The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston
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mothers clasping the hands of terrified children. Tanner rushed forward and pulled the men back. He used his stature and strength to keep the way clear. The prisoner was the last woman out of the door, her Bow Street Runner pushing her on, his hand firmly clamped around her arm. The man could have at least untied her shackles. What could it matter now? At least allow her to die free.
Tanner was the last person to come up on deck. As he stepped out into the air, the rain sliced him like knife blades, the wind whipping in all directions. The ship’s masts no longer stood tall and proud, but lay like snapped twigs on the deck.
The sails, now in tatters, resembled nothing more than rags flapping haphazardly in the tempest. Tanner stepped over pieces of wood, remnants of sails and other debris. A loose barrel rolled towards him. He jumped aside, nearly losing his footing on the slick surface of the deck. More than once he had to grab hold of whatever was near to keep from falling.
Tanner pushed his way through to where the women and children were being loaded into boats. Although he feared the effort futile, Tanner pitched in, helping lift women and children over the side of the ship to crewmen waiting in the boats. Lightning flashed, illuminating the shadow of the shore, so distant when the sea churned like a cauldron, violently pitching the ship. The boat’s fragile passengers would have a treacherous ride.
Let these people survive, he prayed.
He lifted a child into waiting arms and her mother after her. This was the last boat, and the crewmen manning it were already starting to lower it to the sea. Tanner reached for the woman prisoner, who, outwardly calm and patient, had held back so the others could go before her. Tanner scooped her into his arms to lift her over the side, but, at that same moment, the Bow Street Runner shoved them both, knocking them to the deck, jumping into the boat in her place. Tanner scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. The boat had hit the water, the crewmen rowing fast to get it away.
“Bastard!” Tanner cried. In the howling wind, he could barely hear his own words.
The prisoner’s eyes blazed with fury and fear. She struggled to stand. Tanner grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.
“The ship’s going to break apart!” the first mate cried, running by them.
Tanner glanced wildly around. Some of the crew were lashing themselves to pieces of mast.
“Come on,” he shouted to the woman, pulling her along with him.
Tanner grabbed rope from the rigging and tied her to a piece of broken mast. He would be damned if that scoundrel Bow Street Runner survived and she did not. He lashed himself next to her, wrapping one arm around her and the other around the mast. The ship slammed into rocks, sending them, mast and all, skittering across the deck.
The vessel groaned, then broke apart in a cacophony of cracks and crashes and splintering wood. Their piece of mast flew into the air like a shuttlecock, the wind suspending them for several moments before plunging them into the churning water.
The impact stunned Tanner, but the shock of the needle-sharp cold roused him again. The howling of the wind, the hissing of the rain, the screams of their shipmates suddenly dulled to a muffled growl. The water was inky black and Tanner had no idea which way was up, but his arm was still around the woman. He had not lost her.
Their wooden mast began rising as if it, too, fought to reach the surface. Tanner kicked with all his strength, his lungs burning with the urge to take a breath.
When they broke the surface of the water, it was almost as great a shock as plunging into its depths. Tanner gulped for air. To his relief, he heard the woman do the same. She had survived.
Then a wave crashed over them and drove them forward. Tanner sucked in a quick gulp of air before they went under. Again they resurfaced and were pushed forward and under once more.
When they popped to the surface, Tanner had time to yell, “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she cried.
He tightened his grip on her as another wave hit. If the sea did not swallow them, the cold would surely kill them.
Or the rocks.
This wave thrust them further. Through the sheen of rain and sea, Tanner glimpsed the coast, but jagged rocks lay between, jutting up from the water like pointed teeth. Another wave pelted them, then another. The ropes loosened and were washed away. The woman’s grip slipped from the mast. Tanner could hold on to the mast or the woman. He held on to the woman.
Her skirts were dragging them down and her bound wrists made it hard for her to swim. Tanner kicked hard to keep them above the water, only to see the rocks coming closer. He swivelled around to see if other survivors were near them, but not a soul was visible. No one to help them. No one to see. Perhaps no one to survive.
The next wave drove them into one of the rocks. She cried out as they hit. Another wave dashed them into another rock. Tanner tried to take the blows instead of her, but the water stirred them too fast. He lost feeling in his arms and legs and he feared he would lose his grip on her.
Not another death on his conscience. Tanner could not bear it. God, help me save her, he prayed. Help me do something worthwhile. One last bloody something worthwhile.
He slammed into a jagged rock and everything went black.
When Tanner opened his eyes, he felt cold wet sand against his cheek. He could see the water lapping the shoreline inches from his face. Its waves sounded in his ears, and whitecaps seemed to wink at him. There was hard ground beneath him, however. Hard solid ground.
The woman! He’d lost her. Let go of her, damn him. Despair engulfed him as surely as had the Irish Sea. His limbs felt heavy as iron and his soul ached with guilt. He’d let go of her.
A light glowed around him, bobbing, then coming to a stop. Suddenly someone’s hands were upon him, rough hands digging into his clothes, searching his pockets.
He seized one of the groping hands, and his attacker pulled him upright, trying to break free. Tanner’s grip slipped and he fell back onto the sand. The man advanced on him, kicking him in the ribs. Tanner rolled away, trying to escape the blows, but the man kicked him again.
“Your money,” the man snarled as he kicked him once more. “I want your money.”
Every English coast abounded with wreckers, people who flocked to the shore eager to see a ship founder, so they could seize whatever bounty that washed ashore. Tanner had never thought to meet one.
He curled himself against the onslaught of the man’s boot, as he struck again and again. A loud thwack sounded and the man collapsed on top of him. Tanner shoved him off and sat up.
The woman stood above them, a long piece of wood, part of the ship, no doubt, in her trembling, still-shackled hands.
Marlena Parronley stared at the prone figure, the brute who had so violently attacked her rescuer, the Marquess of Tannerton. She’d hit the villain with all her remaining strength.
Perhaps this time she really had killed a man.
Tannerton struggled painfully to his knees, staring at her, holding his sides, breathing hard.
Marlena had recognised Tannerton immediately when she’d first seen him on board ship, but he’d shown no signs of remembering her.
Thank goodness.
That first Season in London—her only Season—he’d attended many of the entertainments, but he was already a marquess and she was a mere baron’s daughter, a Scottish baron at that. He’d provided her and Eliza with some excitement in those heady days, however. They’d called him Tanner, as if they had been admitted to that close circle of friends he always had around him. They’d peeked at the handsome marquess from behind their fans, he so tall, his brown hair always tousled. And his eyes! They’d been in raptures about his mossy green eyes. She and Eliza had devised all manner of ways they might meet him, none of which they’d dared to carry out.
Too bad they had not thought