness only encouraged a bully.
Instead the earl had schemed to lure her aboard his yacht so Clary could corner her about Olivia. Perhaps Stratford had been deceived about Clary’s true nature; perhaps there was some honorable reason he wished to speak to Olivia. But every other time Penelope had given the earl the benefit of the doubt, she’d been wrong, so she could only believe that Stratford was as ruthless as Clary.
Tears leaked from her eyes and down her cheeks. She had contributed to this nightmare through her disregard for Benedict’s warnings, through her arrogance that she would know better how to deal with the earl than his son did, and through her own stubbornness in not telling anyone and everyone that Clary had assaulted her in the first place. What good was keeping her promise to Olivia if it led to her death—or worse, Benedict’s?
She heard his footsteps coming back, and the lantern glow pierced the gloom. Hastily she wiped her cheeks, hoping her generally soaked state would hide them. The last thing she deserved now was any sympathy. But her guilt only grew worse as he lifted her to her feet and murmured words of comfort. He had found something stiff and musty to wrap around her, while he wore only his soaking wet shirt and trousers. When he assured her that she was not alone—now or ever—she knew he meant it. Penelope sensed that if she faltered, he would try to carry her and doom them both. She managed to get her arm around his shoulders and swore a silent oath to herself: she was going to make it up that hill, for Benedict if not for herself. She loved him too much to do any less.
Whenever she felt herself slowing or began to think of suggesting they rest, she forced herself to make a smart comment. It made her feel better that Benedict would worry less about her if she seemed unaffected. But when they finally climbed a small rise and saw the house in front of them, she burst into tears.
