Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  Steeling herself, she rushed up the last few steps and burst out of the hatch with her head down, running for the aft railing. Men stationed there spotted her but after a moment’s distraction went back to firing their guns from behind barrels, positioned there for cover. She found an empty place along the rail and crouched low to peer at the pursuing ship.

  It was bigger than the ship she was on . . . black . . . triple-masted . . . with a paddle wheel on the port side. A cargo ship like the Clarion! Her heart beat faster as she spotted char marks on the middle and forward masts. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. If it were the Clarion, what was it doing running down some smugglers? She squinted, shading her eyes to make out more details.

  She didn’t realize she had risen until the firing around her stopped and she found a number of men staring at her. The next moment she spotted what looked like a tricorn hat at the bow of the pursuing ship. There was only one old sea relic she knew of who still wore such a hat. Beside him crouched a figure with light hair who shouldered a rifle and took aim at the men stationed above. While the firing around her was stopped, the man stood up and waved his arm. Was she imagining things?

  It was Rafe—it had to be Rafe! She waved back, barely able to breathe for the hope exploding inside her. And he waved again—he’d recognized her!

  She knew what she had to do. She lifted her skirts to her waist to untie her remaining petticoat. The men staring at her gave one another knowing smirks as she removed it and tossed it at them. Next came her boots—unlaced and thrown aside. Then she pulled up her coral-red skirt and peeled her garters and stockings down her legs, tossing them at the men who came running to the aft position at Murdoch’s furious command.

  Had her captor seen her there, or was he just desperate to make them continue firing? A few of the new arrivals snarled orders at the others to keep firing and took shots themselves. But the sight of her raised skirts and bare legs was enough to distract even them for a few precious seconds. She climbed up on one of the barrels against the rail and waved both of her arms, trying to catch Rafe’s attention.

  Murdoch arrived, spitting curses and slinging a rifle butt at every man in sight, screaming at them to keep firing. She gave him a defiant smile and dived into the water.

  * * *

  Rafe’s heart stopped for a moment when she appeared atop the aft railing. She must have had the same effect on Murdoch’s crew, for they stopped firing for a moment. He had a feeling he knew what she intended and could only say, “No . . . no, no, no!” He could see how turbulent the water beneath her was and tried to wave her off such a dangerous move. The nearby rocks and incoming tide were helping them force the Cormorant aground, but diving into that churning water was pure madness. She was a strong swimmer, but she had no chance in such chaotic conditions!

  She surfaced—a small dot in a swirling sea. Panic welled in him.

  He froze as that long-ago day came back to him in a rush—the pounding sea, the shouting, the roar of guns overhead. He was back in the water once again, clawing to stay above the surface, gasping for air, trying to avoid being smashed to a bloody pulp against jagged rocks.

  His chest heaved as he fought the impulse to breathe. His need for air overwhelmed him and his body pulled in water along with the oxygen he craved. His body convulsed and tried to cough out the water but couldn’t. Surrounded on all sides by churning water, he panicked. The cold . . . the darkness . . . he couldn’t see anything . . . he was losing control of his body . . . couldn’t make his limbs obey. As the sea closed in, his body gave a last spasm and surrendered....

  The sound of rifle fire and a nearby shout broke through the memory that had paralyzed him. Barr thudded against the railing beside him and pulled him to the deck.

  “The bastard is shooting at her!” Barclay shot up behind the barrel, took aim, and fired at the men on the aft of the Cormorant, striking one.

  Lauren! Rafe dove for the edge of the ship to look for her. It took him a minute to spot her through the foam and spray. She was fighting to stay afloat and being dragged ever closer to the dangerous rocks that surrounded the beach. She was strong and determined—she had a chance, he told himself—a very slim chance.

  Then he heard the crack of a shot and saw her jerk and go under. He looked up, and with the closing distance he could see a sneer of satisfaction on Murdoch’s face. He had no time to plan or reason or even curse. He ripped off his boots and coat—there wasn’t time to remove more. Every second could be the margin between her life and death. He climbed over the railing, braving gunfire, and jumped.

  The water closed over him and slowed his descent. Then it buoyed him up to the surface again. There was no time to acknowledge fear, only to act. His head, his heart, his every breath centered on her. He made her name a prayer . . . saying it with every stroke of his arms and kick of his legs . . . making her his strength . . . determined to make himself hers. He would not lose her—this woman he intended to share his life with. She was a light, a beacon to a better world. His world.

  Right now she was fighting with everything in her, and he was bloody well fighting, too, for her life, her love. He heard the whirr of bullets entering the water near him but paused to call for her. “Lauren—where are you?” He leaped as high as he could to search the breaking waves and churning surf. He spotted her head and began to swim again. Every stroke took him into more turbulent waters, but he charged on . . . calling her name so she would know he was coming . . . so she would hang on long enough for him to reach her.

  * * *

  She had thought ridding herself of those troublesome skirts and boots, baring her legs, would make it easier to swim. It did, but this water was so much more turbulent than she’d realized. The ship she’d escaped was being driven onto the shoals. She’d had no idea how steeply the bottom banked or how fierce the wind-driven waters could be.

  She fought to keep her head above water while gathering the skirt of her dress and twisting and tucking it around her waist. Her legs were free and she was able to stretch out and kick as well as use her arms. But the blasted waves kept coming, pushing and turning her. For every stroke that moved her forward there was a push from the water that moved her back.

  Then she heard the cracks of gunfire and saw the impact of bullets hitting nearby water. A frisson of fear shot through her, and she redoubled her efforts. She had to get—something slammed into her, pushing her under the water. A second later pain exploded through her shoulder, chest, and head. The impact was so great that all she could do at first was contract into a ball of pain.

  A breaking wave crashed over her as she came up for a breath. Her body fought the inhaled water . . . she choked and coughed. Before she could clear her lungs another foaming wave hit, pounding her, forcing her under. Panic seized her as she searched for air and found only water. By pure grace she managed to breach the top, sucked a gurgling breath, and then emptied her lungs.

  She felt raw inside and had lost track of the ships and the battle going on around her. Her eyes were stinging and the urge to cough was so forceful that it doubled her up in painful spasms. She called for help, but her cries were being swallowed up in the increased noise and fury of the water. Desperate now and drawing on the last of her energy, she tried to stroke away from the rough water around the rocks. The pitiless waves found her and the sea held her down....

  * * *

  Rafe had lost sight of her. She was being pushed under and toward the rocks. He filled his lungs and dove under the foaming white maelstrom. Saltwater stung his eyes, but he kept them open to search for her. Just as he was forced to surface and breathe, he spotted her. She was being tossed from crest to trough, no longer moving her arms . . . drifting dangerously.

  He plowed through the chaotic water toward her. She seemed to hear him calling, but had trouble locating him. When he reached her, she was gasping and alarmingly limp. Her eyes barely focused on him.

  “You’re here?” she choked out.

  “I’v
e got you.” He pulled her against him for a moment, relieved to have her in his arms. He was treading water for both of them but realized they would never make it back to the ship with the water churning powerfully around them and the threat of gunfire from above. He looked frantically around and spotted a stretch of sand farther down the shore. The water was calmer there, and the small beach would give her a place to rest.

  “Relax, Lauren. Just float.” He turned her on her back and repositioned his grip on her so he could swim. “I’ll get us to the beach—”

  A trickle of red flowing from her torn dress stopped him for a moment. “He hit you? The bastard shot you?”

  The next few minutes he cut a rage-fueled course along the shoreline for that undisturbed stretch of sand. His muscles were strained to their limits, and despite his tremendous expenditure of energy, his body was growing cold. But he gritted his teeth and pushed on, watching Lauren’s breathing and encouraged by her attempt to help by kicking her feet.

  The water warmed as they approached the small beach and he put down his feet. It felt good to stand up . . . even if it was on shifting sand.

  He picked her up as soon as they reached the shallows and carried her to a patch of dry beach. He collapsed beside her and closed his eyes while gripping her hand. Relief spread through him.

  “We made it,” he murmured.

  His relief was short-lived. She coughed, and he quickly turned her onto her side so she could spit up water. When she finished he eased her onto her back again and let her rest while he recovered, too. Then he spotted some red on the sand beneath her and he sat her up and unbuttoned the back of her dress.

  “Sorry, angel, but I have to check your wound.” He inspected her injury. The sight of what Murdoch’s violence had done to her made him want to put a fist through something.

  Her voice sounded raw. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s a clean, in-and-out wound.” He looked to her front, where the bullet had exited, and moved her arm back and forth. She winced and bit her lip at the pain it caused, but her arm had proper motion. “It seems to have missed bones and important sinews. We need to bind it to stop the bleeding until we can get you to a physician. I’m afraid we’ll have to sacrifice your—”

  Twenty-Four

  The fog in Lauren’s head had cleared enough for her to realize he was staring at her bare legs and tucked-up skirt.

  “Where the devil are your petticoats?”

  She pushed up on her good arm to untuck her skirt and roll the crumpled silk down a bit. “I took them off before I dove in. Well, one of them. Jims was using the other. And my shoes and stockings, too. I thought I’d swim better without them. But the water was so . . . so . . .”

  He forced a grin to cover his anxiety. “So you managed to take off only some of your clothes this time.” He removed his shirt. “We’ll use mine.”

  He bit the cloth and tore off the bottom of the shirt, then rolled up the shoulders and outstretched sleeves and tied them around her shoulder, covering her wound. It felt and looked to her as if he was hugging her by proxy. She gave a pained smile and looked up at him as if what he had accomplished had just registered.

  “You came for me.”

  He paused, looking into her sunrise eyes.

  “I will always come for you, Lauren.” He stroked her hair.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks even as she smiled.

  “You saved me,” she said, touching his cheek, then his bare shoulder, as if testing to see that he was real.

  He pulled her into his arms, careful not to touch her shoulder, and held her close. She trembled as she looked out at the water and said softly, “It was so cold and I couldn’t tell which way was up. The waves swallowed me . . . I couldn’t get my breath. I thought I was going to—”

  She stopped, unable to say it, so he said it for her.

  “Die.”

  She nodded and buried her face in his chest. “I’ve never been overpowered like that . . . by water.”

  “I have.” He took a deep breath and confessed, “I drowned once.”

  She pushed back in his arms to look at his face. His expression was oddly calm to accompany such a harrowing statement.

  “It was some years ago, while I was at the Academy. There were naval exercises just off the coast and bad weather came up—fierce winds—water roaring from every direction—the sea heaving and half swallowing our ships. I was knocked overboard, and even though some of my fellow cadets saw me fall, conditions were so bad they couldn’t rescue me right away. By the time they did, I . . . wasn’t breathing.

  “One of the officers pounded on my chest and my heart started to beat again. It was something of a miracle, I suppose. But my fellow cadets looked at me strangely after that. Sailors are superstitious. Drowned men who come back to life are often considered ‘Jonahs.’ I left the Academy and came back to London. And from that day to this, I have not been in any body of water larger than a bathing tub.”

  “It must have taken something powerful to make you plunge into a turbulent sea again.”

  He looked out to sea for a moment and then down at her.

  “It did. I couldn’t let what happened to me, happen to you. You mean a lot to me.” He shook his head at that small deceit and corrected it. “No . . . you mean everything to me. The thought of you abducted and being abused by that bastard nearly drove me crazy. I harangued Barclay into helping, hijacked Harlow Stringer’s pride, and pushed everyone aboard the Clarion within an inch of their sanity. But it was worth it. You’re here with me, safe and”—he nodded at her wounded shoulder—“mostly sound.”

  She leaned into him, content to revel in the strength and solid feel of him. He kissed the top of her head and a rumble came from his chest, letting her know he felt the same about her.

  For a few minutes the restless sea, the raging surf, and the battle between the two ships seemed far away. But as they sat together savoring those precious moments, the world intruded in the form of strange sounds . . . rasping, then groaning and shuddering came from the Cormorant.

  Rafe stood and helped her to her feet. He put an arm around her to steady her while they watched the smaller ship begin to list to starboard.

  “He’s done it. Old Stringer said he’d run her aground and he did. She’s stuck on a shoal and keeling over a few degrees.”

  As they watched the ship surrender to the elements, they spotted boats being lowered from the Clarion. They identified Barclay and Fosse and realized they were carrying guns, intent on seizing the injured ship and her crew. They had almost reached the wreck when a handful of dark figures on the lower side of the Cormorant’s deck dropped from the edge into the shallow water that covered the shoal.

  “What are they doing?” she asked. Murdoch’s men waded through waist-deep water to a stretch of sand, then spotted the men from the Clarion and began to run for the rocky banks that led inland.

  “Escaping,” he said irritably. “The bastards. We can’t let them.”

  “Jims,” she said, looking up at him. “Jims is on the ship. He was with me when I was taken. Would they just abandon him along with the ship?”

  “They’re cutthroats and thieves. They’d abandon their own mothers if it meant getting away free and clear.” He looked down the beach, searching for a sandy path he could take to reach the ship. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “Stay here, Angel, where you’re safe.”

  She looked down the shore, then back at him.

  “But Barclay and the others will be there soon.”

  He was already in motion.

  * * *

  Rafe ran with his gaze fixed on those fleeing cowards—one in particular. He was able to identify Murdoch by the frock coat he wore. The wretch carried a large satchel that made it difficult to scale the stretch of bank with only his other hand. Bullets striking the rocks around him caused the bastard to flinch and throw himself against the rocks. There was no cover to be had, and each time he tried to move, bullets rained ar
ound him. He must have realized they weren’t trying to hit him and took the chance to scramble toward the top of the bank, dragging his precious satchel.

  * * *

  Bullets flew again, gouging chips from the stone in front of Murdoch. Rafe grinned. There was one man in England who could shoot with such accuracy . . . besides himself. He reached the bottom of the bank and started to climb, heedless of the sharp rocks digging into his bare feet. When he grabbed Murdoch’s ankle he pulled with all the fury he possessed and brought Lauren’s abductor crashing down on him.

  They slid and fell together onto the sand at the bottom. Rafe recovered quickly enough to pounce on the bastard and deliver several punches. They were forceful blows, but not enough to stop Murdoch from finding his knife. The blade raked Rafe’s side as Murdoch brought it up, and Rafe just managed to seize his wrist and hold the blade at bay.

  “Damned coward . . . running away,” Rafe uttered as they struggled over the knife. “Kidnapping . . . stealing . . . shooting women . . . you deserve to be keelhauled . . . until you die.”

  He wanted those to be the last words Murdoch would ever hear, but the sick bastard had fight left in him. He bucked unexpectedly and threw Rafe off. By the time he scrambled to his feet Rafe was up and rushing him again . . . dodging the knife . . . getting blows in where he could.

  Rafe was vaguely aware that the shooting had stopped and the fighting going on around the beach was now more scuffling than deadly combat. When they broke apart he shook his head to clear it and plowed into Murdoch again. He glimpsed men lying on the sand with others standing over them. He prayed his side were the ones who were upright.

  But that was the last coherent thought he had. Instinct took over as Murdoch slashed at him with the knife, and he twisted and spun out of range. Then, as Murdoch hesitated, saying something, Rafe saw his chance and charged with his shoulder lowered. But it was his legs that did the work, sweeping Murdoch’s feet from under him, sending him sprawling in one direction, his knife in another.