Page 29 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

A hand snatched my wrist as the water tore at my body—both above and below me—sucking me toward its icy depths.

Wood cracked, deep and sickening, in the distance.

I couldn’t tell where it came from in the enveloping wave.

The hand keeping me from being washed away pulled me down until I rested on the deck.

The water still covered me, and my lungs began to burn.

Something clamped around my ankle, nearly breaking the grasp of my rescuer.

I clawed at his arm as I kicked against the thing shackling my foot and threatening to lose me in the ocean.

A rope? A sail? It stayed firmly around my ankle.

I wasn’t going to make it. This thing would drag me down.

I whimpered, bubbles flying out around my face.

The thing readjusted its grip. A hand. A person had grabbed hold of me.

I instantly stopped kicking. I was his one hope as much as the other man was mine.

My face cleared the surface, and I gasped.

The water in my eyes didn’t let me see my rescuer well, but I clung to him with both hands and all of my might.

I tried to clear my eyes by wiping them on the shoulder of my coat.

Mr. Doswell filled my blurry vision, hair dark and plastered to his face.

Of course it was him. I sobbed as I turned to see who had caught my ankle.

“Another!” Mr. Doswell shouted. The man holding on to my foot lifted his head.

It was Frank. I barely caught my breath before the next wave enclosed us.

The force twisted me around, wrenching at my grip on Mr. Doswell.

Frank’s hands cinched around my leg, so tight I thought he would rip it off.

We skimmed across the deck. My face scraped against the wood.

The pain in my leg intensified until it took over all my mind.

Please. Let it stop. I dug my fingers into Mr. Doswell’s sleeve, screaming silently. Please!

Suddenly, the pressure released. Cold wind and rain whipped at my face as the sea raced by, receding. My body shook. I couldn’t feel Mr. Doswell’s hand anymore, but my arms were still fixed above my head. Masts and yards rose above me, their rigging leaping to and fro in a strange dance.

A voice, seeming far away in the din, shouted, “Man overboard!”

I sat up. Frank. Where was Frank? I stared dumbly at my feet. One of my shoes was gone.

Arms encircled me as I lunged toward the rail, broken and jagged with a chunk missing. I struggled, trying to get free. In moments, men blocked my view, searching the brutal waves.

“It’s Frank,” I choked, my efforts to get to him weakening by the moment. “Frank!”

“You can’t help him,” Mr. Doswell said into my ear. “Let them try. They know what they’re about.”

“Frank,” I whispered, covering my mouth. It couldn’t have been him.

A tall figure strode to the seamen gathered at the rail. “Ready lines. Do you see him?” He pulled a man out of the way to get a better view.

“Not yet, Captain.”

Mr. Doswell eased me back as the men scurried about despite the tossing deck. Another man came over to us and grabbed the chaplain’s shoulder.

“Miss Byam—why is she here?” It was étienne.

“Something is wrong with Mrs. Peyton,” Mr. Doswell answered for me as I continued to stare toward the rail where Frank had disappeared. They’d find him. They had to. Captain Peyton wouldn’t let one of his men drown. “She came to find you.”

“Let’s get her below.”

I gripped Mr. Doswell’s coat. “No. Frank.”

“You have no experience, mademoiselle,” étienne said firmly. “You will only endanger yourself up here.”

I let them lead me toward the hatchway, but I kept my head craned toward the group of men at the port rail.

My mind numbed. The water couldn’t have taken him far.

Perhaps he’d managed to hold on to the boat.

They’d pull him over the side, he’d cough and sputter and make an idiotic joke.

Then he’d flash me a smirk. The sea couldn’t conquer Frank Walcott.

Did you worry about me, Miss May? I can see it on your face.

You did. Never fear. I can take care of myself better than your Mr. Chaplain.

His words in my head quieted as we descended below. Softer and softer until they snuffed out like a candle on a midnight breeze.

Elias

I swallowed, glancing around at the still gathering before me.

Seamen stared at the deck, officers stood at attention, all hats were solemnly in hand.

Sails snapped above in the lingering remnants of yesterday’s wind.

Lines sat limp and sodden on the deck amid splinters from cracked wood.

And the hole in the port side rail gaped, its spiny fingers emphasizing the emptiness.

I dropped my gaze back to my worn copy of The Book of Common Prayer and continued with a wooden voice, “‘We therefore commit his body to the deep ...’” Fear snaked around my heart, and the images of yesterday made it difficult to read the text.

The wave overpowering us. Miss Byam getting swept from her feet and lost in the foam.

My wild grab. The miracle of catching her.

“‘To be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body—when the sea shall give up her dead—and the life of the world to come.’” I’d come so close to being forced to state Margaret Byam alongside the name of Frederick Walcott in this morning’s service.

I couldn’t think on that possibility too much without the notion paralyzing me.

I tried to avoid looking at her, but my eyes kept returning to her corner of the deck as I finished the reading.

She stood with fists pressed to her face as though trying to hold in a torrent as fierce as what we faced yesterday.

Mrs. Peyton put an arm around her. Both women looked pale and haggard, their gowns dirty and rumpled.

None of the crew had changed since before the storm.

No one moved when I finished, except one of the carpenter’s crew, who brought forward a scrap of wood in which they’d carved “Frank.” He paused beside the hole in the bulwark, then solemnly tipped the wood into the sea.

Walcott had been liked by many and avoided by many, but every eye was touched with red this morning, and every face was taut with sorrow. Even Mrs. Hallyburton lowered her head. Harvey kept wiping at his nose with his sleeve.

“Let this be a reminder to us all,” Captain Peyton said, stepping up beside me, “that each day is a gift. We mustn’t waste it.”

I nodded my agreement. Miss Byam covered her face with her hands, and Mrs. Peyton hugged her tightly.

How close I’d come to losing opportunities for nighttime conversations with Miss Byam.

My stomach twisted at the thought of never again seeing the fiery flash in her eye when she was indignant or the soft smile when she felt safe enough to let down her walls.

So, what will you do with it? All this pent-up fear over things that didn’t happen.

What would I do with it? How would I make the most of the time I had, as the captain had implored us? The only thing I wished to do just now was enfold her in my arms and banish this sick terror of nearly losing her to the deep.

So, you finally admit it. You fool.

Captain Peyton dismissed the men to begin wash and repairs, then turned to me. “Thank you, Doswell. That was respectfully done.”

I shrugged, closing my book. “I simply read what I was supposed to.” My pulse had taken up a rapid gait as realization dawned in my heart.

I’d done it again. I’d let myself stumble down a path I’d sworn never to follow.

So many times I’d offered my heart only to have it thrown back at me in tatters by ladies of good breeding and style.

It had been done with pity, with disregard, with regret for a plethora of reasons. I still hadn’t learned.

Captain Peyton replaced his cocked hat, surveying his men at their work. “But you do it with an air of sincerity that I’ve rarely observed in a clergyman.”

Why do something if I couldn’t do it sincerely?

In my duties or my friendships. Or love.

I licked my lips. “Thank you, Captain.” I couldn’t keep wandering this frigate, ignoring the truth before me and pretending these feelings hadn’t taken root.

I couldn’t keep lying to myself that I didn’t want to try again. With her.

Just as my hope soared, I dampened it quickly.

She was grieving. I would need to give her time.

Though her opinion of Mr. Walcott seemed complex, especially given how harshly she’d told him off when he’d teased my students a few days ago, she clearly esteemed him.

Was it evil of me to wish she esteemed him only as an unaffected friend?

“How is your wife, sir?” I asked, snapping myself out of my pondering. Had he seen the maelstrom of emotions swirling across my face?

“Well enough, thank you.” A hint of concern colored his voice.

“She is a little stiff from yesterday’s fall but, otherwise, fit as usual.

” He stroked his chin. “Though I am, of course, grateful for Miss Byam’s dedication to Georgana, I cannot understand why she would risk her life over a few bruises. Georgana is not a fragile woman.”

I tried my hardest not to wince. He most definitely did not know about her condition. The fact that I knew and he didn’t made my skin crawl. Surely she couldn’t keep it a secret from him much longer. “It is easy to act brashly in the anxiety of a storm.”

“That it is.” He clapped me on the shoulder, face still solemn. “You seem to be coming around since the battle. I’m glad of it.”

My face heated. It was all because of her.

Having someone to listen, to comfort, to care for made the storms of life easier to bear.

She was the anchor I’d desperately needed without knowing it.

As I watched her fight to stand in the shadow of her mountain of anguish, I knew I wanted to be that anchor for her as well. I only needed to figure out how.

“I apologize that it took me so long to sort out,” I said.

But the captain shook his head. “Never apologize for that, my friend. We’ve all been there at some moment or other.”

He patted my shoulder again and left to see to his duties.

Silence hung heavy about the deck, all commands muted and conversation gone.

Miss Byam stood alone at the port rail, clasping it beside its broken edge as Mrs. Peyton made her way to her husband with ginger movements.

I whispered another prayer that her injuries weren’t serious.

Then I took a deep breath and walked to Miss Byam’s side.

She’d locked herself in her cabin yesterday when word had spread that Mr. Walcott couldn’t be recovered. I hadn’t seen her until she’d come above for the service. She hadn’t made a sound the whole night. I’d lain awake most of it listening.

“Miss Byam?” I asked. Though I kept my voice quiet, it seemed to ring across the deck.

She stood rigid, staring out into the gray-blue expanse as if perhaps she might succeed in finding him where the crew had not. Her knuckles were white, her face flushed, her eyes glossy. No cap or bonnet held back her hair, and it freely whipped across her face in the breeze, long and uncurled.

“I would rather be alone just now,” she said with a raw voice. She didn’t look at me.

My throat tightened, but I nodded. I could not force her to accept my sympathy. Nor did I know just what was going through her mind, despite my myriad guesses: guilt, sorrow, regret, so many more. Conflicting feelings all at once. Perhaps with time, she would let me in. Patience was the only path.

I reached out and took her arm, my hand barely touching her. A wave of longing to hold her burst through me, but I kept it at bay. It wasn’t the time. I had to forebear, and I would as long as she needed me to.

I released her and retreated, my selfish heart hoping she wouldn’t need me to keep my distance for too long.