Free Scandal's Daughter by Carola Dunn Page A

climbing a precipice suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the prospect of walking a tightrope between two precipices.
    “I cannot study it properly from above,” James Preston pointed out. “I would not want to start down a cliff without having some idea of what I’m going to find on the way, and at the bottom.”
    “No.” She looked again at the knife-edge ridge. The longer she gazed, the narrower it looked. “I can do it,” she said with grim determination, “but let us go now, before I have time to think about it.”
    “And before this breeze grows any stronger. If you have the slightest feeling you’re going to lose your balance, down on your knees and crawl. I shall, I promise.”
    The near end of the isthmus was below them. As they descended towards it, Cordelia saw it was nearer two feet wide than the six inches she had guessed. A perfectly adequate path—were it not for the drop on either side. If only she could traverse it with her eyes shut!
    Might James Preston allow her to hold onto his girdle?
    “You go first, this time,” he said, as promptly as if he had read her thoughts. “I want to be able to grab you if you falter.”
    That stiffened her spine. “I shan’t,” she snapped, and started across.
    For some distance the track continued downward. At the bottom, it narrowed to less than twelve inches. Cordelia hesitated. Then, feeling his critical eyes on her back, she marched on, her gaze glued to the ground before her feet, trying to ignore the void on either side.
    To her right, in the corner of her vision, a seagull floated by. Distracted, she saw the jumbled rocks far below, dark fangs hungrily waiting for her. Quickly looking the other way, she saw the dead goat, a horrid warning of the perils of overconfidence. A gust of wind caught at her kaftan.
    In an instant she dropped to her knees.
    “Thank heaven,” Preston remarked in a conversational tone. “Call it masculine vanity if you will, but I wasn’t going to go on hands and knees until you did. No, don’t look round. I assure you I’m right behind you, my nose to those charming ankles of yours.”
    Bristling, she held her tongue and crawled doggedly onward.
    The path widened as it began to rise. Soon Cordelia forced her weary limbs upright again. Then, miraculously, they were walking side by side.
    She stopped and stared back. “I cannot believe we crossed that.”
    “We did. But I’m afraid your bundle didn’t. The wind pulled at it and I had to let go. I’m sorry.”
    “It doesn’t matter.” Gazing down, she discovered it was true. The bundle had caught on some snag and ripped open. The scree slope about the goat’s pathetic carcase was strewn with clothes. Shifts and shawls, richly embroidered kaftans given her by the pasha and elegant, high-waisted gowns given her by the margrave. Another link in the chain of her past was broken. “No, it doesn’t matter.”
    Turning away, she found him regarding her with surprised approval, as though he had expected her to kick up a great fuss over her lost possessions. She frowned and quickly looked away, towards the village. The sun glinted on a gold cross where the dome and belfry of a small church stuck up among the low, rectangular cottages on the slopes above the harbour. A boat approached the quay, propelled by a man waggling a single oar at the stern. Bent black figures worked in the terraced, pocket-handkerchief fields, punctuated with the dark exclamation marks of slender cypresses.
    “The only thing is, what shall we say to the village people, arriving with nothing but the clothes on our backs?”
    “A good question.” As he spoke, he led the way along a goat path which seemed to lead in the right direction, though it wound about a good deal between fragrant myrtle bushes. “Not that the lack of luggage makes a great difference, but I’ve been pondering what tale to tell and still haven’t come up with a good answer.”
    “Then perhaps we should not try to