Better to go overboard by herself, unbound, under her own power than to wait for them to bind her and toss her out.
The dreadful realization made her eyes squeeze shut and her heart lurch. Better to drown herself than let them drown her? How so? Dead, she thought with an inward shudder, was dead.
She
so
did not want to die. Not tonight. Not until she was an old, old lady, and then, pray God, peacefully in her bed.
In the interests of survival, she forced herself to open her eyes again, this time just slits. There, directly in her line of vision, were several items tucked beneath one of the seats: a coil of rope, an unlit, battered lantern, and a jug. A large jug with a handle and a cork, made of some sort of light-colored crockery. She could just discern its squat shape through the darkness. Even as her desperate gaze assessed it, the surging puddle of water in the bottom of the boat caught it up, turned it on its side, and swept it toward her. Whatever it had once held— spirits maybe, or water— it was obviously empty now. It floated.
It floated.
In a flash Claire knew what she had to do. She was afraid to move— the men were paying her no attention, and she didn't want that to change— but the jug bumped against her knee as the boat heeled, and she knew that it would be swept out of reach again as soon as the boat dipped the other way. She knew, too, that the jug represented her best chance— maybe her only chance— for survival.
Sending another quick, fervent prayer skyward, she made a stealthy grab and succeeded in closing her hand around the slippery handle.
"Awake, are you?"
The man with his fist in her back must have either seen or felt her movement, because he bent nearer, leaning over to speak almost in her ear. The warmth of his breath feathered across her cheek. His accent was that of the British upper classes, and it surprised her, given the speech patterns of his cohorts. Involuntarily, before she could debate the wisdom of doing so, she glanced up, registering the glint of his eyes, the darkness of his hair and skin, the intimidating breadth of his shoulders against the backdrop of the peaking waves. Then all coherent thought left her as she realized that she might very well be looking into the face of her murderer.
Stark terror froze her in place. Her breathing stopped. Even sitting cross-legged in the bottom of the boat as he was, he was a large man, she could tell. A large, strong man, muscular and fit. He could kill her himself, with his bare hands, with ease, if he chose to do so— and there were five more like him.
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. Fighting panic, she willed herself to breathe again and drew in a shaky, quavery draft of salt-and-fish-tainted air.
It was now or never.
Grasping the jug as if it were her only hope of salvation— which, indeed, it was— Claire drew on every ounce of strength and determination she still possessed and surged to her knees. Her gown jerked free of his hold. He looked at her in surprise as his hand fell away. On her knees as she was, with him sitting cross-legged before her, they were practically nose to nose. Their gazes met, locked, for the briefest of moments. He was opening his mouth as if to say something as she swung her improvised weapon at him in a desperate arc. The heavy jug crashed into the side of his face with a sound that was clearly audible over the rushing sea.
"Dammit to bloody hell!"
Clapping a hand to his face, he fell back even as shock waves from the impact shuddered up her arm, nearly making her drop the jug. Hanging on to it for dear life, her pulse racing, she scrambled clumsily for the side.
"Master Hugh!"
The other previously cross-legged man, on his knees now too, snatched a handful of her skirt, pulling her back when she would have dived into the sea. Yanking free, she was undone by the rocking of the boat and toppled against the man she had hit. For a stunned instant Claire felt the hard strength of his body against her back. Then he grabbed her arm, hurting her, and with a strength born of utter desperation she turned on him, beating at him with the jug and screeching like a bedlamite.
"Christ Almighty! Grab her, James!"
"Aye, I've got her!"
She was still swinging as the second man snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her off. He felt softer than the first; the spongy resilience of his stomach cushioned her back. In the background the oarsmen shouted, moving so unwarily as they hastened to come to their companions' aid that they nearly overturned the already wildly pitching boat.
Frantic, Claire jammed her elbow into that spongy stomach. He groaned, his grip loosening. She managed to wrest herself free only to have her wrist grabbed by the first man. Heart thumping, throat so dry that her screams now emerged more as harsh croaks, she slewed around.
"Enough, vixen!"
The words were a snarl. He was breathing heavily, but his hold on her wrist was as unbreakable as a vise. For an instant, as she drew in much-needed air, she stared into eyes that were, in that gray light, as black and pitiless as twin voids. She could see the gleam of his teeth as his lips drew back from them. Her left hand, with his right one wrapped around her wrist, was upraised between them. Her right hand still kept its death-defying grip on the jug. Behind her, the second man was already reaching for her again.
The battle was done.
But no. This battle was for her life, and she would not, could not, be bested while she yet breathed. Terror stoked by the cold breath of looming oblivion gave her a last burst of strength. Quick as a cat she lunged forward, sinking her teeth into that imprisoning hand.
"Eeow!"
He howled, snatching his hand away, and suddenly she was free. Still hanging on to the jug for dear life, she leaped for the side. The boat pitched, fortuitously this time, and through no further effort of her own she was suddenly overboard, tumbling headfirst into the icy depths of the frothing sea.
Chapter 4
The water was so cold that for an instant after the sea swallowed her it seemed that every system of Claire's body was suspended. Then her heart gave a great reviving leap. Warm blood began to race through her veins. Her eyes popped open and she could move again. A surge of exhilaration gave her renewed energy. She had done it! She had escaped.
Her joy was, unfortunately, of extremely brief duration. Struggling against a sucking current that seemed determined to drag her down, hampered by the weight of her soaked skirts as they wrapped about her legs, she found herself at the mercy of the sea. Air became an increasingly urgent necessity; she clawed and kicked for the surface. Though her eyes were open, she could see nothing; in the impenetrable darkness, up and down were, horribly, one and the same to her.
But the jug, filled with air, was bent on rising. It was, as she had known it would be, her salvation. Clinging to it with desperate strength, she rose with it. Her head broke the surface, and she was weak with relief. She gulped air like a starving man might food— and then a wave rolled over her and sent her choking and tumbling to the depths again.
Once again the jug sought the surface, taking her along. Then, without warning, her frozen fingers betrayed her: They could not maintain their grip on the slippery surface. One minute her fingers were curled around the handle. The next, the jug shot from her grasp like a greased pig.
Terrified, Claire snatched after it, but it was gone as quick as a blink, disappearing into the swirling darkness above her head. Panic-stricken, floundering, she tried desperately to swim, and her limbs valiantly reconstructed the motions from memory. But she was fighting without substance, and to her despair she realized that her struggles were puny useless things against the might of the sea.
I'm going to die, she thought, still not really grasping the truth of it although now, as if to prepare her, the words formed crystal clear in her mind. Without the buoyancy of the jug to counteract it, the current, like some giant sucking mouth, pulled her down. Her heart pounded. Her lungs began to ache and burn. She needed to breathe, but there was no air. Water was all there was. Water everywhere, surrounding her, in her eyes, her ears, trying to push into her mouth and nose, freezing her, suffocating her…
She had to have air. Where was the surface? In that chaotic liquid darkness she became totally disoriented, unable to tell up from down. Not that it mattered. Try though she might, she could not swim in such a sea. Her efforts to defy its force were pitiable. It would do with her as it would, chewing her up and spitting her out at its whim. She was as helpless against it as a babe.
The funny thing was that she was not even really afraid any longer, she mused as her frozen limbs grew heavy and clumsy and her struggles grew weak. She was light-headed, woozy. Her still desperately beating heart felt heavy and swollen, as though it might burst at any second. Her lungs throbbed. It was all she could do not to respond to their urgent need by inhaling and having done with it. Inhaling water… that was to drown. Vaguely she wondered, Does drowning hurt?
With a fresh burst of terror, Claire realized that she was close to losing consciousness, to succumbing to the cold, the lack of oxygen, the darkness, the despair.
Images of her sisters appeared in her mind's eye: Gabby and Beth— the one slender, chestnut-haired, pregnant with her first child; the other a plumply pretty redhead, eagerly looking forward to her first Season. They would be grief-stricken if she died. Beth's debut would have to be postponed; with Gabby indisposed, Claire had undertaken to bring her younger sister out this very spring. Plans to have Beth join her in London in March were already well under way. Now Beth would have to wait another year. And Twindle would grieve. So would Aunt Augusta, in her own gruff fashion. Nick, Gabby's husband, would grieve too, although the bulk of his concern would rightly focus on Gabby, already in such distress from her pregnancy. David, her own husband, would not grieve. Oh, he would put on a great show of sadness, he and his mother, but in their secret heart of hearts they would not mourn.
The bitter truth of that startled Claire into awareness once more. Rebelling against it, she gave a mighty kick for the surface; her numbed arms flailed….
Her hand brushed something— something solid— something covered in cloth. Abruptly her hair was snagged. The sudden, sharp pain in her scalp almost made her gasp, which would certainly have ended the struggle right then and there. Her head whipped around, but this watery hell in which she was trapped was too dark: She could see nothing of what had caught her. It yanked her in the direction she thought was upward. Because of that she did not struggle as it towed her in its wake. She went with it, using her hands and feet to push against the black water. Her lungs were now aching, burning instruments of torture in her chest. Her heart beat against her ribs like the wings of a caged wild bird. Blood pounded feverishly in her temples. Suddenly she realized that she had the answer to her question: Yes, it hurts to drown.
With that thought, miraculously, her head popped through the surface. Her staring, stinging eyes recorded blurry images of surging waves topped with white foam swelling against a starless sky. Her mouth opened instinctively, like a hungry baby bird's. She sucked in air, blessed air, in a greedy gasp. But the crashing sea broke over her even as she filled her lungs, forcing her under once again.
This time, though, as she choked on salt water and fought against the freezing depths, she was not alone. She felt a solid presence behind her, kicking and fighting with her. Something wrapped around her waist— an arm, she thought. From the size and iron strength of it, a man's arm. Whoever had dragged her from the abyss by her hair was with her still. One of her would-be murderers, bent on saving her from the depths so that he could drown her in a fashion more to his liking? The absurdity of it boggled her mind.
Not that, at the moment, she even cared about his reasons, she realized as her lungs began to burn again. All she cared about at the moment was having air to breathe….
As unexpectedly as she'd gone under, she surfaced again. Or, rather, they surfaced. Her rescuer was right behind her. She heard his harsh gasps for air underlining her own. His arm was wrapped around her rib cage now just beneath her breasts. As unyielding as a manacle, it locked her, with her back to his front, against a large, strong body in constant motion as it fought to keep them afloat. Even with his best efforts, and her own, her chin just barely cleared the surging water.
Still, she could breathe.
"Master Hugh!"
Claire instinctively glanced in the direction of the shout. So intent on drawing in air had she been that she only just now noticed the longboat riding the waves some little distance away. The lantern had been lit; held high, its yellow glow illuminated the boat itself and the roiling black water. She and her rescuer, however, were well beyond its range.
"Here!"
The answering shout boomed nearly in her ear, its timbre hoarse but its volume startlingly loud. Claire started, and felt the arm tighten beneath her breasts. The chest against which her back rested heaved. She felt the movements of strong legs kicking beneath hers, saw a brawny arm in a soaked white sleeve, twin to the one that shackled her to him, carve through the dark water in front of her, and again tried to help. But her limbs were numb, and her movements were feeble.
"Fight me, vixen, and I'll knock you unconscious."
The threat was a savage growl in her ear. She felt the rasp of a sandpapery jaw against her cheek as he spoke, and realized that his grip on her had tightened to the point where it was almost painful.
"I'm not fighting." Her voice was almost unrecognizable to her. It was husky, ragged, barely audible above the roar of the sea. She wasn't even sure if he had heard.
She was, she realized with dismal clarity, beyond struggling. Her strength was spent. Breathing took all her energy. He, and he alone, was keeping them afloat. Her arms and legs were numb and all but lifeless. She could not have fought him if she had wanted to. But she didn't want to. The prospect of drowning, which she would surely do if he let her go, terrified her more at the moment than anything else; it terrified her more than he did.