She knew from experience—this was hardly the first time a rough sea had forced her to swim—that her skirts could be both a blessing and a curse. The fabric was naturally buoyant, helping her to stay afloat. But the volume of them was prone to snagging or tangling her legs. And the corded horsehair of her petticoats—needed to create the fashionable bell of a modern silhouette—would eventually become sodden and drag her down to a watery grave.
So she had quickly untied several of her underskirts, permitting them to sink to the ocean floor, and tossed off her bonnet before ducking out from underneath the boat to join Kendall.
Isolde had assumed she would find him stroking for shore.
Instead, the idiot was bobbing thirty feet away, needlessly diving. She had called to him, but it wasn’t until she switched fromKendalltoTristanthat he had appeared to heed her.
Thank goodness she had reached him in time, snatching a fistful of hair and then his arm, pulling him to the surface.
Isolde pushed back thoughts ofwhat if.
What ifshe hadn’t been able to help him?
What ifshe hadn’t found him?
What if . . .
What if . . .
The possibilities left her nauseous.
She and Kendall might not see eye-to-eye—heaven knew how he disliked her—but she would never wish him harm. He was not an evil man. Just . . . difficult and unyielding.
Glancing to the side, she saw that Kendall was keeping pace with her, matching each of her strokes with his own. Though the uneven splash of his arms betrayed his exhaustion.
Fortunately, the ocean calmed as they drew closer to the beach.
Her lungs burned, pain prickling along her chilled skin.
Tired.
She was so tired.
And then . . .
Kendall stood up, his chin just above the ocean surface.
At last!
They had reached shallower water.
Without saying a word, he wrapped a hand around her elbow, permitting her to rest her muscles for a moment as he doggedly sloshed toward shore. How he had any strength left, she could not fathom.
His gray hair was plastered to his forehead, his lips blue from cold. And yet his clenched jaw spoke of determination.
Isolde shivered.
“Almost there,” he said, voice hoarse.
At last, she felt the give of sand beneath her own feet. Standing upright, she staggered forward, the angry sea pushing against her spine as if eager to eject her onto dry land.
Her legs were jelly, chilled and wobbly from the cold water.
The wee white house contrasted with the sodden dune grass behind it, sturdily braced against the wind and rain.
Staggering out of the surf and up the beach, Isolde collapsed onto the white sand. Rolling onto her back, she breathed in wretched gasps,the rain peppering her frigid skin. Thankfully, the storm did not feel nearly as fierce on land.
Kendall dropped beside her, mirroring her pose. Air whooshed in and out of his lungs, synchronizing with her own.
