Page 105 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
She shifted to the side of the boat, then curled over the side.
Drago scooped up her legs and skirts and tipped her over.
She went in with a splash. Gasping, she turned onto her back, still clutching the oar with one hand.
“That’s it.” He grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. He glanced at the stern, then bent and reached under the seat and blindly ran his hand across the planks.
His fingers snagged in fabric, and he gripped and tugged.
A clump of soaked white cotton came free. He held it up, then realized the boat was sinking even faster. He thrust the sodden lump into his jacket pocket, then went over the same side of the boat as Meg.
He came up and slicked his hair out of his eyes just in time to see the rowboat sink silently into the lake.
Meg was floundering. She’d turned on her side and was attempting to kick and push the oar toward the shore, but with her skirts and petticoats hampering her efforts, she hadn’t managed more than a few yards.
The boat vanished into the depths, and Drago swam to her. “Ease up.” He closed one hand about the oar’s shaft. “Don’t try to swim as such. Just hold onto the oar and float, and I’ll tow you to shore.”
She met his eyes, and he could see she was holding back rising panic, but her lips firmed, and she nodded.
He reorganized the oar so that it lay before her and she was gripping the shaft with both hands, then he grasped the wooden rod between her hands and set off, slowly but steadily swimming for the shore while towing her beside him.
On the shore, the men had been doing what they could. One had run back to the house, and from the corner of his eye, Drago saw Fothergill and Mrs. Fothergill hurrying across the porch with towels and blankets in their arms.
“Nearly there.” He kept his gaze on Meg, on her eyes, letting her see his unshakeable confidence that all would be well.
Her chin was set, and she was still trying ineffectually to kick, but although her white-knuckled grip on the oar didn’t loosen, he sensed she was tiring.
Then two of the gardeners who had waded in until the water was chest high stretched forward and snagged the tip of the oar. The pair gripped and pulled, and Drago and Meg were drawn smoothly on.
The instant Drago got his feet under him, he released the oar and stood. Once sure of his footing, he reached for Meg and scooped her—sodden bonnet, skirts, and all—into his arms. He hoisted her against his chest and ducked his head to plant a kiss on her wet forehead. “It’s all right. We’re safe.”
Her fingers curled into his lapel, and she nodded slightly.
Supported by the gardeners, one on either side, he slogged out of the lake and stepped onto the grassy bank. With her drenched skirts, Meg was amazingly heavy. Slowly, he bent and set her on her feet, but he didn’t move away, instead encouraging her to lean against him.
He could feel her trembling uncontrollably, and he didn’t think it was due to any chill. In truth, the water hadn’t been that cold, a minor blessing.
The clop of hooves and the faint jingle of harness reached them.
Everyone looked across the lake to see a group of horsemen trotting up the drive.
Then the horsemen saw them.
Even across that distance, Drago heard the shocked curses, then the riders pushed their mounts on to the forecourt, where they tumbled from their saddles and rushed toward him and Meg.
“Naturally,” he murmured for Meg’s ears alone, “they had to arrive at the most exercising moment.”
She snorted softly. “You did invite them, but yes. There’ll be no holding them back now.”
“They must have dropped everything and come running. I didn’t expect them until later today at the earliest.”
“That might have been the case had it been left to Denton, George, and Harry, but with Toby and my cousins? With excitement on offer, of course they came running.”
At that moment, the Fothergills reached them and wrapped towels around them, and once the towels were saturated, Mrs. Fothergill, clucking all the while, draped a blanket around Meg and relieved her of her dripping bonnet.
Drago thanked the pair, with Meg echoing his words, then ordered that a bath be prepared for Meg, and for Maurice and Rosie to attend their respective dressing rooms, only to have Fothergill assure him all was already in hand.
At Drago’s nod, the Fothergills turned and, taking stock of the newcomers, Fothergill murmured, “By your leave, Your Grace, we’ll return to the house and ensure the gentlemen’s rooms are prepared.”
