“When the wind drops and we can make our way to the French coast, I have been thinking that if we overshoot Le Havre, which is likely, then I may have to take you as far as Bordeaux.”
“Are you sailing through the Bay of Biscay?” Ola enquired.
“I am going to the Mediterranean,” the Marquis replied. “From there I thought I would put into Nice.”
He spoke almost as if he was talking to himself, then, as he saw the expression on Ola’s face, he realised that he had made a mistake.
He had no intention in any circumstances of keeping her aboard one minute after it was possible to put her ashore.
“Bordeaux would suit me very well, my Lord,” she said, “if it is not possible to make Le Havre.”
Her reply, the Marquis told himself, was one thing – the hope he saw in her eyes was another.
‘I shou
