Chapter Fourteen
Lucien stared at the top of Miss Ross’s head. Surely, he’d heard her wrong.
“What do you mean?”
Her knuckles had gone white around the rope. “I’m not sure how to word it any differently.”
Son of a…
He raked a hand through his hair and glanced toward the shadowed curve of Deer Island. It wasn’t far—two hundred yards, but enough to drown even an able-bodied man if one didn’t know what they were about. A sail slapped above, a reminder that their chance to escape would soon slip away.
“I need you to listen to me. We need to get in the water. Now.” He kept his voice low, just above a whisper, and he eased his body through the tight scuttle trap. “Stay where you are, I’m coming.”
He climbed down the opposite side of the ladder, the rough wood of the ship’s hull scraping his bare skin as he inched past her. When his feet reached the water, he lowered himself in, sucking in a breath as cool water closed around his shoulders.
One hand steadied himself against the ladder. “Step off. Slowly. Let the water hold you.”
She eased into the sea, gasping as it rose up her legs, past her waist, lapped against her neck. Her skirts swirled in the current, tangling around his legs as he treaded water next to her. He bit back a curse.
“You’ll drown us both in this dress.” He maneuvered behind her. “I’m going to take it off.”
“You—you can’t—”
He pressed a finger to her lips and nodded up as bootsteps echoed into the night.
She froze, and he reached for her fastenings, fingers working quickly.
The dress loosened enough for him to pull it off.
His hand brushed the bare skin of her calf as he balled the fabric up.
Heat flared through him, sharp and unwelcome, and he jerked his attention back to the silver line of the island on the horizon.
He handed her the bunched-up dress. “Hold this and lean back.”
“What if—”
“I won’t let go. I promise.”
With a tight nod, she unfurled her fingers from the rope, one at a time. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders, steadying her as he tilted her until the water supported her weight. She floundered, trying to twist, and water splashed over his face.
“Miss Ross, you need to hold still.” His tone stayed low. “Relax, or we’ll both go under. I can do this but I need you to trust me.” He glanced up at the dark main deck. “We can’t risk any more noise.”
With a shuddering breath she leaned against him, the warmth of her body pressing through the thin fabric of her chemise.
He tested a stroke, cutting through the water with measured pulls, keeping her buoyant in his wake.
Each kick carried them farther from the ship, the cold tugging at their limbs.
He fought the current, adjusting her position to keep her face above the water.
Saltwater stung his eyes as the towering frigate shrank into the distance.
The beach drew nearer, the dunes beckoning like small sentinels.
His lungs burned, his arm numb from being locked around her.
He grunted, shifting her weight, breathing in a mouthful of seawater.
A cough wracked him as he floundered. So close.
He risked reaching down with a foot. Nothing but water dragging at them.
A few more labored strokes.
He sank beneath the surface once more. His muscles screamed as he struggled toward the surface, blackness closing in around his vision.
Panic clawed at him, biting at his focus, but his grip on her remained firm.
Nothing could sever the hold he’d promised to keep.
He forced himself upward, breaking the water with a gasping inhale.
There. The blessed drag of sand against his feet.
Legs shaking, he stumbled forward, relief washing over him in a dizzying rush. With trembling arms, he loosened his hold on Miss Ross. “We made it.”
She stretched her feet down, a soft exhale pressing past her lips. Standing, she tried to take a step and fell against him, her hand sliding around his waist.
“Easy,” he murmured, not sure if to her or himself.
They moved slowly through the shallows, each step a fight against the pull of the water and the shifting sand beneath them.
His arm remained locked around her shoulders, every delicate shiver traveling through him.
At last, their feet sank into the dry sand of the beach.
Though every fiber of his body ached and he longed to drop to his knees, he pressed forward.
Miss Ross’s chemise clung wet and pale, tracing her curves in the faint light of the moon as they moved in silence toward the dunes. He swallowed, keeping one hand at the small of her back as they reached tall grass, his gaze shifting to scan the dark ship for any sign of movement.
His bare feet sank into cool sand with each careful step, the muscles in his shoulders still taut from holding her. The night air clung to his skin, and salt dried in streaks across his chest.
“I—” Her voice was soft, hesitant. “Thank you…”
“Don’t thank me until we’re safely away from this place.”
She shifted, her fingers brushing against his bare side. The fleeting touch set a spark running through him, and the memory of her trembling in his arms on the ship flared in his mind. His lips burned at the thought, the ghost of her mouth still lingering against his.
The dunes rose and fell underfoot like dark waves frozen in place while the moon cast silver across the sand, illuminating the distant glimmer of the water on the far side of the island. At last, the sand flattened and the silhouette of the waiting longboat came into view.
And the dark form leaning against it.
“Took you long enough.” Pierre made a dramatic show of flipping his pocket watch open.
*
The schooner moved easily through the waves, her sails catching the first breath of morning.
Lucien gripped the wheel, attuned to the rhythmic groan of the timbers beneath him—steady, familiar sounds that should have brought comfort.
Instead, he scanned the pale horizon where the sky met the sea.
Beneath the quiet hum of the sea, tension coiled in his chest, memories of the night before reminding him that nothing about this voyage would be simple.
A hatch clattered open below, and movement drew his attention.
Miss Ross appeared at the companionway. She’d put her dress back on, though it hung damp and wrinkled, and moved slowly, testing each step as though measuring the schooner’s motion before trusting it.
Morning light caught in her hair, glinting where it clung to her neck, and tension held her shoulders taut.
When she reached the helm, her gaze flicked briefly to him before dropping to the deck as she stumbled for balance.
The schooner lifted over a gentle swell, and color drained from her face.
She pressed a hand to her middle, eyes closing for a moment as she steadied herself.
“You’re ill.” He released the wheel to steady her as she swayed.
“I cannot sail,” she managed, voice weak. “The motion—it never agrees with me.”
He almost smiled. “You and half the passengers I’ve ever carried.” He guided her toward the rail. “Look to the horizon. It steadies the stomach. And breathe deep. Unfortunately, it’s something that only time can truly remedy.”
She pressed her lips together and followed his instructions.
Though her hair fell around her face in damp waves and fatigue shadowed her eyes, he couldn’t help but appreciate her profile—the delicate line of her jaw, the faint crease between her brows as she fought the nausea.
A stubborn grace wound through her composure, an unwillingness to yield even to the sea, and for a moment, the tension in his chest eased.
Her fingers tightened on the rail. “What now?”
“We make for Mobile. I don’t believe Thorne would dare follow us into the city.”
Blue eyes flicked to his. “Why not?”
“There’s an old Spanish fort there. The harbor bristles with patrols these days—tension over the new American purchase to the west and rumors of privateers in the gulf have every man in uniform restless. He won’t risk bringing his fancy frigate that close to a battery.”
She exhaled, fixing her eyes on the endless blue to their south. “We’ll be safe.”
If only it were that simple.
The words hung between them, fragile as foam on the tide. Safe. He wanted to believe it, but the sea had a way of swallowing certainties whole.
“Sails!”
The tense shout from above jarred him from his thoughts and he ground his teeth together. They’d sighted at least a dozen other ships, but none had warranted an alarm. Pierre dropped from the rigging, landing with barely a whisper. He jogged up to the quarterdeck and nodded toward the horizon.
“Two points off the starboard bow, sir. Fast.” His friend chewed on his cheek before continuing. “A frigate. Large and black, riding the water like she owns it.”
Lucien whipped his spyglass out and leveled it, eyes narrowing as pale puffs of canvas sharpened against the morning mist. Even at that distance, he recognized her sleek lines, the dark sweep of her hull. The Vengeance. A fitting name for the ship bearing down on them.
And if she caught up, he had little doubt she would show no mercy.
“We aren’t going to make it to Mobile.”
He braced a hand against the rail at his friend’s grim warning, scanning the faint line of barrier islands to the north, the pale glitter of sand breaking the surface.
A multitude of possibilities ran through his mind: shallow channels they could navigate, sudden shifts of wind that might favor them, reefs near the barrier islands that could keep the frigate at bay.
He forced himself to focus. Calculations, not fear.
Options, not panic. The wind, the tide, the reefs—they were all tools.
“Our only chance is to lose him in the shoals off Dauphin Island.” He spun the wheel hard starboard. “We’re much lighter than him. If we take the channel between it and Petit Bois, we might be able to strand him on the sandbars.”
Pierre’s brows lifted. “If the tide’s turned—”