Captive on the High Seas. Christina Rich

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      She pressed her face against her hands. Then what? Would she end up on the auction block again once she made it to the port city? This time to that horrible man with the matted beard and colorfully dressed women clinging to his arms. No doubt, especially since he had not seemed too happy to find himself outbid. At least she had a chance of returning to her father. And the sisters who had betrayed her.

      Air hitched in her lungs. Had they acted on her father’s wishes? He’d been angry over her mother’s passing. Had he decided to rid himself of his youngest daughter, too? Was that why he had allowed her to journey into the city with Asher and her sisters when he had never done so before?

      The thoughts ambushed her chest, tearing little pieces away from her heart. If she did not return home, she would never see her father again, never know if he had wished her gone from his presence.

      She glanced down the side of the boat and watched the oars dig into the water, pushing the boat forward. If she jumped here, she would miss the oars and by God’s mercy He would see her safely home.

      A look around the deck told her only a few men remained above. The rest, she assumed, tended the oars. The sailor who had helped her earlier had yet to reappear. Armed warriors stood on either side of the captain on a platform at the head of the boat. Nicolaus’s arms were crossed over his chest, his feet braced shoulder width apart. The strong wind tugged at his tunic, brushed back the curls of his hair.

      Power and strength exuded from him and she could quite imagine him the son of one of his fabled gods. Her sisters had oft spoke of such men—half god, half man—with wistful smiles and wistful sighs. Mostly, they were larger than David’s Goliath had been. And they always had some sort of gift. Ada had paid her sisters heed only to gain their acceptance, but she knew better. There were no gods other than the God of Heaven and earth. He was the only living, breathing God. A god not created by the hands of man.

      As if he could feel her eyes on him, the captain turned. His gaze settled on her, warming her chilled limbs from the stiff, stormy breeze. If only they had met under different circumstances. If only he had not acted the barbarian and hauled her over his shoulder as though she was his property. Of course, she was. He paid a great price to own her. However, that did not mean she was not angered by his behavior. Was this how her mother felt when she was bought and taken from her home by Ada’s father?

      A shout drew his attention forward. The boat lifted, slamming Ada against the back of the craft and then to the side. A wave knocked her feet from beneath her and off the boat. She grabbed ahold of the rail and clenched her jaw, her feet dangling over the side. She glanced toward home, now a mere speck in the distance and she knew she’d not be able to swim the distance, not in the angry sea.

      Her fingers ached with the effort to maintain her hold. She lifted her face to the sky. “Abba God, please, I just want to go home to my father.”

      The boat rocked one way, lifting her away, and then the other plunging her into the cold waters. A wave crashed into her forcing her fingers to let go. She was pushed and then pulled, the wave sucking at her and then rolling her. Her lungs caught fire as she kicked her legs, fighting against the sharp talons of the wave.

      * * *

      He had shifted only a bit when the delightful prick at his nape had changed to a gut instinct that something was abominably wrong. A flash of bare feet and legs caught his eye when the sun-bleached linen and waves of wheat-colored tresses thrust upward.

      “Xandros! Brison!” He jumped from the command post and onto the deck. He did not wait to see if the two followed. Unhinging the clasp at his shoulder, he removed his outer cloak, leaving only his undertunic on, and ran toward the back of the ship. He grabbed hold of the end of the coiled rope, kept at either end of the boat in the instance a man fell overboard, and hopped over the rail. He dove into the water. He’d sailed since he was a young boy and never once imagined anyone would willingly throw themselves to the mercy of the sea. Had she preferred to take her chances with the waves, or had she slipped overboard?

      He blew the salty water from his nose and kicked toward the surface. Relaxing his muscles, he allowed his body to bob with the waves while he tied the rope around his waist. Brison’s bellow rose above the seas and the oarsmen reversed direction. Nicolaus would be thankful later that the coming storm had prevented them from unfurling the sail.

      “Nicolaus!”

      Xandros stood on the rail, pointing northward. The woman’s bound hands rose above her head before disappearing in the choppy water. Nicolaus bit back a curse. Brison should have cut her loose, but then Nicolaus should have ordered him to cut her loose. Perhaps then she’d have a better chance against the sea.

      Not that she would have much of a chance if she did not know how to swim. The sea often took humans captive. She bobbed above the water, gasping for air, and he realized she had been pulled farther away than he expected. He hoped the rope reached that far.

      “Nicolaus!” He did not need to look at his friend to see the warning. The way the sea bubbled around his legs and rose against his chest, he knew a large wave was bearing down on them.

      He dove beneath the water, beneath the fall of the wave until it passed. Kicking upward, he broke the surface and sucked in air before slicing his arms through the water toward the last place he’d seen her.

      “Where?” There was no time for patience. However, his gut told him to wait a few beats of his pulse. The water once again rose. God, my uncle is certain You are real. I did not save the woman only to see her swallowed by the ocean.

      The wave tugged at him and crashed down upon his head before he could swim under it. He tumbled deeper away from the surface, slamming into a tangle of seaweed. No, it could not be seaweed, they were far enough away from the shore and he was not that close to the bottom.

      Was he?

      Something bumped against his leg. His eyes flew open. A mass of tresses expanded from either side of her heart-shaped face. The strands took on a life of their own as they obeyed the motion of the turbulent water. He wrapped his arms around her and kicked his legs until they broke the surface. Her body lay lifeless in his arms. Brushing her hair from her eyes, he willed them to open.

      He spun her around so her back was pressed against his chest, and wrapped his arm tight around her stomach. He lay on his back and started to swim toward the boat when she began coughing. Her lids fluttered open and then widened in fear. She smacked her head against his shoulder as she arched against his chest. He tightened his hold on her as the sea began to bubble against his legs, but she managed to twist her body around to face him.

      “Trust me.” Staring into her eyes, he spoke her language and willed her to trust him. If only until they set foot on the boat. “Hold your breath. I am taking you under.”

      He glanced toward the large wave as it rolled toward them. Her muscles tensed.

      “Now.”

      She sucked in air a moment before he propelled them beneath the wave. With his arms wrapped around her waist, he once again pushed them toward the surface. He shifted her against his side and sliced through the water toward the boat—her hair tangling with his arms and legs hindered him. After only three strokes, the woman tensed and began to struggle against his hold.

      “Halt!”

      She jabbed her elbow into his ribs, but he held tight.

      “You will die.”

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