A hand grabbed his ankle, tugged, but Oliver kicked. Not at the hand, but to the side, where Lorne’s head would be. And his boot connected with something, something that made the fingers loosen enough that he could kick away.

Lungs burning, he broke the surface of the water and swam with all his strength away from where Lorne would be, toward the rocks.

Hands grabbed his wrists and hauled him out. It took him a moment of blinking through the water streaming over his face to see it was Libby gripping one, her brother the other. He couldn’t see Scofield anywhere behind them. “Where is he?”

“He kicked Bram in the head somehow and ran.” Libby, eyes frantic, homed directly in on the burning in his side. “You’re bleeding. Mabena, give me your wrap! We can use it as a bandage.”

“Never seen anyone move like that,” her brother muttered, eyes stormy. “They certainly don’t teach that sort of fighting at the clubs.”

A splash and a gasp brought Oliver’s head around, even as his cousin, still hopping out of the ropes that had bound her feet, balled up an old woolen shawl and tossed it their direction.

Lorne had broken the surface. But the murder on his face froze when Mamm-wynn’s boat came closer and the barrel of a hunting rifle pointed directly at him, in the hands of Tas-gwyn. His grandmother held a lantern aloft from her perch on the opposite seat.

Those two might just drive him to insanity. When they weren’t busy saving his life.

“I wouldn’t try anything.” Tas-gwyn kept his face gruff, but to Oliver’s ear, his voice had a note of glee in it. He could only imagine the yarns he’d weave about this later. “I’m the vengeful sort, you know, and still owe you for that crack to the head.”

Mamm-wynn’s gaze sought Oliver. “Are you all right, dearovim?”

“I’ll be fine.” The gunshot wound couldn’t be anything serious, not given that he was far more aware of Libby’s citrus scent as she wrapped Mabena’s shawl around him than he was of the pain.

Tas-gwyn jerked his chin toward the rocks. “Out of the water with you, Mr. Lorne. Let’s keep this nice and friendly.”

Lorne looked around, clearly considering his options. But between Tas-gwyn’s hunting rifle and the pistol that Casek had claimed, he apparently decided that trying to make a break for it wouldn’t go well for him. Grumbling, he moved slowly toward the rocks.

“Rescued by grandparents.” Telford moved from a kneel to a crouch, a hand out to help Oliver to his feet. “Sheridan’s never going to let me live this one down.”