That mere touch sent waves of heat to secret places. I accepted his hand and dismounted.
“I have something to show you.”
I let him lead me from the dark forest onto a moonlit beach.
“This is where the ferryman will come in the morning. Had he left his ferry, we could simply steal it and ferry ourselves to freedom. Alas, it seems he bedded down on the shores of France tonight.”
I tried to still my pounding heart, but it was no use. Emotions threatened to send me over an unseen edge. Fear, desire. They mixed and brought a righteous thunder to my chest.
“Like our ferryman, we too shall bed down. Alas, we shall be here, and unbeknownst to him, it’s for him that we will wait.” Jean gestured toward a tinkling waterfall. “Come, Wife. Behold your honeymoon chamber.”
Enchanted, I followed Jean with light steps to the bank of the river that emptied into the sea. Across a small path of stepping stones, slippery under my bare feet, and tucked just behind the curtain of water that fell from the rocky outcropping above, there it was. “Jean,” I exclaimed. “It’s beautiful.”
The moonlight, bright off the sea, reflected through the streams of trickling water like a lantern. Cool moss tickled my feet and promised a good night’s rest. However, with Jean’s hands on my waist and his kisses on my neck, sleep was the furthest thing from my mind.
“Tell me you love it,” he murmured into my hair. “Tell me.”
I turned and let his lips trail up my neck and across the hollow of my throat, until they met mine. Gentle, yet hungry.
“I love this place,” I managed through breathless kisses. “And how could I help but love you?”
With practiced hands, Jean relieved me of the cumbersome dress and lay me back onto the moss. Chill from the frigid floor of the cave crept into me, making me shiver. The look in Jean’s eye told me not to worry and promised that the troublesome chill would soon be extinguished.
Joined in holy union and belonging only to each other, I let Jean lead me through the rocky foothills of pleasure, as only those with the truest of hearts can tread. I’d never dreamed of scaling any of the world’s peaks, but we did so, together, without ever leaving our waterfall chamber.
The swishing of water against wood woke me, though the ray of sun had yet to chase away the darkness of the night. “Jean,” I whispered.
Beneath my hand, his chest rose and fell with each breath. I leaned and pressed my lips to his cheek. “Jean.”
The strong arm I’d been wrapped in all night curled around my waist as my husband rolled to face me, his eyes still closed. He tightened his grip, as though he was grasping a trunk of treasure on a ship that was going down. “Mmm, Bridget.”
“The ferryman, Jean. I think he’s arrived.”
Jean’s eyes opened, and a slow grin spread across his lips. “So soon? Didn’t we just get to sleep?”
I flushed. Indeed, the majority of the night was spent awake, exploring, in each other’s arms. A shiver coursed through my insides as Jean’s fingertips traced a fiery line from my face, down my ribs, and stopped at my naked thigh.
“I suppose I should go barter with the man.” Jean flashed a wink that brought a wanting ache to my core. “Wait here. And I beseech you, get dressed only if you must.”
I covered my face with my hands. Jean rose, pulled on his breeches, and disappeared through the watery exit before I dared uncover them.
Ever dutiful, I stepped back into the silk dress that had spent the night crumpled in a corner. It was heavy and damp and miserable.
I may well be slipping my own noose about me neck, I thought as I worked the strings. I left the whale-bone corset on the mossy rocks that dotted the floor of our cave and stepped out from behind the veil of water.
Jean’s voice drifted along the water. “Yes, both these white horses. Yours when we touch French soil.”
I tiptoed across the slippery river rocks and dared a peek into the clearing. There, stood Jean and the French ferryman. The pair of white horses that had come as a blessing from Father Gabriel snorted and stomped. Something wasn’t right.
The ferryman wrung his gray cap in his hands. Before he could answer Jean’s offer, two guardsmen wearing the crest of Dover Castle appeared behind them. I sucked in a gasp and, careful to be silent, sneaked back into the confines of my watery hiding place.
One of the two spoke in a haughty, nasal tone. “Where are you headed so early?”
The King’s men have found us.
I retreated to the far back of the cave, their voices lost in my haste. A prayer graced my lips as I squatted behind a rock. For a brief moment, I wondered if I could swim the Strait of Dover, should the need arise.
“Gown like the sky, springtime shy. Eyes like the sea, green as emeralds they be.”
My eyes flew open. One of the Dover soldiers hovered at the mouth of my cave. “You’re Lady Bridget.” He closed the space between us in deliberate steps.
Terror shimmered in my eyes and threatened to spill onto my cheeks as I watched, helpless, as he advanced.
“Please sir, you have me mistaken—”
His gloved hand smacked over my mouth, squelching my already soft voice. “Quiet you—you—you traitorous blasphemer!”
The taste of coppery blood dotted my tongue.
“You ran out on the King, your lord. Harlot.” He spat. “It is a pleasure to return you to your fate.”
With his hand clamped across my mouth, he started to call out to his companion. I heard him suck in a deep breath, but the only thing that passed over his tongue and out his mouth was a thin squeak.
His hand fell from my face as he slowly sank to his knees.
Jean darkened the opening of our waterfall hideaway. As quick as he’d jabbed it, he pulled back the silver dagger, edged in the Englishman’s lifeblood.
“Bridget, are you alright?”
