Free Secret Harbor by Barbara Cartland

she had come home she was no longer worried or afraid.
    When the soup was finished Jean brought them lobsters cooked with butter. They had obviously been swimming in the sea an hour or so earlier and Grania suspected they came from their own lobster-pots which had always been set in the bay when her mother was at home.
    However she asked no questions, only ate eagerly because the lobsters were so tender and delicious and the salad which went with them was different from anything she had eaten while she was in London.
    There was cheese and a bowl of fruit to follow the meal, but Grania could eat no more, so she and the Comte sat back and sipped their coffee.
    Then at last the silence was broken, even though she thought they had been communicating with each other without words.
    “If this is the life of a pirate,” she said, “I think I shall b ecome one.”
    “This is the moment,” the Comte said, “when a pirate rests with his Lady and forgets the danger, the uncertainty and the discomfort of travelling over the face of the earth.”
    “At the same time it must be exciting. You are free to go where you want, to take orders from nobody, and to live on your wits.”
    “As you have already said I am sensible and practical,” the Comte replied. “I want security, a wife and children, but that is something I can never have.”
    He spoke as if he was telling her something of infinite importance, but because she felt suddenly shy she did not look at him, but picked up her spoon to stir her coffee, although there was no need for it.
    “A pirate’s life is certainly no life for a woman,” the Comte went on, as if he was following his own train of thought.
    “But if there is no alternative?” Grania enquired.
    “There is always an alternative to every situation,” he replied firmly. “I could give up my piracy, but then I, and the people who are with me, would starve.”
    There was silence—a silence that seemed full of meaning before the Comte said quickly:
    “But why do we not talk of things that are interesting? Of books and pictures? Our different languages? And I have a great desire to hear you speak French.”
    “You may think I speak it badly,” Grania replied in French.
    “Your accent is perfect!” he exclaimed. “Who taught you?”
    “My mother, and she was taught by a true Parisian.”
    “That is obvious.”
    “I also had lessons when I was at School in England,” Grania explained, “although French was unpopular, and they were surprised that I should want to learn such a ‘fiendish’ language spoken by the people who were killing their own kin.”
    “I can understand that,” the Comte said. “But even though the English are at war with my country at the moment, I still want to learn to speak like an Englishman.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it might come in useful.”
    “Your English is very good except for a few words which you mispronounce and you sometimes put the stress on the wrong syllable.”
    The Comte smiled.
    “Very well,” he said. “When we are together I will correct you, and you will correct me. Is that a deal?”
    “Yes, of course,” Grania replied, “and to be fair we must d ivide our time together talking partly in English and partly in French, and there must be no cheating.”
    The Comte laughed. Then he said:
    “It will be interesting to see who will be the better pupil, and I have the feeling, Grania, that because you are more sensitive than I am you will take the prize.” Grania noticed that he called her by her Christian name and once again he read her thoughts as he said: “I cannot go on calling you ‘My Lady’ when already we know each other too well to be conventional.”
    “We only met this morning.”
    “That is not true,” he replied. “I have known and admired you, and talked to you for many nights, and your image has stayed with me during the day.”
    The way he spoke made her blush again and she felt the colour burning its way up to her