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When he finally stopped and hung there, treading water, blinking against the salt in his eyes, the skiff was a child’s toy in the distance. Quin turned on to his back and began to swim towards it, eyes open and staring up into the perfect blue of the sky, marred only by the occasional white dot of a wheeling gull.
He let his thoughts free again to run over what had happened, as he might have probed an aching tooth with his tongue, braced for the stab of pain. He was the wrong man for that mission into the desert. Or, perhaps, simply the wrong man for Cleo. She would have been better with some swashbuckling romantic who would have carried her off without a thought for her father’s fate, fallen head over heels for her and brought her to her grandfather with some impassioned declaration of love.
What she had got was a man determined to catch a spy, if he existed—cross off item number one in notebook—and to deliver Miss Woodward as a neatly wrapped parcel to the duke—item number two on the list—before proceeding with the next well-planned phase of his life: marriage—item three.
The neatly wrapped parcel had come badly unwrapped. The memory of undressing Cleo disturbed the even rhythm of his stroke to the extent that he swallowed sea and stopped to tread water and recover. She was too intelligent, too unconventional and too...Cleo. He liked her when she wasn’t driving him to thoughts of drink or murder. He was certainly in lust with her.
Quin floated on his back and contemplated where that left him. At arm’s length from Cleo, that’s where, contemplating the nightmare she’s going to be for her grandfather and thanking my lucky stars she will cease to be my problem the moment I hand her over.
He turned over and struck out hard for the skiff. Time to get back to the boat and back to normal. When he hauled himself back on board he scrubbed himself dry with the cotton trousers, pulled on the galabeeyah and settled back to enjoy the journey back to the harbour.
The sun shone, the sea was calm, he had a plan. Why, then, was he feeling so damnably blue-devilled? Because I have justified deceiving her, of course. Because I have chosen duty and ambition over desire and friendship and romantic wrong-headedness.
Chapter Seventeen
‘What is wrong?’ Maggie asked from her perch on the bottom of her bed where she was rolling pairs of stockings together.
‘Quin.’ The mixture of anger and passion on top of too many apricot pastries and the tension of the fight in the town had left Cleo’s stomach churning.
‘He seduced you? What was it like? I should imagine he is magnificent in bed.’
‘No, he did not seduce me. I told him I wanted to make love.’
Maggie peered at her. ‘Surely it wasn’t a disappointment?’
‘He made love to me and it was wonderful. But he would not allow me to make love to him.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘He didn’t really want me, I suppose. Or his wretched sense of honour is more important. Or perhaps simply his common sense. But if course, being a gentleman, he obliges a lady,’ Cleo said with an exaggerated drawl. ‘And it stops him having to listen to me talking about what I want to do when we get to England, having to hear about all the unsuitable, unladylike things that are important to me.’ She shifted so she could curl her arms around her legs and rest her chin on her knees. ‘When I realised, we had a row. Or I tried to have a row, he just looked down that aristocratic nose of his and maintained a dignified silence while I ranted at him.’
‘Where is he now?’
Cleo shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you think he knows how you feel about him?’ Maggie stuffed the stockings in a bag and hung it on a nail on the bulkhead.
‘I made no secret of it. He would have to be very dense indeed to miss it. And whatever else he is, his lordship is not stupid.’
‘No, I don’t mean that you are angry with him,’ Maggie said in a tone of exaggerated patience. ‘Does he know you are in love with him?’
Cleo found her mouth was open and she closed it with a snap, then tried to laugh. ‘Of all the ridiculous...’ She stopped and thought. ‘Oh, no. I am, I love him. I hadn’t realised. How awful.’ And that is why I ache inside. I love him.
‘Why? He’s handsome, a gentleman, intelligent... He would make a fine husband.’
‘Husband! As if I wanted one of those.’ Brave words, Cleo, she mocked herself. If he asked you, you would say Yes without a moment’s thought even though it is completely impossible. ‘And besides, he has his eye on some titled lady who will be the perfect wife for a diplomat and she has a papa with money and influence. Why would he want me?’ Why, indeed? He has just made it very clear he doesn’t even want to make love with me.
