Page 104 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
He wasn’t surprised when she set down her teacup and, her face alight with eager agreement, asked, “Now?”
He smiled, rose, and waved her to the door.
She hurried past him. “Let me get my bonnet.”
He stood back to let Ridley follow her out. “I’ll wait for you on the front porch.” From there, he could signal the men—grooms, stablemen, and gardeners—who were going about their business while surreptitiously watching for any sign of strangers creeping near.
When Meg came out, tying her bonnet ribbons under her chin, he smiled, reached out and took her hand, and together, they walked briskly down the steps and crossed the forecourt to stroll over the south lawn toward the lake.
“Ridley?” he asked.
“I left him in the kitchens.”
On reaching the shore, they followed it around to the left, to the small boathouse tucked into the trees that clustered about the far end of the long, teardrop-shaped lake.
It was the work of a moment to lower the rowboat, stored on a canvas sling above the water, into the lake. Drago handed Meg in, then followed. She sat on the wide stern bench and settled her skirts. He doffed his jacket, dropped it beside her, then rolled up his sleeves and sat on the middle bench, facing her. He slid the oars into their locks, then dipped the blades and pulled, and the small boat glided out of the cover of the boathouse and onto the still waters of the lake.
Holding on to the boat’s sides, Meg tipped her face up to the sky, closed her eyes, and sighed. Then she opened her eyes and looked around. After a moment, she observed, “This isn’t an ornamental lake, is it?”
“No. It’s a natural feature. We assume it’s fed by a spring. As far as I know, it’s never run dry.” He bent to the oars, and the boat slid over the water’s surface. “That’s why we have a rowboat and not a punt.”
“It’s deep?”
“Too deep for poling, especially in the center of the widest part. It’s very deep there.”
She studied him, then smiled. “I’d wager that, as children, you and Denton dove for the bottom.”
He hesitated, then tipped his head. “When we were young, we did. We never found it.”
There were gardeners pruning a line of bushes to one side of the lake and a pair on the other side, clipping the edges of the drive. Safe enough, Drago reasoned, to row to the lake’s center and lounge in the sun and chat.
They were more or less in the middle of the lake when Meg’s until-then-serene expression clouded, and she frowned and looked down. “Drago…” She raised one foot, shod in a garden slipper, which was dripping.
Startled, he looked down and saw his own boots were an inch deep in slowly rising water. “I don’t believe it. The boat’s sprung a leak.” He met Meg’s gaze and felt his features set. Then he gripped the oars and started to row as fast as he could for the nearest shore.
Within yards, he realized that the stern, where Meg was sitting, was sinking faster than the rest of the boat. He paused in his rowing to reach out a hand to her. “Get behind me, into the prow. The hole must be under the stern bench.”
She took his hand and sloshed and scrambled forward, but even as he bent to the oars again, he knew they had no chance of reaching the shore before the boat sank.
Nevertheless, he rowed with rapid, powerful strokes as the boat wallowed ever deeper.
He glanced over his shoulder, past Meg to the shore. He hadn’t wasted breath yelling for help; it was likely the gardeners, in common with most Englishmen, couldn’t swim.
Luckily, he could.
The water level was now mere inches from flooding the boat. Within minutes, it would sink beneath them.
He freed the oars from the locks and laid one flat in the water, where it floated. He swiveled and handed the second oar to Meg. “Can you swim?” Most males of their class had some ability, but ladies rarely did.
She wrinkled her nose. “A little. My father made sure we all could. But I’m not by any means a strong swimmer.”
He nodded reassuringly. “That’s all right—I am.”
They were still more than fifty yards from the shore, and while the gardeners had noticed their plight and rushed up, as he’d foreseen, none were able to do more than wade out a few yards and wait to assist them when they got closer.
“If we stand up, the boat will sink and create suction when it does. Better for us to roll over the side.” He looked at Meg. “You go first. If you can, keep hold of the oar.” He tipped his head to where the first oar still floated a yard or so from the boat. “I’ll be right behind you, and I’ll tow you to the shore.”
Staring at the floating oar, she swallowed and nodded. “All right.”
