Isla barely managed to scream before splashing into the cold depths of the lake.
17
Tavish was sprinting toward the lake before Isla hit the water.
He had watched the whole happen with nauseating horror. Miss Crowley blundering into Isla. Isla staggering backward into the railing that, with a sickening crack, gave way.
The white flutter of Isla falling would likely haunt his nightmares—her arms reaching skyward, the muslin of her dress rippling in the air.
No!
That had been his only thought.
No!
His rifle had landed somewhere on the lawn, tossed aside in his desperation to reach her, hat ripping from his head with the force of his strides.
The moment felt like being in the midst of a battle. When time slowed and his senses became heightened and he could see with acute clarity how he needed to act and behave.
Someone was screaming. Perhaps several someones. Shapes flickered in his periphery.
Nothing else mattered beyond saving Isla.
His wife.
His love.
Reaching the lake’s edge, he plunged through the surface in a shallow dive, the frigid water washing over him. He scarcely noticed it. Arms stroking, he powered across the lake toward the bridge, desperate to reach her.
Thank God Isla had surfaced. She gasped for breath, neck arched upward and face barely exposed, arms moving as she tried to tread water.
And then he was there, grabbing onto her elbow, pulling her into him.
“I have ye,” he panted. “Isla, ye be safe.”
She clawed onto his arm, blue eyes flaring wide.
“Stuck,” she wheezed, head threatening to sink beneath the water once more. “My skirts . . . caught . . .”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. Filling his lungs, he sank below the surface, eyes open and searching for the problem.
The cotton muslin of her gown fanned out in the murky water, making it difficult to immediately discern the problem.
He caught a blurred glimpse of her white legs moving in efficient circles to keep her head afloat. Dimly, his brain noted that she was treading water proficiently, particularly given her tangled state . . . and with more skill than he remembered her possessing.
She was stuck. How? And where?
He scanned, looking for the snag.
There!
A section of her skirts was tangled in the branches of a fallen log. Diving down, dodging her legs, he grabbed a handful of the fabric and pulled.
Once. Twice.
His lungs screamed for air by the time he ripped the muslin free.
He kicked upward, surfacing with a great gasp.
