Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress. Margaret McPhee
Читать онлайн книгу.
God, man! What the…? Georgiana?’ Mr Raithwaite looked at Mr Praxton, confusion clear upon his face.
Walter Praxton turned to the older man. ‘Against my advice Miss Raithwaite insisted on examining the river at close quarters. Such a wilful girl! Sir, quickly pass me that large stick, and I’ll fish her out.’ Mr Praxton’s fingers raked his perfect golden locks with ill-concealed agitation.
Georgiana’s body submerged beneath the river, its freezing waters rushing to infiltrate the snug warmth of her clothing. Already it clung like a dead weight. Ice-cold water swirled all around, dragging at her skirts, conspiring to pull her beneath its bubbling surface to the dark unknown depths below. Her lungs constricted and would not function save but to gasp for air when there was nothing but water. She tried to scream, but could find no voice. Cold terror prickled at her scalp and her head ached where the freezing water beat her down. Her arms flailed, wildly seeking something, anything, on which to anchor, even as she sank lower. And, just as the darkness closed in upon her so that she could but look up to the lightness of the sky so very far above her head, her hand found purchase. Her fingers closed upon it, clinging for dear life to that saviour. With her heart pumping fit to burst, she pulled herself up and broke the surface, coughing while gasping in air that had never tasted so sweet. She embraced the clump of reeds, unmindful of its sharp-edged leaves lacerating the palms of her hands. Still the river fought to keep her, tugging mercilessly at her grip on that one small patch of vegetation.
‘Catch hold of the end, Miss Raithwaite, and I’ll pull you to safety.’
Fortunately, or as it now transpired, unfortunately, she was some way beyond the reach of Mr Praxton or, indeed, her stepfather. Through the soaking hair plastered across her eyes she saw Walter Praxton extend the branch towards her. Heard his cruel voice turned velvet with concern. Time stopped still. The river roared in silence, battering her body into numbness. Mama lay motionless upon the ground, and Mrs Battersby-Brown’s and Mrs Hoskin’s mouths moved in the shape of screams. But for that single instant Georgiana knew nothing, felt nothing, except the terrible certainty that by her own rash actions she had just played right into her unwanted suitor’s hands. How well he feigned the hero. And how well her papa would reward him for saving her life. Walter Praxton knew it too. She could see it in his narrow calculating focus.
‘Miss Raithwaite, Georgiana!’ His honeyed voice pulled her back to consciousness. ‘The stick…’
For all that she despised the man and his cruelties, she had not the courage, nor the folly, to sacrifice herself to the river. Death was more fearsome than Walter Praxton. Even as she reached to grasp the stick she saw the glimmer of a smile flicker across his lips, and all the while those cold pale eyes held hers, filled with the promise of what was to come.
Slowly, painfully, he dragged her closer, inching her towards the safety of the bank and the danger of what stood with such concern upon it. ‘Nearly there. Just a little more. Hold tight, my dear.’ Never once did she shift her gaze, fixed so markedly upon her rescuer.
‘Do as Mr Praxton bids. You’re almost within reach.’ Papa’s voice was relief edged with irritation. But then again, did he not always say she was a vexation to his soul, an inconsiderate stepdaughter with a selfish unruly streak?
‘Georgiana!’ The tips of Mr Praxton’s long fingers reached to hers.
She was his. Caught. Landed with all the skill of an expert angler delivering a fine fat trout.
‘Mr Praxton.’ Her hand stretched towards him. Reaching for her captor. Her eyes closed in anticipation of the feel of his clammy skin. She heard a scream, felt the force of the rushing water pull her with a raging ferocity, saw Walter Praxton recede with the distant bank.
The woman was still yelling. ‘Do something, Edward! Dear God, somebody help us!’ Her mother’s white face twisted with terror.
‘Mama!’ The word croaked from Georgiana’s water-filled mouth as the river swept her downstream with an urgent insistence, ripping her away from the safety of her family and the threat of Mr Praxton. Mercifully Georgiana Raithwaite knew nothing more as the turbulent water claimed her as its own, within the scenic setting of Hurstborne Park.
‘I dare say that you’re right, Freddie, I should spend more time at Collingborne. Especially now, with all that’s happened.’ Nathaniel Hawke’s grey gelding trotted contentedly next to the smaller bay.
Lord Frederick eyed his brother speculatively. ‘Then you’ll stay?’ The question was pointless. He already knew the answer.
‘I cannot, even if I wanted to. The Pallas sails in two weeks’ time under orders from the Admiralty. There’s nothing I can do to change that.’ The reins tightened beneath his fingers, but his face did not betray any hint of the emotion that struggled within. ‘Both you and Henry will be there to attend our father, and my presence is sure only to…aggravate the situation.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Lord Frederick sighed. ‘But you’ll have to confront him over this blasted nonsense at some point—he’s threatening to disinherit you from all that he can.’
Nathaniel smiled grimly at the words. ‘Have no fear for me, Freddie. I’m more than capable of making a success of my life without the Earl of Porchester’s help. And now we should talk of more important matters.’
‘More important matters?’
‘Indeed. Just how do you mean to explain your friendship with Lady Sarah to Mirabelle! That lady will eat you for breakfast, little brother.’ Nathaniel raised an eyebrow in wry amusement, and revealed his teeth in a broad grin, ready to hear the tale.
Freddie laughed, then suddenly stopped. ‘Nathaniel, what’s wrong?’
All traces of humour left his brother’s face as he stared in the direction of the river.
‘Nathaniel?’
Dark eyes opened wide in shock. ‘There’s someone in the river!’
The younger man’s brow furrowed. ‘But the water’s too high and too cold for swimming.’
‘I doubt that swimming is quite what he had in mind. Quickly, Freddie, there’s no time to lose, the fellow will soon be drowned, if he isn’t already dead.’ Nathaniel spurred the gelding to a gallop and shouted, ‘Head towards Holeham’s Hook, wait for me on the bridge.’
‘But where are you going?’ Freddie’s words flitted weakly into the wind. Worry growled in his gut. He hoped that Nathaniel wasn’t about to do something foolhardy. But wasn’t his brother’s life a string of foolhardy ventures, with scant regard for the danger in which he seemed permanently embroiled?
Nathaniel’s jaw set firm as he directed the gelding to the swollen river. Now that he had drawn closer, he could see that the boy had lost consciousness and was being dragged within the grip of the sweeping current. The slight body tossed and tumbled down the central line of the river beyond all hope of reach. Even as he weighed the situation, Nathaniel knew what he must do. Not once did he flinch from his purpose. He bellowed the words at Freddie’s blurred image, ‘I’ll meet you at the bridge. Be ready to haul us out!’ Urging the horse on, he raced alongside the river for some distance.
Just short of the muddied bank he leapt from his horse, snaring the reins over a bush as he ran. First his boots were discarded. Then his superfine coat. Just as the boy swept past Nathaniel plunged into the fast-flowing water. Icy shock bit deep and he schooled himself not to gasp. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ The curse escaped him, but there was no one to hear him over the river’s roar. With immense strength of will he forced his legs to kick and swam like he had never swum before in the direction of the poor battered body. The writhing water, pounding in his ears, stinging his eyes, transported him to his quarry.
He felt the slim arm before his saw it, and his fingers closed firm. Not far to Holeham’s Hook. Hold on. Kick hard. Steer towards the right-hand side. The thoughts came with deliberate logic even as fatigue and pain assailed his body. The lad’s heavy, so heavy. Arms growing