Cold-Hearted Rake

“The train derailed,” Devon replied, panting. “Carriage is in the river.”

Winterborne rubbed at his bloody face and grunted in pain. “I can’t see.”

Devon tried to pull him higher as the water inched steadily upward. “You’ll have to move, or we’ll drown.”

Indecipherable Welsh phrases tore through the air before Winterborne said in English, “My leg is broken.”

Cursing, Devon shoved more debris aside and found a brass window bar that had broken from its rivets. He crawled over another seat and reached upward for the locked side door on the downstream side of the current. Gasping with effort, he used the brass rod as a makeshift crowbar to pry open the door. The diagonal tilt of the carriage made it difficult work. And all the while, water rushed in, swirling up to their knees now.

Once the lock was broken, Devon pushed the door open until it swung free and thudded against the outer side of the vehicle.

Poking his head out, he calculated their distance from the riverbank. The water appeared to be no more than hip deep.

The problem was the extreme cold, which would finish them off quickly. They couldn’t afford to wait for help.

Coughing from the smoke-glazed air, Devon ducked back into the carriage. He found Winterborne pulling shards of glass from his hair, his eyes still closed¸ his face scored with a mesh of bloody scratches. “I’m going to pull you outside and guide you to the river’s edge,” Devon said.

“What’s your condition?” Winterborne asked, sounding remarkably lucid for a man who’d just been blinded and had his leg broken.

“Better than yours.”

“How far are we from solid ground?”

“About twenty feet.”

“And the current? How strong is it?”

“It doesn’t bloody matter: We can’t stay here.”

“Your odds are better without me,” came the calm observation.

“I’m not going to leave you in here, you arse-witted bastard.” Devon gripped Winterborne’s wrist and pulled it across his shoulders. “If you’re afraid you’ll owe me a favor after saving your life…” With effort, he towed him toward the open doorway. “… you’re right. A huge favor.” He set a foot wrong and they both stumbled. Reaching out with his free hand, Devon grabbed hold of the doorway to secure their balance.

A lacerating jolt pierced through his chest, momentarily stealing his breath. “Christ, you’re heavy,” he managed to say.

There was no reply. He realized that Winterborne was fighting not to lose consciousness.

With every excoriating breath, Devon felt the stabs in his chest lengthen into an unbroken shrill of agony. His muscles locked and spasmed.

Too many complications were piling up… the river, the cold, Winterborne’s injuries, and now whatever was causing him such pain. But there was no choice except to keep moving.

Gritting his teeth, he managed to tug Winterborne upward and out of the carriage. Together they splashed into the water, which caused Winterborne to cry out in agony.

Clutching him, Devon struggled to find purchase, anchoring his feet into the gluey river bottom. The water was higher than he’d estimated, reaching well over his waist.

For a moment the shock of cold paralyzed him. He concentrated on forcing his locked muscles to move.

“Winterborne,” he said through gritted teeth, “it’s not far. We’ll make it.”

His friend replied with a succinct curse, making him grin briefly. Laboring against the current, Devon waded toward the reed bed at the riverbank, where other survivors of the accident were crawling out.

It was hard, exhausting work, the mud sucking at his feet, the frigid water sapping his coordination and shutting down all feeling.

“My lord! My lord, I’m here!” His valet, Sutton, was standing at the river’s edge, waving to him anxiously. It appeared he had climbed down the escarpment from the derailed carriages still poised on the bridge.

The valet plunged into the shallows, gasping at the bone-chilling temperature.

“Take him,” Devon said brusquely, dragging the half-conscious Winterborne through the reed bed.

Sutton locked his arms around the other man’s chest and pulled Winterborne to safety.

Devon felt his knees give out, and he staggered among the reeds, fighting not to collapse. His exhausted brain worked to summon his last reserves of strength, and he lurched toward the bank.

He stopped as he became aware of frantic, high-pitched cries. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that passengers still occupied one of the compartments of a flooded carriage that had landed in the river at a diagonal tilt.

They hadn’t been able to break open the locked door. No one had gone to help them; the survivors who had made it out of the water had collapsed from the cold. Rescuers were only now just beginning to arrive, and by the time they made it down the embankment, it would be too late.

Without giving himself time to consider it, Devon turned and sloshed back out into the water.

“Sir,” he heard Sutton call out.

“Look after Winterborne,” Devon said brusquely.

By the time he reached the carriage, he was numb from the waist down and struggling through a haze of confusion. Through pure force of will, he fought his way into a compartment of the carriage, through the space in a wall that had been torn by the force of the accident.

He went to a window and gripped a brass rod. It took immense concentration to make his hand close around it properly. Somehow he managed to wrench it free of the wall, and waded through the carriage to plunge back into the river.