Swept Into the Storm

Swept Into the Storm Louise Mayberry Louise Mayberry Copyright Swept Into the Storm by Louise MayberryFirst Edition, May, 2023 Copyright © 2023 by Louise MayberryEditor: Isabelle FelixCover art: by Hallie ZillmanEbook ISBN: 979-8-9876378-2-1 Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9876378-3-8 All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to specific events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Contents Author's Note Map 1. One 2. Two 3. Three 4. Four 5. Five 6. Six 7. Seven 8. Eight 9. Nine 10. Ten 11. Eleven 12. Twelve 13. Thirteen 14. Fourteen 15. Fifteen 16. Sixteen 17. Seventeen 18. Eighteen 19. Nineteen 20. Twenty 21. Twenty-One 22. Twenty-Two 23. Twenty-three 24. Twenty-four 25. Twenty-five 26. Twenty-Seven 27. Twenty-Seven 28. Twenty-Eight 29. Twenty-Nine 30. Thirty 31. Epilogue Thank You, Readers! Historical Notes Acknowledgments About the Author Author's Note Swept Into the Storm is a work of Historical Romance, and while the romance side of that equation—in all its steamy, emotional, uplifting glory—is the main focus of the story, the history is painful. Central America in 1824 was a place rife with discrimination and abuse, and I could not tell a story set in that time and place without acknowledging that truth. Please be aware that this novel contains themes of chattel slavery, oppression of Native Americans, and racially motivated violence. It also explores the at times uncomfortable process of someone from a dominant culture coming to terms with their own unconscious biases and narrow worldview. This novel is a work of my heart. I sincerely hope you enjoy it. All the best, One January 1824 Yucatán, Mexico “Señors! Ojo!” The pilot’s black hair whipped in the wind. His hand shook as he pointed at something beyond Cameron. Something out to sea. Cameron turned to look. Dark threatening clouds roiled above the churning deep. A flash of lightning. “Christ almighty.” David’s voice was low in Cameron’s ear, awestruck, terrified. “Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia . . .” One of the crew members started praying. The soft words hung eerily in the charged, heavy air. Then Cameron saw it. The wave, bigger than seemed possible, racing toward them, rising up, towering over the canoe, curling, little white flecks of foam starting to form at its peak. No time to prepare or even process what was happening. A great earsplitting crack of thunder, then the wall of water crashed down, engulfing the boat, lifting him and dragging him into the sea. Cold water. The roar of the ocean. Muffled shouts and an outstretched hand, just out of reach . . . then gone. The sting of salt water in his nose. Tumbling, struggling, fighting, desperate to keep his head above water. Out of breath. Limbs burning from the effort. Aching for a gulp of air. Exhaustion. Surrender. Nothing. Cameron woke to a throbbing pain in his head. The call of seabirds. Warm, humid air rushed past his face. He tried to open his eyes, but they were heavy, as if his eyelids were made of lead. His tongue was sore. He moved it. Swallowed, tried to push the bitter taste away. But there was nothing to swallow. Thirsty. So. Bloody. Thirsty. He lay on his side, one hand tucked under his head, the other outstretched. He wiggled his fingers. Soft dry sand slipped between them. A beach. He was alive. He was alive. For some reason, the thought surprised him, though he couldn’t quite remember why. Certainly, there’d been days when he didn’t want to wake up, but being alive had never been a surprise before. A wave crashed, louder than the rest, and he remembered. The sudden black clouds on the horizon. The terror in the eyes of their pilot, Agapito. The great swell. Cold water. A flash of lightning and a hand reaching for him— Christ. Harry. David. Agapito. The others. Where were they? Cameron’s eyes ripped open, burning, dry and gritty. The sudden light sent a stabbing pain straight to the back of his skull. His stomach heaved. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and curled his body in on itself as he took a series of long, deep breaths. Once the nausea subsided, he willed his eyes open again, but only halfway, squinting to keep out the light. Beyond the haze of his salt-stiffened lashes, a pale sandy beach stretched into the distance. Empty. Above it was black rock, sharp and jagged. The thick forest of the interior was invisible from his vantage point, but a lone palm rose from the rocks, almost doubled backward by the wind. He couldn’t see the sea from where he lay, but the sky mimicked it, undulating blue grey clouds with an occasional strip of frothy white. He should sit up, but his body was too heavy, the light too much. He closed his eyes, grimacing as another wave of nausea came and went. Where was he? He couldn’t have drifted too far and survived. He had to be somewhere on the coast of Yucatán, or an island just off it. No, not an island. The map the fisherman in Cancún had drawn showed Cozumel as the only large island off this coast, and they’d circled it in the canoe the day before last, looking, unsuccessfully, for ruins to explore. There hadn’t been any beaches this large. But they’d passed at least a hundred miles of deserted coast just like this as they journeyed south. He had to be on the mainland. But what if he’d drifted further south? They’d been at the southernmost point of their map when the storm hit, and Cameron had no idea of the geography between Yucatán and the British Territory. Hellfire. What he wouldn’t do for a drink of water, for his canteen still half full in the bottom of the canoe— The canoe. Could it have survived the