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Reckless
Shannon Drake
From elite London society to the golden sands of Egypt… and the sacred places of the heart…When Kat Adair plunges into the waves to rescue a drowning man, it is just the beginning of an odyssey that will sweep the fisherman's daughter into danger and desire. Convinced she is in love with the man she saved, Egyptologist David Turnberry, she feigns amnesia, thus enabling her to linger among the highborn.Hunter MacDonald, rugged archaeologist, is wise to her little charade — and determined to protect his best friend. Undaunted, Kat stows away on the ship carrying David and Hunter's expedition party to the land of the pharaoh. Scandal ensues, and Hunter vows the only way to curtail this confounding woman's schemes is to marry her.Inevitably, in the sultry heat of the desert, passions ignite. But as the secrets of the ancient tombs are revealed, terrible danger unfolds, and Kat must trust the one man willing to risk everything to save her from doom.
SHANNONDRAKE
Reckless
To Jeanne Havens Beem,
with deepest thanks for the love she always gave Vickie,
and the encouragement she has always given me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
“DEAR LORD! HE’S GONE into the water!”
Katherine Adair—Kat to her friends and beloved family—gasped and leapt to her feet. Just seconds before, she’d been sitting on the deck of her father’s vessel—sadly misnamed The Promise—reading and indulging in dreams. The day had been like many other Sundays she had spent throughout the years with her small family aboard the boat on the Thames. Often, as they’d watched the elite in their far more magical vessels, she had smiled as her sister, Eliza, mimicked the upper-crust accents, then joined her in singing old sea chanties—all the while looking to see if their father was about before adding a few of the more risqué lyrics.
But there were times, of course, when she did nothing but indulge in dreaming…about the very fellow whom a wave had just swept from the deck of the far finer leisure yacht The Inner Sanctum!
David. David Turnberry, youngest son of Baron Rothchild Turnberry, brilliant student at Oxford and avid sailor and adventurer.
“Kat! Do sit down! You’ll rock this old scow and we’ll be in the drink, too,” Eliza chastised. “Don’t worry. One of those Oxford chaps will dish him out!” she said with a sniff.
But none of them did. The river was wicked that day—fine for Kat’s father, who used the turbulence in his work—but a poor time for entertainment. The young swains who had accompanied David on the sail were clinging to the rigging, looking into the water, shouting…but not jumping in and attempting a rescue! She recognized one—Robert Stewart, handsome, landed and charming, as well, David’s best friend. Why wasn’t he in the water? And there was another of his chums…she couldn’t remember his name…Allan…something…
Oh, the fools! They hadn’t even thrown in a life preserver, and David was so far from her own vessel that any attempt on her part to do so would be useless.
They shouldn’t have been out on a day like today. They imagined themselves to be such sailors, and they were still so young, so raw. The river was far too rough, only for fishermen and fools. And, she thought ruefully, her father.
But now they’d lost David! And still, there was no one aboard heroic enough to dive in for the dear man’s salvation.
Indeed, the waves were high, and she could understand their trepidation. But her heart cried otherwise. He was beautiful, magnificent. No fellow in all of England or surely even beyond had such a smile. Nor had she ever heard a fellow of his social position speak so kindly to those who were hard put to earn their meager living from the sea. She had watched him so often.
“They’re not going for him!” she cried.
“They will.”
“But he will drown!” Kat looked around quickly. Her father had brought in their own sails; the scow was merely riding the waves now.
In fact, her dear father was not working or paying the least attention to her. Lady Daws had come with them today; and she was laughing—the sound something like that of a sea-witch cackling, Kat thought sadly, something her father simply didn’t hear—and that completely enraptured the hardworking man upon whom she had set her sights.
Kat looked back anxiously at the river. Maybe what had seemed like an eternity to her had been nothing more than a few seconds. Maybe the fellows had needed a moment to draw on their reserves of courage. But no…time ticked away, and none of those young swains aboard the richer vessel had made the slightest attempt to effect a rescue.
“Kat! Don’t look so perplexed. Come, come…he can probably swim. The beaches are still all the rage with his crowd, even though the poor can now reach our beaches by train. Of course, the elite, they say, prefer to frolic in the Mediterranean.”
Though Eliza spoke of the rich with disdain, in these moments with the sailing almost done for the day and the afternoon near its end, she always had her nose thrust into the pages of Godey’s Lady’s Book. She did love her fashion. And she could sew delightfully, creating fantastic designs from such bizarre materials as cast-off sails and canvas.
Kat paid her sister little attention. Her heart seemed to have lodged in her throat. She couldn’t even see the young man’s head bobbing in the waves.
Ah, there! And far from his own sleek vessel.
“The sea is too rough!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “He will die!”
“There is nothing you can do. You’ll but kill yourself,” Eliza warned fiercely.
“Ah, but I would die for him. I would sell my very soul for him!” Kat returned.
“Kat, what…?” Eliza began in horror.
Too late.
Being poor sometimes had its advantages. Kat shed her heavy, solid and sensible shoes and slid her cotton skirt down her hips to the floorboards. In seconds, she had also shed her secondhand jacket. She had no corset, no bustle, no darling little hat to discard, and so, despite her sister’s protests, she leapt into the filthy water in her shift.
The chill hit her viciously.
And the waves were mercilessly rough.
But she had spent her life nearly as one with the sea. So she took a big lungful of air, plunged beneath the surface and swam hard.
She bobbed up first near the sleek yacht. She could hear the fellows on deck shouting, their voices sounding desperate.
“Can you see him?”
“His head… He’s down again. Oh, God! He’s going to drown…Bring her around, bring her around, we’ve got to find David!”
“I can’t see him anymore!”
Kat took another deep breath and plunged beneath the surface again. She kept her eyes open, straining to see through the murky depths. And there…
There she saw him. To the right and a few feet below her.
Dead?
Oh, Lord, no! She prayed as fervently as she sought to reach the man. David. David the beautiful, the magnificent. Eyes closed…body sinking…
She grasped him, as her father had taught her to grasp a fisherman fallen overboard, catching him beneath the chin with the palm of her hand, allowing her to draw his head to the surface, while leaving her torso, legs and the solid strength of one arm to draw him toward shore.
Ah! The distance.
She could not make it!
But it seemed that both the luxury yacht and her father’s fishing vessel were ever farther out to sea. What other vessels were at sail or anchored seemed at even greater distances. She had to make the shore.
She kicked, trying to stay calm, to remember that she mustn’t lose her strength by using it to fight the rough water—that she must go with it, let the tempest take her until it drove her toward the shore.
She tried hard to keep David’s head above the water, tried harder to keep breathing and moving herself against the waves, white-tipped, gray and brown, like living, breathing, beings anxious to suck her into their depths. How slender the river could seem at times, but…how great its span!
And yet, chilled and desperate as she was, it occurred to her…
He was in her arms. Oh, God! He could die in her arms.
As she would gladly die in his.
“GOOD LORD! WILL YOU LOOK at those young fools!” Hunter MacDonald stared at the young swains who raced around their yacht like simpletons. They’d lost one of their number, yet none was doing a damn thing about it.
He cursed them roundly, then called out to Ethan Grayson—his mate at sea, manservant and his friend. “Bring her in! I’m going for the boy.”
“Sir Hunter!” Ethan, weathered and strong and far too sensible a fellow not to have risen far, protested strongly. “You’ll but go down yourself!”
“No, Ethan, I’ll not.” Hastily removing shoes, jacket and trousers, he offered Ethan a grimace. “My good man, I’ve escaped crocodiles in the Nile. I shall be fine in this bit of English weather.”
And so, stripped down to his drawers and shirt, he dove neatly overboard in the direction where he had last espied the young fellow’s bobbing head. As he did, he could hear Ethan scolding him angrily: “Being a ‘sir’ does not give a fellow common sense, no, it does not! He survives famine, war and the evil in the hearts of men, but then drowns himself like the young idiot he would save!”
Too late! thought Hunter. The Thames closed around him as he cut through the waves, swimming with strong exertion to bring the heat of movement to his person.
The water was bitterly cold.
It had been easier to swim in the Nile with crocodiles, he ruefully admitted to himself.
AT LAST! KAT AND HER BURDEN had nearly reached the embankment.
She was far from the docks, closer to Richmond now than the City of London. A mist of rain was falling as she struggled through the remaining few yards of water, hitting mud beneath her feet at last, mud and God knew what else, some broken crockery that cut into her sole. She barely felt it, however, for she had him to land at last. Exhausted, near crawling at the end, she dragged David’s dead weight up onto muddy sod and scraggly grasses, but not far from the road; homes and businesses and even ships at dock were visible nearby. She fell to his side at first, breathing, ah, doing nothing at all but breathing! Then as her lungs filled, she looked at his face and was roused to fear. She jerked up, then leaned on his chest, hard, pushing, determined to expel the water from his lungs. He choked, and water dribbled from his blue lips. Then he coughed and coughed…
And finally fell silent, other than the slow rasp of his breath.
She stared down at him, shaking. He lived. “Thank you, God!” she whispered fervently. And then, seeing his long lashes sweeping the contours of his noble face, she added, “You are so beautiful!”
His amber eyes opened. He stared up at her.
And she was horrified, for she was far from looking her best. Her hair was, as a rule, rich and long, if a bit glaringly red, but now it hung in sodden ropes. Her eyes—normally the oddest shade of green and hazel, sometimes almost the color of grass and at others almost gold—must be quite pinkened. And her lips were surely as blue as his. Her linen shift clung wetly to her body, and she was shaking uncontrollably. That he should see her so, when she still lived in a world of dreams, when society did not allow for the daughter of a humble, struggling artist, an Irish one at that, to so much as dare imagine a life among the elite, was the worst thing she could have imagined.
His hand moved. Fingers touched her face. For a moment, his own was dark and troubled, as if he sought an answer as to where he was, and why. “We were with the wind, listening…laughing…for there were songs on the air, as if the Sirens called to us, and then…pushed!” he murmured. “By God, I swear I was pushed! Why…”
Then his eyes focused on her. And a smile flitted over his lips. “Yes, yes, I felt hands against my back, pushing…but who the devil…and then…the cold…and the darkness. Then…you! Am I seeing things? You’re an angel!” he whispered. “A sea angel…an angel, and I love you!” Then he laughed. “No! A mermaid, and thus I am alive!”
His fingers—on her face!
And the words he had said!
Ah, she could have died then and drifted to heaven in pure bliss.
His eyes closed. Panic seized her. But she could see him breathing, his chest rising and falling, and she could feel his warmth.
Voices suddenly sounded. Looking up, she saw a group coming from the gravel road that led down to the embankment. She jumped to her feet, aware of her near-naked state, her shift plastered to her body, providing not the least bit of modesty. And she was very chilled, of course, making that immodesty all the more apparent. She wrapped bare arms around herself.
“Oh, they’re searching for him…but I saw…something!” The voice was feminine, sweet and touched with the sound of a sob.
“Now, now, our boy can swim, Margaret!” returned a male voice. “He’ll be just fine.”
Kat now saw a very pretty woman, slim and elegant in a late-summer day dress, a jaunty little hat sitting at an angle on her head, a parasol in her hands, her bustle twitching as she walked on dainty heels. Her hair was a soft ashen blond, and her eyes were as blue as the sea. Beside her was an older gentleman in a resplendent suit, cape and top hat, and they were coming closer and closer.
Kat’s heart seemed to stop. In her mind’s eye, she saw only the contrast between the elegant lady and herself, and she knew she had to escape. Quickly.
As she turned to run back into the water, a man rose from the waves not twenty yards away.
He was tall, lean and sinewy, his musculature quite evident, for he, too, but for an open shirt, was stripped down to his unmentionables. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and his classically sculpted face was frowning.
“Miss!” he called.
