His hand found hers lying on the sand, his cold fingers tucking her palm against his.
The danger of the past hour washed over her.
They had almost died, nearly dragged to a watery grave.
A sharp burning sensation crept along her limbs, her chilled body coming back to life.
Violent shivering wracked her. From the tremor in Kendall’s hand, he was experiencing the same.
With a groan, he rolled onto his hands and knees before pushing himself to standing.
He reached a hand down and pulled her upright. They both staggered in the sand and nearly went down again. But Kendall wrapped an arm around her waist and held her firm.
“C-come,” his deep English voice rasped in her ear. “L-let us hope these islanders have a warm f-fire to welcome us.”
They stumbled up the beach, over the dunes, and all but sagged against the front door of the house.
Only then did Isolde notice the shuttered, dark windows.
Kendall’s knock yielded no answer.
Unable to help herself, Isolde huddled against him, her arms still wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He trembled under her hands, cold wracking his large body. But his reciprocal arm around her own waist was tight and strong.
“B-blast it all!” He looked down at her. “You w-will catch your d-death in this.”
He was right. They would both catch their deaths if they didn’t get out of the cold and wet.
Her hand shivering violently, Isolde tried the door handle.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
“Hello?!” Isolde called, pushing away from Kendall and stepping into the house, relishing the instant relief from the weather. “Is anyone at home?”
Kendall followed her, closing the door behind them.
“Hello?” she repeated.
Only the sound of their sodden clothing dripping on the rush mat in the entry vestibule greeted them.
A glance showed the house to be as she had anticipated. The arrangement of rooms in a white house was always the same.
A central hall with a staircase ascending.
A parlor to the left with a large hearth for cooking.
A dining room to the right.
A cold larder and scullery along the back of the house.
And upstairs, surely two bedrooms, one to either side of the stairwell.
The house appeared cozy and lived-in, the owners likely away to visit relatives or gather supplies on the mainland.
“No one is home,” Kendall said, his voice practically in her ear.
Isolde jumped at his closeness.
“Aye,” she nodded, glancing up at him.
