Page 98 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Copper’s tang flooded her tongue. If she survived this night, she would remember it for the rest of her life.

Alexander kicked the quayside door again and again, while the rumbling footsteps of running men kept coming. The wooden deadeye with its iron tail sat on the floor. She grabbed it as hulking forms crested the stairs. Fury lit their eyes. She slammed the loft’s side door, blood pounding in her ears. She was quick, wrapping the deadeye’s chain around thelatch and jamming the deadeye’s round head onto a hook in the wall.

“Open up!” Mr. Gifford bellowed.

The door rattled under a heavy fist. Fear squeezed her chest. The deadeye chain bought them a minute at the most. Footsteps scuttled, and a lead ball blasted a hole in the side door. A beefy arm punched through the hole and reached for the latch.

She drove her pistol butt down on thick fingers with all her might.

“Ahhhh!” A scream rent the air.

A hand grabbed her by the scruff of her coat. Alexander.

“Let’s go!” he yelled and dragged her to the quayside door.

Rain spattered a jagged hole in that door. Outside, the crane jutted over sinister onyx water below.

“Climb out and jump!” Alexander cried. “They’re coming!”

The will to live took over. She grabbed the splintered edge to steady herself and put one foot on the crane. At the end, twin ropes as thick as her wrist whipped the air. Behind her, Alexander gave a push.

“Go!” he yelled.

Her heart banged ferociously. She wasn’t graceful, putting one foot in front of the other. Wind and rain stung her cheeks and dark fear almost swallowed her. A shot rang out and she jumped, hugging her knees to her chest. She dropped like a cannon ball into the stormy river, the watery slap shocking and cold.

Sinking yet weightless she opened her eyes. Tiny crystalline bubbles floated, mesmerizing in pitch-black.

The river entombed her, frigid and alive. Her body halted its descent and she floated in silence. Uncurling her limbs, she climbed to the surface. Her head popped above the river’s choppy skin. A hissing inhale and she breathed.

Churning water swatted her face. She kicked to stay afloat. Mr. Baines and his wherry was a red sliver bobbing harshly. She thrashed wildly, calling his name. Alexander hung on the side of the wherry.

He was alive, his fierce eyes searching the water.

“Cecelia!” The wind carried Mr. Baines’s voice.

Thunder and lightning blasted. The river lit up under the jagged bolt. Pistol shots rang out. Hot orange flared high above her head like Vauxhall fireworks. Mr. Wortley stood on the hole she’d made, the wind battering his coat. But he was a figure growing smaller by the second. The current was taking her away.

She kicked with all her might to keep her head above water and air in her lungs.

From rowing, she knew how to survive a current. Every wherryman lived by the creed ofDon’t panic.Ride the current.Common wisdom said to grab something solid and rest on it. Then scuttle ashore, hand over hand if possible. Good advice, but nothing prepared her for a storm-tossed river. She was gulping air and water. The river wanted to swallow her whole and take her out to sea.

“Miss MacDonald!”

Mr. Baines? Serrated waves slapped her face, but she could see the riverman. He fought to stand upright and drive his wherry with the long pike pole.

“Cecelia!” Alexander was half over the wherry, extending an oar.

He was hersomething solid.

She fought with all her might and reached. The angry Thames was sweeping them downriver with frightening speed. London Bridge loomed ahead. She kicked and kicked. Her fingertips grazed wood . . . and slipped.

Another stretch, another frantic thrashing of her legs. Her arms were a windmill against furious water, and she gripped the oar’s paddle with icy, slippery hands.

“Hold on.” Alexander’s voice rose above the wind.

His face was jagged with fear. He was hauling her in by the oar, hand over hand.

“London Bridge is coming,” Mr. Baines warned over the wind.