As it was, Kendall simply could not refuse her request.
A larger wave approached from his left, causing the boat to pitch sharply. He pulled hard against the oars.
“Veer a wee bit tae port,” Isolde called over the wind.
As Kendall was the rower, his back was to the land. He could not discern what lay ahead of them.
Isolde had proved herself a capable sailor. She had been calling instructions for the past while.
However, she could not see the rain sweeping across the ocean from the west behind her. It had already struck theSS Statesman. From what Kendall could tell, the captain had ordered the anchor weighed to assist the ship in combating the weather. If Woodbury had any sense, he would sail around to the more sheltered leeward side of the island to wait out the storm.
If Kendall had any sense himself, he would not be in this tiny dinghy with his wife.
He angled the prow to the left as instructed, taking a wave head-on.
It was the only way to navigate seas such as these—face the wave. If a boat ended broadside to the surging sea, it could easily become swamped.
Kendall pulled on the oars, willing the boundary into the protected harbor to approach faster, but the frothy water hampered his efforts.
“Can you swim?” he yelled as he fought to keep the rowboat steady over another series of swells.
His wife looked affronted. “O’ course. I’m a strong swimmer. Can ye?”
He nodded in reply.
“Hard starboard!” she called.
Kendall obeyed.
The truth hit him then—
He trusted her.
It was a rather startling realization.
He trusted Isolde’s perspicacity and judgment. Her ability to keep a cool head and think rationally through a difficulty, just as she had in the ice house.
Though he denigrated her unconventional experiences, they had formed her into a lady of courage and pluck.
Isolde, Duchess of Kendall, had a spine forged of steel. Nothing—not even the Hebridean Sea—would best her.
Admiration welled upward and expanded his ribs.
The waves rose and fell, but he and Isolde found a rhythm. An ebb and flow—his muscles rowing, her voice guiding them.
“Port!”
“A wee bit starboard!”
The headland and the sheltered inlet beyond drew nearer. Once they passed into calmer waters, the rowing would become easier. They would reach the beach. The owner of the small house would welcome them into a warm parlor, and they would all toast their adventure with whatever whisky this isle produced.
Kendall surprised himself by smiling at the thought even as he battled through another white-tipped wave.
With him at the oars and Isolde guiding the boat, they would make it ashore. They would.
Bloody hell. Despite the peril, he felt good. The burn in his arms, the new-found harmony with his wife, the clarity of the task before them—
The rain hit with a gale force, blinding them both.
