A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(41)

“Lord Rycliff!” she called, nearing the bottom of the cliff. She pulled up and began to tread water, looking this way and that in vain. She saw a great number of rocks, but none of them resembled his stony lump of a head. “Lord Rycliff, are you well?”

No answer. Her skirt snagged on an obstacle, and the sudden tug pulled her under. She took a swallow of seawater. As she surfaced, she sputtered and coughed.

“Bram!” she shouted, growing desperate now. “Bram, where are you? Are you hurt?”

He broke through the surface of the water, not two feet in front of her. Soaked to his skin and wearing a dark, dangerous look.

He was alive. The burst of relief was so visceral, so swift, she was nearly overwhelmed by it. “Bram, what on earth are you—”

He ignored her entirely, looking around the cove instead. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Number twelve.” With a gulp of breath, he disappeared beneath the water’s surface, leaving her treading water, utterly bewildered.

Number twelve? He wasn’t making any sense. Heavens, this was like that ridiculous sheep-bombing all over again.

He broke the surface, pushing water off his face. “Have to find her. Dark-haired girl.”

Minerva. Now it made sense. He was looking for Minerva Highwood. He’d dived off a cliff to save her. The brave, heroic, reckless, misguided idiot.

“I’ll look over there.” He took off swimming, stroking his way around a cluster of boulders.

“Wait,” she called, swimming after him. “Bram, I can explain. She’s not drowned, I promise.”

“She was here. Now she’s not.”

“I know it looks that way. But if you’ll—”

He gulped a deep breath and submerged himself again. It seemed an eternity before he surfaced. The man had the lung capacity of a whale.

When he finally came up for air, Susanna launched herself at him to keep him from going under again.

“Wait!”

She caught him from behind, like a child riding piggyback, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and her legs—such as the bathing costume permitted—around his waist.

“She’s fine!” she shouted in his ear, shaking him back and forth. “Listen to me. Number twelve. Minerva Highwood. She’s alive and well.”

“Where?” he managed, breathless. He shook himself, and seawater sprayed her in the eye.

“There’s a cave.” She sandwiched his head between her two hands and turned it. “That way. The entrance is under water at high tide, but I showed her how to swim into it. She’s alive and well and looking for rocks. Geology. Remember?”

“Geology.”

They were quiet for a time. She rose and fell in the water as he worked to catch his breath.

“It was good of you,” she said, pressing her cheek to the back of his neck. “It was good of you to try to help her.”

“But she’s fine.”

“Yes.” And so are you, thank the Lord.

Several panting breaths later, he said, “I believe you’re safe to release me. It’s shallow enough to stand.”

That was when she realized he hadn’t moved once, for all her furious thrashing. She peered over his shoulder. The water hit him midtorso, matting his open shirt to his body. In the notch of his open collar, little droplets of spray clung to the dark hair on his chest, sparkling in the sunlight. Small waves licked at his dark male ni**les, perfectly delineated by wet linen.

And she was plastered to his back, limbs clinging in every direction. Like a deranged octopus.

“Oh.” Mortified, she slid off his back. She stretched her feet under her and found solid footing. “Well, that’s rather embarrassing.”

When she finally dragged her gaze up to his face, she realized he was staring at her ni**les now. How predictable. Just like a man. Here she’d been worried he was dead, and he had the nerve to be alive. Outrageously, manifestly virile and strong and alive. How dare he. How dare he?

What with the excitement of that water rescue exercise, atop several days’ worth of unspoken tension, a revealing haircut, and not least of all, that explosive kiss . . . There was too much emotion building inside her, and it had only two possible outlets. Irrational anger, or . . .

She wasn’t going to contemplate “or.” Irrational anger it would be.

“You reckless fool,” she cried. “You mollusk-brained addlepate. What were you thinking, making a dive like that? Don’t you see these rocks? You could have been killed!”

His chin jerked. “I might as well ask what you’re doing, swimming out in that horrid getup. You could be dragged underwater like Ophelia and drown.”

“I swam out here to rescue you, you beastly man. I’m a very strong swimmer.”

“So am I. I don’t need rescuing.”

She turned her head and spat another mouthful of seawater. “Oh, you will when I’m through with you.”

Beneath the water’s surface, something brushed her waist. A fish? An eel? She batted at it, whirling.

“Easy. It’s just me.” His arm slid around her waist, and he pulled her close. They sank into the water, up to their necks. With a one-armed stroke, he tugged her between two boulders.

“What do you think you’re doing?”