Bos’n could handle the helm. Nick shrugged out of his greatcoat and shoved it into the maphouse. He checked that his safety line was secure, one end tied around his waist, the other to the starboard railing, and left the tiller to … to what, chastise Miss Chase for leaving the safety of the cabin? Thank her for possibly saving the ship from sinking if the gun had fallen down the open hatch? Nick grabbed onto the railing as a wave swamped the quarterdeck again. Jack and the others should have seen to the gun themselves. Should have checked the rope for wear and replaced it before they even set sail from London. A rolling deck in a storm was no place for a loose gun—proven again as they rolled to starboard and the gun smashed right through the gunwale.
Oh hell. Her skirt was tangled on the carriage axle. Miss Chase couldn’t hold back the gun, and Jack couldn’t hold Miss Chase.
Nick’s stomach twisted as the gun plunged over the side, dragging Miss Chase across the deck and into the sea.
He leaped past Jack and leaned over the rail. Thank God for her stubborn nature. Below the churning surface he could just make out her pale hands clinging to the tattered rope. He grabbed with both hands and heaved, planting his feet against the bulwark for leverage. The rope didn’t budge. No telling if it would break again. She remained just out of his reach.
One of her hands let go.
Nick dove in, as deep as the rope around his waist would allow.
He grabbed a flailing ankle, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head, and felt for the bottom of her skirt. He yanked and twisted but couldn’t untangle it from the carriage, nor rip the wet wool.
He kicked hard toward the surface, keeping one hand in contact with her body as he rose through the water. If he was beginning to run out of air, being pummeled by the sea as he was, surely she would go limp and let go any moment. Her long brown hair swirled in the water, hiding then revealing her eyes, wide with fear and disbelief. The carriage was dragging her down. Her hand slipped farther down the rope. At least it was calmer below the surface than it was above, the water eerily quiet after the roar of the storm, the buoyancy gifting him a scant few seconds to save her.
Just shy of breaking the surface, he grabbed his knife from his boot. Without thought for her delicate sensibilities but cognizant of her delicate flesh, he felt for the neckline of her gown, inserted his knife with the tip pointing down, and sliced the fabric.
Under the strain of holding her, himself, and the carriage, her rope broke. For a few heartbeats they floated free, slowly drifting down. He grabbed her wrist, the only body part he could reach before the water tore them apart, and held tight as his safety rope suddenly grew taut and yanked him forward and up, the ship pulling him along.
She retained enough sense—and trust—that she let go of her broken rope and let her now-gaping gown slide off one shoulder, threw that arm around his neck, and shimmied until her gown slid off the other side.
Freed of the dead weight at last, she clung to him as they surged up to the surface and gasped for air. When their heads broke through the waves, Jack and others began pulling on his safety line, hauling them toward the ship. Ignoring the waves slamming into them and the wind whipping water in his eyes, Nick kicked and stroked, his arms free because Miss Chase was clinging to his front like a limpet. Both her arms were wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist.
In any other circumstance, this would be erotic.
Despite the chill of the stormy Channel water, his body heated everywhere she made contact with him. Without her sensible wool gown, which had sunk out of sight with the gun carriage, she was now clad in only a thin muslin shift, tangled and hitched up around her waist. Soaked with seawater it must be so sheer she might as well be naked. Too bad he couldn’t take the time to confirm or appreciate the view. He was too busy trying to keep them alive.
After what seemed hours of being battered by waves, many arms reached down and hauled Miss Chase out of the sea, then helped Nick climb up onto the deck. The two of them lay side by side on their backs for a moment, shivering and gasping like landed halibut. He tried to slow his breathing and vaguely heard cheers for the successful rescue.
They’d just cheated death.
As a privateer during the war, he’d done that on a fairly regular basis. Mother Nature or Father Time or Whomever would usually grant him one boon, one miraculous escape, per voyage, and they’d just used it up. He sincerely hoped this storm was as exciting as their little trip to Spain would get.
The cold rain pounding down soon had them on their feet again. Her muslin shift did indeed seem to disappear where it plastered itself to her damp flesh. Very chilled flesh, with snug little curves in all the right places. Her small but perfectly shaped bosom heaved as she tried to catch her breath.
Just as Nick realized every man on the ship was taking in the same delicious view he was, and before he could roar at them, Jonesy had the presence of mind to appear at his side with a wool blanket. Nick yanked it from his first mate’s hands and swung the blanket over Miss Chase’s shoulders. He brought the ends together in front of her chest and held it there until her icy fingers took hold.
With reluctance he brought his gaze up to her eyes. What would he find there? Hysteria? Anger? He braced himself.
She swiped at the wet hair hanging in her face then shook her head, flinging droplets everywhere, her long hair a tangled mess unfettered by even a single hairpin. She laughed. She whooped. Breathy, full-throated laughter without a hint of restraint.
Nick braced his hands on her shoulders. Well, laughter was certainly better than screams or hysterical tears. Still cautious, he tipped her chin up. “Are you all right, Miss Chase?” What a banal question. She’d nearly died just now. Nick mentally kicked himself.
She nodded, a huge smile lighting her face. She grabbed his soaked cravat and tugged. He bent down, perfectly willing to let her whisper in his ear. Instead she planted a chilled kiss on his cheek, close beside his mouth. He had the feeling she would have kissed his lips if not for the damn sailors surrounding them, watching them. “Thank you,” she shouted loud enough to be heard over the storm.
And just like that, she made her way down the hatch, safely below decks and out of the storm.
Nick watched her disappear, then snapped his mouth shut. “What are you lot looking at?” he shouted at the gawking sailors. “Haul to braces! Secure that boom!” Sailors scampered to follow orders. Chang and Dieter, the carpenter, began nailing boards to block the hole in the gunwale. Nick nodded his approval. One stormy swim per voyage was quite enough.
Later he’d mourn the loss of the gun, a cannon that had been a fixture on Wind Dancer longer than he had. Would the treasure be worth enough to cover the cost of a replacement? If they could even find the treasure.
He staggered across the rolling deck to check the portside gun. Once satisfied it was secure and the rope in good condition, he made his way fore to check on the broken jib. The sail had already been taken in and stored below, and Winston and Tucker were busy taking care of the loose lines. He’d probably have to put in to port before they could repair the damage, though perhaps Dieter could work his magic. The loss of a few square feet of canvas wouldn’t slow them appreciably, but added to the delay caused by the storm, would the thief make it to Spain and find the treasure before they could get there? The Wind Dancer had as much canvas unfurled now as he dared carry in this weather.
What other damage had the ship suffered? In leaving London so hastily, had they missed replacing any other worn or frayed lines? Nick was busy inspecting the foremast and yardarms when Jonesy made his way from the quarterdeck.
“Might I suggest m’lady needs your help with her gown,” he shouted into Nick’s ear.
Nick grinned. Smart man, his first mate, appealing to Nick’s base nature rather than telling him he was being an overprotective idiot and to go below to get warm.
