own faith had faltered. And he was a warrior just as Roland had been. Even though England was now at peace, there were still rumbles of discontent on the Continent. Napoleon had been exiled to Saint Helena, ten thousand miles from Sanctuary Bay, but he had escaped banishment once. If he did again, the war might flair up anew, and any man who answered the call to battle might not come back.
Just as Roland had not.
She must guard her heart as closely as the king’s soldiers watched over Napoleon on that speck of an island in the South Atlantic. Risking it again for a soldier would be stupid. She could enjoy Mr. Bradby’s company and his jokes, but nothing more.
It was a good plan, and it allowed her to smile when he stepped into the carriage. He closed the door and gestured toward the empty space beside her.
“May I?” he asked as the coachee set the carriage in motion.
She nodded. Stick to your plan, she reminded herself.
“First,” she said, “we must stop for Vera, then go to the shore at the foot of the village.”
“Down that steep, steep, steep and twisting, twisting, twisting street?” He gave an emoted groan and stretched his arm along the back of the seat.
“It is not the going down that bothers most folks, though I would never suggest we take a carriage down that steep street. It is the walking back up.”
“Either way is bad. Whoever decided to put a village on the side of a curving cliff must have enjoyed seeing people suffer.”
Catherine laughed at his droll expression. His eyes twinkled when he smiled more broadly. As he continued to joke, she matched him jest for jest. Soon both of them were laughing so hard that Catherine had to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes before the chill wind froze them there.
The journey across the ridge and back toward the church near the top of the sea cliffs went so quickly that Catherine was astonished. Usually she was impatient during the ride that could take an hour or more. With Mr. Bradby entertaining her with witticisms, the time had rushed past.
The carriage slowed to a stop in front of the flint vicarage half-hidden behind the squat stone church. Small windows were set deep into the walls, and the wooden door was in the need of paint. Nothing near the shore could keep paint on for very long, because the salt on the wind scoured it off like pots being scrubbed in the scullery.
Mr. Bradby assisted Catherine out, but did not hold her hand any longer than propriety allowed.
Catherine knocked on the vicarage’s door, then wrapped her arms around herself as a gust of wind sifted through her coat and scarf. Maybe going to the beach today was not such a good idea. She hoped the high cliffs edging the bay would lessen the wind along the shore.
A curtain shifted in the nearby window, and Catherine saw her friend’s face. Moments later, the door opened.
“Come in, come in,” Vera called in her cheerful voice. “Mr. Bradby! I hadn’t heard that you had returned to Sanctuary Bay. Do watch your head.”
Catherine knew the warning was not for her. She was short enough so the low rafters in the vicarage’s ceiling presented no problem for her. Though her tall sister Sophia’s head just cleared them, Mr. Bradby had to duck. Even so, his shoulder bumped a hanging lamp, sending light and shadows ricocheting around the room. Comfortable, well-worn furniture along with stacks and stacks of books and papers were lit, then lost again to the shadows.
He reached out to steady the lamp and apologized. “Sorry.”
“Think nothing of it,” Vera said as she retrieved her coat. “I keep asking my brother to move it, but though his intentions are good, the needs of the parish always demand every moment of his time.”
“Vera,” Catherine said, “I would be glad to send someone to handle small tasks like that for you.”
“I know, but I never think of it until someone hits the lamp.”
“If you would like,” Mr. Bradby said, “I can move it for you. All I need is a hammer, if you have one.”
“I do.” Vera dimpled before she disappeared past a curtain hanging in a doorway. Even before it stopped rippling, she pushed back into the room. “Here you go.”
Mr. Bradby removed his gloves and stuffed them into his greatcoat’s pocket. He took the hammer in one hand as he lifted the lamp off its hook with the other. When he offered the lamp to Catherine, he jerked his fingers back as a spark jumped between them.
“Ouch!” they said at the same time.
He grinned. “Warn me next time before you decide to play flint to my steel, Miss Catherine.”
Warmth climbed her face. She hoped it was from the fire on the nearby hearth and not from a blush. She moved out of the way as Mr. Bradby made quick work of removing the hook that had held the lamp and then hammered it back into the spot over a pair of chairs that Vera pointed to. He held out his hand for the lamp, and Catherine gave it to him, taking care not to let his fingers graze hers again.
He smiled as he hung it, holding his hand under it until he was sure it was secure. “There. Better?”
“Mr. Bradby, you are clearly a man of many talents,” Vera gushed as she took the hammer and set it on the kitchen table beside a piece of paper with her brother’s name on it. Vera always let her brother know where she was going and when she expected to return.
He wove his fingers together and pressed them outward before bowing toward her. “I appreciate your commendation, Miss Fenwick.”
“Thank you so much for helping. You most definitely are a hero of the first color.”
Catherine saw a ruddy tint rising up the back of his neck. She had not guessed that Vera’s compliment would put him to the blush. Hoping to ease his discomfort, she hurried to say, “We should not delay any longer, if we want to find the mermaid tears before the tide starts coming back in.”
“An excellent idea,” Vera said.
“Ah, that steep hill.” Mr. Bradby’s grumble set them all to laughing.
Catherine’s eyes were caught by his, and she saw his gratitude in them. She was unsure why, but asking might be the most want-witted thing she could do.
* * *
Jonathan was pleased that the wind was not as vicious along the shore. It was blocked by the high cliffs and the houses clinging to the ess-shaped street that dropped down through the village. Waves thundered against the stones at the bottom of the street, and melting snow made rivulets down the cliffs to pool on the sand. The fishermen’s deep boats, which were called cobles, had been pulled out of the tide’s reach, their single rudder tilted up to keep it out of the water and sand. Fishing nets were draped over every surface, even hanging from the cliffs where the water from the beck oozed out where the small stream had been redirected under the houses.
He nodded toward the fishermen who were mending their nets and cleaning their boats. Gulls hopped around and soared overhead on the sea wind, waiting for any morsel of fish they could snatch. When one of the fishermen dunked a rag in the small stream of water emerging from under the nets and flowing into the sea, Jonathan wondered exactly where it ran beneath the village. He remembered learning on his last visit that the beck, which is what the locals called a stream, had been built over in order to allow for more houses in the crowded village. He also recalled the elder Miss Meriweather’s dismay at the thought of investigating the waterway, because it was rumored there was also a passage the smugglers used for moving their illegal wares.
“Don’t you find it curious,” he asked quietly, “that everyone knows there must be a tunnel near here but everybody acts as if it does not exist?”
Miss Fenwick clamped her lips closed as her gaze shifted to the fishermen.
Cat said only, “I do not have to see something to know it is there.”
“So