Page 48 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Roger’s pulse accelerated at the sight of her. If he’d had any doubts, which he had not, the perfection of her face and form, the spirit in her blue eyes, would have extinguished them.

“I was headed out to see old Mrs. Dorne when your message came,” she said. “She’s ill.” A basket sat beside her on the seat. “I should have known that John wouldn’t be able to resist going to Lindisfarne.”

“Tom went along,” said Macklin. “He’ll look after him.”

“I’m sure he’ll try,” said Fenella. “But John does not make that easy.”

“We’ll bring them back,” said Roger.

“Naturally I’m going with you.” She urged her horse to greater speed.

Naturally, Roger thought. She didn’t hang back and wait for a problem to be solved for her. She didn’t moan and lament. She was splendid in every way.

They traveled together toward the coast. When they reached the stretch opposite Lindisfarne Island, they found the boys’ horses tied at the inland end of the path.

“The tide has turned,” Roger said. “It’s coming in.”

“Surely they haven’t gone over?” asked Fenella. She sounded angry and concerned in equal measure.

Waves were sheeting over the stretch of flat sand in front of the island. The water wasn’t deep yet, but the strength of the flow was obvious. “I’ll ride out along the path,” said Roger. “Wait here.”

“I want to come,” said Fenella.

“You can’t take a gig out there. The horse wouldn’t be able to hold it against the waves.”

She struggled with the truth of this before giving him a curt nod.

“There they are,” said Macklin.

The two boys were pushing through the rising waves, knee high on Tom so far. They leaned against the pressure of the water rushing across the path. Roger could see that the sea was pulling at them. He knew the frightening force of the tide. He’d felt it. Tom was helping John along.

“Is John limping?” asked Fenella.

Roger urged his horse forward. Macklin came just behind him. They coaxed the animals into the flood, keeping to the marked path. Each wave was a warning of worse to come. At high tide, this stretch could be under nearly ten feet of water.

Tom raised an arm in what looked like welcome. The gesture was ill-judged, however, as John was pulled away from him by the slap of a larger wave and flattened on the sand.

Tom bent to help him up. John shook himself, coughing.

Water rushed around the horses’ legs. Macklin’s mount stumbled, and Roger’s objected strongly to the path he was being asked to take. They soothed the animals and pressed on. Not too far now.

A surge of water struck Tom’s back. He held on to John and endured the shove and pull. Briefly, he teetered, seeming about to go to one knee. For the first time since Roger had met the lad, he looked apprehensive. “Hang on,” Roger shouted over the sound of the waves.

A few minutes later, the riders at last reached the two boys. With a mighty heave, Roger lifted John away from Tom and set the boy in front of him. John dripped on the horse’s neck and Roger’s riding breeches, soaked through. Tom took hold of the saddleback and leapt up behind Macklin. Carefully, they turned and moved toward dry land.

Water hissed across the sand and pushed at them. The horses hated the fact that they couldn’t see their footing. They tossed their heads and threatened to sidle. Progress was growing extremely difficult when at last they reached the shore.

They stepped out of the sea and dismounted. Roger helped his passenger down. The boy was hunched and shivering. Fenella rushed forward.

“It was all my fault,” John said before anyone could speak. “Tom didn’t want to come at all. And he said we shouldn’t go out on the path. He only followed me when I ran out. And then I fell in the water and hurt my ankle so that I couldn’t hurry back. I’m a stupid fool. A heedless, stupid fool.”

He spoke the final phrases as if he’d heard them before, Fenella thought. He sounded thoroughly miserable.

“Take off your coat,” Roger said to him. “You’re drenched.”

John flinched as if this was an accusation. He clawed at his clothes.

Fenella eased his soaking coat off, and his sodden shirt, wishing she had something to wrap around him. She turned to find Roger holding out his own coat. The fact that it would soon be stained with seawater didn’t seem to bother him.

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