Page 7 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Mr. Dyer was too tired to move, and no one seemed willing to cross Tom Parsons to do so.
“Someone help me!” Laura bent and attempted to push the man over herself. A waterlogged adult male was heavier than he looked.
“Let ’im be,” Tom commanded.
She looked up and saw the wrecker looming over her, cudgel in hand.
Horrified to think anyone would strike a helpless person, Laura felt righteous indignation steel her nerves. “No,youlet him be.”
In the past, people had the right to claim cargo from a “dead wreck,” with no survivors, but the law had changed over thirty years ago. Now, goods washed ashore were supposed to be handed over to the rightful owners or duchy. Even so, many country people clung to the old ways, especially when their families were hungry, or worse, when there was a profit to be made. Thepenalties for wrecking ranged from fines to death, but perpetrators were rarely caught and convicted.
Laura shoved with all her might and rolled the man onto his side and then onto his stomach. A great deal of salt water came out of his mouth, and a little life began to appear.
Tom’s voice remained deadly calm. “Back away, lass.”
With a wary eye on the cudgel, she leaned protectively over the man. “No.”
He raised the short, heavy club.
Treeve Kent stepped between them. “Everything all right, Miss Callaway? Ah. Good evening, Tom.”
Parsons froze. “What’ee doin’ here, Kent?”
Treeve gave the man a strained smile. “Same as you, I imagine.”
“Doubt it. This don’t concern’ee.”
The shipwreck victim sucked in a watery breath and stretched out a hand, grasping at the sand.
“Newlyn!” Laura called. “Hurry and fetch Jago, and tell Miss Chegwin to meet me at the house.”
“But—”
“Now!”
Though Laura had rarely used such an authoritative tone with anyone, she had no other choice but to do so now, to assert herself as mistress over the timid servant. She would not leave this helpless man lying on the beach a moment longer than necessary. Unless she did something, she doubted the victim would live much longer, exposed to the brutal Atlantic and cold night air, let alone Tom Parsons’s cudgel.
Whether due to her resolve in remaining at the fallen man’s side or the presence of someone from one of the parish’s leading families, Tom Parsons backed off, turning his attention to the barrels, casks, and crates instead, no doubt determined tosalvage all he could before the duchy agent or a customs officer showed up.
A short while later, Jago came lumbering across the sand, drawing a few curious or disapproving gazes from those he passed. Fortunately, most people were too engrossed in rummaging through crates or going through the pockets of drowned men to pay him much notice.
“Jago, please carry him to Fern Haven.”
The big man nodded, sank to his knees, and picked up the survivor as though he were a child.
Laura followed Jago across the beach, then turned back to Treeve. “Dr. Dawe has gone to his sister’s. Please ask your brother to come as soon as he can.”
“You think Perran can help?” His brows rose in surprise. “I suppose it’s possible. Though I’d rather you asked me to call.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. But if you want me, you need only ask.” The handsome man stepped nearer, an impish gleam in his eye. “I am yours to bid.”
Laura hesitated. Treeve might flirt with her, but she could not imagine his intentions were serious.
She met his gaze straight on. “Somehow I doubt that,” she retorted, and hurried from the beach.
The captain, half drowned and unconscious, was carried up to a nearby house in the hope of [reviving] him.
