The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) by Danelle Harmon

confusion. “ Silence fore and aft! ”
    Lieutenant Morgan was gesturing wildly, grabbing a speaking trumpet to make his voice heard. “Ready about and stations for stays! Clear away the boat. Prepare to heave to!”
    And then it hit her. That man out there struggling in the heavy seas, crying out for help as he went under, reappeared, went under again, was going to die. He was going to die right here with her watching, with all of them watching, and there wasn’t a thing she could do but stand in helpless horror along with everyone else as the dark head that marked him fell further and further astern.
    Captain O’ Devir’s voice roared through her horror. “ Square the mainyard and lower the boat! ”
    Men ran to various lines. Orders were bawled. The brig was turning, coming around onto the other tack, retracing her course and closing the distance to the man in the water. He was now well off their larboard bow. Even Nerissa could see that there was no way the boat could be lowered in time, no way that it would reach the drowning man before it was too late.
    It was obvious the poor soul could not swim.
    Captain O’ Devir had long since reached the same conclusion. He had kicked off his boots, torn off his coat and waistcoat, and as the brig came up on the man, still well to windward of him, he climbed up on the rail and threw himself out into the sea.
    Nerissa stood frozen. She did not want to see the man who had fallen, drown. She did not want to see Captain O’ Devir fail in his attempt to save the poor fellow or, as much as she loathed him, succumb to the seas, himself. She did not like the fact that she cared about the fate of any of these American—and Irish—mariners who had had the audacity to take her from her family, right out from under her brother’s nose and the presence of the top echelons of the Royal Navy.
    But she did.
    She did care.
    Her heart in her throat, she watched as the captain swam with strong, steady strokes toward the man floundering in the water. The sailor was tiring, his desperate cries for help already fading as he tried futilely to reach the hammock, tossed up and down by the seas, some ten or fifteen feet away from him. But Captain O’ Devir had the hammock now and he was pushing it toward the drowning man as he swam, calling encouragement to him in a strong, authoritative voice that brooked no argument.
    “Hold tight, there, McGuire, ye clumsy gobshite. I’ve almost got ye.”
    As she stood frozen, she felt the motion of the brig changing. The ship nosed back into the wind and slowed, the great sails above thundering in protest; more shouted commands, men around her hauling on thick lines while she tried to stand out of the way, the hush of water beneath them stilling until there was only the lonely sound of the wind whistling through lines and flapping sails and a low murmur from the crew, watching anxiously from their stations.
    “We’ll let the wind carry us down on them,” said someone beside her, and tearing her gaze from the drama in the water ahead and off to larboard, Nerissa saw young Mr. Cranton. “He’ll be all right. Captain O’ Devir’s not going to let a man drown, I can tell you that.”
    Nerissa nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she watched the drama unfold. The captain had reached the stricken man and hooking an arm across the hammock to anchor himself, was now pulling him up and over it, holding him there across it so he would not slip back into the seas that undulated like a live thing all around them. She marveled at his strength. His courage. His selfless devotion to a subordinate.
    The brig continued to drift helplessly down on the pair, moving up and down, up and down on a vast expanse of hard blue water while her captain, one arm still locked around the motionless sailor on the hammock, kicked his way toward his waiting command.
    It was all done with orderly neatness; lines were thrown down to the men in the water, and first the