Page 69 of The Cornish Bride

“Ysella!” A voice rang out above the roar of the sea, biting into Ysella’s consciousness. Jago. Uncle Jago. “I see him.”

She turned. Jago was running into the waves towards something bobbing further out. She made to run after him, but Jenifry grabbed the back of her coat, pulling her back. “Let Jago get him. Tide’s too strong out there for the likes of you.”

Impotent, her body stiff with terror, she watched Jago reach Sam. Saw him grab him under the chin and begin to tow him back. That it was Sam, Ysella had no doubt at all.

Jago struggled through the waves and pulled Sam’s limp body into the shallows. Gasping for breath, he let him fall to the sand, where he lay sprawled on his back as the water lapped around him, eyes closed, hair plastered to his head, skin waxy pale.

Ysella dropped to her knees on the sand, reaching out and grabbing hold of his sodden shirt. It had ripped and a long cut stretched across his naked and unmoving chest. “No! He can’t be dead. Do something, Jago! Do something!”

Jago pushed her aside. With strong hands, he rolled Sam onto his side and started thumping him on his back. Water ran out of Sam’s mouth, but, for a long moment, nothing else happened.

On her knees, Ysella’s lips moved in silent prayer. Don’t let him be dead. Please, God, don’t let him be dead. I love him. I haven’t told him I love him. I can’t lose him. I can’t. Don’t let him be dead. I’ll never do anything bad ever again. Please don’t let him be dead.

Sam coughed, his chest heaved, and more water spluttered out of his mouth. He lay retching in front of Ysella, eyes open now, body convulsed. With life.

Jago helped him sit up, almost cradling him in his arms. “All right now, my ansum. You’re safe now, brave lad. You did it. They’re all safe on shore.”

Ysella hurled herself into Sam’s arms, clinging on as tightly as she could, her fingers snagging in his ripped shirt. She was never, ever going to let him do anything like this again. How cold the naked skin of his chest was against her cheek. She wrapped her arms around him as though she might pass him some of her own warmth.

“Back to the house,” Jago said. “I’ve a warm fire in the hearth and brandy in a jar. Can you get up?”

Ysella felt Sam’s head nod. “If Ysella will let me,” he managed, his voice raspy. “I think I can stand.”

Jenifry’s strong hands took hold of Ysella’s shoulders and pulled her away. She went unwillingly, arms outstretched towards Sam.

Using Jago as support, Sam struggled to his feet, bending double as he coughed again and spat up more water, a hand to his ribs as though they pained him.

“Let’s get all the survivors up to my farm,” Jago called out.

*

The walk upthe hill to Nanpean farmhouse seemed to take forever. Sam had to concentrate hard on putting one foot in front of the other, leaning heavily on the two people supporting him, wary of his painful ribs. On the one side, Jago walked, Sam’s arm pulled over his shoulder. On the other side, to his surprise, the small figure of Ysella labored, her arm tight around his waist. Her grip hurt his battered ribs, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. The feel of her supporting grip sent waves of warm comfort through his body that far outweighed the pain.

That this might be a dream, or he’d died and gone to heaven occurred to him as he felt her hand go to his chest as he stumbled. The feel of her skin on his sparked his exhausted body into life, provoking a response he’d never have thought it capable of after being pummeled on the rocks and half drowning in the sea.

But if it had been a dream, it would surely have been located in some more pleasant spot than at dawn in the aftermath of a violent storm. And if he were dead, surely Ysella wouldn’t have been present. Unless, of course, they’d all died down there on the beach and he’d not noticed. His head whirled, thanks to the blow he’d taken from a spar as the ship’s deck had reared up under him, throwing him backwards away from the rail. He’d shot a hand out as the last remnants of the crew went sliding down the rope bridge he’d made and managed to catch hold of a dangling rope. Just before the ship fell backwards off the rocks into the deep water, he’d had time to fling himself into the sea, but unattached to the lifeline and at the mercy of the waves.

The suction of the ship going down had tugged him under, but he was a strong swimmer, unlike the men he’d been trying to rescue. However, with no rope to hang onto he’d had to rely on the tide and waves to carry him back inshore, and the undertow was horrendous. The last thing he recalled was an iron-bound seachest rushing towards him, then nothing.

Voices echoed around him, snatched at by the wind, but he couldn’t pay them any attention. All that mattered was Ysella’s arm around his waist. The path in front of him, where his feet, shoved back into his boots by Jago, stumbled, was growing easier to see as behind the clouds the sun must finally have crept above the horizon.

He was alive. He’d managed to survive the loss of the ship and he was alive. And what’s more, Ysella had kissed him before he’d gone into the water, and now here she was, toiling by his side, her small figure something for him to lean on. An urge to stop walking and fold her to his body almost overwhelmed him, but if he did that, he’d probably never be able to start walking again.

How far was the farmhouse? It seemed to take forever before Jago supported him through an open door into a room blazing with heat and lowered him into a chair by a glowing range. He put his aching head back and closed his eyes, repeating to himself again and again his litany of things to be grateful for. He was alive. Ysella had kissed him. He was growing warm at last.

Someone pushed a beaker into his hand. “Drink this,” Ysella’s voice said. “It’s hot.”

With a supreme effort, Sam lifted his head and opened his eyes. The room, which he’d previously thought of as large for a farmhouse, now seemed small and crowded.

Ysella knelt on the floor by his side, her hands on the arm of his chair, her eyes fixed on his face. “You idiot,” she said, but he had the feeling she didn’t mean it.

One of the many other people in the room approached. He was of late middle age and wore the semblance of a uniform. Someone had wrapped a bandage around his close-shaven head. The random thought that this man must have lost his old-fashioned wig in the sea, and that one of the villagers might find it and decide to wear it, floated into Sam’s head and he had to suppress a low laugh.

“Mr. Beauchamp,” the man said, making a smart bow, despite his bedraggled condition. “I’m Captain Danvers of the Constance, and I believe it’s you I have to thank for the rescue of my men. And myself, of course. All was such chaos onboard as we tried to attach the men to the rope you’d brought, I didn’t recognize you until just now, when your wife’s uncle told me it was to you I owe my life. A truly brave act.” He held out his hand to Sam.

Sam’s arm was too heavy to lift. Someone had fixed weights to it. He tried twice and gave up. “I’m sorry, Captain, but my limbs seem to have turned leaden of a sudden.”

The captain’s lined face creased into a smile. “No matter. I just wanted to say you are the bravest young man I’ve ever had the honor to meet. A true hero.”

Ysella’s hands moved from the arm of his chair to rest on his right arm. She squeezed. “He certainly is.”

Was that pride in her voice? Had he done something she was proud of? That hadn’t been what he intended when he’d volunteered to stage this rescue. His eyelids drooped. How very tired all this being heroic had made him. The last thing he was aware of was Ysella’s cheek pressed against his hand.