“Almost have it…” she muttered. Then she announced triumphantly, “There.”
She climbed down and laid the lamp on the counter between them. Christian recognized it at once. It was a small cylinder fashioned from hammered tin, tightly capped by a pleated metal disc and fitted with a long, tapered spout that stuck straight out. It looked like a rather like the head of a mismatched snowman. Smallish face, round hat, enormous carrot nose.
“A smuggler’s lantern,” he said.
She nodded. “I’m going to use it to guide you out of the cove. We’ll work out a system of signals. Otherwise, you’ll only wreck and founder again.”
Christian considered. That cove had more boulders than a shark had teeth. He had to acknowledge the cleverness of Violet’s idea, but… “I can’t let you take that risk. If we’re seen from the castle, the men might shoot.”
“The light won’t be seen from the castle bluffs. That’s the entire point of a smuggler’s lantern.”
“I know.” He picked the thing up and turned it round in his hands. The device was designed to throw a narrow, pinpoint beam of light out to sea. A signal someone on a passing ship might view, if he were looking for it—but one that couldn’t be seen by others on the shore. “Still, I don’t like the idea of you—”
“Christian, if I’m helping you escape, I’m going to truly help you. Not just bid you farewell and send you to your watery doom.”
“Thank you.” He put his hand over hers. “For not wishing me a watery doom. That alone is more than I deserve.”
In a brisk motion, she pulled her hand away. “I haven’t made up my mind on the rest of it yet.”
In the stillness, he gave voice to his worst fears. “You can’t forgive me. You won’t have me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She didn’t refute it, either. She simply went about filling the lantern’s small reservoir with fuel and preparing a wick.
In his chest, desperation tangled with despair.
“Damn it.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Why on earth would you have me? Just look at tonight. Once again, you’re risking your health and reputation for me, when I should be the one championing you. Fighting a duel to preserve your honor. Pulling you from a burning house. Rescuing your kitten. Something, anything, to prove myself. Instead, I’ve given you nothing but pain.”
She paused. “Well. You did save me from a fire once.”
He frowned. “I did? When was this?”
“I was eight. That would have made you…fourteen? It was an autumn night near All Hallows, and we girls tromped up to the garret with the idea to play fortuneteller. Surely you recall it?”
He did recall it, now that she painted the picture. The game had been the girls’ idea. His sister Annabel had always been close with Poppy Winterbottom, and the two of them let Violet join sometimes. Christian, as always, had been glad for the chance to make mischief. He and Frederick hid in the dormer window, laughing into their sleeves while the girls solemnly lit tapers and invoked the spirits of the beyond.
“I was already terrified just being there,” Violet said. “My nursemaid had told me so many dreadful stories about ghouls and beasties lurking in the attic. To warn me off exploring, I’m sure. And then Frederick, bless him, jumped out from behind that curtain…”
“Yes. I remember.”
Surprised, little Violet had shrieked and turned—and in so doing, whipped the fringe of her shawl straight through the candle flame. In a matter of moments, the cheap printed fabric had come ablaze. Fortunately, Christian had been in just the right position to yank loose the dormer draperies and smother the flames.
“If not for you, I could have been badly burnt,” she said. “As it was, I lost a good six inches off my braid. The house smelled of burnt hair for days. Oh, my parents were furious.”
“Your parents were furious?” Christian chuckled, recalling his blistered arse. “I ate all my meals standing for the following week.”
“I know.” Her voice turned pensive. “I know. And that’s what I never understood. It wasn’t your fault. You saved me, but you caught all the blame.”
“I took it readily.” He shrugged. “It truly was my fault. Everyone knew I was the mischief-maker. Frederick would have never been in that dormer at all, if not for me. And besides, I held up under a thrashing much better than he did.”
As he spoke of his brother, Christian’s throat swelled uncomfortably. His eyes began to itch. “Not that Frederick was weak, mind you. Not at all. He was brave and decent and…” He pounded the counter with the flat of his fist. “And so dashed good. It wasn’t the thrashing that hurt him so. He couldn’t abide having Father angry with him. I, on the other hand, was well accustomed to the feeling.” He gave her an ironic half-smile. “You know me, Violet. I’ve always been The Disappointment.”