Marion Lennox - Stepping Into The Prince's World

She quite liked a good storm—as long as it didn’t threaten to carry her into the Antarctic.

So she rugged up, and made Rocky wear the dinky little dog coat that he hated but she thought looked cute, and they headed out together.

As soon as she opened the door she thought about retreating, but Rocky was tearing out into the wind, joyful at being allowed outside, heading for his favourite place in the world. The beach.

The sea would look fantastic. She just had to get close enough to the beach to see it. The sea mist was so heavy she could scarcely see through it—or was it foam blasted up by the wind? She could scarcely push against it.

But she was outside. The wind wasn’t so strong that it was hurling stones. She could put her head down and fight it.

Below the house was a tiny cove—a swimming beach in decent weather. She headed there now, expecting to see massive damage, expecting to see...

A boat?

Or part of a boat.

She stopped, so appalled she almost forgot to breathe. A boat was smashed and part submerged on the rocks just past the headland.

The boat wasn’t big. A weekend sailor? It must have been trying to reach the relative safety of the beach, manoeuvring into the narrow channel of deep water, but the seas would have been overwhelming, driving it onto the rocks.

Dear God, was there anyone...?

And almost as soon as she thought it she saw a flash of yellow in the water, far out, between the rocks and the beach. A figure was struggling through the waves breaking around the rocks.

Whoa.

Claire knew these waters, even thoughtshe’d never swum here. She’d skimmed stones and watched the tide in calm weather. She knew there was a rip, starting from the beach and swinging outward.

The swimmer was headed straight into it. If he was to have any chance he had to swim sideways, towards the edge of the cove, then turn and swim beside the rip rather than in it.

But he was too far away to hear if she yelled. The wind was still howling across the clifftops, drowning any hope of her being heard.

Was she a heroine?

‘I’m not,’ she said out loud. But some things weren’t negotiable. She couldn’t watch him drown—not when she knew the water. And she was a decent swimmer.

‘You know where the dog food is, and the back door’s open,’ she told Rocky as she hauled off her coat and kicked off her boots. ‘If I disappear just chew a hole in the sack. Tell ’em I died trying.’

But she had no intention of dying. She’d stick within reach of the rocks, where the current was weakest. She was not a heroine.

Her jeans hit the clothes pile, and then her windcheater. Okay, then—ready, set, go.

* * *

He was making no headway. The current was hauling him out faster than he could swim.

Raoul had been born tough and trained tougher. He hadn’t reached where he was in the army without survival skills being piled on to survival skills. He couldn’t outswim the current, so he knew he had to let it carry him out until it weakened—and then he had to figure out a way back in again.

The problem was, he was past exhaustion.

By the time he’d reached this island the yacht had been little more than a floating tub. The torn sails were useless. He’d used the motor to try and find some place to land, but the motor hadn’t had the strength to fight the surf. Then a wave, bigger than the rest, had hit him broadside.

The boat had landed upside down on the rocks. He’d hit his head. It had taken him too long to get free of the wreck and now the water was freezing.

If he let the current carry him out, would he have the strength to get back in again?

He had no choice. He forced his body to relax and felt the rip take him. For the first time he stopped trying to swim. He raised his head, looking hopelessly towards the shore. He was being carried out again.

There was someone on the beach.

Someone who could help?

Or not.

The figure was slight—a boy? No, it was a woman, her shoulder-length curls flying out around her shoulders in the wind. She had a dog and she was yelling. She was gesticulating to the east of the cove.

She was ripping off her windcheater and running down to the surf. Heading to the far left of the beach.

If this was a local she’d know the water. She was heading to the left and waving at him.

Maybe that was where the rip cut out.

She was running into the water. She shouldn’t risk herself.

He tried to yell but he was past it. He was pretty much past anything.

The woman was running through the shallows and then diving into the first wave that was over chest high. Of all the stupid... Of all the brave...

Okay, if she was headed into peril on his behalf the least he could do was help.

He fought for one last burst of energy. He put his head down and tried to swim.

* * *

Uh-oh.

There’d been a swimming pool in the basement of the offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe. Some lawyers swam every lunchtime.

Claire had mostly shopped. Or eaten lunch in the park. Or done nothing at all, which had sometimes seemed a pretty good option.

It didn’t seem a good option now. She should have used that time to improve her swimming. She needed to be super-fit or more. There was no rip where she was swimming, but the downside of keeping close to the rocks at the side of the cove was the rocks themselves. They were sharp, and the waves weren’t regular. A couple picked her up and hurled her sideways.

She was having trouble fighting her way out. She was also bone-chillingly cold. The iciness of Bass Strait in early spring was almost enough to give her a heart attack.

And she couldn’t see whoever it was she was trying to rescue.

He must be here somewhere, she thought. She just had to fight her way out behind the surf so she could see.

Which meant diving through more waves. Which meant avoiding more rocks. Which meant...

Crashing.

* * *

Something hit him—hard.

He’d already hit his head on the rocks. The world was feeling a bit off-balance anyway. The new crack on his head made him reel. He reached out instinctively to grab whatever it was that had hit him—and it was soft and yielding. A woman. Somehow he tugged her to face him. Her chestnut curls were tangled, her green eyes were blurred with water, and she looked almost as dazed as he was.

He’d thumped his head and so had she. She stared at him, and then she fought to speak.

‘You’d think...’ She was struggling for breath as waves surged around them but she managed to gasp the words. ‘You’d think a guy with the whole of Bass Strait to swim in could avoid my head.’

He had hold of her shoulders—not clutching, just linking himself with her so the wash of the waves couldn’t push them apart. They were both in deadly peril, and weirdly his first urge was to laugh. She’d reached him and she was joking?

Um... Get safe first. Laugh second.

‘Revenir à la plage. Je suivrai,’ he gasped, and then realised he’d spoken in French, Marétal’s official language. Which would be no use at all in Tasmania’s icy waters. Get back to the beach. I’ll follow, he’d wanted to say, and he tried to force his thick tongue to make the words. But it seemed she’d already understood.

‘How can you follow? You’re drowning.’ She’d replied in French, with only a slight haltingness to show French wasn’t her first language.

‘I’m not.’ He had his English together now. And his tongue almost working.

‘There’s blood on your head,’ she managed.

‘I’m okay. You’ve shown me the way. Put your head down and swim. I’m following.’

‘Is there anyone...?’ The indignation and her attempt at humour had gone from her voice and fear had replaced it. She was gasping between waves. ‘Is there anyone else in the boat?’