Page 51 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Why was she being swept along helpless, barely able to keep her head above water?
Ahead, Kester had reached a bend and plunged into the water. He was half-swimming, half-slogging toward her. She went under, but fought her way to the surface again, choking on a mouthful of frigid water, waving one arm as best she could.
He was still coming, her savior. And he was yelling something—she had no idea what.
Yelling, and pointing.
Half-submerged, Robena twisted to look upstream…and wished she hadn’t.
A heavy branch—almost a tree in its own right—slammed into her shoulder. She tried to grab onto it, but ‘twas larger than her, and pushed her under.
Everything was dimmer beneath the water, the rocks under her and the branch above her, each pulling her in a different direction. Her shoulder ached, her lungs burned.
Then something knocked against her back, forcing the air from her lungs….
And everything went black.
Chapter 8
Kester’s heart—andstomach, and veins, and very soul—were frozen, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. ‘Twas fear. He couldn’t recall ever being so afraid, and it had nothing to do with himself and everything to do with the woman in his arms.
He’d watched Robena fall off her horse into the rushing water, and his body had acted without any sort of prompt from his mind. One moment he was crouching there, silently urging her across the river, and the next he was running. He’d managed to get ahead of her and plunge into the water, right around the time that branch had pulled her under.
Luckily, the water was shallow, and he’d had little trouble standing fast against the torrent and pulling her from beneath the surface.
But now…now she was draped across his lap and his horse was galloping toward safety…and she still wasn’t moving.
He glanced down at the sodden woman and breathed another prayer. “Just a wee bit longer, lass,” he murmured. “Ye’ll be warm soon.”
“Is he breathing?” called Weesil from behind him.
By the time Kester had exited the water, a dripping Robena in his arms, his men had joined him, leading his horse. He wasn’t sure how and when Pudge had crossed the river, but he was thundering along behind them now as well.
Kester’s arm tightened around her shoulders and he leaned forward, urging his horse faster.
“She’s breathing,” he heard Pudge growl. “She’ll live.”
The older man sounded as worried as Kester felt.
“Dear Heavenly Father! Look at his face!”
At Auld Gommy’s screech, Kester instinctively glanced at Robena. Her head was tipped back over his arm, her pale face pointed at the cloudless sky. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, and her skin far too pale.
“His mustache!” Giric gasped. “Robbie’s lost his mustache!”
From the corner of his eye, Kester saw Auld Gommy cross himself. “Sweet Christ Almighty,” the old man prayed, “the current was strong enough to rip the lad’s mustache clear off his face!”
“He’s a she, ye dumb shite,” Pudge called out.
Behind them, Mook rumbled, “Who’s a she?”
“He!”
“He’s a she?” he repeated. “Which he? Me he? Is me a she?”
“Jesu Christo,ye’re an idiot,” muttered Pudge. “Robbie’sa she. Look at her! Look at the laird!”
Giric clucked his tongue. “Och, Pudge is right. The MacBain wouldnae hold a lad so close. Robbie’s alass?”
