TO HOLD AN EAGLE

by Justine Davis

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  He was nearly upon the body before he saw it. "Damn!"

  Lincoln Reese yanked on the wheel of the thirty-six-foot sloop, turning her hard to starboard to prevent a crushing collision with the feebly swimming shape. "That's what you get for wallowing in self-pity, Reese," he muttered under his breath.

  Linc searched the surrounding sea for another vessel, but he saw nothing other than the open water. He hadn't really expected to see anything; he would have been aware of it if there had been another boat around. But they were too many miles from shore for anyone who swam as weakly as this person did to be just out for an open water swim.

  So much for his leisurely sail down the California coast, he thought as he started to reverse course. His earlier morose mood was thoroughly shattered and forgotten. No matter what the circumstances, it was obvious that this person needed help. He'd never make it in, not the way he was swimming now, weakly, obviously exhausted—

  She.

  He saw it now, glancing to port as the sloop began to come about, the tiny figure, the pale blue of the one-piece swimsuit, the long sweep of pale hair, the unsteady stroke of slender arms as she tried to keep going.

  Linc gauged the Shiloh II's forward motion and the distance from that pale shape in the water. His calculations were automatic; after twenty years in the navy, rescue at sea procedures were as deeply ingrained as breathing. When it seemed right, he headed the sloop into the wind. She slowed, her sails beginning to flap, the wind coming straight at her and dividing uselessly on both sides of the mast and mainsail. Only her remaining momentum kept her sliding forward. Linc looked up just in time to see that frail movement of arms halt midstroke; the girl slipped beneath the surface.

  Swearing under his breath, Linc kicked off his worn, white deck shoes as he grabbed a neatly coiled mooring line from the deck, reaching for the end that was not already secured to a cleat. Swiftly wrapping it around his left hand, he climbed over the double lifelines, balanced for a split second on the gunwale, then pushed off, covering as much distance as he could in his dive.

  The rope was a nuisance as he swam, but the unattended boat could drift too far to get easily back, especially if the girl, as was typical of swimmers in distress, fought him. And he might need it, he thought, to pull her aboard if she was unconscious and unable to use the boarding ladder at the stern of the boat.

  Had it not been for the beacon of her hair, he might have had trouble finding her. But it glimmered in the water, even beneath the surface, and he struck out even faster. He saw the feeble motion of her arms and legs as she tried to get back to the surface.

  She was still fighting, he thought in admiration, even though she was obviously fading quickly. But what the hell was she doing out here, and alone? There was no sign of even a dive boat, nor was she wearing any kind of gear. She was just there.

  When he finally reached her, he had no time to think of anything but getting them both back to the sloop. The moment he touched her she panicked, flailing wildly, and he knew that she'd had no idea he was there. He slipped an arm around her waist from behind and kicked strongly. As they broke the surface he heard her take a choking breath, followed by a low moan of terror. God knows what she thought had hold of her, he thought, and hastened to reassure her.

  "It's okay," he said soothingly. "Just relax."

  He heard a tiny gasp, a bare whimper of sound, and she began to fight even harder. He grabbed her hands and held them easily in one of his, leaving the other around her waist.

  "Easy," Linc said as one of her thrashing feet came a little too near to unmanning him. "I'm trying to help. Don't fight me, or you'll drown us both."

  Still she fought, stubbornly, and Linc found himself marveling at her fierce determination in the face of her rapidly dwindling strength. He decided then to just wait it out. She was going to run out of steam, he could feel it already in her weakening struggles. He kept talking soothingly, not really worrying about the words as much as the tone of his voice.

  At last she seemed to hear him, to calm down, or perhaps she was just too exhausted to fight anymore.

  "That's it," Linc said softly, encouragingly. "You're okay now. My boat's right here, we'll be aboard in a few minutes."

  He released her hands, half expecting her to grab at him in panic again, but she just let them drift, drained of all fight. He put a hand in the small of her back, pushing her into a horizontal position; she let him.

  "Thatta girl," he said. "Just let me do it, all you have to do is float."

  He started to move the arm he had around her waist up to the traditional elbow-beneath-the-chin lifesaving position, then for an instant stopped in surprise. There was no mistaking the distinct curves of full breasts beneath his forearm; this was not the girl he'd thought she was from her size.

  Now that he thought about it, there had been a soft, womanly curve to the hips that had pressed against him as well. He'd mistaken petiteness for youth, he thought; this was no child. Not that it mattered; she was beyond making it back to the boat alone.

  He found it easier to pull himself back with the mooring line, even though she wasn't fighting him any longer. When he reached the sloop, she was still limp in his grasp, and he knew she was also beyond pulling herself up the steps even if he went aboard first and lowered the stern boarding ladder. He'd have to haul her up himself.

  He took the line just below his hand and looped it around her beneath her arms. He tied it swiftly in an expert bowline knot; she never moved. He reached for one of her hands and placed it on the line above the knot.

  "Just hold on. I'll go up and then pull you aboard."

  She didn't answer, but he saw her pale, slender fingers curl around the nylon line. Using the line, he pulled himself up to where he could reach the gunwale and haul himself over the side. Quickly he turned back and grabbed the line, bracing himself. But when he began to pull it was barely necessary; she couldn't, he thought, weigh much more than a hundred pounds.

  She tried to help, reaching for the railing, but Linc could see that she had no strength left. He looped the slack in the line around the nearest cleat several times, then leaned down to lift her the rest of the way.

  For such a tiny thing, she seemed all legs, he thought as he swung her over the cockpit railing. Legs that were trembling, along with the rest of her, whether from cold or fear he didn't know.

  He swiftly untied the knot and let the wet line slither away in a tangle. He could feel her trying to stand the moment her feet touched the rough-textured deck, but she couldn't and sagged against him.

  Linc shook his head sharply, sending a spray of salt droplets flying from his hair. He wanted to wipe at the water that was stinging his eyes, but he was afraid to remove even the tiniest bit of support from her. He blinked rapidly instead; it didn't help much.

  He was surprised she had tried to stand at all; she appeared only semiconscious, her eyes dazed and half-closed. Blue eyes, Linc thought as he swung her up into his arms. Bright blue eyes, for all that they looked a little glassy right now. They reminded him of the stone in his Annapolis ring. Get moving, he told himself, it's the blue tinge of her skin you should be worrying about.

  As if trying to get away, she pushed at him.

  "Easy," he soothed. "We've got to get you warm. Just relax. You're safe now."

  She made a tiny sound, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  He quickly carried her below, not an easy task given the narrowness of the hatchway. Once there he was able to move more easily, by habit ducking his head to avoid the beams t
hat crossed the cabin roof at a fraction shy of his six-foot-one height.

  He laid her gently on the bunk in the aft cabin. He had to bend nearly double to do it, because the shape of the cockpit above cut down severely on the headroom, but he knew the small cabin was the easiest to warm because of its lowered roofline.

  Her head lolled back, and he grabbed for a cushion to hold her steady. If she'd been injured, he'd no doubt already done some damage, but he could at least try to minimize any more. He checked her quickly but thoroughly for any broken bones or other injuries, checked her head and neck for any signs of swelling, but found nothing except what he already knew; she was thoroughly chilled. Even though the Pacific was relatively warm at this time of year, this far out and as exhausted as she was, it might as well have been the north Atlantic.

  He thought briefly of peeling the wet swimsuit off, but discarded the idea almost immediately; the thin material would dry quickly enough, and the last thing she'd need after nearly drowning was the embarrassment of coming around and finding herself naked in front of a total stranger. She wore no wedding ring, he had noticed, but there was a narrow band of even paler skin at the base of her ring finger, as if she had worn one until fairly recently.

  Of course, he thought as he went forward to the large V-berth in the bow, it could have fallen off in the water.

  "It's none of your business, anyway, Reese," he told himself as he opened a bow locker and removed a couple of blankets. You're off duty. Questions aren't mandatory. Except, he amended, to find out what the hell she'd been doing in the middle—figuratively—of the ocean, alone and almost to the point of drowning.

  On his way back to the stern he flipped on the battery-powered heater, cranking it up to the maximum setting. He ducked into the small aft cabin again, and tucked the blankets around her carefully, her petite size allowing him to double the thickness and still cover her slender form.

  He crouched for a moment, looking down at her. Already that ominous blue cast seemed to be fading from her skin, but she still looked frighteningly pale. Knowing how much of the body's heat was lost at the head, he turned once more and went forward to the combination shower and marine head, grabbing the towel that hung on the back of the door. When he came back he lifted her head gently and began to dry her hair, a little amazed that there was so much of it.

  It was light, he thought, blond, probably, but he couldn't tell how light until it dried. She moaned a little, and her eyelids fluttered. His gaze was drawn to the movement; her lashes, at least, were a golden brown, thick and soft. They rested on high, wide cheekbones; from there her face tapered into a delicate chin. Her nose was straight and small, and—

  And she was still too cold, he realized, sharply interrupting his own contemplation of the mermaid he had wrested from the sea. She still had that pinched whiteness around her mouth, and tiny shivers still seized her. He ducked out of the small cabin once more and headed for the galley. He dug into the dry food locker, knowing he had a can or two of something he could heat up quickly. What he found was merely beef broth, but he knew the heat was more important than the substance.

  He fired up a burner on the gimballed stove and heated the soup. He tested it carefully, remembering that as chilled as she was, merely hot could feel scalding. When it seemed right, he shut down the alcohol burner and filled a heavy mug with the liquid.

  He heard the snapping noises as the Shiloh II still sat headed into the wind, her sails flapping. The deck lifted and fell gently beneath his feet as it rode the slight swell. It didn't bother him as he carried the mug; he was long used to the motion of the sea and compensated for it easily.

  There was a small, square table built against the rear bulkhead, and he set the mug down on it as he knelt beside the bunk. He reached out to gently rouse her, but the moment the shadow of his arm crossed her face her eyes snapped open. With a smothered cry of terror, she scrambled backward in the bunk until she was crouching against the partition, shivering, drawn up into a protective curl in the small space, her arms and legs tangled in the cocoon of blankets.

  Linc drew back instantly. He sat back on his heels, his hands carefully in plain view, saying nothing, just watching, waiting, with all the patience of a well-trained hunter encountering a new and unknown prey. He'd dealt with frightened creatures—including people—too often in his life to try and rush her. He'd spook her if he did, he knew.

  Not, he thought wryly, that she could exactly go anywhere. Except maybe right back over the side. But that would mean certain death for her, and he didn't think she was that far gone. She'd fought too hard to stay afloat, fought him too hard when she didn't know if he was friend or enemy.

  He watched her steadily, knowing she would find nothing in his countenance to reveal his thoughts; the studied blankness was a tool he'd perfected long ago, along with the knack of judging people's state of mind by their reaction to that expressionless look.

  He could almost feel her assessing him. Her eyes flicked over him rapidly, and he doubted if she was very impressed. He was still wearing his wet clothes—a pair of tight, faded jeans that were torn at one knee, and his usual loose, white cotton shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

  He blinked as another drop of salt water trickled down his temple and ran forward into his eyelashes. He flicked at the one stubborn lock that, even wet, kicked forward almost to his brow, reminding him why he usually kept it shorter.

  He sensed the change in her as he remained silent and motionless. It was not a relaxing alteration, but at least a slight lessening of the fear that had made her try to burrow her way through the fiberglass bulkhead. With the instinct born of years of experience with wary prey, he spoke then, very softly.

  "It's all right. I just brought you some soup. It will warm you up."

  He saw her eyes, the dazed look banished now by the lingering terror that seemed to him peculiarly intense now that she was safe, flick to the mug he'd set on the table. Steam rose from it invitingly, and he saw a tiny shiver ripple through her, as if her body were reacting to the thought of being warm again.

  "Drink it," he urged. "You'll feel better."

  Her gaze shot back to his face, and he was reminded of the time years ago when he and his sister Shiloh had been hiking in the hills of Santa Barbara, in the back of the house where their father still lived. They had come across a small deer entangled in a wire fence, thrashing helplessly with its entangled legs. It was near exhaustion, and had looked at them in much the same way that this woman was looking at him now, as if trying to gauge if she had any strength left to fight him. They had freed the deer, and it had scampered away in a last burst of energy. But this woman had nowhere to run to, Linc thought, not on a boat that was still miles from shore.

  She had nowhere to run to, period. He wasn't sure where the knowledge and the certainty of it came from, but he didn't doubt the instinct that had given rise to it. He'd learned to trust his sixth sense; it had saved him too many times to doubt it now.

  He couldn't stand the frightened, trapped look in those incredibly blue eyes, any more than he'd been able to stand the terrified gaze of that helpless deer. Then he'd at least had Shiloh's tearful insistence to account for the sudden softness inside him that had made him risk injury to free the trembling creature; he didn't know what to blame it on now.

  "It's all right. You're safe now," he said softly. "Go ahead, drink the soup. You'll feel better."

  She just looked at him, but he thought he saw the fear subside a little more.

  "I have to go see where we are," he said. "We've been drifting awhile now." He gave her a crooked grin, trying to reassure her. "Wouldn't want to go aground, not after all this, would we?"

  There was little chance of that, they were too far out, but he'd been trying to make her smile. It didn't work. However, his words seemed to remind her that he was the one who had saved her from drowning and, at least for the moment, she quit looking at him as if he were the fisherman, with her dan
gling helplessly on his hook.

  He left her then, thinking it the best thing he could do for her. He knew there was no way he would get any answers from her now, even if he had the heart to pressure her with all the questions lining up in his mind. She was quite simply too scared to talk, and he knew on that same instinctive level that he'd known she was totally alone, that her near-death experience was only part of her terror.

  He went up the steps to the cockpit and walked to the wheel. He glanced at the surrounding sea, and smothered a wry smile. He'd thought, for the first time in his life, that the sea had failed him. He'd relied on the wide, blue space of open water to ease this odd emptiness that had taken up residence inside him, as it had when, as a boy, he had realized the truth about his mother. And as it had when he'd first seen the tall, straight, strong figure that had been his father bent and broken beyond repair. Even when he'd come home haunted and drained by that ugly jungle war in Southeast Asia, he'd found peace on the sea, although it had taken the sweet innocence of his little sister to make him even try to look for it.

  Well, the sea had done it again, yet not in the way he'd expected. It had yielded up a hell of a distraction from the sensation of being the Ancient Mariner at forty-two.

  He sat behind the big, stainless steel wheel. He checked the heading and turned the sloop back on course, then pushed out the boom to turn the mainsail to the wind. It took a moment for her to respond after the loosely flapping sails caught the breeze and snapped taut, but as soon as she began to move, she answered the helm as sweetly as always.

  Linc checked his watch, the heavy, military dive watch he'd worn since his training days with the SEALs. They were still a few hours out of Dana Point. He wondered if he should head in sooner, to get his mermaid to a doctor or hospital. She should be checked, he knew; he didn't think she was badly injured, just exhausted, but he was certainly no expert. He'd taken a basic course in emergency medicine at one of the navy's Hospital Corps schools, but it had been a long time ago, and hardly ran to involved diagnosis.