The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston

unshaven face only enhancing his appearance, making him look rakish. She inhaled, her fingers stilling for a moment with the memory of how his naked skin had felt, warm and hard with muscle.

      Her whole body filled with heat. It had been a long time since she’d seen a naked man and a long time since a man had held her. She tried to remember if she had ever woken naked in her husband’s arms. Perhaps she never had. He usually had fled her bed when he finished with her.

      So long ago.

      The door opened and the old woman entered, the scent of boiling oats wafting in behind her.

      “Your gentleman says to find you some clothes, ma’am. Yours are ripped and would take too long to mend.” She handed Marlena her stockings, which had somehow remained intact. “I told your gentleman I’ve just the thing for you in here.” The woman rummaged through one of the wooden chests. “I’ve put the kettle on as well, and there is some nice porridge boiling.”

      Marlena slipped on her stockings. Porridge sounded as heavenly as ambrosia at the moment. Until she’d smelled it, she’d not known she was ravenous.

      “That is very kind,” she said to the woman. “What is your name?”

      “I’m Mrs Davies, ma’am.” The woman leaned over the chest, still looking through it.

      Marlena made her voice sound friendly. “Thank you, Mrs Davies. Where are we, might I ask?”

      “At our farm, ma’am.” The woman looked at her as if she were daft. Her mouth opened, then, and she finally understood the question. “About a mile or so from Llanfairynghornwy.”

      Marlena blinked. She had no idea where that was, nor did she think she could repeat its name. “Is there a coaching inn there?”

      “There is a coaching inn at Cemaes.”

      “How far is that?” Marlena asked.

      “About five miles, ma’am.”

      Marlena could walk five miles.

      The old woman twisted around, leaning on the edge of the chest. “But if I think of it, you’ll want to reach Holyhead, not Cemaes.”

      Holyhead was the port where the ship had been bound. “How far is Holyhead?”

      “Ten miles or so the opposite way, to reach the ferry, that is. You’ll need a ferry to take you to Holyhead, ma’am.”

      Marlena nodded. Holyhead would likely be where other survivors would be bound, making it the last place she’d wish to be.

      The woman turned back to her rummaging, finally pulling out a shift and tossing it to Marlena, who quickly slipped it on. Next the woman pulled out a faded blue dress.

      “Perhaps this will do.” She handed it to Marlena.

      The dress was made of wool in a fine, soft weave that seemed nothing like a farm wife’s dress. Marlena stood up and held it against herself. The dress was long enough for her, although she was taller than most women and certainly a good foot taller than Mrs Davies. The dress would totally engulf the farm woman and would be big on Marlena as well.

      Some other woman from some other shipwreck had once worn this dress. Marlena whispered a prayer for that woman’s poor soul.

      “It will do very nicely,” she said.

      The woman straightened and thrust something else at Marlena. “Here’s a corset for you.”

      “Thank you.” Marlena smiled. “I am so very grateful to you.”

      The woman started towards the door.

      Marlena stopped her with another request. “I would like very much to wash. Would it be too much trouble to bring me some water?”

      The woman looked heavenwards, as if she’d been asked for the moon, but she nodded and hurried out of the door.

      Marlena inspected the corset. Its laces looked as if they could be tightened to fit her. She lifted the dress to her nose and was grateful that it smelled clean. She was eager to be clean herself, eager to wash the salt from her skin. What she would not give for a nice long soak in warm bathwater, but she would content herself with a quick wash from a basin. She paced the room, thinking, planning. She could easily walk to Cemaes this very day, but what would she do then? She had no money.

      She must beg money from Tanner, she decided. It was her only choice. She was uncertain of him, although it was a good sign he’d not betrayed her to this farm family. If he discovered she was the Vanishing Viscountess, however, he would certainly want to turn her over to the local magistrate. It was best to slip away as soon as she could do so.

      A knock sounded, and Tanner walked in with her basin of water, a towel over his arm like a valet. She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around the shift. He was dressed in what looked like his own shirt and trousers. His hair was damp. Marlena touched her still-tangled hair, envious that he had been able to wash out the salt and the memory of the sea.

      “Your clothes are dry?” she asked.

      “Dry enough.” He placed the basin on a small table in the corner of the room. “I thought you might like this.” He pulled a comb from the band of his trousers. “I’ve washed it, although these people seem clean enough.”

      She took it from him. “Oh, thank you!” She immediately sat back on the bed and attacked her locks. “Have they told you anything of the shipwreck?”

      He shook his head. “These people are a close-mouthed lot. The son left, but I hope it was merely to return to the beach. I gather these people are wreckers.”

      Like the man who attacked Tanner. The man she hit on the head. She remembered that suddenly, but it was like a murky dream.

      “The mother and son were out there during the storm last night.” He walked towards the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

      “My shoes,” she replied. “But do not leave yet.”

      He waited.

      She took a breath. “I need to ask you—to beg you—to let me go.”

      His brows rose.

      She went on quickly, “Mrs Davies—the wife—says there is a town five miles from here with a coaching inn. You may go on to Holyhead, but let them all think me dead. Please. I want only to go home. That is all I desire.” Not all she desired. She needed money, but she’d make that request only if he gave his permission to flee.

      He leaned against the door. “Where is home?”

      “Scotland,” she said truthfully and an image of her Scottish home jumped into her mind. Parronley, home of her ancestors and her carefree childhood.

      He peered at her. “You do not sound Scottish.”

      “I was sent to school in England.” This was true, as well. At lovely Belvedere House in Bath, where she’d met Eliza. She’d been very keen to rid herself of any traces of a Scottish burr in those days, so eager for the other girls to like her.

      He pressed a hand against his ribs. “Tell me why the Bow Street Runner was bringing you back to England.”

      Marlena flinched, feeling his pain. Her mind raced to think of a story he would believe. She borrowed one from a Minerva Press novel she and Eliza once read. “I was a lady’s companion to a very nice elderly lady. I was accused of stealing her jewellery.”

      His mouth twitched. “And you did not do it.”

      “I did not!” She was not guilty of stealing jewellery or any other crime. “I was wrongly accused, but there was no way to prove it. Her son placed the jewels in my room.”

      How she wished she had been accused of the theft of jewels. Far better that than standing over the bloody body of her husband and being accused of his murder.

      She made herself face him with