they were in the middle of the English Channel it didn’t take a genius to work out where the minx had escaped to. Even so, Flint pushed his way to the rail and was rewarded with the sight of Lady Jessamine speeding through the waves. The blasted woman swam like a fish.
Next to him, he could hear the Captain issuing rapid orders. A couple of sailors were in the midst of lowering a rowing boat. Another was untangling the ladder to toss over the side. Someone else was hunting down rope. She had caught them on the hop and now the lot of them were behaving like headless chickens without a single working brain between them. Meanwhile, she was putting some serious distance between herself and the frigate.
On a withering sigh, Flint shrugged out of his coat and tugged off his boots. Catching her was the first priority. He’d worry about getting her back on the boat afterwards. As soon as the last button was undone on his waistcoat he dragged himself to sit atop the rail to stare in disgust at the briny water below. Lord, how he loathed sea bathing. The lauded benefits of salt water never outweighed the awfulness of the experience. It stung the eyes and tasted foul. Almost as foul as the knowledge that she was in the sea in the first place because he had been soft. Damned woman. That would teach him to feel mercy towards the vixen. She was every inch the duplicitous, self-serving, self-centred, untrustworthy traitor he knew her to be. Another harsh lesson learned.
The icy water came as a shock, robbing him of the ability to breathe for long moments until he acclimatised. Then he set off after the veritable mermaid in the distance, his anger at both of them propelling him more effectively than the inept sailors in the wobbling dinghy could row. She was fast, but thanks to his strong arms and longer legs he was faster. Despite that, it took him a good ten minutes to come within twenty feet of her.
Sensing someone close by, she turned and then panicked, breaking her stroke to cough up the wave she had accidentally swallowed. Flint used it to try to talk some sense into her.
‘This is pointless. Land is a good five miles away!’
Undeterred, she set off again, her bare feet splashing wildly as she kicked for all she was worth. Twice he came within a hair’s breadth of one and twice she evaded his grasping fingers. On the third attempt, he caught her ankle and earned a kick in the stomach that winded him and made him swallow a mouthful of seawater as well. It was then that his anger turned into outright rage and he lunged once more, plunging them both underwater, but this time he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and held her firmly against his body.
‘Salaud! Let go of me!’
She wriggled like a hooked salmon and was twice as slippery. Her flailing knee came within inches of his groin before he twisted her out of the way. Backwards she was marginally less dangerous, but only marginally. She lashed out, using her nails like claws, scraping them hard whenever they encountered him. Her black hair, floating on the surface like seaweed, felt like a whip as it lashed repeatedly against his face. ‘Hold still, damn it!’ The hand he was using to help keep them both afloat joined the other around her body, pinning her arms against her ribs. Still she fought him.
‘English pig! Imbécile! Tout ça ne sert à rien!’
‘We are both going to drown!’
‘At least I will take you with me!’
Flint managed to move his hand a split second before her teeth clamped around it and tilted his weight so that she was lying on her back down the length of his body. Then, with the last strength he possessed, he kicked towards the rowboat.
It took the three of them to get her into the thing as it rocked dangerously from side to side. Once they did, he happily allowed one of the sailors to tie her hands behind her back while the other restrained her. There was no telling what damage the wench could do in such a confined space otherwise. Tethered and impotent, that riotous mane of hair plastered all over her face and shoulders, she began snarling and insulting them, alternating seamlessly between French and English as they rowed back to the ship. He got the gist. He was an idiot and he would die.
‘We’ll winch her up.’ It struck him as a simpler solution than coaxing her up the rope ladder. The fact that it served to send her into an outraged rant after she had made a fool of him was a bonus that went some way to making Flint feel better. If she had been a man, he would have punched her back there in the water and dragged her sorry, unconscious carcass back. Because she was a woman, and he couldn’t seem to get over that inconvenient yet ultimately minor detail no matter how hard he tried, he had suffered every blow—and there had been rather a lot of them. The saltwater was stinging the numerous scratches her nails had gouged in his hands and arms, his throat was raw, his eyes rawer and his ribs hurt like the devil. He would add feral to the growing list of adjectives he already had to describe her, alongside traitorous, beautiful and infuriating.
Flint sat back in the rocking boat to steady it and happily allowed the others to wrestle the rope around her middle, then saluted her as she was lifted kicking and screaming out of the boat.
She was going to be a handful.
Typical, really. He spent his life trying to avoid feminine histrionics and manipulations, yet fate kept throwing them at him regardless. At least he would be shot of this one within the week. He was stuck with his exasperating family for life.
The cheer from the deck signalled her safe arrival and was closely followed by another tirade of insults, this time all in French. Despite the fruity tone, Flint preferred the French. Her voice was seductive. Breathy and earthy. If he let it, the sultry sound made the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms stand to attention in a wholly pleasant way. Something he was determined to quash indignantly. He didn’t deal well with difficult and emotional females. Aside from the obvious obstacle of her impending date with the hangman, he preferred his women sedate and calm. Like a mill pond. If he were to compare her to water, Lady Jessamine Fane was akin to the crashing waves on the rocky Cornish coastline near his home in winter. Unpredictable, noisy and very, very dangerous.
The men were now jeering above him. The whistles and inappropriate comments were getting out of hand. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Until he was shot of her, she was his responsibility and he wouldn’t see her abused—verbally or otherwise. With a weary sigh he climbed the ladder. The crew had circled around her, baying like wolves tempted with the scent of fresh blood. The rope they had hoisted her with was still wrapped around her body and held firmly by the belligerent toothless sailor who had been appointed her guard. The malicious glint in the fellow’s eye sickened Flint. To be a bully was bad enough. To bully a helpless woman was deplorable.
‘Stop.’
He didn’t shout or snarl. The icy stare he had perfected in his youth when his womenfolk had pushed him too far always served him well. He shoved himself past the wall of men to stand in the circle. ‘Does this make you all feel better? Does humiliating a shackled woman make you feel proud?’
Flint allowed his gaze to slowly meet every pair of eyes. Most dipped in shame. He turned and purposely glared at the Captain who had been lounging against the rail with his arms crossed, a laughing spectator who should know better. ‘Deal with your crew. They are a disgrace, Captain.’ He let his expression convey the fact that he also lumped the officers in with that criticism.
Couldn’t they see that beneath all the shouting she was terrified and cold? Her slim body was quaking with the force of her shivers. ‘Might I remind you all that we serve the Crown and we do so with honour. A crown that prides itself on its adherence to the doctrine of habeas corpus. The prisoner is presumed innocent until she stands trial and all the evidence has been heard. Until such a time as that happens, she will be afforded the same respect as any other human being on board this ship. It is not your place to be judge and jury, nor is it ever appropriate to treat a woman like an animal.’
He snatched the line of rope from the toothless sailor’s hand and untied it, then gently led her by the elbow through the parting line of subdued men as the embarrassed Captain began issuing a litany of orders. For once, she came quietly and waited patiently for him to open the cabin door before quickly rushing through it to sanctuary.
‘Thank