“I’m here,” she said. “I’ll help you up.”
She lifted his arm across her shoulders. He arched, crying out. His bad arm. She changed sides and managed to haul him, staggering, to his feet. They limped and swayed to the water’s edge and she tipped him in the boat. Hazy headlight beams tracked around the loch. A few minutes away. She hesitated for a moment, then ran for the backpack. It was dusty but intact. Jamie wouldn’t survive long without clothes. She was sweating from exertion but the cold slapped her cheeks.
She shoved the boat out until the water caught it, clambered over Jamie, freed the oars from their clips and bumped down onto the seat, facing the middle of the loch.
No, that wasn’t right. Rowing was a thing you did backward. She rearranged herself, angled the oars into the water and pulled. An oar missed its mark, flailing in air. The dinghy spun toward one side. She adjusted and heaved. The hull scraped on stones, and then the boat shuddered clear, tippy but afloat. At the cottage, the burning tree flared like a giant torch. The chimney wobbled and toppled into the front yard with a booming thud. She pulled, finding a rhythm, every frigid inhalation stinging her lungs.
The last time she’d rowed was in Britain, too, when her mother had rented a boat on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. This was a little different.
Jamie heaved himself up, rocking the boat.
“Keep still,” she hissed.
He managed to sprawl across the rear plank seat, facedown. A finger of mist curled between the boat and the cottage. The headlights struck the smoking ruins, bumping as the car reached the rutted path. The engine strained. She hauled harder, the oars smacking into the water. Once the car pulled up she’d have to watch the noise but the goons’ attention would first be focused on the cottage. Had they heard her yelling to Jamie, over the audio feed? With luck, it’d take a while to figure out whether the two of them were buried under the rubble.
Luck. Like they’d had a lot of that. Not a single thing had gone the way she’d planned. And the man who’d so far got her through all this craziness was currently semiconscious—and snoring. She pushed the toe of her boot into his thigh to shush him.
Beside the cottage, a white blur coasted into view. The engine cut out. Doors opened and closed and four shadowy figures emerged and faded into the fog and smoke. Voices carried on the slight breeze but the words were indistinct. She smoothed her movements, wincing at every plop of the oars. After another minute the misty cloak descended, enclosing her and Jamie in a bubble of fog, the only landmark a diffuse amber glow from the tree. She chanced a glance over her shoulder. Even that wobbled the boat. A yellow fuzz marked the other side of the loch—the country house? They had to have heard the explosion. Could she beg for help?
No. The house would be the first place the goons checked. Not to mention that anyone she asked for help would want to call the authorities—if they hadn’t already. Could she steal another car? How would she find the key?
God, how had her life screwed up so badly that car theft seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea?
A clattering noise rose, then a hiss. She caught her breath, checking the sides of the boat. A leak? A sea snake—lochsnake? Was there such a thing?
No, it was coming from Jamie—his teeth were chattering. How long did hypothermia take? She rowed another few minutes, secured the oars and yanked his clothes from the backpack.
He’d roused enough to at least raise his arms as she pulled layers down over his top half, and help her tug jeans over his hips, once she’d channeled his feet in. His legs felt like refrigerated legs of ham. The boat swung and settled.
“The fuck happened?” he said, too groggy to speak loudly, thank God.
She laid a hand over his mouth, letting go only after he nodded his understanding. He managed to navigate the overcoat. As she dealt with his socks and forced on his shoes, she updated him, so quietly she little more than mouthed the words. Between that and his mental state she had no idea how much he comprehended—until he clutched her hands in his cold ones and whispered, “I’m sorry, Samira. This is what I do. I fuck things up. Can’t be trusted with the stuff. Thought I could resist but... I saw it there and... I fucked up.”
She frowned. Couldn’t be trusted with what?
Oh God, withdrugs? Was that his big secret? A few hours earlier, his roughening appearance had been sexy—the stubble, the smile lines, the mussed hair—but now he was a disheveled wreck. Drugs. It made complete sense. The talk about addiction. His refusal to take painkillers. His regrets.
Voices drifted from shore—the country house. The lights had brightened. She felt their pull like a lure. Warmth. Civilization. A manager who would take charge, fix this.
But no one could fix it.
“Let me row,” Jamie said.
“I don’t even know where we’re going. Not the country house. They might be there. The police might be there.”
Still, she swapped places, momentarily comforted by the touch of his hands on her hips, guiding her. How illogical was that? He wasn’t the capable, solid man she’d thought. Stupid thing was, he’d told her he wasn’t that man but she hadn’t believed it because she’d so desperately wanted a hero. She’d unlocked a level, all right, and found herself in a whole other dimension.
He went to grab the oars, then planted his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“Jamie?”
“Give me a minute.”
“I don’t think we have a minute.” Anger boiled in her belly, rose up her throat. She bit down on it, waited until it settled.
“There’s a path over the hills to another loch,” he murmured. “I know somebody there who...might help us.”
She noted the pause. “Might?”
