Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
What a bloody miracle. He didn’t want to leave this earth today. He wanted to stay, and do better.
Which meant he had to get out of this deathtrap. Now, if not sooner.
A wild jounce of the hobbled carriage conveniently tossed him toward the door. The next bump would have thrown him straight back, but Rhys grabbed the edge of the door opening and gripped it with all his strength.
Another jarring blow and loud crunch of wood—some wheel or axle giving way. The resulting tilt sent the coach into a wild, spiraling skid. It also sent the door slamming shut on his fingers. Rhys growled with pain.
But somehow, despite the imminent destruction of the coach, he got his legs under him, shouldered the door open, spared one brief glance at the ground to judge his distance …
And jumped.
A moment too late.
It was a beautiful day to die.
The sun shone overhead, warm and comforting. A fresh, salty breeze wafted over his skin. For a moment, all Rhys could hear was the music of distant seagulls and the gentle rhythm of waves. Then came the deafening crash, as the carriage exploded on the jagged boulders below.
He winced, clinging desperately to the rocky overhang. Two handfuls of crumbling basalt were all that kept him from following the same vertical path to his own doom. Twisting his neck, he looked down and caught a glimpse of the carriage. Or rather, the driftwood and flotsam that had once been a carriage.
Rhys kicked his feet in exploration, scouting for some surface he could push off from. His booted toes scraped the cliff’s sheer face, but he couldn’t get enough leverage. If only his fingers hadn’t been slammed in that door a few seconds earlier. Then he might have found more strength in his hands—enough to hang on, pull up, swing a leg over the edge. As it was, he could barely keep himself from tumbling into the sea.
His vision grayed at the edges, rippling in the center like the surface of a pool. Damn it all. Wasn’t this just the way his life went? He’d finally stopped wanting to die. And on the very same day, a stupid carriage accident would manage to kill him.
God, he loved Meredith. He loved her so much. Now he’d never have a chance to say it. He could only hope that she somehow knew. It was entirely possible she did know, even though he’d never said the words. She was a clever woman.
He shut his eyes and turned his concentration inward, bargaining with his weakened, aching fingers. Hold on now, he told them, and you can stroke her later. To distract himself from the dizzying height, he let his mind wander over all the parts of her body he most wanted to touch. Which was every part of her, truly. From her abundant dark hair to her neatly turned toes. And his lust for her body was nothing compared to the admiration he had for her strength of spirit, her generous heart.
As the strength ebbed from his arms, he began to shake. He turned his concentration inward, focusing on that steady beat of his heart. The heart that loved her so very much. He wasn’t dead yet. Not so long as that heart kept beating.
Thump. Thump. A worrying pause. Thump.
Something landed on his arm, and he jerked reflexively, losing another fingerhold.
“Jesus, Ashworth. I’m trying to help.”
Bellamy. It was Bellamy, come to help. Oddly enough, Rhys didn’t feel especially rescued.
“Take my hand,” Bellamy said, waving the suggested appendage in Rhys’s face.
“Like hell I will,” Rhys managed to growl. “I’m heavier than you. Unless you have a solid foothold to brace yourself against, you won’t lift me up. I’ll just pull you over.”
“A valid point.” Bellamy lowered himself onto his belly and peered down past Rhys’s dangling feet.
“Don’t suppose there’s a convenient outcropping a foot or two beneath me?” Rhys ventured.
“No. The only thing beneath you is certain death.” Bellamy shot to his feet and began digging his boots into the soil. “Back to the first plan. There’s a ridge here. I’ll brace my boots. You take my hand.”
“It won’t work.”
“It’ll have to work. Do you have some better idea?”
Rhys had to admit he didn’t. “All right, then. On three.”
“After that trick in the carriage?” Bellamy shook his head. “I don’t trust you with counting. Just give me your hand.”
His right hand had the more secure grip, so Rhys shifted his weight as far as he could to that side. Then he gingerly stretched up his left.
The instant he did so, two things happened. Bellamy’s grip locked around his left wrist. And Rhys’s right hand began losing ground. Grit crumbled under his fingernails as his splayed fingers slid down and down. Both men swore in unison. If Rhys lost that grip, he’d be dangling by one hand, a dead weight at the end of Bellamy’s arms. Bellamy wouldn’t be able to hold him for long, much less pull him up.