There were five paths, including the one they’d just arrived on, radiating from the stone platform.
“We’ve just left the Garden of Apollo. That path”-Jacqueline pointed to the next path on the higher side of the platform-“leads back to the house via the Gardens of Poseidon and Venus. The next also leads back to the house, but through the Gardens of Diana, Athena and Artemis-we’ll go back that way later. The next path”-she pointed to one heading up the southern ridge-“initially goes through a portion of the Garden of Mars, but then forks-you can head back to the house via the Garden of Diana, or go farther down the valley through the Gardens of Hermes and Vulcan. Which brings us to the path we’ll take, heading down to the cove.”
She led the way; Gerrard followed, taking her elbow to steady her down the steps. She glanced briefly at him, then looked ahead. “Thank you.”
Once on the path, he released her. They waited until the others joined them, then Jacqueline turned and walked on. “This is the Garden of Mars. Although everyone knows him as the god of war, most gods have multiple, often contradictory faces, so Mars is also the god of fertility and farming, especially of all things that grow in the spring.”
The beds they were passing were full of plants that had flowered and now carried seed pods of every description.
“Your relative, whoever he was, was quite inventive in choosing his gods.” Hands in his pockets as he ambled beside her, Gerrard added the questions of how Jacqueline’s mother had died, and why Jacqueline disliked the Garden of Night, to his growing list.
“My great-great-great-grandfather started it, my great-great-grandfather completed the design, but the planting wasn’t complete until my great-grandfather’s time.”
They walked on, Jacqueline naming the gardens as they went, describing the association of each with the god for whom the area was named. They descended through the Garden of Persephone, goddess of plenty, lying below the dark mass of the Garden of Hades, her husband, lord of the underworld. The path led them to the lowest of the viewing platforms, a wooden one giving an excellent view of the narrow cove filled with rocks on which the waves crashed, then slowly, sussuratingly, receded.
The platform sat squarely at the intersection of four paths. The one leading to the shore wended through a landscape comprised of plants with unusual leaves or strange shapes. “The Garden of Neptune, god of the sea. The plants were chosen because they look like various seaweeds, or suggest another world.”
They all stood at the balustrade, drawn to the view of the sea, gentle today yet the waves still rolled in. Gulls wheeled on the updrafts rising up the cliffs to the right, their screeching a sharp counterpoint to the rumble and whoosh of the waves. To the left, the cove was bound by a rocky outcrop, the extreme seaward section of which consisted of a single, massive boulder.
“Here comes a big wave.” Barnaby pointed.
Gerrard looked; from the corner of his eye he saw Jacqueline glance at him, caught the curving of her lips…now what?
A sudden roaring sound reached them; before they could react, a spout of water exploded upward from the center of the massive rock.
Gerrard stared.
Barnaby grabbed his arm. “Good Lord! It’s a blowhole!”
They both turned to Jacqueline. Smiling, she nodded. “It is indeed a blowhole-known as Cyclops, of course.”
“Of course!” Barnaby’s face was alight.
“What you just witnessed was a mild eruption. Every day as the tide comes in, there’s a time when every fourth wave or so sends up a huge fountain. During king tides, the height and amount of water thrown out is simply amazing.”
“Does the path lead down to it?” Gerrard asked.
“Yes, but it doesn’t go onto Cyclops, the rock, itself-it’s too dangerous. The surface is perennially slippery, and the sea’s quite deep just there. The currents are very strong, and, of course, if anyone ever got sucked into the blowhole, they’d be smashed against the rocks inside.”
He glanced at her. “Can we go closer?”
Her smile deepened. “I was planning to. Beyond Cyclops, the path curves around and heads back to the house.”
Jacqueline started down the steps onto the last path. Gerrard moved to follow her.
“Jacqueline, dear, I’ll wait for you here.”
With Jacqueline, Gerrard turned to look back at Millicent. She smiled gamely at them. “While I’m certain I have enough stamina to return to the house from here, going down that last stretch might just be too much.”
“Oh…all right. We’ll just go down and come back.”
Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, still on the platform beside Millicent.
“Actually,” Barnaby said, “I have a better idea. You said that path curves around-does it meet this one?” He pointed to the path to his left.
Jacqueline frowned lightly. “Yes, they converge in the Garden of Vulcan just below the south ridge. From there, the path leads through the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, to the upper viewing platform, the only one we’ve yet to visit.”
Barnaby turned to Millicent. “Why don’t we head that way, taking in the sights at our leisure, and these two can go down and view Cyclops, then join us at the upper platform?”
“But don’t you wish to view Cyclops from closer range?” Millicent asked.
“I do.” Barnaby smiled, distinctly devil-may-care; he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I would prefer to get closer than Miss Tregonning would probably think wise, and I would be loath to argue with such a charming hostess.” He flashed his irrepressible smile at Jacqueline. “I’ll come back later.”
Jacqueline looked uncertain.
“Go on.” Barnaby waved them on. “I’ll stroll with Miss Tregonning and enjoy the sylvan delights.” So saying, he offered Millicent his arm. Surrendering, she took it and allowed him to lead her up the other path.
Jacqueline stood watching, frowning.
Gerrard waited for a moment, then touched her arm. “Shall we?”
She didn’t jump, but when she turned her head and her eyes met his, they were a fraction wide. “Yes, of course.”
She sounded a touch breathless. Side by side, they walked down the sloping path. His latest questions burned in his brain, but he decided to ask someone else-possibly Millicent-about Jacqueline’s mother rather than put his foot wrong with her. As for her reaction to the Garden of Venus, he wasn’t yet sure what that was, but she’d said they would pass it on their way back-time enough to probe then.
They rounded the last bend in the path; the breeze off the waves hit them, and snatched at her parasol. She quickly furled it; he waited while she secured it, then offered his arm. “It’ll be safer if you hold on to me.”
She drew in a breath, then slid her hand around his elbow, laying her fingers on his sleeve. Sensing her uncertainty, he didn’t draw her close, but now they were in the open, the breeze shrieked about them, plastering her dress to her figure, tugging at her skirts. She really would be safer clinging to him, taking refuge in his windshadow.
He wished she would. Most young ladies would unhesitatingly seize the opportunity; instead, she struggled to walk by his side and keep a decorous distance between them. Despite his unwanted sexual awareness of her, still notably high, her caution rankled.
They reached the line of rocks above the sloping shore. At the southern end of the cove, the massive bulk of Cyclops rose from the waves, its seaward faces cloaked in spume and spray.
Gerrard squinted. “Is that a ledge running around it?”
“Yes.” Jacqueline raised her voice over the crash of the waves. “It’s terribly dangerous, as you can see. At neap tide, you can follow the ledge all the way around and into the blowhole chamber itself, but at most times, the waves are too high, and the footing far too treacherous.”
He stepped off the edge of the path to get a better view. Bracing one booted leg against a large rock, he studied the outcrop, noting the proportions. “I’ll have to come down at sunset. Or sunrise. Or perhaps we’ll have a storm?” He wanted to see more variations of light on Cyclops, and more movement about it, too.
Pushing back from the rock, he straightened and turned.
Only to discover Jacqueline had leaned toward him, fighting to hold back her hair with one hand.
They were suddenly very close, their faces only inches apart. Her eyes widened. Her lips were parted; she’d leaned close to say something.
Their eyes locked. Looking into hers, into the moss-agatey depths, he realized she’d forgotten what she’d been about to say.
Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. Soft, intensely feminine, shaped for passion, and mere inches away.
As was her body, those delectable breasts and elementally female curves. All he had to do to bring her against him was tip her to him, or take half a step more.
The impulse to do so was nearly overpowering; only the thought that she might panic held him back. Yet the allure of those lips, the desire to taste them, to raise his hands, frame her face and angle it up so his lips could cover hers and he could learn…
His gaze lowered to where the pulse beat wildly at the base of her throat, then lowered further, to her breasts, high, full…frozen. She wasn’t breathing.
Forcing his gaze up, he met her eyes, and read in them how shocked, stunned and uncertain she was-how out of her depth she was.
He couldn’t take advantage of such innocence, such clear and open naïveté. She might be twenty-three, but she had no idea what this was.
She’d clearly had no experience with desire, much less lust.
Taking a firm grip on his own, he grasped her arm, and gently moved her back so he could step up onto the path.
“Ah…” Jacqueline blinked and looked around; she fixed on Cyclops. “I was going to ask…”
She dragged in a huge breath, and grabbed hold of her wayward wits. Keeping her gaze on the huge rock, she battled to steady her giddy head and ignore the man by her side. “I was about to ask about Mr. Adair. He wouldn’t be so reckless as to try to explore Cyclops, would he?”
When her companion didn’t immediately reply, she glanced briefly at him, ready to be mortified if he said anything about that fraught moment an instant ago.
Instead, he was looking, not at her, but at Cyclops. Retaking her arm, he urged her on; hesitantly, trying not to notice the sensations his touch evoked, she fell into step once more beside him.
“Barnaby’s insatiably curious, but not rashly so-not to the point of endangering himself. He might be many things, incorrigible and impossible to restrain at times, but he’s not stupid.”
“I didn’t mean to imply he is,” she hurried to say. “But…well, you know.” She gestured. “Young men and their follies and reckless ways.”
He looked at her then. She met his eyes-and realized they were warm, that his lips had eased, fractionally curving-that he was genuinely amused, not trying to be charming.
His natural smile was more potent than he knew.
“Young men,” he repeated, then quietly said, “Neither Barnaby nor I are that young.”
His eyes held hers for an instant, then his gaze lowered to her lips, then dropped away as he looked ahead.
They walked five paces before she remembered how to breathe.
Foolish, foolish, foolish! She had to overcome this ridiculous sensitivity that he, somehow, triggered. She might have led a quiet country life, but she’d attended country assemblies aplenty and she’d never-not ever-responded to a gentleman-to the man, to his presence-as she did to Gerrard Debbington.
It was nonsense-her reaction made no sense at all.
She had to, was determined to, overcome it, and if she couldn’t do that, then she’d ignore it, certainly hide it so he got no inkling of her witless sensibility.
After that moment on the shore, ignoring all he made her feel seemed eminently wise.
The path led them around the edge of Cyclops, some distance back from the blowhole itself. Gerrard paused at the point where the path rose; looking down on the rock, they could see the hole clearly. A muffled rumbling reached them, then a small spout of water gushed up through the hole.
“The tide’s turning,” she said, and moved on.
He followed, his long fingers still wrapped about her elbow; she didn’t shake free, didn’t want to call attention to her awareness of his touch.
Yet she was aware-to her bones aware-of the latent strength not just in his fingers but in the lean, hard body keeping pace so close beside her.
Once they’d left Cyclops, the delights of the Garden of Vulcan, with its fiery red and orange flowers and bronze foliage, followed in turn by the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, the former dotted with ornamental stone cairns, the latter incorporating a small wood that was home to a herd of deer, gave her fodder enough to distract him. And herself.
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