Page 30 of Reckless Desire

A shot rang out. Bryson hunkered down and whipped the reins across his horse’s shoulder. The animal galloped faster. The trees sped past. They neared the top of the hill and turned the bend. The carriage—Hensley’s carriage—stood on the side of the road up ahead. Bryson reached the vehicle an instant later, but found it empty. He wheeled his horse in a circle. Where were the occupants?

“Miss Ramsay!” he shouted.

Foliage thrashed deep within the trees. Bryson urged his horse toward the noise.

“Miss Ramsay,” he shouted again.

A woman’s muffled screams sounded. Bryson urged his mount around a large tree, swung from the saddle and dropped soundlessly to the ground. He pulled the pistol from his waistband, then angled around the animal and crept forward to a large elder tree. Carefully, he peered around the trunk. A large brute of a man inched toward the location of Miss Ramsay’s scream. The brute gripped a revolver that looked as if it had seen use in the ‘45 rebellion.

Bryson didn’t recognize him but, by the cut of his breeches and coat, he guessed the man to be a stable hand. He had to be the man who hit Davis over the head and kidnapped Miss Ramsay. Bryson grimaced. He now understood how Davis had been so easily knocked unconscious. The kidnapper was a large brute. How the devil would he incapacitate the man? He stood well over two meters, his shoulders as broad as an ox.

Bryson wasn’t opposed to shooting the monster, but that would give away his location. Where was Miss Ramsay? The way the man inched forward, it seemed he wasn’t certain of her whereabouts, either. Might she have gone down the bank to the river?

Bryson cursed. With the brute so close, he couldn’t call out to her. He had to knock the man unconscious, but had only his pistol as a weapon. Could he hit the big man hard enough to knock him senseless?

The man abruptly halted. He remained motionless for three heartbeats, then lunged down the bank and out of sight. Bryson ran after him. A woman screamed. Bryson pumped his legs faster.

“Let me go,” she shouted.

Miss Ramsay.

Bryson reached the bank and careened down at breakneck speed. The man no longer held his pistol, but gripped Miss Ramsay by the arm. She kicked his shin, but he seemed unfazed and only continued his climb up the bank.

He abruptly stopped, eyes on Bryson as Bryson stumbled more than ran down the incline. Miss Ramsay’s head snapped in his direction. Her eyes widened. She yanked hard in an effort to break free of her captor’s grasp, but he held tight as if unaware that she fought him. Bryson couldn’t shoot him for fear of hitting Miss Ramsay. He realized the man intended to either simply step aside and let Bryson’s downward momentum propel him into the water or ram his fist into Bryson belly—perhaps both.

The man reached into his coat—no doubt for the ancient pistol Bryson had seen earlier. Bryson glimpsed a flash of metal. Bryson reached them, seized Miss Ramsay’s wrist, and drove the butt of his gun into the man’s jaws as he sped past.

Bryson yanked Miss Ramsay against him. She pressed her face against his chest as he hit the ground and rolled downhill. The man howled as he, too, rolled down the hill. Bryson’s heart raced. The man barreled toward them. Bryson twisted in an effort to avoid a collision with the man. A rock dug into the back of the hand that cradled Miss Ramsay’s head. In the next instant, they went airborne. She screamed as they fell twenty feet through the air, then struck the river. The shock of cold water went bone deep. Bryson grabbed her arm and kicked upward through the ribbons of current. They broke the surface coughing and gasping for air. The current spun them.

“Rapids!” Miss Ramsay cried.

Grip tight on her arm, Bryson twisted as the current swept them downstream. He caught sight of the rapids a hundred feet ahead. The current that carried them forward was nothing compared to the thunderous roar of the whitewater. He scanned the bank on the right. Like the spot where they’d fallen, the bank was too high to climb. The left bank was a steep, tree filled, incline, but he could manage the climb. He searched for branches that overhung the water and caught sight of a perfect spot forty feet ahead.

“Hold onto my back,” he shouted. “Catch that branch up ahead.”

“I can swim.”

She started to swim, but he held tight. She snapped her head in his direction.

“Stay close,” he said, then released her. The current swept them toward the rapids as they fought the cross-current toward the opposite bank. They drew within eight feet of the branch, still too far away to reach it.

“Grab my waist,” he shouted. “We won’t make it otherwise.”

She threw her arms around his waist and hugged his back. Bryson lengthened his strokes and kicked with all his might. They neared the branch. He gave one final, mighty push and the branch loomed. He grabbed the branch. Her weight pulled as the current dragged her. She kicked in a clear effort to try to help him push closer but only succeeded in yanking harder with each kick. He cursed as a jagged knob slashed his thumb. Then they were racing alongside the bank.

Bryson grabbed for Miss Ramsay’s hand. Their fingertips brushed, then she swept out of reach. He kicked with all his might and swam toward her. Her head went under and fear ripped through him. She surfaced ten feet away and flailed. The rapids were fifty feet ahead. Stroke after stroke, Bryson kicked until the rush of water was the only thing he heard. She screamed.

Keep swimming Bryson ordered himself.

He drew nearer. Five feet… She tried to swim against the current toward him. Four feet… The water spun her away. Three feet…

She disappeared beneath the surface. Bryson dove underwater, kicking in the direction he’d seen her go under. In the murk he caught sight of her two feet to his left. Her legs were twisted in her skirts. He kicked and grabbed. His fingers closed around her arm. She twisted. Bryson hugged her to his chest and propelled upward.

They broke the surface, her back flush against his chest. She’s coughed and he dragged in great gulps of air. The rapids were twenty feet away. They wouldn’t escape.

His feet hit something. The riverbed. One arm around her, Bryson rolled onto his side and swam toward the bank. Seconds later, his feet touched bottom. He swam two more strokes and could stand chest deep. He slipped on the slick rocks, flailed, and lunged toward the shore. The water was waist deep.

They neared the tree line. He grabbed a branch of the nearest tree. Miss Ramsay wrapped her arms around him as he pulled them up the bank. Bryson shoved her onto shore among the ferns and climbed after her. They lay on their backs gasping. His legs and arms ached. Each breath burned his lungs as if they’d caught fire. He closed his eyes and forced his breath to slow. Deep slow breath in—