Reckless. Shannon Drake

let the tempest take her until it drove her toward the shore.

      She tried hard to keep David’s head above the water, tried harder to keep breathing and moving herself against the waves, white-tipped, gray and brown, like living, breathing, beings anxious to suck her into their depths. How slender the river could seem at times, but…how great its span!

      And yet, chilled and desperate as she was, it occurred to her…

      He was in her arms. Oh, God! He could die in her arms.

      As she would gladly die in his.

      

      “GOOD LORD! WILL YOU LOOK at those young fools!” Hunter MacDonald stared at the young swains who raced around their yacht like simpletons. They’d lost one of their number, yet none was doing a damn thing about it.

      He cursed them roundly, then called out to Ethan Grayson—his mate at sea, manservant and his friend. “Bring her in! I’m going for the boy.”

      “Sir Hunter!” Ethan, weathered and strong and far too sensible a fellow not to have risen far, protested strongly. “You’ll but go down yourself!”

      “No, Ethan, I’ll not.” Hastily removing shoes, jacket and trousers, he offered Ethan a grimace. “My good man, I’ve escaped crocodiles in the Nile. I shall be fine in this bit of English weather.”

      And so, stripped down to his drawers and shirt, he dove neatly overboard in the direction where he had last espied the young fellow’s bobbing head. As he did, he could hear Ethan scolding him angrily: “Being a ‘sir’ does not give a fellow common sense, no, it does not! He survives famine, war and the evil in the hearts of men, but then drowns himself like the young idiot he would save!”

      Too late! thought Hunter. The Thames closed around him as he cut through the waves, swimming with strong exertion to bring the heat of movement to his person.

      The water was bitterly cold.

      It had been easier to swim in the Nile with crocodiles, he ruefully admitted to himself.

      

      AT LAST! KAT AND HER BURDEN had nearly reached the embankment.

      She was far from the docks, closer to Richmond now than the City of London. A mist of rain was falling as she struggled through the remaining few yards of water, hitting mud beneath her feet at last, mud and God knew what else, some broken crockery that cut into her sole. She barely felt it, however, for she had him to land at last. Exhausted, near crawling at the end, she dragged David’s dead weight up onto muddy sod and scraggly grasses, but not far from the road; homes and businesses and even ships at dock were visible nearby. She fell to his side at first, breathing, ah, doing nothing at all but breathing! Then as her lungs filled, she looked at his face and was roused to fear. She jerked up, then leaned on his chest, hard, pushing, determined to expel the water from his lungs. He choked, and water dribbled from his blue lips. Then he coughed and coughed…

      And finally fell silent, other than the slow rasp of his breath.

      She stared down at him, shaking. He lived. “Thank you, God!” she whispered fervently. And then, seeing his long lashes sweeping the contours of his noble face, she added, “You are so beautiful!”

      His amber eyes opened. He stared up at her.

      And she was horrified, for she was far from looking her best. Her hair was, as a rule, rich and long, if a bit glaringly red, but now it hung in sodden ropes. Her eyes—normally the oddest shade of green and hazel, sometimes almost the color of grass and at others almost gold—must be quite pinkened. And her lips were surely as blue as his. Her linen shift clung wetly to her body, and she was shaking uncontrollably. That he should see her so, when she still lived in a world of dreams, when society did not allow for the daughter of a humble, struggling artist, an Irish one at that, to so much as dare imagine a life among the elite, was the worst thing she could have imagined.

      His hand moved. Fingers touched her face. For a moment, his own was dark and troubled, as if he sought an answer as to where he was, and why. “We were with the wind, listening…laughing…for there were songs on the air, as if the Sirens called to us, and then…pushed!” he murmured. “By God, I swear I was pushed! Why…”

      Then his eyes focused on her. And a smile flitted over his lips. “Yes, yes, I felt hands against my back, pushing…but who the devil…and then…the cold…and the darkness. Then…you! Am I seeing things? You’re an angel!” he whispered. “A sea angel…an angel, and I love you!” Then he laughed. “No! A mermaid, and thus I am alive!”

      His fingers—on her face!

      And the words he had said!

      Ah, she could have died then and drifted to heaven in pure bliss.

      His eyes closed. Panic seized her. But she could see him breathing, his chest rising and falling, and she could feel his warmth.

      Voices suddenly sounded. Looking up, she saw a group coming from the gravel road that led down to the embankment. She jumped to her feet, aware of her near-naked state, her shift plastered to her body, providing not the least bit of modesty. And she was very chilled, of course, making that immodesty all the more apparent. She wrapped bare arms around herself.

      “Oh, they’re searching for him…but I saw…something!” The voice was feminine, sweet and touched with the sound of a sob.

      “Now, now, our boy can swim, Margaret!” returned a male voice. “He’ll be just fine.”

      Kat now saw a very pretty woman, slim and elegant in a late-summer day dress, a jaunty little hat sitting at an angle on her head, a parasol in her hands, her bustle twitching as she walked on dainty heels. Her hair was a soft ashen blond, and her eyes were as blue as the sea. Beside her was an older gentleman in a resplendent suit, cape and top hat, and they were coming closer and closer.

      Kat’s heart seemed to stop. In her mind’s eye, she saw only the contrast between the elegant lady and herself, and she knew she had to escape. Quickly.

      As she turned to run back into the water, a man rose from the waves not twenty yards away.

      He was tall, lean and sinewy, his musculature quite evident, for he, too, but for an open shirt, was stripped down to his unmentionables. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and his classically sculpted face was frowning.

      “Miss!” he called.

      And that was it. She cried out softly, sprinted the few feet back to the muddy water’s edge and plunged in, diving beneath the surface as soon as she could and swimming harder than she had ever done in her life, unaware now of the cold and the aching in her lungs and limbs.

      She surfaced, she knew not where, just as the rain began.

      

      “MARGARET!”

      David blinked, staring up through the mist of rain. And there she was, Lord Avery’s fair daughter, the very lovely and rich Lady Margaret, on her cheeks tears of a greater substance than the rain, staring down at him. Heedless of the mud, she sat on the embankment, his head cradled in her lap.

      His heart leapt. Although she often appeared to care for him deeply, in fact, in the race for her hand, he had thought both Robert Stewart and Allan Beckensdale to be far ahead of him.

      And yet now…how sweet to see her face!

      For a moment, he was puzzled. There had been a fleeting moment when…he had thought he’d seen someone else. A different face. Fair and comely, with eyes a strange green fire and hair a searing flame-red. An angel? Had he come so close to death? No, then perhaps a mermaid, a sprite from the sea, or rather the river?

      Had he imagined her?

      And had he imagined, too, in the bluster of the day and the roll of the yacht, the hands at his back, pushing him, forcing him into the river?

      “David! David, please, speak to me again, are you all right?” Margaret demanded anxiously.