Page 53 of An Unexpected Earl

The skiff hit the rapids beneath the arch and dropped, slamming against the river’s churning surface.

Amelia screamed as the tumbling water tossed them ferociously. The skiff rose and fell like a bucking horse. Each plunge lifted them several inches from their seats, only to be slammed down when the hull slapped onto the surface. Water splashed over the sides in great ice-cold waves that drenched them through to their skin. They floated helplessly, tossed by the tide and churning black water like a leaf in a gale.

“Look out!” the waterman shouted as the skiff spun off course and smacked into the stone starling.Crack!The boat bounced away, shoved back into the tide by the racing current.

The waterman put his full weight against the oar with a screaming groan of exertion that pointed the boat back toward the middle of the arch.

“Hang on!” Pearce yelled, tightening his legs around her like a vise.

Propelled by the tidal current, the boat shot out from beneath the arch. The little bow plunged away as the skiff dropped over the six-foot-high waterfall created by the water rushing through the narrow arches. For a breathless moment, they were suspended in the air. Then the boat slammed onto the water, throwing them so hard that Amelia nearly bounced out of the boat and the waterman tumbled down into the bottom behind Pearce. The swirling eddies caught the skiff and sent it whirling toward the bank.

Pearce grabbed the spare oar and shoved it into the water to stop the spinning. His back muscles strained as he dragged the paddle deep into the rushing current to pull them back straight and pointed downriver.

“I got ’er!” The waterman took the oar from Pearce and regained his seat. A few expert strokes had them headed smoothly for the north bank.

Amelia lay on the bottom of the boat, still gripping the sides for dear life and shuddering in the layer of cold river water sloshing around her.

Pearce gently lifted her onto the seat next to him. He pulled her against him, cradling her in his arms. She clung to him as she fought to gain back the breath that the wild ride had stripped from her.

“It’s all right,” he murmured reassuringly. She buried her face against his shoulder but never sobbed with fear the way any other Mayfair lady would have. Not his Amelia. She was far too brave for that. “We’re safe now.”

She nodded against his waistcoat, her hands clutching at his lapels.

“Congratulations, Amelia Howard.” He smiled against her wet hair. “You just shot London Bridge and lived to tell about it.”

“Barely,” she rasped out hoarsely.

Despite her attempt at humor, concern tightened his chest. He glanced behind them at the bridge and the black, churning water beneath.

They’d lost the men who were chasing them.Thank God.But those men were also smart enough to know that the waterman would have to pull up onto one of the steps just past the bridge. The men might still come looking for them tonight. And Pearce needed to have Amelia well out of sight if they did.

“Take us to the Pelican Steps,” Pearce ordered the waterman, who had fully regained control of the boat and was using the tide to his advantage now rather than fighting it.

“Aye, sir.”

As Pearce worked loose the strip of her hem that tied them together, the waterman guided the boat gradually toward the north bank as they drifted downstream, following the current as the river turned gently at Wapping and curved away toward Greenwich on the opposite bank. Slowly, he guided them across the dark ribbon of water to the set of stone stairs tucked up beside the old Prospect of Whitby tavern.

The boat smoothly slid to a stop at the stone steps, and the waterman grabbed for the piling post to hold the boat in place while Pearce carefully helped Amelia onto the small landing, then climbed out after her. Pools of water formed beneath their feet from their soaked clothes. Amelia wrapped her arms around herself, unable to stop her shivering as the unseasonably cold air engulfed them and chilled them through to the bone.

Pearce knelt down to hand the waterman his promised sovereign.

“Thank ye, sir.” The man shook his head. “Wish I could say I enjoyed th’ fare.”

Pearce held up a second coin. “You didn’t see us, and you didn’t shoot the bridge. You’ve been working this side of the bridge all night because you’d heard there was a boxing match set for midnight in the old warehouse on High Street. You know the one I mean.” He placed the coin onto the man’s palm, which was callused like a piece of leather from years spent working the oars. “Understand?”

“What bridge?” the waterman asked dryly, slipping the coins into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Been workin’ Wapping all night. Gave no ride to no gentleman an’ his lady friend.”

Pearce slapped the piling post as he pulled back up to his full height. “My gratitude to you.”

“Waterloo, huh?” The waterman shoved the boat away from the steps. “My gratitude toyou, sir.” He gave a small salute. Then he was gone, slipping away into the darkness of the river.

Pearce took Amelia’s arm and felt her shivering violently. Guilt gripped him. He needed to get her warm and dry before she froze.

He led her carefully up the steep steps that lined the stone wall of the Prospect of Whitby and toward the street. The old tavern had perched here above the river for three hundred years if the stories the tavern keeper and bar wenches liked to tell were true. Although tonight, judging from the noise coming from inside and the lamplight spilling out through the wide rows of windows, the man and his maids were too busy to tell any tales at all. Good.Exactly what Pearce had hoped for. The best place to be lost was in a crowd.

“Yourlady friend?” Amelia repeated through chattering teeth with a backward glance at the river. “He thinks that I’m—” She lowered her voice despite no one else being in sight. “That I’m your lover.”

“Not exactly.”