Threatening to drown Kendra.
Faster than the wind, Niall flew past him and into the water. Priming to follow, Trick found himself smashed to the deck by an enormous, roaring wave.
He gasped for air, the deck awash, the rush sucking him over the side.
Freezing black water covered his head.
He fought his way to the surface, only to be blindsided by a plunging chest.
Woozy, he flailed in the lashing surf, battered by waves and debris. Chunks of broken timber, lengths of rigging, thick hunks of rope. He took water into his lungs, and it burned like the fires of hell. His ribs screamed with pain, and he couldn’t lift his arms, couldn’t swim, couldn’t keep his head above the pitching seas that seemed determined to send him to a watery grave.
His last thought was of Kendra, struggling against that chest. Stubborn, willful, beautiful Kendra. Kendra, who put orphans above riches…Kendra, who’d accepted his own family before he did….Kendra, who could make his heart pound with a single glance…
Damn, but he loved her.
Fifty-Nine
HE WAS FREEZING.
He wasn’t dead, then. Hell was supposed to be hot. And heaven—not that he expected to go there—was supposed to be like floating on a warm, comfortable cloud. Yet he shivered with a bone-deep cold, so cold it felt as though he’d never be warm again. And he was far from comfortable.
A teeth-rattling jounce drove home that last point. Even hell would be better than this, he thought with a groan.
“He’s coming around!” The voice was heavenly, the warm lips pressed to his face more heavenly still. “Oh, Trick, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”
“Cold,” he murmured.
“Just a minute. I’m almost finished.”
A tug against his side sent such pain spiraling through him, he decided he must be halfway dead, at least. “Hurts,” he grated out.
“I know. This bandage should help.”
He forced his eyes open and lifted his head, which felt entirely too heavy—so heavy it dropped back with a skull-jarring bang. But he’d seen her. Kendra. Sweet Kendra. She hadn’t drowned, after all.
His heart wanted to fly, but the rest of him insisted on staying earthbound. “Bandage?” he wondered.
“My chemise. Or part of it, anyway.”
A bump sent his body into the air and back down with a wracking jolt. Not earthbound. Wagon-bound. He was in a wagon. And his precious wife was wrapping his ribs in a bandage ripped from her chemise.
His brain struggled to put the pieces together. How had he been hurt, but even more intriguing, how had she torn the bandage from the chemise? He pictured her lifting her skirts, her lovely, shapely legs coming into view as she rent the ivory fabric.
Wishing he’d been able to watch that, he realized he must not be half-dead, after all. Parts of him were far from dead, although other parts made him long for that peace. Then she raised her gaze to his, and he was glad, oh, so glad he was still alive.
“He’s awake, Niall!” Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smeared with dirt, but her smile enough to brighten the cloudy day. Then her expression fell. “Oh, God, Trick, I’m so sorry.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
He wanted to tell her not to cry, but the words were stuck in his throat.
“Brother!” Elated, Niall’s voice floated to his ears from somewhere above his head. “How do you feel?”
“Throat hurts,” he croaked, still staring at his wife. Even red-rimmed, her eyes looked the most beautiful green.
“You tossed a heap of water,” Niall explained. “Crivvens, was it disgusting.” Something was passed over Trick’s head. A flask. “Kendra, give him this.”
She cradled his head in one hand, lifting the flask to his lips with the other. He drank greedily at first, then choked when the liquor burned his raw throat.
“Usquebagh,” Niall called. “Water of life. Whisky. Take more, it’ll do you good.”
