Page 95 of Duke of Diamonds
Fiona turned her gaze toward the water and her breath caught. “Oh, the ducks are out today.”
She leaned forward, scanning the contents of the picnic. Her fingers closed around a piece of bread.
“I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone,” she said, already on her feet.
“Be careful near the edge,” Isaac called after her. “The mud is usually very slip?—”
Her foot caught on the hem of her gown.
She barely had time to gasp before the ground slipped from beneath her, and the world turned sideways. A cold, wet impact knocked the breath from her lungs.
Water surged up around her face, stealing her breath and her bearings. When she surfaced, sputtering, her laughter came more from shock than amusement.
But before she could even brush the water from her eyes, she heard the sharp splash of someone else entering the lake.
“Fiona!”
Isaac.
He was beside her in an instant, hands grasping at her arms with frantic urgency.
“Are you hurt?”
“No—Isaac, I’m fine. Truly, only a bit wet.”
But he wasn’t listening.
His eyes were wide, wild, scanning her face, her shoulders, her limbs as though checking for injury. He gripped her too tightly, his breathing uneven, his lips moving in a string of low mutterings.
“We must get you to safety. Now.”
“Isaac, the water is shallow?—”
“We must get you to safety,” he said again, louder, as if the repetition alone might drown out something in his head.
Then he lifted her.
Without pause, he swept her into his arms, pressing her soaked form against his chest as he trudged through the lake toward the bank. She could feel the tremble in his grip, the tension in every step.
“Isaac,” she said softly, hoping to reach him. “I’m not hurt. It was just a slip.”
But he wasn’t present—his face drawn, ashen. His gaze fixed ahead. His jaw clenched so tight she feared he might shatter from within.
Miss Jameson and the footman ran to meet them.
“Your Grace!” the maid called.
Isaac didn’t even flinch. He passed them without a word, without even a glance.
The carriage door was wrenched open. Fiona barely had time to register the movement before she was placed inside, still dripping, onto the cushioned seat.
Isaac turned to the coachman, voice sharper than she’d ever heard it. “Drive. To Craton Manor. Now.”
The carriage lurched forward, but Fiona hardly noticed. Isaac had her in his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her as though releasing her might undo something vital.
His coat and her clothes were both soaked through, the chill seeping into her bones, yet his grip never loosened. One hand pressed firmly against her back, the other cradling the curve of her shoulder. His jaw rested just above her temple, rigid as stone.
“Isaac,” she murmured. “Truly, I’m well. Just wet and rather embarrassed. Nothing more.”
