Someone was watching him.
A prickle of recognition danced over his skin. He took a step deeper in the water for the sake of decency before slowly turning toward the shore, the water barely covering his hips.
Miss Harrell stood there, her mouth wide open.
Their gazes met, and for a moment the air between them was charged—and then Ian’s sense of humor got the best of him. She appeared so shocked and he didn’t know why. There was a path of his clothing spread on the ground for anyone to see.
He broke the silence. “You seem to have a problem, Miss Harrell, with staying where I tell you to.”
Deep color flooded her face. She shut her mouth and he knew in that moment that he was the first man she’d probably ever seen the way God had made him. He was tempted to give her a better show just to see if her blush could grow more heated.
“I heard a splash,” she said, slightly indignant, as if the fault was his. “I ran to see if you were all right.”
A hundred quips leapt to his mind. With a more experienced woman, he might have said one, and depending on how she reacted, could have found himself spending the morning in a very pleasurable fashion.
But this was Miss Harrell. Miss Harrell, the “job,” one that could make his fortune, and he’d best remember that fact.
Still, he couldn’t resist teasing her a bit. Spreading his arms, he said, “I am fine. But I want to come out now. The water is cold.” He moved two steps forward.
Her reaction was everything he could have hoped for. Her eyes widened and she scrambled backward so quickly, her feet slipped on the damp grass and she landed on her bum.
She popped back up to her feet, her face afire. “You need a haircut,” she tossed out and then, turning, went running back the way she’d come, her red curls bouncing.
Slowly, Ian sunk beneath the water, swallowing his laughter until he could release it in bubbles.
Lyssa did not stop until she reached the shelter. There, she snatched up her plaid and threw it around her shoulders before collapsing on a log someone had once set there for a stool.
“Stupid! What a stupid thing to say,” she chastised herself under her breath. Mr. Campion was no doubt laughing at her expense.
And how could she have thought about his hair when the man had been standing naked in front of her? Worse, when his back had been turned to her, she had gotten an eyeful of his bare buttocks.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the male form before. After all, she was a sophisticated woman. She lived in the city. She’d seen nudes many times displayed in art and in certain pieces of sculpture. She’d even seen workers and seamen without their shirts on rare occasions. No, she wasn’t a stranger to the human body—but there was a big difference between cold stone or a scrawny chest and seeing the well-muscled Mr. Campion rise out of the water like some pagan prince.
He’dbeen a work of art…and in truth, she had followed the trail of clothing because she was curious.
Of course,thenwhat had she done? She’d gaped like the village fool. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of him.
Lyssa dropped her head to her hands. How was she going to face him again?
As if on cue, she heard him whistling. A second later, he came out of the woods. He was dressed, to a degree. He wore breeches and boots; his shirt-tail, however, was untucked and he carried his jacket and neck cloth. His hair was still wet and combed back with his fingers. He apparently had used his shirt for a towel. Damp, it molded itself to his chest.
She was struck anew by his casual elegance and athletic grace. He could have easily passed for a member of the Court with the right clothes.
Lyssa shifted around, uncomfortable.
He strolled into their small camp as if nothing was amiss and picked up his knapsack. From the corner of her eye, she watched him pull out a clean shirt. “Would you care to bathe, Miss Harrell? I do have a bit of soap.” He tossed the clean shirt over his shoulder and smelled the sliver of soap he’d carried. “No scent, but it is of good quality. My sister makes it and Janet has a talent for soap. I also have”—he held up a tin—“tooth powder.”
The minute he made the offer, she felt gritty. Still, she wasn’t prepared to face him.
There was an awkward silence, and then he took two steps closer and prodded her with the bit of soap. “Come along and take it. You don’t need to be embarrassed, the sea serpent has his clothes on.”
The Irish lilt in his voice lent teeth to his teasing. She jerked her head around to glare at him while she took the soap andtooth powder. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say, and stood, her back rigid.
“Here,” he said and pulled off his shirt. “You can use this for a towel.”
She didn’t take the shirt from his hand or give him the benefit of comment but marched away, head high.
“I’ll keep watch,” he called, tossing the shirt aside.
