W
ith her spyglass still trained on the receding ship, Sylvia heard the pistol fire, saw Tipton fall over the railing. A heartbeat later, there was another pistol shot. Tony flew backward over the side. “No!”
The
Polly Anne
kept going as though Sylvia’s world hadn’t just ended.
“Bloody hell!” Baxter shouted, echoing her thoughts. “I don’t believe it. I saw it with me own eyes, but I don’t bloody believe it.” He slumped down on one of the rocks. “I’m right sorry, my lady,” he murmured a moment later, his hand on her sleeve.
No. Perhaps…Perhaps the shots had missed. A moving deck, a poor marksman…No pistol fired true—how many times had Hubert complained of that?
“We have to go get them,” Sylvia said, shoving the spyglass in her pocket and scrambling over the rocks. “We have to get them before they drown.”
“But, my lady…” Baxter trailed off at the glare she gave him. “Yes, my lady. We’ll go get them.”
Agonizing minutes later they had a skiff in the water, Baxter rowing toward the mouth of the cove as Sylvia searched the water ahead. “Faster, row faster!”
“Going as fast…as I can,” Baxter wheezed.
Sylvia shielded her eyes with one hand, scanning the surface, then groaned in frustration and pulled out the spyglass again. Speeding along on the west-southwesterly wind, the
Polly Anne
was now too far away for her to see the men on deck. Probably headed for Worbarrow Bay. She hoped they wrecked on Mupe Rocks.
She lowered her gaze to the water’s surface, trying to scan every inch at once. If Tony couldn’t swim, he’d already be drowning. They had to find him, fast. The skiff rose and fell on the waves. “I think I see something. A little to your right, to the right!” She stood up to get a better look. “Pull, man, pull!”
They drew alongside the dark object floating in the water. Sylvia dropped to her knees, reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and yanked.
Tipton rolled over in the water, staring up at the sky with sightless eyes. The sea had washed away the blood from the gaping hole in his forehead.
Sylvia let go with a gasp. No, no, no…
Baxter rested the oars in the locks. “Keep the boat steady, my lady.” He grabbed Tipton and hauled him up and in, to the bottom of the boat, while Sylvia kept them from tipping over.
If Tony had suffered the same fate…
It was all her fault. He had become mixed up in their dangerous affairs because of her. He had put his life at risk, for her.
But what had he been doing out on Ruford’s ship, with Teague, putting himself in such danger?
Tony better not be dead, because she was going to wring his neck.
She glanced at Tipton’s lifeless body, and shuddered. She’d never again see Tony’s brown eyes sparkle with mischief or smolder with desire. Hear his husky voice whisper outrageous suggestions just to get a rise out of her. Feel the beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Taste his kiss.
He’d made her come alive, and now he was dead.
“My lady.”
She looked up at Baxter’s touch on her hand. She couldn’t bear to see the anguish in his face, which must mirror that of her own. She cleared her throat and stared out at the waves. They still needed to retrieve Tony’s body.
Something bobbed near the surface a few yards away. “Up ahead—” Her voice broke. She coughed, tried again. “Up ahead, to your left.”
Baxter pulled on the oars with grim determination. Soon they reached what had caught Sylvia’s eye. Like Tipton, he was floating facedown, but with his hands tied behind his back. Motionless.
Sylvia swallowed. She would not cry. Not here, not now.
Later. When she was alone. Just as she would be alone for the rest of her life.
She took a deep, fortifying breath, and reached for Tony.
Just as her hand touched his cold shoulder, he popped up, head and shoulders above the water, gulping for air.
Sylvia shrieked. A heartbeat later, she grabbed him, crying out his name. She was overbalanced, his weight too much to bear, threatening to pull her into the water. She was too happy to care.
“ ’Bout bloody time,” Tony gasped, and started to sink. Water ran down his face, his dark hair plastered to his head, dripping into his eyes.
Baxter caught Tony’s collar before his chin slid below the water.
“Permission to come aboard.” He shook his head, water spraying everywhere. Blood oozed from a wound on his temple.
Baxter chuckled. “Aye, matey.” He leaned over to grab Tony more securely.
The boat tilted, the side dipping almost to the water’s edge. Sylvia leaned the other way while Baxter hauled Tony into the skiff. Both men were gasping for breath by the time Tony lay sprawled on the bottom of the boat. He quickly rolled to the side, away from Tipton, and struggled to his knees.
“Miss me?” Water still dripped into his eyes, which sparkled with humor.
Sylvia gave a watery chuckle. She touched his cheek, his shoulders, and slid her hand down to his chest, over his heart, which beat as fast and hard as her own.
“If you’d be so kind,” Tony said over his shoulder. “I can’t feel my hands.”
Baxter fumbled at the wet knot, cursing.
Sylvia pushed aside her damp skirt and retrieved her knife from her half-boot, her hands shaking. It was the first time she’d ever needed to use the blade. Now she was delighted she’d taken up the habit of carrying it.
“No offense, sweetheart, but I like my appendages the way they are.”
She nodded and passed the knife to Baxter, who made short work of the ropes binding Tony’s hands and ankles.
Tony rubbed his raw, red wrists. “Ah, much be—”
Sylvia kissed him. His lips were cold and wet but soon warmed, soft and welcoming. He threaded his fingers in her hair and she shivered at his cold touch, reminded how close he had come to the coldness of death. She threw her arms around him and pulled him closer, not caring the rest of her dress was getting soaked.
There it was—his heartbeat, next to hers. Tears began to fall, rolling unchecked, hot against her cheeks.
“Shh, sweetheart, it’s all right,” he whispered. “Takes more than a pistol shot to do me in.”
She laughed, a shaky sound, and sniffed. Baxter handed her a kerchief. She wiped her eyes.
“Here you go, my lady.” Baxter gave the knife back to Sylvia.
Tony moved to the bench beside Sylvia while she tucked her knife away. Baxter started rowing for the beach, and the crowd of onlookers who’d gathered. Sylvia wrapped her arms around Tony, not caring who saw, or that she was getting even more wet. She was never going to let go of him. He pressed a kiss to her temple.
“You’re one lucky bast—bugger, sir.”
That wasn’t the half of it, Sylvia agreed silently. Her throat was too clogged to try to speak. Tipton at their feet was too close a reminder of what could have happened. She tightened her grip on Tony’s waist, and felt him shiver. She let go, reluctantly, while he shrugged out of his coat and laid it over Tipton, then clamped on again when Tony straightened.
He reached up to brush something from his eye, and she realized he was still bleeding. She untucked her fichu, folded it into a narrow strip, and wound it around his head. It would have to do until she got him home.
“How did you possibly manage to hold your breath that long?” Baxter pulled on the oars, every stroke bringing them closer to safety.
“I didn’t.” Tony rubbed his hand down her back. “One of the benefits of having friends who tried to do me in on a regular basis when we were lads at school was learning all sorts of interesting tricks. Won many a wager with that one. Never thought I’d have to use it for real, though.”
Tony suddenly realized he was in a boat out on the waves, and did not feel sick. Might have something to do with the woman clinging to his side. Or the aftermath of nearly dying.
He started to shake. Nerves or cold, he couldn’t really tell. His head pounded. Sylvia tightened her arms around him, and he wrapped her more securely in his embrace. When he’d been sinking into the cold water, he’d thought he’d never hold her again. He brushed another kiss to her temple, drinking in her clean scent, the hint of herbs, feeling her silky hair.
Soon he heard the crunch of gravel as the skiff grounded on the beach. They were surrounded by people who had watched his rescue from the sea, and were now excitedly chattering away nineteen to the dozen, pulling him out of the boat and away from the beach.
He answered their questions as best he could as they led him up the path and to a cart that carried them to the manor house. Sylvia stayed at his side until they reached the hall outside their bedchambers. Mrs. Hayden pulled her along to her room, clucking about the state of her wet gown, while Baxter and Gerald gave Tony a push into his room.
With their assistance, he was soon toweled off and into clean clothes, his wet garments hung up to dry. His boots, alas, would never be the same.
“My Galen is warming something up in the kitchen,” Gerald said, giving him a tug toward the door, “and there’s a nice fire going in the rose salon.”
“And there’s brandy down there, too.” Baxter took him by the other arm, and they helped him down the stairs.
Tony went along for the ride, feeling a bit dazed. He’d nearly died today. At least twice. The man beside him
had
died, his blood splattering all over. Tony looked down at his hands, his chest. No sign. The sea had washed Tipton’s blood away, as if the killing had never happened. As if Tipton had never lived, let alone died a violent death.
Was there any sign remaining that he had passed time on earth? Had he left behind any legacy besides failure?
What was happening to Tipton’s body? Tony didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until Baxter answered.
“Doyle and Corwin are taking care of ’im. Don’t you worry none, sir.”
The chattering crowd from the beach had moved into the rose salon, but they parted to make a path to the sofa near the fireplace. “Here you go, laddie.” Mrs. Miggins tucked a knitted throw around his shoulders.
He clutched it close, surprised to see that his hands trembled, even more surprised she hadn’t tried to pinch him as he’d passed. “Th-thank you, Marge.”
She smiled and tenderly patted his cheek, then bellowed over her shoulder, “Where’s that gel with her bag?”
“I got the bag, Syl,” Jimmy shouted from the hallway.
Someone thrust a glass of brandy into Tony’s hand, urged it toward his mouth. He took a swallow and felt it burn down his throat, to his empty stomach. He took another drink, feeling the warmth spread through him, and then another.
Sylvia hurried into the room, clutching a shawl around her shoulders. She’d been in such a hurry to change, she hadn’t bothered with shoes. Bare toes peeked from beneath her gray gown. She sat beside him on the sofa, opened the bag Jimmy held for her, and pulled out her supplies.
“Make a hole, people, make a hole,” Galen shouted at the crowd, entering the room with a tray held high over her head. The bodies parted like the Red Sea.
Galen set the tray down on the nearest table, and plucked the brandy from his hand. “Put something solid in your stomach to go with those spirits, lad.” She replaced the glass with a chunk of cheese.
Tony saw what she had given him, and chuckled. The chuckle gave way to laughter. He couldn’t stop. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.
Sylvia took the cheese from him and closed his fingers around a fresh scone, still warm from the oven.
As soon as he’d taken a bite, she tilted his head back and dabbed a cloth at the wound on his temple. When had someone taken away the scarf she’d wrapped around his head out in the boat? He wanted to keep that.
“It just grazed you,” Sylvia murmured.
Her touch was wonderful but whatever was on the cloth stung, and made his eyes water again. Stung so much it made her eyes water, too.
“Good thing we saved the sticking plaster for something more serious, eh?” She gave a watery chuckle.
He brushed her tear away with his thumb. “Yes,” he whispered.
The sticking plaster applied, she turned her attention to his wrists, rubbing liniment where the rope had left raw marks.
Sawyer thumped him on the shoulder. “Good thing ye’ve a hard head, laddie.”
“Yes,” Tony murmured. He glanced up at the room full of people, all faces and names he should know but couldn’t quite connect one to the other at the moment. They didn’t seem to mind, as they continued to talk amongst themselves, occasionally glancing his way, pointing at him, gesturing, retelling the tale of the morning’s adventure.
His hands had almost stopped shaking. Seemed it was contagious, though, as Sylvia was now trembling. He lifted his arm and wrapped her next to him, pulling the throw over her. He half expected someone to object, but Mrs. Miggins tucked the throw around them both and shooed everyone away.
Sylvia snuggled against his side and locked her arms around his waist, banishing the chill from the Channel that had lingered in his bones. Her warm breath puffed against his neck.
The crowd lingered, reluctant to leave, and he realized he was looking at Sylvia’s legacy. Her courage, hard work, and ingenuity had kept this community together through difficult times. If she died, she would be remembered, missed. Could the same be said of Tony?
He thought back to that first night out of London, when he’d shivered on a rooftop while Alistair had gazed at the stars. Tony had been looking for a cause to take up, something to do. Well, there was plenty to do here in Lulworth Cove. And it involved ships, after all.
His search for direction had led him straight here to Sylvia. Here he could have purpose, make a difference. Make a life for himself that had meaning.
He sighed in contentment. This was where he belonged. Where Sylvia belonged. Here, in his arms, close to his heart. “Sweet, sweet Sylvia,” he murmured, stroking her soft curls.
Tony opened his eyes. Didn’t remember closing them, but he must have, else why would he be staring up at the ceiling, his head resting on the sofa back?