“Stop trying—just hang on to me. I’ll do the swimming.” Looking around, he realized the only safe way out was to move sideways into the quieter body of water between the two tumbling currents created by the arms of the stream. Once in the relative calm, he could tow her back to the island.
He juggled her, moving her to his left, then, still fighting the tow that wanted to swirl them on, he edged them inch by inch, foot by foot to the left. Gradually, the force pummeling them lessened until finally they were in calmer water.
Drawing her to him, brushing the wet hair from her face, he looked into her eyes, more blue than silver, darkened with fear. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Just hold on—I’m going to take us back to the island.”
He did, exercising great care not to get swept back into the currents racing past on either side, then, as they neared the island, wary of rocks beneath the surface.
With an effort she lifted her head and gasped, “There’s a small jetty to the left—that’s the only place where it’s easy to get up.”
He glanced around and saw what she meant—a jetty less than a yard square stood out from the island, a few sturdy wooden rungs providing a means to climb up to it. Just as well; the sides of the island, now he could see them clearly, worn and cut by decades of floods, rose up, relatively sheer, no useful hand-or footholds, and with an unhelpful overhang at the top.
A narrow paved path wound up from the jetty to the cottage. Readjusting his hold on her, he set course for the jetty.
She was exhausted and trembling by the time he got her onto it. They slumped side by side, gasping, simply waiting for some semblance of strength to return.
Lying back, shoulders propped against the bank, he stared unseeing at the sky.
Her head lay cradled on his arm. After a few minutes, she turned his way, weakly raised a hand to touch his cheek. “Thank you.”
He didn’t reply—couldn’t. He caught her fingers, trapped them in his, closed his eyes as reaction—realization—poured through him, so intense it was frightening, a fright that shook him to his soul.
Then her weight against him, the faint warmth reaching through her drenched clothes, the gentle intermittent pressure of her breast against his side as she breathed, registered, and relief flooded him.
He realized he was squeezing her fingers; he eased his hold, raised them to his lips. He looked down; she looked up. Her eyes met his, a frown dulling the silver.
“You know,” Caro murmured, trying valiantly not to shiver, “I think you’re right. Someone is trying to kill me.”
Eventually, they climbed up to the cottage. She refused to let Michael carry her, but was forced to lean heavily against him.
Once inside, they stripped; there was clean water to wash away the mud and linen towels with which to dry themselves. Michael wrung out their dripping clothes, then they hung them in the windows where the sun streamed in and the warm breeze could catch them.
She speared her fingers through her toweled hair, combed out the tangles as best she could. Then, draped in shawls her mother used to use in winter, she crawled into the V of Michael’s thighs as he sat propped against the head of the daybed, and let him wrap her in his arms.
His arms tightened; he held her close, leaned his check against her damp hair. She crossed her arms over his and clung.
Simply held tight.
He didn’t exactly rock her, yet she felt the same sense of caring, of being cherished and protected. They didn’t speak; she wondered if he kept silent for the same reason she did—because her emotions were so stirred, roiling so close to her surface that she feared if she opened her lips, they’d come tumbling out, willy-nilly, without thought for what they might reveal, where they might lead. What they might commit her to.
Gradually, the slight shudders that still racked her—a combination of cold and fear—eased, driven out by the pervasive heat of his body, by the warmth that seeped slowly to her bones.
Yet it was he who stirred first, who sighed and eased his arms from under hers.
“Come.” He placed a light kiss on her temple. “Let’s get dressed and go back to the house.” She shifted to face him; he caught her gaze, continued in the same even, determined voice, “There’s lots we need to discuss, but first, you should take a hot bath.”
She didn’t argue. They dressed, pulling on their clothes, still slightly damp, then left the cottage. Crossing the bridge was no real problem; although it was narrow, she’d crossed it so often, she didn’t truly need the rail.
Michael stopped just before he followed her off the bridge. Crouching, he examined what remained of the post that had supported the rail at that end. He’d caught a glimpse of it as he’d rushed down to the bank, before he’d dived in; what he saw now confirmed his earlier observation. The post had been sawn almost through; barely a sliver had been left intact. All three of the posts had been treated similarly; the upper portion of each had been virtually balancing on the lower section from which it had been all but severed.
No accident, but a callously deliberate act.
Rising, he drew a deep breath and stepped down to the bank.
Caro met his gaze. “I don’t usually use the rail all that much, just for crossing. Did you, yesterday?”
He cast his mind back…recalled putting a hand on the post at the bridge’s other end, not far from where Caro had grasped the rail today. “Yes.” He refocused on her eyes, reached for her arm. “It was solid, then.”
Had the perpetrator known that only Caro and Mrs. Judson used the bridge, and, it being Tuesday, that it was most likely Caro who would use it next?