Page 85 of The Swan Syndicate
Beckworth’s hands were still free, and he punched the man in the kidney, but, unable to throw a full punch, there wasn’t enough force to make a difference. His next blow hit the man’s chin again, and though it forced a shout of pain, it didn’t dislodge him.
Cheval gripped his throat as a wave washed over them. Beckworth hadn’t paid attention to the waves and wasn’t prepared, catching some of the water and choking as he expelled it, gasping for air. The pressure on his throat increased, and Beckworth wrapped his legs around his opponent’s, but he didn’t have enough strength to push or roll the man.
Beckworth, struggling for breath as another wave hit, tugged on the man’s wrists.
Darkness blurred the edges of his vision, and it terrified him. Not for himself but for Stella.
Stella was exhausted after barely making it to shore. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, more of a dog paddler, and with the tide going out, she was being pulled with it faster than she could swim. Rather than continuing to the shore, she stopped and treaded water as she considered her options.
Cheval had lowered a boat that was heading her way. That wasn’t going to happen. Instead, she turned toward the rocks that ran along the southern side of the small inlet. They were denser the closer they got to the point, but as they approached the beach, the rocks were spaced farther apart. With the tide going out, there was sand visible between the stones.
She kept swimming until sand and stone scraped along her belly, then she grabbed a rock and pulled herself onto the sand, rolling over to stare at the darkening skies. Her teeth chattered,and though she wanted to roll into a ball and sleep, the boat of men following her forced her to move. Her shoes, which she’d thankfully kept on, sloshed as she stepped around the rocks, following the sandy path to the beach.
Stella had been too busy watching the winding path to notice the two men on shore until she cleared the last rocks. She watched in horrified silence as Beckworth wrestled Cheval to the ground. Beckworth was on top for a while until Cheval, with a good fifty pounds over Beckworth, rolled him over, keeping him defenseless beneath him.
When a wave washed over them, a spurt of energy shot through her like a firecracker, and she raced for them. She could jump on Cheval, but she doubted that would be enough to free Beckworth. Maybe if she rammed him from the side. She glanced around for driftwood or a rock.
Then her gaze fell on something better.
The crossbow.
She picked it up. It was useless without a bolt unless she hit Cheval over the head with it. Would it be enough? She scanned the sand where the two had been wrestling, about twenty feet from where they tussled in the waves. If she didn’t do something soon, Beckworth would either be strangled to death or drowned.
Then she saw it. The bolt wasn’t that small, but its natural coloring blended with the sand. She picked it up and held it between her teeth as she used the lever to pull back the string. Her arms shook from the strain, but the string caught behind the hook, or whatever the hell it was called, that held it in position.
She slid the bolt in place and turned toward the men.
The next wave was larger than the last. Cheval must not have expected it, and his fingers loosened, though it didn’t last long enough for Beckworth to do anything about it. Two boats had been lowered—one from each ship. There wouldn’t be enough time for Jamie’s crew to save him. Another wave hit, and he managed to close his mouth before the cold sea water splashed over him.
When he opened his mouth to suck in air—the pressure on his neck was gone.
Cheval’s fingers slackened, and Beckworth tried to see past the saltwater blurring his vision. When his eyes refocused, Cheval stared down at him, his mouth gaping open as if he couldn’t remember what he wanted to say. The light in his eyes faded, and when the next wave came and with one last burst of energy, Beckworth pushed the man off him.
Cheval rolled to his side. Unmoving.
He scrambled away and wiped at his eyes, which only proved to get more sand in them rather than clear them.
But what he saw was good enough.
Stella, his damsel in distress, stood in front of him, her chest heaving from exertion. Her hair dripped with seawater and what little clothing she wore clung to every curve. A crossbow dangled from her hand.
Stella had only taken a few seconds to sight her target. When Cheval had used the crossbow, he appeared to hit where he aimed. She went with her self-dense training—aim at the largest target.
She shot the damn smuggler in the back.
Cheval went still. There might have been a small spasm. Then Beckworth pushed him away. She stared down at the crossbow.
That worked better than expected.
Beckworth was sitting up, staring at her. She studied every inch of her man but didn’t see any blood. He’d tried to save her. He was always there for her.
She strode toward him but stopped at Cheval. First things first. She used her foot to push him onto his back and checked his pockets. Her dagger was in the first pocket she checked, and she pulled it out, then stumbled through the wet sand to drop on her knees in front of Beckworth, the weapons slipping from her fingers.
“Let’s not do that again.”
He pulled her to him. “You’re my hero.” Then he coughed.
She pulled back, giving him another longer inspection. “Are you alright?”
