Ashlyn Macnamara Read Online Free Page A

grabbed for it, long fingers curling around the brim at the last moment before the wind snatched it. After a fruitless attempt to secure the flimsy bit of straw to her head, she left it to straggle down her back by its ribbons. Her hair blew free of its bindings in long, tattered curls. Like the child, her feet were bare, and the damp hems of her skirts flapped about her ankles.
    George caught his breath. He shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t help it. When she laughed at the boy’s antics, the sound tolled like the pure note of a church bell on a frosty winter morning. The echoes might carry for miles throughcrisp air. They fell on his beleaguered ears like a healing balm.
    The boy trotted into the surf, letting the waves chase him, while his sister—she couldn’t be anything else, she was so young—stood back, ever mindful. The set of her shoulders betrayed a readiness to act.
    The pair still hadn’t noted George’s presence, and he held back, sensing he’d somehow crashed in on an unguarded moment. No young lady would want a gentleman to catch her unshod, her hair unpinned and her bonnet dangling. Who was he to spoil the moment by forcing her to adopt the formality a stranger’s presence required?
    Not only a stranger, but a man, and she was hardly chaperoned.
    He really ought to return to the main house, but the prospect of enduring his sisters’ performance kept his feet planted on the spot. Here, the air was blessedly free of false notes and the only screeching a child’s joyful cries.
    A child, hang it all. A child, such as Lucy was carrying. The thought pounded through his head like the cacophony of his sisters’ singing. It jangled and clashed. He’d never asked to become a father. He wasn’t ready, damn it. What would he do with another soul who looked to him for support, for guidance, for protection? He hadn’t the slightest idea how to be a father. He’d never had a proper example.
    A shout drew his attention back to the boy—a different kind of shout, infused with fear, rather than joy. The young woman’s cry followed, its plaintive note drowned in the surf’s roar.
    The child’s sodden head bobbed on the surface for a moment before disappearing. He’d run too far. A wave had caught him.
    George didn’t pause to consider. He didn’t even botherwith his boots. He pelted across the strand, the pebbles rolling beneath his feet, and plunged into the surf. The water’s icy grip numbed his legs on contact. His chest constricted, and he fought to gulp in air. Now was no time to freeze. He must go on. Must reach the child.
    There. The boy’s head surfaced, blond hair darkened and waterlogged and falling into eyes round with fear.
    George dived, reached, grabbed at nothing but cold water. On the second attempt, his fingers brushed something solid—a tiny hand. He grabbed for it and hauled the boy upright. The child took one look at him and clawed at his topcoat.
    “Easy there, son. I’ve got you.” Somehow he forced the words between chattering teeth.
    The boy put his arms around George’s neck and clung as he struggled back toward solid ground. Wave followed wave; each one reached for him in an attempt to drag them both under. The need to keep hold of a quivering body prevented him from using his arms in the fight. The ground melted beneath his feet, threatening to topple him at every footstep and leave him to the mercy of the sea.
    The young lady fought her way to his side. They faced each other, waist-deep in the waves, while he gulped in air and she reached for the boy. Her dark eyes stood in stark contrast to the whiteness of her face. They hardened, caught somewhere between a glare and fear.
    “Give him here,” she said, hard and abrupt. Dismissive.
    Well. The least she could do was thank him for ruining a perfectly good pair of trousers in freezing saltwater so he could rescue her brother.
    “Certainly … miss.” A wave crashed into him, thrusting him forward. He lunged to catch