“Och, Meg, yer temper.”
“It is not my temper. It is my sense. Now keep it on.”
“Fine.” He pushed up the loose sleeves of his white shirt, slid closer to the water, and splashed in.
Only then, with his back turned, did she remove her shoes and stockings. She followed his lead by tossing them over her shoulder. What was she doing?
She should never have come today.
Not twice in a row.
She’d awakened early, and in the predawn light, the empty halls of Penrose Abbey had seemed so excruciating. The crossed swords on the walls, the stagnant smell of old syringas in a vase, those solemn ancestral paintings in their golden frames.
With numbing boredom, she’d crept to Lady Walpoole’s chamber. Soft snores had drifted out into the hall. Much like rumbles of thunder, promising another rainy day.
On impulse, she’d raided a maid’s wardrobe, badgered a footman into escorting her, and ran to the one person she should be running from. Yet … was not discovering her past more important than studying the Latin alphabet?
Up to his waist in the current, Tom shook water from his hair. “Ye coming, or do I have to run up and catch ye?”
She scooted closer to the edge, dipped in a toe. “It is cold.”
“Come on, ye ninny.”
“Do you always resort to insults?”
A clapping sound, then water splashed over her in an icy shower. She squealed and shivered, just as his hand grabbed her foot. He tugged. She slid.
The stream swallowed her and a shocking burn stung her nose as water rushed up her nostrils. She flailed and broke the surface, gasping, retaliating … laughing, despite every fiber of her body demanding she not. “You wretched, wretched fool.” She hurried more water into his face. “You have no right to sling and toss me whenever you please.”
He wiped his eyes. His lashes stuck together—like the shirt clinging to his carved chest.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. To get the water out of her lungs of course. “If you are finished, I am ready to leave.”
“Nay.” He grinned. “I’m not.”
She glanced about them—the babbling water, the silent trees, the overwhelming vastness of isolated countryside. How many times had she been alone with him in her life? Had it been this way before?
The world feeling so small.
Him so big.
Them so … close.
“Ye have questions.” He lowered into the water, pushing it away from him with muscled arms, his gaze trained on her face. “Ask them.”
“I liked flowers, did I not?”
“Thistles and daisies.”
“Did I bake?”
“Aye.” A chuckle. “Not well, but aye.”
“Did I do anything of great significance?” She curled her toes in the cool mud. “I mean, I must have sung or played something or been fair at some form of accomplishment.”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.
“Surely I was good at something.”
