Emotionally compelling fiction

This is the initial cut of Chapter 9 of A Regency Adventure on Textnovel.com:

Surf broke over her, bathing her shoulders, tugging at her knees. Her heels sunk into soft sand at the bottom. She inhaled the thick, sharp smell of salt. A sudden cawing overhead startled her. Gulls were flying land-ward as the the sky darkened ominously. She made for shore. Then something grabbed her ankles, imprisoning her. She struggled and cried out…

She was hurting now. Her eyes stung, and her muscles were sore. The unseen monster’s relentless hold didn’t weaken. Her strength was failing. Then she heard shouting, and felt a splashing over and above her own. Strong arms grabbed her, easily lifting her up, out of the water. She clung to him. She could feel his muscles bulging beneath his soaked shirt, and breathed in the scent that was distinctively his. He waded to shore, where his bare feet crunched shells, and carefully slid her down against his chest. She looked up and was caught as usual by his eyes, hazel with such dark lashes.

‘Stoopid,’ said Hawkesborough lovingly, and bent his head. She waited for his kiss. But the gulls cawed again, breaking the spell.

She surfaced from sleep, and panicked, trying to remember where she was. The mists cleared, and she knew she was lying on a bed. The covers felt coarse against her skin. Pain came from her wrists, tightly bound beneath her, and from her pounding head. Her eyes were swimming, but she could see that she was in an unadorned, roughly furnished room. There appeared to be a dresser of some kind in her line of sight, with a pitcher on it. The pain in her head discouraged any attempt to get a better view. They must have moved her again. She vaguely remembered more jolting, but it was difficult to tell where her memories fitted into time.

She tried to move. She could shuffle, but sitting up was an impossibility. Her attempts merely intensified the pain in her head. She gave up after the third attempt. Sleep beckoned, and in spite of the faint voice somewhere telling her on no account to succumb to it, she slipped into unconsciousness again.

When she woke again, the sun was slanting through the window, directly shining in her eyes. She tried to wriggle out of the rays. Her attempts were brought to a halt by the scraping of a key in the lock.

Here is the new version, re-written in an attempt to make it more emotionally compelling:

Surf broke over her, bathing her shoulders, tugging at her knees. Her heels sunk into soft sand at the bottom. She inhaled the thick, sharp smell of salt. Throwing her arms out she piroutted in the waves, filled with happiness and anticipation. Tonight her love would come.

There was a sudden cawing overhead. Seagulls were flying land-ward as the sky darkened ominously. She made for shore. Then something grabbed her ankles, imprisoning them. Fear flooded her, and she cried out as she thrashed, trying to escape…

She couldn’t free her arms. Her wrists were sore, her eyes stung, and every one of her muscles hurt. The unseen monster’s relentless hold didn’t weaken. In a moment she would not be able to stay afloat. She was going to die.

There was a shouting above the waves, a splashing over and above her own. Strong arms grabbed her, easily disentangling her. Relief washed through her as she was lifted up and held. She clung to him, feeling hard muscles beneath his soaked shirt. The warm scent that was distinctively his surrounded her protectively. He waded to shore, where his bare feet crunched shells, and the sea-breeze picked up her wet, cold chemise, flapping it against her ankles. He carefully slid her down, holding her against his chest. She looked up and felt herself melt in his hazel eyes.

‘Stoopid,’ said Hawkesborough lovingly, bending his head. She held her breath, eagerly anticipating his kiss. But the gulls cawed again, breaking the spell.

She surfaced from sleep with a start. The gulls were still cawing. She tried to remember where she was. The mists cleared, and with a keen sense of loss she realised it had been a dream. She was bound and gagged, and lying on a bed whose covers felt coarse against her skin. The pain in her head and wrists were real.

She moaned as the disappointment hit her like a physical blow. Curse those sea-gulls! The dream had been far better, and he had – finally! – been about to kiss her. But instead of being kissed, she was back to reality – a reality which had transformed itself from an idyll into a nightmare.

Her eyes were swimming, but she could make out that she was in an unadorned, roughly furnished room. In her line of sight was a dresser with a pitcher on it. The pain in her head discouraged any attempt to get a better view. They must have moved her again. She vaguely remembered more jolting, but it was difficult to tell where her memories fitted into time.

She tried to change her position on the bed. She could shuffle, but sitting up was an impossibility. All attempts merely intensified the pain in her head. She gave up after the third attempt. Sleep beckoned, and in spite of the faint voice somewhere telling her on no account to succumb to it, she slipped into unconsciousness again.

When she awoke, the sun was slanting through the window, shining into her eyes. She tried to wriggle out of the rays. Her attempts were brought to a halt by the sound of a key scraping in the lock.

What do you think? Was the attempt successful, or did it simply become too clichéd?