Page 3 of The Pirate’s Stolen Bride (Cavalier Cove)

CHAPTER THREE

INTO THE DRINK

C urse that wretched smuggler.

Those were Harriet’s final thoughts as she dropped sickeningly into the churning sea. In the final moments of her life, she was going down with words of condemnation on her lips.

She couldn’t swim.

She was going to die.

The water swallowed her whole into its freezing depths. Never had she been submerged so quickly and so completely. Saltwater invaded her nostrils, burning the tender flesh. She fought not to exhale, knowing she needed every second of air.

She tried to kick. Her skirt tangled around her legs. Her half-boots were like two weights dragging her down. Her lungs ached.

Dying was going to hurt .

She squeezed her eyes closed. If a tear escaped, it became one with the saltwater before she could register it.

A wave rolled high overhead as she sank farther from the wan light. Disoriented, she flailed, desperate for something to grab onto. A slimy chunk of seaweed made contact with her cheek. Harriet recoiled. Air burst out of her at the shock. Stars swam behind her eyes.

Then something clasped her wrist and tugged her arm almost out of her socket. Harriet couldn’t say which direction they were headed, but the gray fuzz behind her eyelids grew brighter and the pressure in her ears lessened. A hard object connected with her legs, reminding her that she could kick, too. Feebly, she tried.

The stars in her vision began to pop into blinding whiteness. Her lungs begged for air. Unable to hold out any longer, Harriet took one awful breath of water. Darkness consumed her.

Rémy

Putain de merde.

With one arm hooked beneath Harriet’s arms, he kicked through the churning waves toward the dinghy. Don’t die. You can’t drown; I’ve only just met you. He hadn’t meant to kill her. He’d never experienced anything like the sheer panic that drove him to dive into the water after her.

His life wasn’t worth a farthing if he didn’t save hers.

“Attraper!” Benoit shouted. Catch. Rough rope grazed Rémy’s outstretched arm. A fishing net. The waves tried to tear it away but he managed to get his fingers through the holes and hold on. His friend hauled them in like a fresh catch of cod. They landed in the bottom of the boat with an inelegant thump. Miss Turner coughed harshly.

Alive, then. Excellent. He curled protectively around her.

“No time for romance, mon ami,” Benoit interrupted. “Look.”

“Romance,” Rémy chuckled mirthlessly. “Pas de chance.” No chance of that. He was trying to warm her up, that’s all. A gust of wind cut straight through his wet clothes and peppered them with a scattering of raindrops. Miss Turner shivered violently. The tower of menacing clouds in the distance meant his friend wouldn’t make it to shore before the storm hit.

“Come aboard. Freddie could use the help. We’ll lash the Haint to the Spectre .”

Benoit held the ladder. Rémy gathered Harriet’s trembling body and tossed her over his shoulder. Clambering up the shifting ladder one-handed, with the other wrapped around the backs of her thighs, was harder than it should have been. But he made it without dropping his precious cargo.

On deck, he shouted to his second-in-command, Freddie, to help Benoit. The grizzled old mariner lumbered away from his post at the wheel to help tie down the Haint . Rémy left them to it and carried Harriet down to the cramped cabin.

He laid her on the bed. She didn’t move. Not a flutter of an eyelash. He held his finger beneath her nose. Faint heat grazed his skin. Relief had him straddling her on his knees, patting her face.

“Wake up, Harriet.”

She sputtered and coughed. Her eyes flew open. Seeing him, they narrowed into furious slits. Her palm cracked across his cheek.

Rémy broke into a grin, dragged her up, and kissed her. The lady froze, her hands on his chest, pushing and getting nowhere.

He released her, and she fell back onto her elbows, flipped over, and scrambled away with her skirt twisted awkwardly around her hips.

“You—you scoundrel ,” she seethed.

“You’re getting the bed all wet.” He crouched to open the drawers underneath the bed and pulled out an old shirt. “Take those off. Put this on.”

“I am not disrobing in your presence,” she said loftily.

“Fine. But you are dirtying the only place to sleep. You need rest. I will return shortly to check on you, chérie. There is no point in me changing clothes, considering the storm we are sailing into.”

“What’s delaying you?” She made a shoo gesture. “Go on. You’re not wanted here.”

A lopsided grin ticked up one corner of his mouth. Underneath her quiet, composed, ladylike exterior, there was a firecracker with a temper. He’d never met such an intriguing woman, full of contradictions. Despite his stinging cheek—which was some thanks, after he’d saved her life—he liked her.

His grin faltered. She did not appear to feel the same way toward him. “This is my room, your ladyship. You’re sleeping in my bed.”

Her mouth fell open indignantly. He imagined all manner of things he could do with a mouth like that. Rémy closed the door and heard the sharp thwack of a thrown object.

Up on deck, the rain had begun in earnest.

“We have pursuers,” said Freddie. “It won’t be easy to outrun them in this weather.”

“Sail into the storm.”

Freddie groaned.

“The Water Guard will expect us to head for France. We shall therefore head west. Once the storm passes, we can double back.”

“If we’re not sunk by this.”

Rémy grinned. “It will be rough sailing, but we can handle it, mon ami.”

Could his guest? Rémy had his doubts but no time to entertain them.