Page 99 of A Scot Is Not Enough
She dared not look. They might survive going under the bridge, but she wouldn’t.
“Please,” she whimpered but the wind ran off with her plea.
Her exhausted legs floated behind her. Rough, roiling water battered her. It was all she could do to hold on to the oar. The storm sapped her will, but Alexander’s fierce visage was her lodestone.
“Hold fast,” he commanded.
Her head fell back as strong hands seized her and yanked her up. The wherry teetered and swayed. She was half in, half out.
Mr. Baines, his hair plastered to his head, fought the river with his pike pole. “Swan Lane Stairs ahead. We can make it.”
Alexander reached over the wherry and clamped her by the back of her breeches. She was hauled into the wherry like a drowned rag doll. Panting hard, she curled up in a ball against Alexander and glued her ear to his chest. His thudding heartbeat was themost comforting sound. Wonderful and heartbreaking. He wrapped his arms around her and shielded her from pelting rain.
“Thank God you’re alive,” he said against the crown of her head.
As long as she lived, she’d never forget his fierce eyes when he held out the oar like an angry demigod, forcing the river to give her back to him. She curled up tighter, his possession of her perfect. Wind whistled around them. The wherry jolted and slowed. Wood scraped a solid surface, stopping them.
“We’re here,” Alexander announced.
Here was safe harbor, ten feet of pilings, jutting into the river at the foot of the Old Swan Lane Inn. Mr. Baines quickly spun a rope around two pilings.
“Come on,” Alexander said. “Let’s get you home.”
When she scrambled up, her hand which had been clutching him was sticky. She splayed her fingers and held them up to scant light. Blood coated her hand. Her stomach threatened mutiny, but sheets of rain were already washing the blood away.
“Alexander...” She touched his chest.
Lightning bolted across the sky, illuminating a deep gash in his arm. Flesh flopped like a half-peeled apple. Blood dribbled from it, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
“Oh no,” she moaned.
It was too much. The blood, the violence, the boat jostling underneath her. She leaned over and let the river take the contents of her stomach.
She cuffed her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”
He cupped her scarf-covered head, his voice grainedwith exhaustion. “It will heal. First, you and I need a warm bed and a long night’s sleep.”
It was difficult to say who helped whom out of the wherry. Mr. Baines did his part to help them up Swan Lane Stairs, but the storm wasn’t helping. Wind blew shop signs and rattled windows. A motley trio, they hobbled over to Swan Lane. A pebble gouged her foot. She looked down. Her shoes, her pistol, and her good sense had been swept away. Her home, at least, was twenty paces ahead.
She unlocked her door, and they stumbled inside. Alexander was leaning heavily on her, his face a dreadful waxen hue. She looked to the wherryman.
“Mr. Baines, please help me.”
Mr. Baines took all of Alexander’s weight. “Where do you want him?”
She stepped back. The meat of Alexander’s arm glistened.
Her stomach spasmed. “Lay him down by the fireplace in my salon.”
She ran to the kitchen, her feet slapping a soggy trail. Fists curling on the table, she braced herself. If it weren’t for her, Alexander wouldn’t be in this mess.
His blood was on her hands.
Why don’t we go home, clean each other up, and find what else we’re good at together?
His words throttled her.
Alexander could’ve died tonight.
