Page 64 of Part of Your World

"Fine, but ye'll bandage that leg and put on a proper dress first."

Muriel smiled at his gruffness. "Yes, Da."

After setting aside the rifle he'd used to scare off the smugglers, he resumed his seat at the oars, turned the Whitehall toward shore, and rowed for home. His gaze returned to her again and again, as if to reassure himself that she was indeed whole and well.

Her own gaze darted to the shore, her heart longing for the same reassurance regarding the fate of another man she loved.

Chapter 28

Liam directed the reflector light toward the dunes as they rowed parallel to the breakers. Since Fletcher had dry clothes waiting for him in Zane's carriage and Muriel's dress had been stashed nearby on the beach, Liam searched for the conveyance on shore.

"There!" Muriel pointed to a shadowy lump that looked somewhat carriage-like.

When her brother-in-law focused the beam that direction, her heart gave a leap. Another shadowy form materialized nearby. A man-shaped form with arms waving above his head.

Zane? She grabbed the edge of the boat and leaned toward shore, half-tempted to jump overboard and start swimming.

Lord, please let it be Zane. Or someone else who can tell me he's all right. I need him to be all right.

"This is the place, Da. Take us in."

He maneuvered the oars to aim the bow at the shore then timed his rows to move with the waves. The instant Muriel felt the scrape of the sand on the hull, she scrambled over the side of the boat and waded to the shore, not caring that the hem of her blanket dragged through the water.

"Muriel." Da's voice grated a warning. "Ye'll get yer bandage wet."

Da had cut away the tail of his shirt for her to wrap around her calf. Her leg throbbed a bit, but it wasn't going to slow her down.

"I'll be grand, Da," she called over her shoulder, ignoring the sting of the saltwater splashing against the scratches and scrapes she'd accumulated during her adventure. "We can sort it out when we get to the hotel."

"Don’t forget yer dress," he growled.

"I haven't." She'd already spotted the piece of driftwood that held her clothes a few yards to the left.

Leaving the men to drag the boat ashore, she ran to where she'd left her dress, limping only slightly. She dropped her blanket, hastily pulled the housedress over her head, and did up the front buttons. Her still-moist swimming costume clung to her skin in a particularly clammy fashion, but she had bigger things to worry about than damp fabric and a lack of proper undergarments. She needed to find Zane.

Zane ran toward the beach, the search lantern his beacon. He'd watched that bobbing light for the last thirty minutes as it had grown brighter and closer, praying with every breath that it signaled Muriel's return.

Max had shown up ten minutes ago with the police. The officers had taken the smugglers into custody with no qualms, but they'd been hesitant to arrest Mrs. Underhill, thanks to her damselesque dramatics. Weeping. Protesting her innocence. Claiming to be the victim. Until she went a tad too far and implied that the smugglers had brought her out to the dunes against her will. Grossman and his companion couldn't turn on her fast enough. And when Father handed over the journal and explained that the true victim was a ten-year-old boy, the officers changed their tune. They did ask that the boy and his parents come to the station to make a statement on the morrow, but that was to be expected.

What hadn't been expected was how easily Father surrendered the journal. Or the apology he offered Zane privately for contributing to the entire fiasco by stealing it in the first place. Facing his own mortality had apparently made an impact on him—one Zane hoped would set him on a more faithful path moving forward.

As Zane crested the last dune between him and the beach, he angled his approach to try to see around the lantern shining so brightly from the bow. A man stood ankle-deep in the surf to the right of the boat, arms outstretched to a blanket-wrapped boy standing on one of the seats.

Fletcher. Thank heaven, the boy was safe.

He hurried forward, craning his neck as he sought a glimpse of Muriel. Patrick Quinn was lifting the oars from the oarlocks and bringing them inboard, his wide shoulders blocking Zane's view of the rear of the boat. Was she back there? Injured? He stumbled on the wet sand, a pain jabbing his chest. Was she . . . dead?

"Muriel?" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and asked again. Louder. "Where's Muriel?

Her father stood in the boat and turned. Zane searched behind him, but the rear of the craft was empty.

Dear God. Had she been lost at sea? He reached for the bow of the boat, his legs suddenly incapable of holding him up without assistance.

"Is she . . . ?" He couldn't say it.

"Easy, lad." Patrick Quinn hopped down from the boat and clapped a hand to Zane's shoulder. "She's fine. A little banged up, but in better shape than ye." His gaze scoured Zane's face. "Been practicin' yer boxin' skills, have ye?"

"What few I possess." He started to turn, intending to search the beach for Muriel, but her father grabbed hold of Zane's shoulders and forced him to face east.