Will Saunders leaned back against the rock wall of the Port of Gibraltar and closed his eyes. The warmth of the sun seeped deep into his bones. For all that he longed to return home to England, he knew it would be the warm weather of Europe he missed the most once he left.

All those long years spent in Paris as an undercover operative for His Majesty's government now seemed a lifetime ago.

Yet it was only last month that he had finally packed up his things, given notice to his landlady, Madame Dessaint and vacated his lodgings in Paris. Treating himself to a farewell tour of the now peaceful cities of lower France and Spain he planned for his journey to end with a boat trip back to London.

London.

He shivered at the prospect of facing the forthcoming English winter.

“Oh well it has to be,” he murmured. His fingers caressed the warm stone sea wall of the dock.

For five years he had been away. Years which had seen him change forever. The young man who had slipped into Paris in the summer of 1812 was long gone. Too self-assured bordering on arrogant, he had quickly learned the truth of life as a spy. Living on the knife's edge, knowing that at any moment there could be a knock at the door and his mortal existence would be at an end.

A spy's greatest hope was that when it did come, death would be quick. Only those whom fate had completely abandoned were faced with arrest and the inevitable journey to the scaffold and an audience with Madame Guillotine.

Will opened his eyes. The bright sun had him blinking hard to focus. He put a hand to his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart. He sighed, grateful that he, unlike so many others, had been fortunate enough to escape that terrible fate.

If the damp weather in England was the worst he had to deal with for the rest of his life, he would be blessed. He lifted his head from the wall and sat upright, before indulging in a long, tension releasing stretch.

The wind from the sea blew through his linen shirt and chilled his still damp skin. A short while earlier, he had taken a leisurely swim in the harbor. Seated now on an upturned wooden crate at the bottom of a series of steep stone steps he could hear the local Spanish traders as they beckoned for all comers to buy their wares at the Friday morning market which was taking place in the town square above.

He rummaged around in his leather satchel, which sat on the stone paving next to him, and pulled out a small knife and an orange which he had purchased earlier that morning in the market. After peeling off the dimpled skin of the succulent fruit, he stuffed a piece of the orange into his mouth. A smile crept to his lips as he relished the sweet citrus juice. With his thumb he wiped a stray trickle of juice from his lips.

“That is good,” he murmured.

Days from now he would be home in England, and back in the rarefied air of London high society. These simple days would be pleasant, but ever distant memories to cherish as he tried to re-establish himself within the haute ton.

Letters from his parents and family had offered all manner of assistance once he had made known his intention to return home permanently. His brother and sisters would no doubt make every effort to see him well set once more.

He missed his family. How much he missed them had been brought home during his brief summer visit back to London earlier that year.

Instinctively he reached for his left hand, his fingers searching for his wedding ring. They touched only skin, and the ridge where once a ring had been. He flinched momentarily before remembering his recent decision to take it off.

Yvette was dead.

Three years and eight months. He had stopped counting the days, but even now he was unsure as to whether he was truly ready to move on. To finally accept that his wife was gone. To allow the ghost of his guilt to rest in peace.

A movement on the horizon caught his eye. A ship which had left the nearby dockside only a short while earlier, turned portside. He recalled seeing the last of the ship’s passengers scramble on board the Blade of Orion. She was a sturdy, though not overly large sea going vessel. He sent a silent prayer to those on board, wishing them a safe journey. She was bound for Africa.

Only the brave and steady of heart made the perilous journey to Africa. Apart from the countries which bordered the Mediterranean Sea, the African continent was largely unknown. Many had left Europe seeking their fortunes in that vast land, only to be never heard from again. Africa was known as the white man’s graveyard with good reason.

He was about to turn away and put his boots and jacket back on when something else caught his attention.

He could see someone crawling along what appeared to be the raised gangplank of the ship. Will frowned at this rather dangerous occupation. The life of a sailor was fraught with peril. As he put a hand up to shade his eyes from the bright morning sun, he squinted to get a better look.

As the person reached the end of the gangplank they sat down. Will's breath caught in his throat at the sight of long skirts draped over the edge of the plank. It was not a sailor; it was a woman.

“What the devil are you up to?” he muttered.

The words had barely left his lips when to his horror, the woman dropped over the side of the ship and fell into the water below. She disappeared beneath the waves.

For a moment Will stood rooted to the spot, struck motionless as his brain struggled to accept what his eyes had just beheld. From where he stood, he could see no one else on board the ship had seen the woman fall.

The crew continued about their business of preparing and setting the sails, oblivious to the crisis which was unfolding. He frantically called out to the ship, but his voice was carried away on the wind.

The woman was now alone with her fate. Only he could possibly save her.

Coming to his senses he tossed away the remainder of his orange. He stripped off his shirt and flung it down on the stones. He hurried down to the edge of the dock. Reaching the water's edge, he dived in. Coming up for air, he began to swim toward the ship, praying against all hope that he could reach her before she drowned.

* * *

The impact of the water punched the air out of Hattie's lungs so hard that she feared she would lose consciousness. Salt water filled her mouth and eyes.

She flayed about for what seemed an eternity, bordering on the edge of panic as her limited vision filled with swirling skirts and foam. Finally, she caught a glimpse of light above her and realizing it was the sun began to swim toward the surface.

Breaking the surface of the water, she sucked in a huge lungful of air. Her momentary relief dashed by the sight of the ship which filled her entire vision.

Death stared her in the face. Even if she had been able to scream, no one could have heard her above the roar of the waves and the ship. Any moment now the ship's wake would pull her under and she would die.

“Dear lord,” she muttered.

She turned and began to frantically swim away, hoping against all hope that she could by some miracle survive.

She soon found the going to be tougher than she could ever have imagined. Hattie had never had to swim in boots and skirts before. The weight of her clothing threatened to overwhelm her efforts to make good her escape.

Lifting her head, a break in the waves afforded her a brief glimpse of the dockside. So tantalizingly close.

Get clear of the ship and then float. Come on Hattie, you are not done for yet. You shall not die this day.

Knowing that the greatest enemy of any swimmer was fatigue she rolled over onto her back and began to kick strongly away from the ship. Slowly, but surely, she gradually built a safe distance between her and certain death.

As the Blade of Orion slowly drew away, the first tangible sense of relief pricked her brain. Her drop over the side of the ship had gone unnoticed. No one up on deck was running about and pointing to her in the water.

Best of all she had survived. So far.

“Next time I jump over the side of a ship, I shall remove my boots first,” she chided herself.

With the ship now sailing away, she gathered her thoughts. Her first task was to make it to safety. She would deal with the rest of her predicament once she was back on dry land.

With her head pointed toward the town, continuing to swim on her back made sense. It allowed her legs to partly float and take some of the weight of her boots. Every so often, she would stop, turn around and once she had reconfirmed her bearings continue to swim toward the shore.

The rhythmic strokes of her arms helped to calm her panic. As she drew closer to the dockside, hope sparked in her heart.

“I'm going to make it,” she sobbed.

A scream erupted from her mouth a second later as a firm hand took hold of her downward descending arm.

She fought vainly against the stranger, but he was altogether too strong for her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward him. With her back against his chest he began to swim toward shore.

“Stop struggling or we shall both drown,” he bellowed at her above the noise of the waves.

She caught a glimpse of dark hair and a naked torso. Where had he come from?

The thought that only a lunatic would be out swimming in the middle of the bay briefly crossed her mind, but at that moment all that really mattered was that they were swimming toward land.

He was also right about not fighting him. If he was prepared to do the lion's share of the work then she stood a much better chance of making it safely to shore. Accepting his assistance, she relaxed against the stranger's chest and attempted to aid him in his endeavors by kicking as best as she could in her water-logged boots.

Working together they finally made it to the water's edge at the dockside. Several local dock hands came down and helped them both ashore.

As soon as her feet touched solid ground, Hattie's legs buckled from under her and she fell heavily to her knees. The soft flesh of her hands smacked hard against the stone paving of the dockside.

“Ooof,” she groaned.

Her dark-haired savior bent down and putting an arm around her waist, lifted her to her feet.

“Swimming in boots is never a good idea,” he said.

“No,” was all the reply she could muster.

With his arm still wrapped tightly around her waist, he guided her up a nearby short set of stone steps. The curious dock workers followed. Reaching the top, he sat her down upon an upturned wooden crate. He dropped down beside her. After reassuring the dock hands that the two of them were safe, he waved them away.

While she did not understand anything of the words the men were muttering as they headed back down the steps, Hattie suspected they were not kind. No one in their right frame of mind would willingly leap over the side of a ship.

From years spent listening to the firebrand preachers who visited her local church she knew the look and tone of disapproval well.

Women should be obedient, and know their place in the world.

She lifted her head and looked out to sea, just in time to see the Blade of Orion round the nearby head of the south mole of the harbor and disappear. Her head and shoulders slumped.

She was free.

“It's gone,” the stranger remarked.

He reached out and placed a comforting hand on her upper arm.

She flinched involuntarily, before remembering where she was.

“Thank you. That was an incredibly brave thing you did. I owe you the deepest debt of gratitude.”

“London?” came the reply.

Hattie turned to look at the stranger properly for the first time. Her heart which was only beginning to calm down from the strenuous swim, began to thump once more in her chest.

Dark hair. His sodden black trousers clung tight to his strong muscular body. No boots. No shirt.

She had never seen the fully naked upper torso of a man before, it left her breathless.

His gaze followed hers and a sheepish look of embarrassment appeared on his face.

“My apologies. I forgot about my attire. Now where did I leave my clothes?” he said.

He leaned over and picked up a bundle of cloth which lay nearby and after a brief struggle with it, managed to pull it over his head. The sleeves of what she now knew to be a shirt proved to be a more difficult proposition. After several unsuccessful attempts to put his arms into the damp twisted sleeves, Hattie was forced to render assistance.

“Here let me help you,” she said.

If the stranger had thought that by donning his shirt he would add a little modesty to the situation, he had not counted on what the linen would do once it touched his wet body. The shirt quickly stuck to him, affording Hattie a second look at his hard, masculine body.

Her quiet appreciation of his body was interrupted when the remains of the seawater which had lodged in the back of her throat shifted and quickly brought on a violent bout of coughing.

Finally, she heaved and the rest of the vile seawater came up from her stomach and was deposited on the flat stone ground. She got to her feet. The stranger followed suit. Her patient rescuer gently rubbed her back.

“Come on cough it all up. If you don’t you will be laid up in a sick bed by the end of the day,” he said.

Finally, she held up a hand. The spasms were gone and she could breathe deeply once more.

“Thank you,” she said.

He stepped away and stood silently looking at her, eventually drawing her gaze to his face.

The words handsome devil immediately sprang to Hattie's mind. A devil with grey eyes of a shade she had never seen before. In the bright light of the sun, she thought them almost silver. Then he blinked and when she looked once more she saw there was a warmth and softness about them.

“What did you say?” she stammered.

“I said to get all that sea water out of your stomach,” he replied.

“No before that.”

“I said London. Not quite Park Lane, but at least west of Covent Garden. I have a particular talent for picking accents.”

Hattie shivered. The wind blowing through her wet clothes was mostly to blame, but something else stirred within her. With the Blade of Orion now out of sight, the gravity of her situation hit hard. She put a trembling hand to her chest. Her situation was perilous.

She was over a thousand miles from home, with no possessions and no money. Her parents and fiancé were bound for Sierra Leone, oblivious to the fact that she was no longer on board the ship. And yet here she was, standing with a stranger, discussing the intricacies of her provenance.

“Oh, dear god, what have I done?” she muttered.

Will stepped forward and after placing a gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder posed the obvious question.

“May I ask you something?” he said.

This man had just risked his life to swim out into the harbor and rescue her. Of course, he had questions.

“Yes?”

"I won't attempt to judge; I just need to know if what just happened out there in the harbor was an accident or if you intended to jump from the ship.”

Hattie winced. Lying was not something which came naturally to her.

“I jumped,” she replied.

“I thought so. I was watching you before you fell and it didn't look from where I sat that it was an accident. Your movements seemed quite deliberate in the minute or so before you went over the side. So, may I now ask why you jumped?”

She met his gaze. His grey eyes held a kindness which beckoned to her. Made her want to reveal her deepest inner thoughts to him. Only to him. A man whose name she didn't even know made her want to share all the secrets and dreams she kept hidden from the world.

And what was the truth? That Harriet Imogen Margaret Wright who had been a dutiful, obedient daughter all her life had suddenly been possessed of the overwhelming need to seize her own future. That she had taken a literal leap into the unknown.

A small spark in the back recesses of her mind gave her pause. She could sense that beneath his veneer of kindness, he hid a strength of will. If he chose to wield that will against her, it could easily overpower her own.

Having only just been saved from a possible watery grave, she was in no mood to tempt fate twice. Yet his question demanded an answer.

What then was she to tell him?

“My name is Sarah Wilson,” she replied.

The real Sarah Wilson, her maid was still on board the ship. But since her maid had eagerly signed up to become part of the mission to Africa, there was little chance she would be suddenly appearing on anyone's doorstep to poke holes in Hattie's story.

“I was engaged to be married. My fiancé told me we were going on a trip to Spain, and it was only when we got to Gibraltar that he told me we were headed to Africa. I tried to reason with him, but he became unkind,” she added.

Shut up Hattie. Don’t make the lie any bigger than it needs to be.

“I see. And that is why you jumped overboard?”

She nodded. Keeping her mouth shut was the best thing she could do right now. Lies were hard enough if you had been granted time to come up with a convincing one. Making things up as she went along made the task nigh on impossible.

He remained silent for a moment. Hattie could almost hear his brain processing her words. He turned away, and with his hands clasped behind him, he looked out into the harbor in the direction of where the Blade of Orion had gone.

A chill of recollection slid down her spine. The memory of watching her father standing looking out the window of his study the moment before he suddenly announced her engagement to the Reverend Peter Brown crashed through her mind. At this moment, she wished she could be back home in England and in her father's study. Anywhere but here.

The stranger turned and faced her. She pushed the image of her father from her mind.

There was a kindness in the stranger’s countenance which she had not seen in her father for a long time. Unlike her father, she sensed this was a man she could reason with to have her voice heard. A man she could trust.

“Do you know anyone in Gibraltar?” he asked.

Hattie shook her head. She knew few people outside of London, let alone England.

“William Saunders at your service Miss Wilson,” he said, adding a graceful bow.

He offered her his hand and she was compelled to take it. For someone who had just been in the cold sea, his hands were surprisingly warm. Yet, she shivered at his touch.

She shivered a second time before letting out a loud sneeze. A flash of dismay passed over Will’s face.

“There is little point in me helping to save your life, if I let you sit here and catch your death of cold. You must come back with me to my hotel and get those clothes dried off.”

He tightened his grip of her hand, revealing his offer to be more of a command. The recklessness of her actions now laid themselves open to her sight. She was alone in a foreign country; and within minutes of leaving the protection of her family she was being asked to accompany a man back to his hotel. Tears pricked her eyes. How long would it be before something terrible befell her? Before she was utterly ruined.

She tore her hand from his grasp.

“I don't think that is a very good idea Mr. Saunders, we have only just met. I am from a respectable family, and as such you must understand that I am not the sort of girl who goes anywhere with a strange man,” she replied.

Will softly chuckled. “I've oft considered myself a little odd, but never strange. Though my sister Eve may have something else to say about the matter.”

He walked over to a nearby leather satchel and after rummaging around in it, pulled out a card. He handed it to her.

Mr. William Saunders Esq, 28 Dover Street, London it read.

As Hattie read the card, relief flooded her heart. She knew of the Saunders family; they were very respectable members of the ton. Her mother had attended several functions at the Saunders’ house in Dover Street. She had met Evelyn Saunders the year of her coming out, but could not recall an older brother. The family were connected to the Duke of Strathmore. Rich and powerful.

If this gentleman was indeed William Saunders, then she was as likely to be safe with him as anyone else. He would understand the predicament she was in and the risk to which her reputation was currently faced. A small mercy had been bestowed.

“You live in London?” she asked.

“As of next week, yes. That's my father's house, where I shall be residing until I can secure a new abode for myself. I have lived abroad for the past few years,” he replied.

“I assure you Miss Wilson you shall be perfectly safe with me. As a gentleman it is my duty to take care of young ladies such as yourself and make sure they come to no harm. Let me at least escort you back to my hotel and see that you are settled.”

Hattie looked once more at Will's calling card. It was not as if she had a lot of other options to call upon. Beggars were not offered the luxury of choice. She offered him her hand.

“We need to get you into some warm dry clothes and soon, your hands are like ice,” he said.