What a Duke Dares

Chapter Twelve

Cam surfaced to a wave smashing into his face. The capsizing boat had tossed Pen free. That had been the most terrifying experience in a day of terrifying experiences. Spluttering, he searched the wild seascape.

Nothing.

He dived, opening his eyes against stinging salt and cold, but saw only gray and black. Sand churning in the water abraded his skin. He stayed down until his lungs screamed with pain. Then he kicked toward the surface, gulped for air, and went under again.

He bobbed up, gasping, to watch the upturned boat shatter into jagged spears of wood against the rocks. The impact was loud enough to rise above the wail of the wind and the roar of the waves.

Cam couldn’t see his crew. He had a sick feeling that Oates, the injured man, wouldn’t make it.

“Pen!” he shouted, but the wind whipped the cry away.

The sea wouldn’t take Pen. His thoughts extended no further than that. Nothing, not even nature’s fury, would gainsay his claim.

The current shoved him closer to the jagged rocks. He’d gone beyond the point where he cared about his safety.

Down he went into freezing darkness. Up through the swirl. A glimpse of sky. Coughing to clear the water splashing into his face. Snatching air. Down again. Hands closing on an empty universe of ocean.

No lithe female body. No obstinate woman who drove him to madness. And made him feel more alive than anyone else ever had.

His legs turned to rubber. His arms lost the strength to pull through the water. Still he dived. Still he searched.

So spent that even breathing tested him, he surfaced once more. A sensible man would save himself now that it was clear that she was lost.

Bugger sense.

He inhaled and ignoring the agonized protests from every sinew, he pushed down. Down. Down. Not sure if he could fight the suck of the water.

His lungs burned. The cold made him sluggish. He couldn’t see. The idea of floating into oblivion beckoned.

He reached into the void. Praying like a madman. Stupid, mindless, incoherent pleas to the Almighty.

Please. Please. Don’t let her die. Let me find her. Take me instead.

The only answer was the roar in his ears as he started to drown.

Still he reached. Still he struggled.

When long strands brushed his icy skin, he thought they must be seaweed. Debris filled the water. Wreckage from the Windhover. Nets threatening to entangle him.

In air-deprived stupidity, he delayed dangerously before he realized that no seaweed was this silky. With lunatic hope, his hands closed on Pen’s hair.

Triumph delivered one last spurt of power. With an ungainly kick, he shot forward, using her hair to guide him.

All the while, his heart hammered one word. Over and over. Penelope. Penelope. Penelope.

Something bumped his hands. Something that felt like a body. Numb fingers fumbled to catch her. She still wore the cloak. Its weight must have dragged her down.

He ripped at the strings around her neck. They resisted, but so close to saving her, he wasn’t giving up for the sake of a few knots. Finally the strings parted and the cloak flowed away.

With one final push, he kicked toward the surface. Noting with dread the lack of movement in the body lashed in his aching arms.

He burst through the rough sea and wrenched Pen upward until she bobbed, facing the sky. Lightning revealed how pale and still she was. That seemed wrong for someone so vivid. Her eyes were closed and blue tinged her parted lips. Her features were so wan, she could be carved from marble.

Using a clumsy sidestroke, he battled the current to swim for the shore.

Then the miracle happened. On top of a wave about fifty yards off, he saw a light. The light turned into a boat with searchers sweeping lanterns across the turbulent water.

“Over here!” he shouted, but his voice emerged as a mere thread.

Beside him, Pen floated lifeless as a spar from the Windhover.

He summoned his last strength and raised one arm, waving wildly, praying that he’d be visible over the choppy sea. “Over here!”

Even then, he wasn’t sure it was enough. A towering wave hid the boat. Despair, fatal as the icy water, gripped him. He’d failed to save her.

Then the boat crested another wave and he saw that it headed toward him. Only when the boat was almost upon them did he hear the team of oilskin-clad men shouting encouragement.

“Take her,” he gasped, lifting Pen and getting a mouthful of dirty salt water.

“We’ve got her, laddie.” A man’s hands closed around Pen and hauled her up.

“Here.” Another man extended a hand to Cam, who grabbed it with a gasp. He was too weak to be more than dead weight, but eventually, he flopped into the rowboat. Beside him, one of his rescuers had turned Pen over and pressed rhythmically on her back.

For a terrifying interval, she didn’t respond. Cam had prayed in the water. He’d never prayed as hard in his life as he did now.

Still no reaction.

Dear Lord in heaven, he’d been too late.

One pale, slender hand, weighted with his signet ring—how had that stayed on her finger?—twitched. Within seconds, she jerked and coughed and vomited up what seemed like an entire ocean.

Thank you, God.

Simple words, but he’d never felt them so sincerely. Groaning at the effort it took—all energy faded now that they’d been rescued—he reached across to touch her heaving shoulder. He needed to feel the life flooding back into her. His desolation when he’d thought her lost still fermented in his belly.

He sat up, although every aching muscle begged him never to move again. A sailor handed him some water and only after a few sips could he speak. “Five men were on the ship.”

Since the boat capsized, he hadn’t seen MacGregor or the other crewmen. But he’d focused solely on Pen. If John MacGregor had floated a yard away, Cam doubted he’d have noticed.

The fellow who had tugged him from the water like a floundering haddock spoke through a beard of such thickness, Cam couldn’t see his mouth. “There’s another rescue boat out, but I don’t ’old much ’ope for survivors. It’s a terrible day, terrible.”

Cam recognized the cruel truth of that. “Can we search for them?”

The man’s snort might have contained amusement or express derision for someone stupid enough to expect anyone to brave this storm. “We’ve seen nobody else. And we need to get you and your lady to shore. We’ve plucked two live uns from the waves. Reckon that’s our bounty.” He paused. “The lads are done in. As dangerous for rescuers as for drowners.”

While he recognized the sense in what the sailor said, Cam’s heart cramped with regret. John MacGregor was a good man, and the crew had been under Cam’s charge.

He moved closer to Pen. Gently, he turned her over and was shocked to see that she was barely covered. Drawing her into his arms, he spoke to the man who had saved him. “Do you have a blanket?”

“We’ve got some in the basket in the stern. No promises ’ow dry they be,” the man said gruffly. “They’ll warm your wife.”

Cam didn’t bother to explain that they weren’t married. The rower behind him passed word down. Soon Cam had wrapped Pen in a damp, prickly, but serviceable wool blanket.

Cam braced himself against the side of the boat. Pen only gradually returned to consciousness. She moaned and Cam pressed her icy face into the curve of his neck. He told himself he shared body heat—she was alarmingly cold and didn’t feel much more alive than she had as a drifting wraith. But the truth was that he needed to touch her to fill the void inside him that had opened when he’d thought her dead.

“You’re hurting me,” Pen muttered into his bare chest, her breath like a kiss.

“I’m sorry.” Reluctantly he loosened his grip. “How are you feeling?”

He took a moment to recognize the choked sound she made against his skin as a laugh. God above, she was magnificent.

“Awful.” Her voice was scratchy, as if she’d screamed for him again and again and he hadn’t come. Despite her earlier protest, his hold tightened.

“I’m not surprised.” He raised the flask of water to her lips. After she drank, choking a little, he spoke. “What do you remember?”

She showed no urge to move away. “I remember hitting the water. I remember trying to swim, but the cloak was so heavy. I should have taken it off, but the strings were tangled.” She leaned back to stare into his face. A jagged flash through the sky revealed a vulnerable expression. “Thank you for saving me.”

He gave her more water, pleased to see she managed better. “How do you know I did?”

Despite everything they’d been through, she found a smile. “You always saved me. Even if it meant fighting an army of village boys for the sake of a flea-bitten cat. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember.” Around them, the men rowed like demons. Inches away, the sea clawed at their boat. But he and Pen were cocooned in intimacy. “Don’t speak, Pen. Rest.”

For a woman who had nearly drowned, her gaze was remarkably steady. “No, there’s something I must say.”

“It can wait until we’re on land.”

“Please, Cam.” She rested her hand over his heart, the heart that had cracked at the thought of losing her. “Let me speak.”

He already knew he wouldn’t like what she said, but he wasn’t proof against her pleading. “Very well.”

“You will always be the dear friend of my childhood.” Despite her hoarseness and her pauses for breath, her voice was as steady as her gaze. “And now you’ve saved my life. Again.”

He took no comfort from what she said. Her manner hinted that she spoke of endings, not beginnings. “Rescuing you is my mission.”

“No longer.” Regret stabbed him when she lifted her hand from him. Her lovely face was drawn and tired—and heartbreakingly sad. “This journey hasn’t been easy on either of us. But it’s over. Let’s forget the anger, and remember one another with generosity. Let’s say our farewells without rancor.”

Penelope was right. And wise. Wiser than he.

He tucked her head under his chin and stared unseeingly toward the approaching coast. As Pen said, once they reached England, their dealings were done. His life would return to its assigned path. Playing the omnipotent Duke of Sedgemoor. Restoring some respect to the family name. Running his estates and investments. Marriage to Marianne Seaton.

He should be delighted. Instead, he felt like red-hot pincers ripped out his guts.