Andrew Lord of Despair(73)

“Stop being dramatic.”

“Gareth is alone on shore, and he’ll need you.”

The peculiar gravity in Adam’s tone had Andrew turning to argue with his brother, only to lose what was left of his digestive fortitude. “Adam!” He pointed at the wave coming toward them, a huge wall of dark-green water with a rabid froth of brine cresting along the top.

Inside the wave, serpents of seaweed and two enormous fish were trapped like souls caught in hell, even as the wave raced closer to the boat.

Adam produced a knife and several colorful curses. “You head for shore, Andrew. Promise me.” He slashed at the moorings holding a small rowboat fast. “I love you, and you’ll be fine if you head right for shore.”

Panic gripped Andrew with a cold fist to the guts, and like a frightened boy half his age, he wanted to scream for his papa. Up on the quarterdeck, Julia’s laughter went silent, then turned to screams.

“I can’t swim! We’re going to die, and I can’t swim!”

Hands slack on the wheel, Grandfather stared at the approaching wave, while Papa shouted over the wind and Julia’s screaming, “My lady! To the boat! Adam, Andrew, the boat!”

Papa struggled against the wind and the pitching of the boat to make his way to the steps to the lower deck, but Julia shoved him aside. “Andrew, Adam, you have to save me! I cannot swim!”

With one hand she clutched the rail, with the other she clutched her belly. For one sick, eternal instant, Andrew felt the boat sink lower than all the seas around them. He had time to hope they’d ride up the swell and pitch into the trough behind the wave, when an avalanche of water crashed over the rails, sweeping Julia from the steps.

A great crack sounded, and her screams echoed as she was carried overboard. “Andrew, please! I cannot swim! Andrew! Please!”

“Andrew, please. Wake up. You’ll do one of us an injury with all this thrashing about.”

Lungs heaving, the sting of salt water in his eyes, Andrew came awake sitting bolt upright in bed. The covers were a tangled mess, and Astrid was frowning at him by the last of the firelight.

Astrid, the closest thing he had to a friend, his wife. His wife.

“You nearly pitched me overboard, Husband. Have you no sense that a woman in my condition needs her rest?” Her words were tart, while the hand she used to brush Andrew’s hair from his eyes was gentle. “Sir, this will not do.”

She slogged over the side of the bed, and Andrew wanted to call her back. “I was dreaming.”

“You’ve had this dream previously, you know.” She moved across the room with the ungainly dignity of the expectant mother, nightgown billowing in the darkness. Andrew heard glass clink and liquid slosh. Each sound was distinct, and each one brought with it relief.

He was not on board a doomed pleasure yacht; he was not going to die by drowning, or have his life dashed to pieces on the rocks. Not tonight.

Astrid came to his side of the bed, a half-full glass in her hand. “This is not water. You will drink it in the interests of settling your wife’s nerves.”

He reached for the glass, his hand shaking. Astrid held the drink until he had a firm grip, then kept to her place until he’d downed the entire contents in one swallow.

Brandy, not whiskey. Never whiskey. “My thanks.”

She put the glass aside and climbed into bed. “You were having a nightmare. Talking about these things sometimes helps.”

Her practical, tart, intimate presence helped. Normally, Andrew would have been getting dressed, preparing to roam the house, the streets, the park, anywhere to work off a convincing case of mortal panic.

But talk to her, about this? Never.

“Everybody has the occasional nightmare. I’m no different.” Now, that might be so. Thirteen years ago, he’d had nothing but nightmares.

Astrid budged up against his side, belly and all. “You dream of the accident.”

Nine souls had lost their lives when the boat had foundered and gone down, including five Alexanders, Julia, and two crew members. “Not so often anymore. You should get back to sleep.”

He wanted another soothing tot of brandy, but wanted more to hold his wife.

“It was bloody awful, wasn’t it?”

“Such language, Lady Greymoor.”

She scooted higher in the bed, got an arm under Andrew’s neck, and tried to wrestle him against her side. “You are in want of cuddling, you great looby. My condition is delicate, so you will indulge me in this.”

He didn’t smile, but simply by being Astrid, she pushed the panic away and calmed the roiling in his belly. “If I must.”

Nothing, not even Astrid on a tear, could banish the guilt.