CHAPTER 1
May 1818
Juleshead Village
North Cornwall, England
“We shall get murdered for this.” Frigid water numbed her legs as Meg Foxcroft abandoned the rowboat and plunked knee-deep into moonlit water. She laughed, out of breath from the shocking cold, as she waded for the rocky shore. “Hurry up!”
“Not sure what it matters now.”
“It happens to matter a great deal. It is dreadful enough I have lost my shoes, let alone the hour.” Before she could scamper up the rocks, his freckled hands snatched her waist. They pulled her back. “Tom—”
“Let him grumble.”
“You are not the one who shall be forced to endure scolding an entire fortnight.” A wave swayed them back and forth, seeping the water higher up her dress, more evidence that would be impossible to hide from Uncle. “Now let go of me, you terrible fool.”
“I wouldnae call terrible the hands that hold yer life, lass.” He dragged her deeper and she squealed.
“You would not dare—”
“Recant yer words.”
“Tom!”
“Do it or down ye go.”
“You are every ounce of absurdity. If I should come dragging home in the middle of the night, drenched without nary a stocking, he shall accuse us to no end and the village shall murmur for weeks.”
With a roaring laugh, he dunked her beneath the water, coldness engulfing her the same time her heartbeat thrummed in a mix of delight and fury. She broke the surface with a gasp, swiveled in his arms, raised a hand to slap him.
But he caught her fingers, as he always did, and his lips crashed into hers. Surprise jolted her. He tasted of salt and power and unbearable sweetness, like the confections Uncle was always warning would make her sick. Her chest hammered. Her mind swam—smoothly, softly, like the waves they stood in—until the only thing she understood was the red stubble on his cheeks, the tickle of wet hair on the back of his neck, the familiar firmness of his muscled arms.
“Yeare the one who is impossible.” He pulled back too soon and did as she’d asked.
As if she truly wanted to go home.
As if she ever did.
Silhouetted vessels bobbed on the water, and the foggy night breeze smelled of fish and sea and distant chimney smoke. She wrung out the skirt of her dress, then her hair, while he yanked off his dripping linen shirt and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Ready?”
She nodded, but she wasn’t. His fingers laced with hers. In the shadow of warehouses and decaying buildings and quiet alleys, they slipped through the village with neither lantern nor shoes, the cobblestones gritty against her feet.
In the morning, Uncle would tell her how many shillings a new pair would cost. He would ask how she could be so reckless and where she had lost them, but she wouldn’t tell him the sea had stolen them away.
Or that she had slipped into the night again with Tom.
That they had taken out the fishing boat.
That they’d found a quiet shore somewhere, built a sand cottage in the moonlight, laughed so hard her stomach hurt, watched the stars, lost time.
Uncle wouldn’t understand.
Neither did anyone else.
But the night held things no one could see in the day. This was theirs, forbidden or not—and though people whispered now, one day she and Tom McGwen would build a cottage not made of sand. She’d plant lilac bushes outside the windows, and he would paint the outside a bright and brilliant red. They wouldn’t run about barefoot anymore. No one would call him “Tom boy” nor her an unruly hoyden.
