He was impatient to see Kathleen again, hungry for the sight of her and the sound of her voice. He had missed her smiles, her frowns, her endearing frustrations with impropriety and pigs and plumbers.
Filled with anticipation, he contemplated the scenery as the train struggled to the summit of a hill and began the downward slope. Soon they would cross the River Wey, and then it would be only a mile to the station at Alton. The railway cars were only half full; a far greater number of passengers would travel the next day, on Christmas Eve.
The train’s momentum gathered as they approached the bridge, but the forward-hurtling force of the engine was upset by a sudden jerk and lurch. Instantly Devon’s ears were filled with the metallic shrieks of brakes. The carriage erupted with violent shudders. Reflexively Devon grabbed one of the brass window bars to keep from being bounced out of his seat.
In the next second, a tremendous impact jolted his hand loose of the brass bar – no, the bar itself had come loose – and the window shattered as the carriage wrenched free of the rails. Devon was thrown into a chaos of glass, splintering wood, twisting metal, and unholy noise. A wild heave was accompanied by the snap of the couplings, and then there was the sensation of plunging, tumbling, as the two men were thrown across the compartment. Blinding white light filled Devon’s head as he tried to find a fixed point in all the madness. He kept falling, helpless to stop the descent, until his body slammed down and a spearlike pain burst in his chest, and his mind reeled and sank into darkness.
Chapter 16
T
he violent cold brought him back to awareness, pulling gasps from the bottom of his lungs. Devon rubbed his wet face and tried to hoist himself upward. Foul-smelling river water was gushing steadily into the train compartment, or what remained of it. Climbing over splintered glass and wreckage, Devon maneuvered to the gap of the shattered window and stared through the brass bars.
It appeared that the locomotive had plummeted over the wing wall of the bridge, and taken three railway carriages with it, leaving two remaining vehicles poised on the embankment above. Nearby, the broken bulk of a railway carriage had settled into the water like a felled animal. Desperate cries for help swarmed through the air.
Turning, Devon searched frantically for Winterborne, shoving aside planks of teak until he found his friend’s unconscious form beneath a chair that had broken free of the floor. The water had just begun to close over his face.
Devon hauled him upward, every movement sending an excruciating stab of pain through his chest and side.
“Winterborne,” he said roughly, shaking him a little. “Wake up. Come to. Now.”
Winterborne coughed and let out a ragged groan. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“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.