‘No, get the older women on this one.’ Dita twisted from his grasp and went to help Mrs Bastable and a grey-haired lady who was sobbing wildly. It took longer this time—the angle of the ship was greater, the wind seemed to be gaining strength. Or perhaps, Alistair thought as he fought his way to Daniel’s side, they were losing theirs.
At last the boat was loaded and away, and another lowered to be crammed with the Great Cabin passengers. Alistair found Lieutenant Henshaw at his side. ‘All the rest of the passengers into the next one,’ he ordered.
Alistair pulled Dita and Averil up the tilting deck to the rail. ‘I’ll go first,’ he said, holding Dita’s eyes with his. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’
‘I know.’ Her smile was shaky, but real, and he felt a stab of fear for her that was almost painful.
Alistair climbed down the ladder into the pitching boat with the sailors. He was cold and soaked; how the women were coping he had no idea. Dita. He blanked emotion from his mind and concentrated. The Bengal Queen was shifting on the rock that had snared her; he could hear the grinding sound, like a great beast in agony in a trap.
Daniel landed in the boat beside him, his face white as he stared up at his brother, still on deck. Callum began to help people over the rail, shouting encouragement over the crashing of the waves. Dita came sliding down the ladder into Alistair’s arms; he pushed her back on to a seat. ‘Hang on!’
Then Averil Heydon was clinging to his neck, gasping. ‘I’m all right,’ she shouted above the noise as she stumbled away to join Dita. The two girls wrapped their arms around each other as they huddled on the plank seat.
‘Cal! Come on!’ Daniel shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth.
Alistair saw Callum raise a hand in acknowledgment and put one hand on the gunwale, ready to climb over. Then he froze, staring out with a look of blank shock. Alistair swung round. Coming towards them was a foaming wall of water, black and white in the stark moonlight.
‘Dita—’ The wave hit, picking the boat up like a toy. They were falling, tossed up and over. Bodies crashed into him as they tumbled helplessly into the sea. He reached out as he fell, grabbed, almost blind, on nothing but instinct, and a hand fastened around his wrist. He saw Dita’s face, stark with horror, and then they were in the water and all rational thought ceased.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Dita! Dita, open your eyes.’ She was dreaming about Alistair. She wished she could wake up because in her dream she was freezing cold, and her whole body ached and he was shouting at her. ‘Dita, darling!’ Now he was shaking her. She tried to protest, to push him away. It hurt and the blanket must have fallen off the bed which was why she was so cold …
‘Dita, damn it, wake up or I am going to slap you!’
‘No,’ she managed and opened her eyes on to near-darkness. It was not a dream, she realised as fitful moonlight caught Alistair’s face. His hair was plastered to his head, his shirt was in tatters. ‘What?’
Water, even col
der than she was, splashed over her feet. Her bare feet. It all came back: the ship and the fear and the great wave that had hurled them out of the boat into the sea.
‘Thank God. Can you crawl up the beach?’ Alistair asked. He was kneeling, she realised. ‘We need to get away from the sea into some shelter. I don’t think I can carry you, I’m sorry.’ His voice sounded harsh and painful as he hauled her up into a sitting position against his shoulder.
‘Don’t be,’ Dita murmured against the chilled skin. He must be exhausted, beyond exhausted, and he was still asking more of himself. ‘You saved me. I can crawl. Oh—’ She leaned over and was violently ill, retching sea water until she was gasping. ‘All right … now.’ Her throat hurt; she must sound as bad as he did, she thought, aware of Alistair holding her, shielding her with his own shivering body against the cold wind.
The beach was sand, thank heavens—she did not think she could have managed if it had been rock or shifting pebbles. As she struggled Alistair half-lifted, half-dragged her, her arm around his shoulders, their free hands clawing at the gentle slope until the texture changed. ‘Grass.’
‘Yes.’ He staggered to his feet and pulled her the rest of the way until she lay on the short, salt-bitten turf. ‘Hell, I can’t see any lights.’ He turned, peering into the gloom. ‘But there’s something over there, a hut perhaps. Can you stand now?’
She managed it, climbing up his body until he could hold her against his side, and there, fifty feet beyond where they stood, was the sharp edge of a roof line. With an aim in sight they moved faster, stumbling across the turf, stubbing bare feet on rocks.
‘It’s not locked, thank God.’ Alistair pushed against the door and it creaked open. ‘Hold on here.’ He placed her hands on the door jamb and went inside. Dita heard curses, a thump, then a rasping sound. A thread of light became a candle, then another. ‘There’s a lamp,’ she said and he lit that, too.
‘A fisherman’s hut, perhaps,’ Alistair said. ‘Here, come and lie down.’ He came across the room to help her to the rough cot and she saw him clearly for the first time. He was still wearing his evening breeches, but his shirt hung on in shreds and tatters, his stockings clinging to his calves. Dita looked down and found she only had her petticoats, much ripped, her stays and, under them, her chemise. Beneath that her questing fingers found a row of tiny globes. The necklace was safe.
‘And get those clothes off,’ Alistair added. ‘They’ll only make us colder. There are blankets. And, by St Anthony, the fire’s laid and there is wood.’
Beyond modesty, Dita began to claw at the sodden fabric with shaking fingers. Alistair turned his back, knelt and set a candle to the fire. ‘You, too,’ she managed between chattering teeth as she furled a stiff and smelly blanket around herself. ‘If we pull this cot to the fire, we can both get in and share the heat.’
Between them they dragged the rough-framed bed to the hearth. Alistair heaped the firewood close so he could reach out and throw it on, and then he stripped, the rags of his shirt disintegrating under his cold-clumsy fingers.
Dita stared as he stood there in the firelight. ‘You are covered in marks.’
He glanced down, unselfconscious in his nakedness. ‘The long boat hit me as we went in, I think. That’s probably the ribs.’ He prodded and winced. ‘The rest is rocks. There was a bad patch just after we were thrown out.’
‘Come to bed.’
To her astonishment he managed a wicked grin. ‘I thought you would never ask, Dita.’