A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2) Read online

She pulled in a great, gasping breath, then swallowed seawater and went under again, lungs convulsing.

  Something bumped against her head and spun away, and she flailed out blindly. Eyes burning from salt, she forced herself to scan the murky blue landscape.

  There. A black shape, bobbing overhead.

  It took all her strength to kick, kick, kick, until she was close enough to grab the thing. Wild creature or bit of flotsam, she did not care. Only that it floated and would bear her up.

  Her head emerged from the water again, and she wrapped her arms around the thing. It turned out to be the trunk of an olive tree torn from the ground, branches broken, gray-green leaves sodden.

  It was hardly buoyant enough to bear her weight. When Isabelle tried hoisting herself further onto the trunk, it spun and dipped below the surface, and she lost her grip.

  Panicked, she thrashed after it while the sea tried to slurp her down. Finally, she caught the tree again and hooked one elbow over the rough wood. It abraded her skin, but she did not care.

  The choppiness of the waves abated, and Isabelle looked up to see that the current had carried her some distance from the rocky hill where she’d fallen. The curve of the harbor was quite hidden from view. Nothing to be seen but the empty shore of Kíthira and the endless blue of the Mediterranean.

  She had never felt so alone.

  And hopeless.

  For a moment, she rested her head against the rough bark and concentrated on breathing. The sea was cool. Not horribly chilly, but if she were swept away from the island, she was not certain how many hours she would last.

  But she could not give up. They had seen her fall, Mrs. Hodges and Lord Jasper.

  He’d called her name, his voice rough and desperate, and all she could see was his face. The way his mouth had tightened with despair, the color blanching from his high cheekbones when she’d told him she did not love him.

  Ah, but it had been a lie. Aphrodite herself had punished her for it, for spurning the gift of love, and thrown Isabelle into the ocean.

  It was, almost, a tragic Greek myth; but there would be no ascending to the stars for her, no constellation glimmering with the memory of her name. She was merely human. And she had let the worst mistake of her life lead directly to the second. Instead of learning, she had simply blundered into new heartbreak.

  It was not love that she should have been afraid of but choosing unwisely. That had been the lesson she had not grasped.

  Until too late.

  Her boots were lead weights encasing her feet, and she did not have the energy to pry them off. Below her, the black mouth of the sea stretched wide—not dark as wine, not the roadway upon which adventurers sailed, but hungry and implacable. It would eat her soon.

  Soon, the little wavelets whispered, running up against her arms.

  She did not want to die.

  She did not want to die alone off the coast of the isle of Kíthira.

  Most especially, she did not want to die without telling Gavin she loved him.

  She caught her breath on a sob. Grief swept over her, numbing her grip. Or perhaps that was the effect of the water, cooling her body until her fingers loosened their hold and she slipped soundlessly into the sea.

  No. She shook her head, her hair sticking to her cheek. Her bonnet was long gone, ripped from her head in that first plunge into the water.

  I am Isabelle Strathmore, she thought fiercely. I survived Lord Reginald, and bandits, and fire, and I will survive this, too.

  And when she next looked into Gavin’s eyes, she would tell him the truth.

  She took a new breath, careful not to inhale any seawater. Then she pointed the broken olive tree toward Kíthira, and slowly, kicking with weary legs that would scarcely obey, began the long journey back to shore.

  “Go back?” the Greek fisherman asked Gavin, gesturing toward the pier behind them.

  It had been nearly impossible to coax the man out in the first place. The harbor had been full of milling sailors, boats knocked about by the quake, and general chaos and confusion. Luckily, the green-and-blue fishing boat was still seaworthy and, by dint of a hefty number of coins, Gavin had convinced the captain to raise the sail.

  Though, clearly, he hadn’t conveyed the urgency of the fact that they were going on a rescue mission. Gavin gritted his teeth at the knowledge that this was all his fault. If he hadn’t so badly misjudged the moment, Isabelle would not have run away from him. Or climbed the hill. Or fallen into the sea.

  His heart cracked again at the memory of watching her plummet, blue skirts billowing about her. She had not screamed.

  Hold fast, Isabelle. I’m coming.

  “Not back.” Gavin pointed to the hill rising above the shore and made a circling motion with his hand. “We go around. Around.”

  It was all he could do not to rip the tiller from the man’s grasp, but he had never been much of a sailor—to his everlasting regret.

  The fisherman shrugged but obediently turned the little boat so that it would skirt the shoreline.

  “Faster,” Gavin said. “Can we go any faster?”

  He had half a mind to dive into the water, but the wiser part of him knew that, despite appearances, the sailboat was going more quickly than he could swim. To keep from going completely mad, he leaned over the bow, fists opening and closing, and scanned the churning blue waves.

  Isabelle was out there. She must be.

  The boat rounded the promontory, and the captain glanced at Gavin.

  “Now go back?” he asked.

  “No.” Gads, Gavin wanted to shake the man. He let out a short breath and tried once more to explain. “A lady fell. Down. Into the sea. We must find her.”

  “Is no lady.” The man swept his arm out.

  It was true. Ahead of them lay only the silver spangled waves of the Mediterranean, the innocent-looking hill, a few swallows weaving and darting nearer the shore.

  For a moment, utter blackness threatened to swallow Gavin. He had found his lady and lost her, and he could not imagine any reason that he should not leap into the sea and let his bones join hers on the ocean floor.

  But he was not one to give up. And the strange kernel of knowing inside his chest told him that Isabelle still lived. He closed his eyes, calmed his thoughts, and listened to that part of him that knew its way home.

  There.

  Eyes still closed, warm sun and the cooling breeze on his cheek, he turned until he faced the right direction.

  He opened his eyes to see the darting swallows, white bellies flashing against the shadows on the hill.

  “There.” He pointed. “Go that way.”

  The fisherman turned the tiller and adjusted the sail, seeming to have given up arguing with the crazed Englishman for the time being.

  A glimpse of lighter blue—not froth or glimmer. Gavin’s heart squeezed with hope. With fear. He grabbed a nearby line to steady himself and leaped up on the railing.

  “Mister!” the captain cried in protest.

  “Keep going.”

  His breath failed, then he gasped as he identified what he was seeing on the water.

  It was her.

  Alive, thank all stars in the sky. Alive. Gavin nearly fell off the boat in relief at the sight. She had not yet spotted them and was kicking doggedly toward shore with the determination he had come to expect of her. Isabelle. Dear, dear Isabelle.

  He jumped down and began unlacing his boots, then shrugged out of his coat and vest.

  He carefully removed his father’s gold pocket watch from one trouser pocket and his wallet from the other. The fisherman watched, the look on his face implying he would never understand the whims of foreigners.

  But that did not matter.

  “Closer,” Gavin said, then hopped back up, the wood of the railing smooth beneath his bare feet.

  “Isabelle!” he called toward the spot of lighter blue upon the water.

  From the middle of that splotch, an arm rose and waved back and for
th.

  “Ahh,” the fisherman breathed, peering from beneath the brim of his blue cap. “A lady.”

  He adjusted course a little and let out more of the sail, and soon the boat had drawn up to where Isabelle Strathmore floated, a pale, half-drowned mermaid clinging to a sodden bit of tree.

  “Hello, Lord Jasper.” Her voice was hoarse. “You took your time about finding me.”

  “I came as soon as I could.”

  He dove into the water, letting the coolness rush over him and wash the tears from his face. A heartbeat later he emerged next to her, wanting nothing more than to pull her into an embrace. But one look at her face told him she was nearing the end of her strength. He had no right to take her in his arms, other than to help her to the side of the fishing boat, which he did.

  The captain leaned over and grabbed her wrists, and Gavin boosted her up, cursing the weight of her waterlogged dress. She collapsed in a heap on the deck, then lifted her head as he swung over the side.

  “Bring the tree,” she said. “It doesn’t deserve to drown. And it saved me.”

  Without a word, he plunged back into the water, snagged the broken trunk, and hauled it aboard. The captain’s brow furrowed, but he simply shook his head at this further proof of Gavin’s insanity.

  “Ouzo,” he said, producing a flask from beneath his coat. “Drink.”

  Gavin took it, pried open the stopper, and held the strong-smelling liquor to Isabelle’s lips.

  “It will help,” he said. “Carefully, now.”

  She took a small sip, and then another. When he urged a third swallow upon her, she shook her head.

  “That’s quite enough.” Her voice was a touch stronger.

  He handed the flask back to the fisherman, who took a deep swig before capping the bottle and tucking it away. One hand still on the tiller, he flipped open the lid of a nearby box and pulled out a rough blanket.

  Gavin took it, and, despite the fact that it smelled strongly of goat, vowed to give the man more money as soon as they reached the harbor.

  “Let’s get you warm,” he said, wrapping the rough fabric around Isabelle’s shoulders.

  She reached up and clasped his hand, her fingers cold.

  “That would be grand,” she said, a shiver running through her.

  He knelt and pulled her against him, trying to infuse his warmth into her body. Trying to tell her, without words, how very sorry he was.

  The little boat rocked over the waves. The blessed heat of the sun shone down, and slowly, her shuddering ceased.

  “Almost back,” the fisherman called.

  Isabelle took a breath and stirred in Gavin’s embrace.

  “Lord Jasper,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

  He almost could not bear it, knowing that he would never hold her again, but he forced his arms to open.

  She swiveled to face him, her cheeks still pale but her eyes nearly as bright as the sky.

  “When I was in the water,” she said, “I made a promise. I vowed to live, because I could not bear . . .” She glanced at the white sail, the blue sea, then back at his face. “I hurt you, and I did not tell you the truth.”

  The world stopped for a moment, the ticking seconds suspended. He was falling into the sweet blue of Isabelle Strathmore’s eyes, his heart suddenly so hot within him that he feared it would scorch right through his chest, leaving a burn mark.

  “What truth was that?” His own voice sounded very far away.

  Her lips tilted up into that wry, wise smile of hers, and he was lost.

  “The truth is, I love you, Gavin.”

  Her words smote him, and he was forced to blink back tears. No seawater to hide them this time. He took her hand.

  “I feared I’d lost you,” he said. And I couldn’t bear it. “But are you quite certain, Isabelle? This is not some emotion born of gratitude because I rescued you?”

  She laughed—a fraction of her usual mirth, but a laugh all the same. “I was rescuing myself, if you hadn’t noticed. Though I suppose it was because of you. I couldn’t leave you like that, after all.”

  “Like what?”

  She stared into his eyes. “Like a man whose heart had just been broken.”

  It had, though he could scarcely admit the fact.

  “Thank you,” he said, dropping a kiss on her knuckles. He felt like a prisoner freed from the gallows, a blind man suddenly restored to sight. “Thank you for coming back to save me.”

  “I suppose we’ve saved each other.” She tilted her head. “Now tell me, Lord Gavin Reed, Earl of Jasper—will you do me the very great honor of becoming my husband?”

  He let out a laugh, then pulled her back into his arms and kissed her on the lips. Cool, and sweet as honey. He even swore he could hear bells.

  They kissed until the fisherman let out a self-conscious cough. When Isabelle pulled away, Gavin realized bells were sounding, ringing out from the little church beside the bay. The captain had guided them so smoothly back, Gavin hadn’t even noticed their entry into the harbor.

  “Well?” Isabelle took his face between her palms. “Will you give me an answer, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said, as the boat docked. He stood and scooped her up in his arms. “Yes, Miss Isabelle Strathmore, I will surely marry you.”

  “Good,” she said.

  And there, in front of Mrs. Hodges and a half-dozen Greek sailors, she kissed Gavin with enough heat to curl his toes and make him want to carry her off to some secluded olive grove.

  He resisted the notion, though it wasn’t easy. When he finally set her back on her feet, he found that they were surrounded by a crowd of smiling villagers.

  They applauded, and two wreaths were produced and placed upon their heads.

  “Myrtle,” Isabelle said, giving his a quick look. “Sacred to Aphrodite, I believe.”

  “Of course.”

  Nothing else would suffice, then, but that a feast be thrown to celebrate the engagement of the two English—and the fact that the earthquake had passed with little damage and no lives lost.

  “I think the Greeks simply want an excuse to dance and drink and eat,” Mrs. Hodges said, though she did not sound particularly cross at the thought.

  A boat was sent to the Floramay to explain the situation, and the captain of the steamer gave his permission for a few of his passengers to remain onshore until later that evening.

  “We were scheduled to anchor here overnight, anyway,” Isabelle said. “So it’s not as though the itinerary is changing.”

  To Gavin’s surprise, Miss Primm and Miss Taylor ventured ashore to congratulate them. And if the governess looked a bit sour and Miss Taylor slightly teary eyed, well, that was not Gavin’s fault. He’d learned not to apologize or take responsibility for every expectation of matrimony slung in his direction.

  Will came ashore, too, of course, and could not help gloating.

  “Well done, old fellow,” he said, clapping Gavin on the shoulder. “I never thought you’d take a chance on Miss Strathmore, after your first impression, and look at you now! Engaged to be married. What’ve you done for a ring?”

  Blast.

  “I hadn’t planned to go quite this far,” Gavin said.

  “Harrumph.” Mrs. Hodges materialized at his side. “Gentlemen. Never ready. Here.”

  She thrust a small velvet bag into his hand.

  Blinking, Gavin peeked inside to see a silver band set with a single aquamarine. It was lovely in its simplicity, the gem nearly the color of Isabelle’s eyes.

  “It’s perfect,” he said. “But wherever did you get it?”

  “The market in Athens, yesterday.” Mrs. Hodges pursed her lips at him. “I could see you weren’t thinking, and someone had to. It’s the right size.”

  “Of course.” Gavin made her a bow. “I’m in your debt.”

  “Yes you are.” She poked him in the chest with her umbrella, punctuating each word. “And don’t forget it.”

  As she stumped off, Will
’s muffled laughter grew louder.

  “Oh, she’s a rare one, that companion,” he said. “If she were two decades younger, I’d marry her myself.”

  “You would not.” Gavin tucked the ring into his pocket. Some time that evening, he’d find the opportunity to slip it onto Isabelle’s finger.

  Throughout the feasting, and the dancing, and the drinking of ouzo, Gavin watched Isabelle carefully. She seemed to be recovering from her ordeal, the color returning to her cheeks, the bright spark to her eyes.

  Brighter, even, than before. The guarded wariness of her past had fallen away, scrubbed clean by the Mediterranean sea and Aphrodite’s blessing. Or perhaps Athena’s. In either case, he wasn’t going to argue, and drank a silent toast to each goddess, just to be sure.

  Much later, as the great bonfire on the beach burned down to embers and the festivities quieted, he strolled with Isabelle to where the inky waters lapped the shore.

  “I have a ring,” he said quietly.

  She gave him a surprised look, and he smiled, a little sheepishly.

  “Mrs. Hodges gave it to me,” he confessed, pulling it from his pocket.

  “She prides herself on being prepared,” Isabelle said. “Oh, it’s lovely.”

  She held her hand out, and he slid the ring onto her finger. As promised, it fit perfectly, the polished gemstone winking in the last firelight.

  They settled together in a warm hollow in the sand, and after several sweet, lingering kisses he tucked his soon-to-be bride close against him.

  “Isabelle,” he said, as the stars shone brilliantly overhead, bright myths whirling though the sky, “I promise that I will never lose you again.”

  And he never did.

  Click on the covers to visit Anthea’s Amazon author page:

  A USA Today bestselling author and two-time RITA nominee, Anthea Lawson was named “one of the new stars of historical romance” by Booklist. Her books have received starred reviews in Library Journal and Publishers Weekly. A Lord’s Chance is the newest novella in her Passport to Romance collection.

  Anthea lives with her husband and daughter in sunny Southern California, where they enjoy fresh oranges all winter long. In addition to writing historical romance, Anthea plays the Irish fiddle and pens bestselling, award-winning YA urban fantasy as Anthea Sharp.