“You are well?” he says.
I nod, and we begin the swim for shore. As strong a swimmer as I am, even without my injured arm, Nicolas would be stronger. He insists on staying behind me, which is infuriating but, yes, also very considerate. I swim as quickly as I can for the rocky shore, my teeth chattering, fingers going numb.
Then my leg strikes sharp rock. It’s the same leg that was shot, right above the same place. I gasp, and my mouth fills with water, and I begin to choke. Between the pain and the choking, my mind blanks, and I flail.
Something grabs me, cold as ice, and I flail again, only to realize it’s Nicolas. He holds me above water. The night air, pleasantly cool before, is like being taken from an ice bath and plunged into ice itself. I convulse but force myself to breathe.
When he tries to swim with me under his arm, I wriggle out and continue on. My arms barely move now. I no longer feel the pain in my leg, because I no longer feel my leg. My perfect strokes have turned into the flails of a drowning soul, and it takes all my energy to propel my dead-weight arms up and over my head. Then my knee hits something else, and I brace for the pain. None comes, and I presume that is the lack of feeling, but then I realize my other knee is also touching something.
I am on sand. I am nearly at the shore, yet I can barely feel the ground under my knees, and when I put my hand down, I only know it is touching the earth when it stops moving. My entire body is numb, and yes, I panic at the thought of that, of the effect such cold can have, but I force myself to crawl on my numb limbs until I am out of the water.
Nicolas is right behind me, and as I sit there, teeth chattering, he wraps his arms around me. At first, it is like being held by a dead man. Then I feel the barest flicker of warmth. With icy hands, he moves mine up under his armpits, where that warmth leaps out, a flame in the ice.
I gesture for him to do the same with his hands, and we huddle there, perhaps the most intimate embrace I have ever shared, the two of us entwined. While I’m sure I will look back on this later, right now, it is devoid of any sensuality. We are freezing—quite literally freezing—and this is survival.
When he can finally speak, his teeth still chattering, he says, “I was attempting to haul you to shore, crécerelle, but you insisted on doing it yourself, and it is most vexing. If I cannot save you, however will I make you swoon for me?”
“I am certain you will think of a way or two.”
I say it simply, no double entendre intended, but his face lights in a grin. “Oh, I am certain I can think of a way or two as well.”
“Excellent, but at the moment, my only interest is in getting warm.”
“That is what I mean, crécerelle. A way to make you very warm.”
He waggles his brows, mock-seductive, and I can only sputter a laugh that turns into a full fit of the giggles, spurred by the overwhelming relief that we have survived. We are off the ship and safe on shore and alive.
He leans over and gives me a kiss, his touch cool but not horribly so, and when I kiss him back, his lips part to the most delicious warmth. I wriggle closer, kissing him deeper, drinking in that warmth. His hands slide over my waist, beneath the soaked shirt and along the skin under my corset. Heat trails in their wake. His breathing picks up, fingers traveling up my corset to the ties before stopping himself.
“That is enough of that, Nico,” he murmurs. “There are more appropriate—and efficient—ways to warm a lady in serious danger of freezing.”
“I am not the least bit concerned about appropriate,” I say. “But, in this situation, efficiency may be called for. Other warming methods may follow at a more suitable time.”
His grin sparks again. “I will remember you said that, crécerelle.”
“I am relying on it, sir.”
He laughs and embraces me one more time. Then he rises, his legs still wobbly, and peers about.
“I see a sheltered spot in the cliffside, perhaps a hundred feet that way, if we can manage it. If we see driftwood—or dried seaweed—we ought to gather it for a fire.”
“And rocks to spark the fire?”
“Chérie, I am a sailor.” He lifts a pouch on his belt. “I have waterproof matches.”
“Perfect.”
We find not onlya nook carved into the rock but, just a few feet away, a cave that will provide complete shelter. Nicolas starts the fire at the opening to let the smoke escape. Then we hunker down beside it.
Nicolas clears his throat. “I realize that I was being playful earlier with my flirtations, and in light of that, my next suggestion may seem more of the same. I make it with the assurance that it is not. We have been exposed to a dangerous cold, and we are warming ourselves now, but as long as we continue to be clothed in cold and wet attire...”
“You are suggesting we should disrobe.”
His skin tone does not permit an obvious blush, but I am still certain he does exactly that. His voice loses its usual confidence. “Y-yes. That is to say, we ought to remove some of our outer layers, at least until we are warmer. I will turn my back, of course, and avert my gaze as much as is possible, to allow you your modesty.”
“If anything I have said or done has led you to believe I am a woman of modesty, then I have given entirely the wrong impression. Would I be comfortable sitting naked at the fire? No. I wish I were, but I am not yet that woman. Would I be comfortable in my underthings? Certainly, and if you still wish to avert your gaze... or if you wish me to do the same, then we shall do so.”
He relaxes. “That is very practical of you, crécerelle, and I appreciate it.”