28. Chapter 28
Liam directed the reflector light toward the dunes as they rowed parallel to the breakers. Since Fletcher had dry clothes waiting for him in Zane's carriage and Muriel's dress had been stashed nearby on the beach, Liam searched for the conveyance on shore.
"There!" Muriel pointed to a shadowy lump that looked somewhat carriage-like.
When her brother-in-law focused the beam that direction, her heart gave a leap. Another shadowy form materialized nearby. A man-shaped form with arms waving above his head.
Zane? She grabbed the edge of the boat and leaned toward shore, half-tempted to jump overboard and start swimming.
Lord, please let it be Zane. Or someone else who can tell me he's all right. I need him to be all right.
"This is the place, Da. Take us in."
He maneuvered the oars to aim the bow at the shore then timed his rows to move with the waves. The instant Muriel felt the scrape of the sand on the hull, she scrambled over the side of the boat and waded to the shore, not caring that the hem of her blanket dragged through the water.
"Muriel." Da's voice grated a warning. "Ye'll get yer bandage wet."
Da had cut away the tail of his shirt for her to wrap around her calf. Her leg throbbed a bit, but it wasn't going to slow her down.
"I'll be grand, Da," she called over her shoulder, ignoring the sting of the saltwater splashing against the scratches and scrapes she'd accumulated during her adventure. "We can sort it out when we get to the hotel."
"Don’t forget yer dress," he growled.
"I haven't." She'd already spotted the piece of driftwood that held her clothes a few yards to the left.
Leaving the men to drag the boat ashore, she ran to where she'd left her dress, limping only slightly.
She dropped her blanket, hastily pulled the housedress over her head, and did up the front buttons.
Her still-moist swimming costume clung to her skin in a particularly clammy fashion, but she had bigger things to worry about than damp fabric and a lack of proper undergarments. She needed to find Zane.
Zane ran toward the beach, the search lantern his beacon. He'd watched that bobbing light for the last thirty minutes as it had grown brighter and closer, praying with every breath that it signaled Muriel's return.
Max had shown up ten minutes ago with the police.
The officers had taken the smugglers into custody with no qualms, but they'd been hesitant to arrest Mrs. Underhill, thanks to her damselesque dramatics.
Weeping. Protesting her innocence. Claiming to be the victim.
Until she went a tad too far and implied that the smugglers had brought her out to the dunes against her will.
Grossman and his companion couldn't turn on her fast enough.
And when Father handed over the journal and explained that the true victim was a ten-year-old boy, the officers changed their tune.
They did ask that the boy and his parents come to the station to make a statement on the morrow, but that was to be expected.
What hadn't been expected was how easily Father surrendered the journal.
Or the apology he offered Zane privately for contributing to the entire fiasco by stealing it in the first place.
Facing his own mortality had apparently made an impact on him—one Zane hoped would set him on a more faithful path moving forward.
As Zane crested the last dune between him and the beach, he angled his approach to try to see around the lantern shining so brightly from the bow. A man stood ankle-deep in the surf to the right of the boat, arms outstretched to a blanket-wrapped boy standing on one of the seats.
Fletcher. Thank heaven, the boy was safe.
He hurried forward, craning his neck as he sought a glimpse of Muriel.
Patrick Quinn was lifting the oars from the oarlocks and bringing them inboard, his wide shoulders blocking Zane's view of the rear of the boat.
Was she back there? Injured? He stumbled on the wet sand, a pain jabbing his chest. Was she . . . dead?
"Muriel?" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and asked again. Louder. "Where's Muriel?
Her father stood in the boat and turned. Zane searched behind him, but the rear of the craft was empty.
Dear God. Had she been lost at sea? He reached for the bow of the boat, his legs suddenly incapable of holding him up without assistance.
"Is she . . . ?" He couldn't say it.
"Easy, lad." Patrick Quinn hopped down from the boat and clapped a hand to Zane's shoulder. "She's fine. A little banged up, but in better shape than ye." His gaze scoured Zane's face. "Been practicin' yer boxin' skills, have ye?"
"What few I possess." He started to turn, intending to search the beach for Muriel, but her father grabbed hold of Zane's shoulders and forced him to face east.
"Hold up, lad." Mr. Quinn's gaze lifted over Zane's head. "She ain't decent yet."
Zane twisted his neck, his need to verify she was alive overriding his sense of propriety.
Mr. Quinn sighed. "All right. Guess she's close enough." He released Zane's shoulders.
Zane immediately turned, spotted her a few dozen yards up the beach, and called her name as his heart surged to life. "Muriel!"
With reinvigorated legs, he took off at a run.
Her head came up at his call, and her face lit. "Zane? Oh, Zane!" She jumped over the discarded blanket at her feet and hurried toward him, her gait uneven in the sand.
As they closed the distance between them, Zane's heart inflated to a painful degree. She was here. Alive. And smiling at him as if his heart wasn't the only one pulling apart at the seams.
Her steps slowed as she drew near, but his didn't. He scooped her straight off the ground and into his arms. Her laughter rang into the night with such joyful purity that his eyes misted.
"Thank God," he murmured as he drank in her beautiful face, her smile, her glistening eyes. "Thank God you're all right."
"I am now." She cupped his face, her smile dimming as she took in his swollen eye and bruised countenance. "I feared fer ye somethin' awful. And now I see it wasn't fer nothin'." She wagged her head. "Yer poor face. I'm so sorry I put ye in harm's way."
He lowered her feet to the sand but spread his palms across her back to keep her snug against his chest. "I put myself in harm's way. And I'd do it again. With no regrets. I love you, Muriel."
Tears pooled in her eyes, but her smile beamed brighter than the search lantern. "Ah, Zane. I love ye, too. With me whole heart." She flung her arms about him and hugged him tight, pressing her face against his chest.
His heart sighed at her words, releasing some of the pent-up pressure and leaking warmth throughout his entire body.
He ran his hands in circles over her back then moved to caress her arms. A shiver coursed through her.
From the night air? Or from his touch? Heaven knew his entire body hummed at her nearness.
She leaned back slightly and lifted her chin, her hazel eyes gleaming and .
. . inviting. An invitation he wasn't about to refuse, not when he longed for her like a sailor longed for the sea.
Yet she deserved care. Delicacy. Especially after all she'd been through this night.
His fingers trembled as he stroked the edge of her face.
Her lashes fluttered closed, and her breath hitched softly.
His gut tightened as he lowered his mouth to hers, his own breathing growing ragged.
Their lips pressed together gently at first, tentative and testing.
He'd never kissed a woman before, yet love had a way of guiding and inspiring.
Instinct, desire, and deep-seated gratitude urged him to deepen the connection, to celebrate the lives that could have been lost but weren't, the love that could have been destroyed but was instead intensified into something that would endure forever.
He cupped her head and slanted his mouth over hers, letting her feel a bit of his hunger, his ardency. Her hands found their way to his shoulders and clung to him as if she needed his support. She had it. For all of their days.
She raised up on her toes and kissed him back with equal zest, and his pulse ratcheted. She tasted of sea salt and sweetness. A heady mix. A sigh-like moan vibrated at the back of his throat, and he knew he better stop before the fog of desire completely obliterated his sense.
He pulled back and watched her lashes slowly lift. A smile blossomed across her face at the same time, a smile he'd never tire of seeing. Especially when formed with kiss-plumped lips.
How he loved her. Her courage. Her big heart. Her dedication to family. He wanted to spend the next fifty years listening to her sing and hearing her profess her love in that charming Irish lilt.
"Will you marry me, Muriel?" The words popped out without any forethought, but he had no desire to take them back. "I know our future has more questions than certainties at the moment, but I'm sure that I want to spend it with you at my side. As my wife. If you'll have me."
He hadn't thought it possible for her smile to widen any farther, but she proved him wrong. "Of course I'll marry ye. There's nothin' in the world I want more."
Zane pressed a kiss to her forehead then clasped her to his chest and marveled at how the worst night of his life had turned into the best.
"All right, you two." Patrick Quinn called out from a distance not all that far away.
Zane's face heated as he relaxed his hold on Muriel.
"Liam and Fletcher are packed away in the carriage. We're ready to set off. Alana's surely worried herself into a tizzy by now."
Muriel released her hold on Zane's shoulders and stepped to the side. "We're comin', Da."