Page 63 of A Dance with the Wayward Duke
He pushed off headfirst. Water closed over his skull, his shoulders, his chest, drowning every thought. He kicked downward, then twisted and drove for the surface. He broke through with a harsh gasp and began to swim. Stroke. Breath. Stroke.
A splash sounded to his right. Tristan’s head snapped around. Lorenzo surfaced, black hair plastered to his head, eyes wide.
“Madonna’s wet ankles,” he choked. “This water is freezing.”
Tristan stared at him. “What the devil are you doing?”
“What does it seem I’m doing?”
“Trying to kill yourself.”
“Certainly not! I quite enjoy the cold. An excellent opportunity to spend time with mio fratello.”
The ship began to draw away, the stern lifting, the wake widening between them and safety.
“Return your Italian arse to the deck, Lieutenant. That is an order.”
Lorenzo swam, but his strokes were uneven, too much splash, too little reach. “I am going back.”
“You are flailing in the general direction of Portugal.”
Lorenzo spat water and tried to grin, but the next swell struck him in the mouth, and the grin vanished.
The distance widened.
“Swim.”
They swam. Water struck their faces, breath dragged in sideways. The frigate’s crew had heard them now. Orders broke above. A line came snaking down the side, then another. Men hauled, cursed, and scrambled to bring two idiots back aboard.
Tristan reached the first rope and seized it, but Lorenzo was several yards behind. The sight punched through him. His brother’s stroke had shortened. His head dipped once, came up hard, mouth open, breath ragged. The swell lifted him, dropped him, and dark water rose between them.
“Lorenzo!”
Tristan pushed off from the rope and went back. Every man on deck shouted at once. The sea slapped his face, rolled him sideways, tried to turn him. He cut through it, blinded by the image of Lorenzo gone under.
Lorenzo’s hand broke the surface. Tristan caught it. His brother grabbed at him, clumsy with exhaustion, and nearly dragged them both down. Tristan got an arm under his chest and kicked, teeth bared, lungs burning.
“Hold still, damn you.”
“Go ahead, brother,” Lorenzo gasped. “Leave me behind. Throw the brother out with the bathwater.”
Tristan’s kick faltered. Then rage took him by the throat and hauled him forward.
“I’ll throw your tongue out first.”
They reached the rope together. Tristan shoved Lorenzo upward, caught the next line, braced one foot against the hull as the ship rolled, and climbed with the last of his strength. By the time he gained the entry port and dragged Lorenzo over the side after him, half the watch stood white-faced under lantern light.
Lorenzo landed on his back with a wet thud, coughing as if the entire Mediterranean had taken lodgings in his lungs. Tristandropped beside him, chest heaving so hard he could feel each breath tear at his ribs.
The watch withdrew by degrees under Vale’s silent direction, leaving a decent circle around their captain’s disgrace. Someone brought blankets. Tristan refused his with a look, then rolled to one elbow and glared at Lorenzo. “You pull something like that again, and I’ll cut you from the navy on half-pay.”
Lorenzo kept his eyes shut. His lashes were wet and clumped like a child’s. “As you wish. I don’t need the money. I am fucking rich.”
Tristan sat upright. Water ran down his neck and spine. His hands had begun to shake. He curled them into fists against his thighs.
He saw the day Lorenzo had first walked into his life. One year ago. Portsmouth. Rain on the windows. Dispatches on Tristan’s desk. A young Italian count standing before him with too much pride for a supplicant and too much hunger in his eyes for a man who had come only to ask for work.
“Then why?” Tristan asked.
