Historical Romance Boxed Set (77 page)

His voice echoed back to him without answer.

Treynor saw Bosun Hawker hurrying his wife, along with Amelia, her new baby, and Jeannette’s dog, out of their small cabin.

“Have you seen Lady St. Ives?” he asked.

“No, sir. An’ ye ‘aven’t the time to search for ‘er unless ye’re longin’ fer a watery grave yerself. Chances are, the lady ‘as already jumped ship.”

Treynor thought that unlikely. He’d not seen her topside since the outbreak of the battle, at least that he’d noticed. And he hadn’t passed her on his way below. But amid so many, he could easily have missed her….

Intending to search the water from the deck, he started to follow the Hawkers. The bosun claimed someone was holding a boat for them. But then Treynor turned back. There would be no second chance to visit the farthest reaches of the ship. The
Tempest
would soon be awash and foundering in the rough sea. Then it would sink.

The thought of Jeannette going down with it caused fear to squeeze his chest, gripping so tightly he could scarcely breathe.

* * *

Jeannette tried not to panic amid the clamoring voices and pushing, frantic men. Filled with many who couldn’t move, the surgery resounded with cries of doom and misery as water seeped into the room like icy fingers of death, grabbing at their ankles.

Clamping her hands over her ears, Jeannette hoped to block out the sound long enough to think of a way to get the injured topside. But there were far too many helpless sailors.

“Go!” The surgeon herded his mates out ahead of him. Each man supported one among the injured who could stand. They left behind those who were unconscious or unable to walk, along with the mortally wounded.

“What about the others?” Jeannette cried.

The surgeon barely spared her a glance. “There is nothing we can do. Get out unless you want to go down with them!”

When she didn’t move, he shrugged and pushed through the portal. Half-carrying a tall, thin seamen with a bandage circling his bare chest, he left Jeannette alone amid the cries for help.

The
Tempest
shifted, knocking her into the surgery table and the blood still puddled there. It stained her dress. No doubt her face and hair were speckled with it, as well. She could smell the freshness of that vital substance along with the sweat of the men who’d left it behind—just as she could smell the fear of those who remained.

It was the odor of death.

“Ma’am, don’t leave me, please!”

Steadying herself, Jeannette turned to see the powder boy with the hurt foot, his large brown eyes glazed with fright.

“I can’t walk. ‘Elp me, please!”

The water level inched higher as Jeannette waded over to him, the weight of her wet skirts slowing her progress. It broke her heart that she couldn’t save all those who reached toward her. But without help or more time, there was little she could do.

“I will come back for you,” she promised the others as she helped the boy to stand. For most, her words would prove a lie, but she fully intended to rescue as many as she could. Hope was the only thing she could offer them at the moment.

The boy grimaced in pain as they worked their way to the door. Jeannette encouraged him as best she could, but was only half aware of what she was saying and was soon breathing too hard to continue speaking.

When they reached the top deck, she stared in horror.

The wet sand that had covered the wood was now a mixture of water, sand, and blood—the blood of those lying prostrate on the deck or slumped over cannons, mouths gaping open in a forever scream. Portions of the deck were missing altogether. Scattered cannons were trapped among the considerable wreckage.

Instinctively she turned her face toward the place she’d last seen Treynor. With the slant of the ship, many of those who had died on deck tumbled toward the forecastle. Some had been snagged by the fallen mast or the broken boats.

Little remained near Treynor’s post besides an overturned cannon that had come loose from its moorings. It had slid across the wood, gathering speed and smashing everything in its path until striking the foremast, which had held fast and stopped its forward momentum.

Forcing herself to examine the faces of those bodies strewn across the deck, she searched for Treynor, praying he had somehow escaped such a fate. “Have you heard word of the second lieutenant?” she asked the men who ran by her.

Few responded. Those who did, merely shook their heads.

“Every man for himself! Swim fer yer lives, ye—”

A French pistol popped as the man who was yelling that leapt over the side, and his words died with him. Then the gunfire ceased, leaving only human cries to echo against the sky.

Jeannette cursed the revolutionaries, the suffering caused by war, and the feeling of loss that swamped her, and tried to bear more of the injured boy’s weight. But her strength was giving out. Had she saved the boy from going down with the ship only to watch him drown? There were no serviceable boats, and she doubted he’d last long in the water.

“Can you swim?” she asked hopefully.

“Aye …a bit.”

She let go of him long enough to slide a broken beam to the edge of the deck. Most of the bulwarks had been shot away. “Grab onto this as soon as you can after you hit the water,” she said, struggling to shove it into the sea. “But be careful where you jump.”

“Are ye not comin’?” he asked.

The acrid, smoky air caused her to cough. “Not yet.”

“But the surgery will be under water.”

She nodded as guilt and sadness welled up inside her. “I know. I am not going back.”

His somber face looked far older than his years. “Thanks for ‘elpin’ me.”

Glancing uncertainly at the dark swells dotted with men and floating debris, she sent him over the side. She didn’t wait to see whether or not he managed to grab hold of the beam she’d pushed into the water. The fear that Treynor lay on deck, somehow not dead but injured, gave her new purpose.

Taking another deep breath, she set out to examine the bodies.

Gray, brown, and a few pairs of blue eyes stared sightlessly up at her as she searched. Stepping in and around the bodies and blown-off limbs, she fought off renewed fear as the bloody sand swallowed her shoes. Only one thought drove her: the hope that Treynor lived, that she could find him.

When she spotted polished black boots beneath the tangled rigging and yards of the mast, that hope faltered.

Gingerly she pried some of the wreckage loose and lifted the man’s shoulder to glimpse his downturned face. It was the purser. She recognized his dark, matted hair and his face-what there was of it. His jaw had been shot away.

Overcome, Jeannette slumped next to him.

The enemy’s guns had fallen silent, but her ears still rang.

As she wiped Gillman’s blood off her hands and onto her dress, she shivered uncontrollably. The sun had climbed high in the sky, but it offered little warmth to combat the cutting breeze. Considering the death and destruction before her, she wondered if she would ever be warm again.

Water lapped farther and farther up the deck. She was so tired, so discouraged, she could hardly feel fear. Where was Treynor? Dead, probably, swallowed by the cold, hungry sea, just as she would soon be….

A moan reached her ears, but amid the cries of so many, she scarcely noticed the sound until she realized it wasn’t just a moan. It was her name.

Turning, she caught sight of Lieutenant Cunnington lying a few feet away, as pale as death. Blood trickled from his temple and from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were fixed on her with the single-minded determination of a survivor.

“Help me,” he groaned.

Jeannette stood but drew no closer. She had no time to help him. He was badly injured, would probably not live—and Treynor might need her.

Choking back a sob, she shook her head. “I will not let Treynor die while I save you!”

She spun around, renewing her search with less concern for who or what she touched. If she was going to die, she was going to die searching. She would not give up, would not give in to despair.

“Treynor!” she called, digging through the corpses. A jagged piece of wood cut her hand, but she scarcely felt it. “Treynor!”

“Come on!” A seaman, obviously assuming her to be out of her mind with fright, waved her toward the edge. “The sea is your only chance. The French are fishing those they can out of the water.”

When she didn’t budge, he grabbed her arm and tried to drag her to the side with him, but Jeannette jerked away. “I cannot. I have to find him.”

“Who?”

“Lieutenant Treynor.” Then she remembered Cunnington. “Wait! The first lieutenant needs your help. Over there—he is wounded.”

The sailor shook his head. “I’ll not bother with that cruel bastard. Or ye, neither, if ye’ll not listen ter reason,” he said, and hurried off without her.

Cunnington had done little to endear himself to anyone, but Jeannette couldn’t leave him as she’d thought she could. She’d just started back for the first lieutenant when she heard Treynor call her name.

Nearly collapsing in relief, she turned to see him emerge from the hatch, soaked to the skin. His sun-darkened face had a grayish cast, and blood dripped from several pieces of wood piercing his left arm. But he was alive, and he was still standing.

“Thank God!” She covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

He crossed to her. “Are you all right?” His gaze ranged over her bloody gown as worry creased his brow.

Unable to staunch the tears that slid down her cheeks, she nodded. “The blood’s not mine.”

His good arm circled her waist and pulled her against him. “Shhh,” he coaxed above her head. “We will survive. Somehow we will survive this.”

Jeannette pressed her face into his chest. “I was afraid you were dead already.”

“Alive enough, my sweet. But we must go.” He pointed to a beam and tangled rigging bobbing in the sea not far away, supporting two men already. “See that?”

She nodded.

“After we get your clothes off, I will give you a big push. Keep your eye on that beam and swim like hell. You can swim?”

“Yes, but the sea is full of men. And the French, when they come for me—”

“Will find the most beautiful woman they have ever seen—in all her glory.” He tore her bodice away when the buttons proved too stubborn. For a brief moment his eyes feasted on her breasts straining against the sheer fabric of her shift as though he might never see such a sight again. Then his voice dropped to a whisper in her ear. “And she will be alive, which is the only thing I care about.”

“Treynor? Is that you?” Cunnington cried out. “For God’s sake, man, help me!” He tried to shove himself into a sitting position, but failed.

“Do not go back for him,” Jeannette whispered fiercely. “He will drown you. You are hurt. Come on. We will jump together. Now!”

The ship groaned as it sank lower in the water, the stern angling up by at least two feet.

A fresh surge of water gushed up the companionway and spewed over the deck, and Jeannette felt her feet begin to slip.

“Jump!” The lines of Treynor’s face were hard and intent as he launched her out over the side.

Jeannette felt the chill wind grab hold of the hem of her chemise, making it billow out just before the cold water engulfed her.

Chapter 19

To keep from sliding across the deck and falling into the water, Lieutenant Treynor grasped what remained of the bulwarks as he watched Jeannette splash into the sea. He hoped her quick mind and strong body would serve her now, as the French had few boats with which to collect the survivors. Only a fraction of those in the sea would ever come out.

He prayed Jeannette would be one of them.

As soon as he saw her resurface and begin to swim, he went back for Lieutenant Cunnington, who’d managed to crawl away from the damaged wheel.

“Treynor.” Cunnington clung to the tarry cable that secured the mizzenmast. “Thank God.” He tried to laugh. “They left me. The bloody fools …left me lying in my…” Treynor took Cunnington’s arm and pulled him into a sitting position, which elicited a groan. “ …my own blood.”

Treynor didn’t reply. Nearly swooning from the pain, he used his injured arm to hold on to the mast while he hefted Cunnington across his shoulders. He fought to keep his footing, clinging to anything he could while he crept slowly to where he’d pushed Jeannette into the sea. “I hope you know how to swim, Lieutenant,” he said.

“You could not have done it any better.” Cunnington’s throat worked as he swallowed. “You could not have won the battle—”

Treynor groaned as he slid Cunnington off. “Save your breath,” he muttered. “You will soon need it.”

“What are you doing?” The first lieutenant blinked in confusion, squinting into the sun. For a moment, Treynor wondered if Cunnington would die then and there, and spare him the trouble of trying to save him. But the first lieutenant still breathed, and Treynor could delay no longer.

“Hang on,” he told him. With agonizing effort, he gripped Cunnington with his wounded arm and jumped.