What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

Bugger sense.

He inhaled and ignoring the agonized protests from every sinew, he pushed down. Down. Down. Not sure if he could fight the suck of the water.

His lungs burned. The cold made him sluggish. He couldn’t see. The idea of floating into oblivion beckoned.

He reached into the void. Praying like a madman. Stupid, mindless, incoherent pleas to the Almighty.

Please. Please. Don’t let her die. Let me find her. Take me instead.

The only answer was the roar in his ears as he started to drown.

Still he rea

ched. Still he struggled.

When long strands brushed his icy skin, he thought they must be seaweed. Debris filled the water. Wreckage from the Windhover. Nets threatening to entangle him.

In air-deprived stupidity, he delayed dangerously before he realized that no seaweed was this silky. With lunatic hope, his hands closed on Pen’s hair.

Triumph delivered one last spurt of power. With an ungainly kick, he shot forward, using her hair to guide him.

All the while, his heart hammered one word. Over and over. Penelope. Penelope. Penelope.

Something bumped his hands. Something that felt like a body. Numb fingers fumbled to catch her. She still wore the cloak. Its weight must have dragged her down.

He ripped at the strings around her neck. They resisted, but so close to saving her, he wasn’t giving up for the sake of a few knots. Finally the strings parted and the cloak flowed away.

With one final push, he kicked toward the surface. Noting with dread the lack of movement in the body lashed in his aching arms.

He burst through the rough sea and wrenched Pen upward until she bobbed, facing the sky. Lightning revealed how pale and still she was. That seemed wrong for someone so vivid. Her eyes were closed and blue tinged her parted lips. Her features were so wan, she could be carved from marble.

Using a clumsy sidestroke, he battled the current to swim for the shore.

Then the miracle happened. On top of a wave about fifty yards off, he saw a light. The light turned into a boat with searchers sweeping lanterns across the turbulent water.

“Over here!” he shouted, but his voice emerged as a mere thread.

Beside him, Pen floated lifeless as a spar from the Windhover.

He summoned his last strength and raised one arm, waving wildly, praying that he’d be visible over the choppy sea. “Over here!”

Even then, he wasn’t sure it was enough. A towering wave hid the boat. Despair, fatal as the icy water, gripped him. He’d failed to save her.

Then the boat crested another wave and he saw that it headed toward him. Only when the boat was almost upon them did he hear the team of oilskin-clad men shouting encouragement.

“Take her,” he gasped, lifting Pen and getting a mouthful of dirty salt water.

“We’ve got her, laddie.” A man’s hands closed around Pen and hauled her up.

“Here.” Another man extended a hand to Cam, who grabbed it with a gasp. He was too weak to be more than dead weight, but eventually, he flopped into the rowboat. Beside him, one of his rescuers had turned Pen over and pressed rhythmically on her back.

For a terrifying interval, she didn’t respond. Cam had prayed in the water. He’d never prayed as hard in his life as he did now.

Still no reaction.

Dear Lord in heaven, he’d been too late.

One pale, slender hand, weighted with his signet ring—how had that stayed on her finger?—twitched. Within seconds, she jerked and coughed and vomited up what seemed like an entire ocean.