Murder at Marble House(44)

At that moment I couldn’t summon the strength to care. I realized the only thing holding me above the waterline was Derrick; I’d collapsed against him, my cheek sunk against his shoulder. He kept tight hold of me, his own panting breaths heaving me up and down. I searched the water for the dinghy. Splintered boards littered the gentle tide, no more useful to us now than driftwood.

“Grab hold of a board,” he whispered, “it’ll help us float.” With one arm around me, Derrick dragged his other through the water to pull us in the direction of the shore. “We’ve got to swim for it.”

I lifted my head and nodded, still too exhausted to speak. Together, both of us kicking and using the broken board as a floatation device, we struggled toward land. Thank goodness I’d worn trousers; with skirts and petticoats holding us back—well, I wouldn’t like to contemplate what might have happened.

We reached the shore some half mile from where we’d started, no longer at the McPaddens’ dock but farther north, near where the Point gave way to the shipyards.

“Dear God, Emma,” Derrick managed between panting breaths, “we need to double back south.”

We’d reached the seawall, which soared some twenty feet above our heads, creating a slick, vertical barricade between us and land. “It’s all right.” I had barely enough strength left to croak the words. “Just a little farther north. Trust me.”

Derrick apparently did trust me, because without another word we felt our way along that slippery barrier until my outstretched hand found what I was searching for—steps built into the wall, rising up and out of the water.

With our remaining strength we yanked our ankles free of tangling seaweed and pulled ourselves up. I went first, crab-walking on all fours to avoid slipping off the steps. Derrick followed close behind me, his hands never fully releasing their hold on the back of my waist. Finally, we pulled ourselves up and over, and fell facedown onto a weed-choked mound of earth beside the road that ran along the seawall.

My eyes fell closed, and when I opened them again I was no longer sprawled on the ground with the sandy grit between my teeth, but lying with my cheek on Derrick’s chest, his hard body like a shield beneath mine protecting me from the elements. His arms once more encircled me tightly, I might even say forcefully. I let out a sigh deeper and longer than I believe I’d ever sighed before, a trembling breath of relief and gratitude and, yes, tremendous affection for the man who was somehow always there when I most needed him. And then I promptly passed out.





When I awoke sometime later, the stars were gone and the sky had turned a tarnished silver color. Dawn couldn’t be far off. I stirred, disoriented and half-disbelieving the memories that rose up like a sudden squall. But I held no illusions as to where I was: on a sandy, narrow bank beside the harbor, cradled by the man who had saved my life.

I still lay on top of him; his arms still held me, though looser now, as though he slept. Yet when I slid one hand to the ground and pushed up to peer into his patrician features, his dark eyes were open and staring into my own. His lips curved into a smile. Good heavens, that he found both the energy and the frame of mind to reassure me with that small gesture . . . I can’t say how much that meant to me, how it warmed me despite the predawn chill.

Our clothes had dried, leaving them stiff and caked with salt and bits of seaweed. My skin itched everywhere, and my hair clung to my cheeks, neck, and the underside of my chin. With one hand I swept back the encrusted strands. Then I summoned a smile for Derrick.

“Thank you.”

His hands moved gently up and down my back, warming me further. “How do you feel? Does anything hurt? No, don’t try to move too much yet.” He gently cupped my head and lowered it back to his chest; and when he spoke again the rumble of his voice traveled through me with the steadying strength of brandy. “I wanted to carry you to safety,” he said, “but I was afraid to move you. There were those rocks we hit and if anything is broken . . .”

I shook my head against him. “I don’t think so.” I stretched slightly, wiggled my feet, and moved my legs. “I ache all over, but it’s a dull ache. Nothing sharp.”

He released a breath. “That’s good.”

“What about you?”

“The exercise did me good.”

I chuckled, then started to sit up. “We should go.”

“In a minute. Just give me another moment to . . .” With one hand he gathered up my hair, lifting it off my back. He rolled us until we lay side by side, and then his face was close, his lips closer. And yet he didn’t kiss me; not quite. He merely touched his lips to mine, our foreheads pressing, his nose grazing my cheek. We stayed like that for some moments before he slowly eased away, sat up, and helped me to my feet as he rose to his.