Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(69)

Somehow in the collapse, the heavy plank had fallen above him, covering him. The scaffolding was wedged at an angle, creating a small shelter of sorts—a pocket of air and space that wouldn’t last forever.

He knew this, and in the endless dark he took careful sips of air, clinging to the hope that his brothers would find him—that they wouldn’t stop. That they would be in time.

Cleo. Her face drifted through his mind. He was glad she’d gone. That she wasn’t here, up there with the rest of them, suffering all manner of anxiety and grief. He knew she cared for him. That’s why she’d left. Ran. Her feelings for him had grown into something real. Too real for her to face.

But he’d let her go anyway, instead of confessing his feelings, baring all for her, everything—and demanding the same from her.

He supposed that made him as much of a coward as she was. And now it might be too late.

He stopped breathing abruptly. The slow, easy cadence he’d established forgotten as his ears strained, listening. And there it was again. A sound. Faint. Far away—as if from the bottom of a well.

Logan!

His name. If he could hear them—perhaps he could be heard, too. Forgetting the need to save his air. He opened his mouth and shouted.

Cleo moved beyond the point of feeling. Beyond exhaustion. The only thing driving her was sheer faith that Logan lived.

She’d know if he was dead. She’d feel it. Practical or not, this is what she told herself as she dumped another bucket into the waiting wagon and tromped her way back up the mound of depleting stone. They’d find him soon.

She secured her footing on the uneven surface, ignoring how her legs trembled, and resumed working, calling out Logan’s name periodically, forcing her voice to ring loudly even as it cracked from overuse.

She’d just tossed another rock into her bucket and was bending down for another one when she heard something.

She stilled, cocking her head to the side. It came again. Directly beneath her. She tossed her rock and began digging furiously, flinging stones aside. It didn’t take very long for her to reach something that wasn’t stony rubble—a small smooth patch of wood, no more than an inch in diameter, peeked out from where she’d cleared away rocks. She tapped the surface with her fingers.

An answering cry greeted the sound.

She shot up, nearly losing her balance. “Over here!” she shouted, waving an arm wildly for the others. “I heard someone! Here!”

Men rushed her, crowding all around her, clearing the stones away, revealing more and more of the long stretch of wood. Scaffolding—it was the scaffolding, she realized with burgeoning excitement.

Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and moved her off to the side. She let him, knowing the men would all work faster than she could. Her gaze ached as she watched more and more of the plank become exposed.

Suddenly there was a hand—a filthy, dirt-covered hand shooting out from beneath the plank.

She shouted and lunged forward.

Jack pulled her back. “Wait. Let them clear the area and see . . .”

His words faded and she knew the rest of what he was saying: let them see if he was fit to view.

She didn’t care. She’d seen that hand reaching for help. He was alive and she had to let him know she was here for him. That she’d be here for him no matter what.

She broke free and stumbled forward. She fell, caught herself on her hands and climbed, shoving through bodies, calling for Logan.

“Cleo!”

Simon appeared through the press of figures. He grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way. One arm around her, he held her up as men lifted Logan to freedom.

Her throat constricted. She’d called his name for countless hours but now she could say nothing. Could only stare at his face, dirty and streaked with blood. Alive. Her heart squeezed so tightly within her chest she feared it might burst.

And then he saw her. He blinked, shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. As if he were suffering a mirage.

He hobbled toward her, one arm around Niall for support, his eyes fastened on her—feral and alert. Not the eyes of a man trapped for hours beneath a pile of crushing stone.

He winced as he took a jarring step and she realized he couldn’t put his weight on his right foot. She hastened forward, slipping her arm around his waist and closing her eyes in one long blink at the solid sensation of him alongside her body. He was whole. Alive.

“You look good in trousers,” he murmured near her ear, stirring the hair that hung there loosely.

She snorted. Of all the things she’d imagined him to say, that had not been among them.

“I shall wear them every day for you then.” She smiled up at him as they eased off the rocky ground.

He turned to look at her, his face completely absorbed in the study of her. “Are you making promises?” he asked, bewilderment in his voice.

She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. Was he simply stunned that she was here? Or was there something more to his reaction? Did he not want her here?

Emotion swelled through her and her body trembled, the ordeal of the last hours catching up with her.

Hope filled her, eclipsing everything else. She wanted to hold him, talk to him, say all those things that desperately needed to be said. But Mrs. Willis was suddenly there, all efficiency as she took charge, sweeping Logan into the foyer, brushing Cleo aside so that she might assist him up the stairs. Just as well, she supposed. She was so shaky, her legs possessing all the consistency of pudding. She wouldn’t want to risk losing her grip on Logan as they ascended the steps.