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Falsted’s voice yanked Reiner out of his shock.
He jumped to his feet, sending the small boat rocking. Yanking off his waistcoat, shirt and boots, he checked to make sure his dagger was secured with the strap about his calf so he could cut the dress free from her body. “She’s not gone. And you better follow me and be ready to pull her from the water when I get her or this is your last day on earth, Falsted.”
Falsted nodded, shifting to the center of the bench and taking both oars.
Reiner dove in.
His arms swung as brutally hard as they could through the water, his legs spiriting him fast along the waves. But not fast enough. His damn trousers were slowing him. In between strokes, he ripped free the false front, kicking out of them.
Closing in on the ship, he dove under the surface, the salt water stinging his eyes as he searched.
Up. Up for air.
Down. Down again, as far as his lungs would allow. Searching. Searching to where the sunlight dissipated into darkness.
Then he saw it. Pink. A flash of pink.
Pain seared his lungs, threatening to explode them as he went deeper. Stretching out. Pink fabric within his fingertips.
He yanked on the cloth. But it was free. Floating. No Sloane.
He spun. Spun in the water again and again, his eyes searching.
Sloane.
Sloane floating, suspended, her arms wide. Not sinking, not rising. Not moving.
Just as his lungs were about to burst, he reached her, grabbing her arm and stretching upward toward the light. Toward the air.
He broke free of the surface, his mouth open and gasping before he was into clear air. Yanking Sloane above the surface, he waited for her to choke in a breath.
Nothing.
His head swiveled, not seeing the rowboat.
Damn the bastard.
“Here. Here,” Falsted called out from behind him.
Five hard strokes and Reiner dragged Sloane to the skiff.
Falsted dangled over the side, ready to grab Sloane’s arms. With a heave, he pulled her dead weight upward, but her wet wrists slipped from his grasp. He lost his balance, falling into the boat, and her body fell back down onto Reiner.
“Grab her under her arms—yank her up hard,” Reiner ordered.
Falsted scurried over the side again, setting his grip under her arms, and he jerked her upward with a grunt. But she slipped from Falsted’s grasp again and he flew backward, landing hard on the bottom of the skiff. For a moment, her body teetered on the lip of the boat until the top of her slunk forward and she dropped hard, the edge of the boat kicking a straight line into her gut.
Blasted weakling. Not entirely successful—but successful enough that Sloane didn’t fall back into the water. Reiner wrapped a hand along her thigh, holding the bulk of her weight up past the edge so she didn’t slip down into the water again.
A cough.
Gagging.
Her body convulsed and water hurled from her lungs into the boat.
The sweetest sound Reiner had ever heard in his life.
He reached up and gripped the lip of the skiff and yanked himself upward. He had to see it, had to see her moving before he could do anything else.
