A Scandal to Remember (30 page)

But his eyes could not find what they were so desperately seeking. “Where is Miss Burke?”

He had directed the question at Punch, who turned to look over the boats in vain until his eye came to rest upon Manning, who was taking shelter behind Ransome’s bulk in the stern of the gig.

“Manning,” Punch called. “Manning, you said—”

Whatever Manning might have said was drowned out either by the wind, or by the sound of sheer unmitigated panic that roared out of Dance in a wave of unholy fury.

“Where is she?” He was screaming at the men now. All of them, damn their selfish, cowardly hides.

Because she wasn’t there. She wasn’t in any of the four boats.

Dance’s feet were already taking him back up the sloping deck by the time he understood what it was he was doing. Going back for her. Risking his neck, and the necks of his men, who would be counting upon him to lead them.

Fuck them. One of them had struck Simmons. And one of them might have done the same to his Jane. Nothing mattered but that he find her.

He would jeopardize everything—his men, his career, and his own life to save her. He could do no less. “Jane!”

Only fools rush in where angels fear to tread—he was no angel, so that made him doubly the fool, but he was too full of the rage-fueled rush of blood through his veins to pause and think better of what he was to do.

He fought his way up the slope of the deck and then down the dangerously canted ladder to his cabin. He had told her to stay there—she was a smart girl and would have listened. Should have listened, damn her ears. But she was not there, though he screeched like a frigate bird, shrieking on the wind. “Jane!”

There were only two other places in the ship where she could reliably be found—one was the orlop sick bay. And it was already under water.

Pray God that she had not gone there to get something to assist Mr. Denman.

The image of Simmons, his head dripping in blood, rose before him, and all he could do was picture Jane the same. Whoever had had the bloody hanging temerity to strike an officer would have no hesitation in hitting an easy mark like Jane. She could be lying anywhere, out cold, with the dark wash of water swirling silently about her bloodied head.

But he couldn’t search the whole of the ship—half of it was already gone. But the pain—the sheer bloody panic—was like a cutlass across his chest.

Dance flung himself down the aft companionway. The ship had pitched herself downward from the bow, so he still held out hope that the wardroom might be high enough. But by the time he had grappled his way down the ladder, and across the shifting berth deck, Dance knew it was too late. His boots were awash before his head cleared the combing, and he was in it up to his waist before his feet ever made it to the deck below.

But he couldn’t stop his feet from surging forward, pushing his way through the icy water, calling all the while he thrashed his way through the wardroom door. “Jane? Jane!”

He paused for a second to try and listen, to hear anything above the rush of water and the cracks and groans of the ship settling ever faster.

It was faint—the barest remnant of desperation. “Please!”

The ship canted hard to starboard, and the rush of water down the companionway was like a wave, pushing him forward. Dance dove into the darkness, half swimming his way aft, pushing against stanchions and doors that were working their way loose as the ship around him died by degrees.

He knocked his head hard against the wardroom table, stunning him for one long, useless moment before he could think enough to move, and fight his way around a floating chair. He thought he saw something—a slick flash of light reflecting off her pale skin. And there it was—her arm reaching through a rip in the batten wall, scrabbling to try and reach the door handle.

Then the ship rolled high on a bow wave, and came down more heavily, rolling to starboard, tilting around him as the horizon of water within stayed level for only a few seconds before it began sloshing and resounding off the walls, rippling back upon him in irregular waves. And the door before him was lost in the black swirl of water.

Chapter Eighteen

The frigid water fell over her head like an icy black blanket, closing out all sensation and sound for one endless numbing moment.

And the suffocating terror hit her as she went under, and hit again when she tried to rise to the surface, but found only ceiling beams. She scratched and clawed along the long grooves of the seams, but she found no way out. No way to rise farther. No air.

No.

In the frigid darkness she could see nothing but a faint glimmer of light reflecting through the black water, and the hole she had clawed in the tough, painted canvas of the walls. She grabbed at the torn edges again, trying to rip the canvas apart—enough so she might break through and escape. She had to escape. She had to. God couldn’t be so cruel as to make her die, cold and alone in the frigid dark.

But her numbed hands slipped. She could get no purchase. Nothing, though she tried and tried again, reaching through the hole to find something to hold on to—something that would help her. Anything.

Anything.

But there was nothing. And she was becoming slower and clumsier and stupider with each increasingly frantic attempt.

The suffocating pressure in her chest expanded into an ache, and then into a single sharp blade of pain that withered within her as it died out. And then the last flicker of light died. And there was no more.

Her mouth came open because she could not stop it, and the cold salt water rushed in. She swallowed and swallowed, and choked on the harsh rasp of the brine burning down her throat. And then she couldn’t swallow any more.

Her mind spoke to her within her head, and said,
It is done. It is over. This is what it is to drown
.

And then there was nothing but pain.

Not in her head, or her heart, or lungs.

But in her arm, wrenched from the socket as her shoulder slammed into the wall. And then another pain as her temple cracked hard against a beam as she was hauled past, borne to the bottom with the pieces of ship wrecking by her.

And then heat. Warmth against her. A body, moving and strong.

Dance.

It had to be Dance. The answer to her prayers. It could be no one else.

But she was past thought, past anything but hideous animal instinct. She scrabbled at him, frantic and clawing as he hauled her upward, trying to push herself above him—push herself to the air and the solidity of his shoulders. His hands closed around her wrists, and held her fast, but she fought him. Fought to push herself upward toward the blessed air.

Their heads broke to the surface, but she could not get the air into her lungs.

His voice came from far away, muffled like an echo from a spent storm rumbling toward her. “I have you. I have you.”

Jane did not know how she heard him with the roar of the water, and death groans of the ship cracking and shuddering all around them, and the hissing crackle of the air foaming up the black water, turning it opalescent, like ice.

But her head was above water—she could feel the stark slap of the chill air against her skin. But still she couldn’t breathe.

She opened her mouth to draw air in but couldn’t, until the painfully sharp pressure of her lungs reasserted itself, and she retched, choking and gasping against the acid rasp in her throat.

God, it burned. It burned, the cold wet air, but she gulped it down gratefully. Greedily. Stupidly.

“I have you.”

He did, and she clung to him as he hauled her like a great fish toward the dim glimmer of light. His hat floated by, and she just stared at it, unable to form the words in her head to present to her tongue. She could do nothing but breathe and breathe and hold hard to the sure solidity that was him—that was her Dance.

He had saved her. At least he was trying to.

And he was the one doing all the work. He pulled her up beneath the ventilation hatch in the wardroom ceiling, and wrestled the hatch cover off. And then he was boosting her up, pushing her roughly over the hatch combing.

Her hip landed hard on the lip of wood. She would be bruised everywhere. She felt battered and heavy, sodden from the weight of the water sucking her below. But she was still alive.

For now.

“Come.” Dance was beside her, hauling her up by her sodden clothing. “Come on, damn you. Don’t you give up on me, now,” he roared at her over the din of the rain and wind, blazing away at her with that ferocious scowl.

She had never been so glad to have someone angry at her in her entire life.

Because of him, she was still alive. The pain in her lungs and the ache in her throat were enough to tell her so, had not the man she clung to been so warm and alive, and so very angry at her for almost dying on his ship.

Which was still sinking.

He half carried, half dragged her up another two sets of ladders, and over to the larboard rail, where the loose lines in empty davits lashed in the wind like whips.

“Morris! Lawrence!” Dance howled into the wind. “Ransome!”

Jane could see nothing beyond the small circle of light that came from a single lamp near the abandoned helm. Above, the few sails that remained flapped uselessly in the wind and rain, the last fluttering gasp of the ship as the wind drove her farther and farther under.

“Ransome,” Dance bellowed into the night. “Damn, damn, damn his eyes, where is he?”

Jane followed the line of his gaze but she could see nothing but pitch-black water. Inboard the ship, there wasn’t much more to see. The waist was awash with black waves. The vessel had obviously been abandoned, and as they stood clinging to the rail, the forecastle went completely under. A spume of white foam—water and air escaping from the porous old hull—rose across the waist. The ship lurched drunkenly to larboard, tipping the rail down toward the rapidly rising water.

“The damn boats are gone.” He was yelling, though she was right there, clinging to his chest like a limpet, as he hauled them up the steeply sloping deck toward the taffrail, where the aft portion of the ship was still above the dark, churning water.

And then she saw it—her pinnace slapping uselessly against the stern. “My boat!” Jane loosed her hold of his coat enough to point. “There,” was all she could articulate, as she pointed toward the vessel as it began to be pushed up and outboard by the roiling spume.

“Fuck me. Yes.” Dance was reaching for the lines securing the davit while still keeping his arm clamped securely across her chest like an iron band to keep her from flailing. “Grab hold.”

It was everything Jane could do to make her cold, clumsy limbs obey her mind’s commands, and let go of him so he could loosen the lines to lower the dangling pinnace into the water.

And then he picked her up, sweeping her into his arms and lofting her over the rail. She shrieked and threw her arms around his neck, afraid to let go again. Afraid of the dark water swallowing her whole again.

“Jump,” he instructed. “I’m right behind you.”

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t submit herself to the water again.

Finally he had to let go of her, and pry her arms off, and push her away, his big hand planted solidly between her shoulder blades, propelling her downward.

Jane screamed, and jumped because she had to, flinging herself wildly at the bobbling boat. She landed hard, cracking her ribs against the side. She would be nothing but bruises from head to toe. If she didn’t drown. Her legs were in the water, and her skirts and the damn cloak were heavy and pulling her back down into the frigid depths.

She slipped, losing her grip, and her head went under for one awful moment. The water rushed into her ears, shutting everything out, and she could feel herself start to thrash and fight again.

Jane kicked hard, scrambling back up over the side, fighting with every ounce of strength she had left. Which wasn’t much. She could feel her will leeching out as the cold water soaked in.

And then Dance’s big hand clamped itself into her arm. And then his other hand fisted in the sodden material of her cloak and dragged her up. The two of them landed atop the tarpaulin cover like an ungainly haul of fish.

She lay splayed there helplessly for a few moments like that ungainly fish, gasping for air, while poor Dance, strong and skilled and thinking, desperately freed the lines.

And then they were free and afloat.

“Unlace the boat cover.” He punched a finger at the tight tarpaulin. “You need to move. Move!”

So she did, tearing at the tight lacing that had held the tarpaulin snug and dry, and kept her gear safe and secure.

“Oars?”

She did not bother to attempt to speak, but wormed her way under a corner of the canvas cover, and wiggled her way underneath, groping her way in the darkness to find the oars stacked just where she had left them, atop the railed wooden platform of the well with the rudder board and tiller.

Jane rolled to her knees and handed them up to Dance, and then began to yank down the tarpaulin so he could put the oars to the rowlocks.

“No,” he yelled over the screech of the wind. “Only halfway. We’ll need the protection.”

He was right. If the stormy seas had tossed
Tenacious
about, and filled her decks with running sleet, there would be no escape from the wind and cold without the canvas cover.

Jane did what she could to flatten the tarpaulin so Dance could row them clear of the maw of tangled rigging that swung down toward them, threatening to drag them back under as the ship settled ever farther under the waves.

And somehow he did it. He kept rowing even when they were clear of the ship and in no danger of the swirling vortex of air and waves. Jane kept her eyes upon
Tenacious
until that last lantern hung by the wheel was snuffed out, and blackness of night descended upon them, and she could see nothing. Not even the boat around her. She could feel the floorboards beneath her knees and hands. Feel the smooth, polished wood of the long familiar rail beneath her hands, and the rough rasp of the tarpaulin at her back, but every other sensation was drowned out by the howl of the wind and the engulfing blackness of the night.