Gideon’s mouth twitched.
“No, my little archer,” he agreed. “You are not.”
With the boat drifting past the island, acknowledging the old nickname, she merely shot him a glare, and kept rowing with stubborn determination.
Unfortunately, as they rounded the bend, the river’s main current caught them—stronger than usual in early spring—and began tugging the little craft sideways.
Gideon refrained from commenting when she adjusted her grip and pulled harder.
The oars bit into the water, but for all her efforts, they went nowhere.
If anything, they might have been inching backward… and downstream.
A faint sheen of perspiration appeared along her brow and her upper lip, but Beatrice, Gideon knew, would let them be pushed out to sea before admitting defeat.
Gideon leaned forward and placed his hands on the oars just beside hers. He didn’t take them from her, but added his strength to hers.
And together they pulled.
The boat shifted, the bow catching the current at a better angle, and slowly they began working their way upstream.
After several steady strokes the water loosened its hold, and the current softened again as they turned back toward the calmer channel circling the island.
This time Beatrice surrendered the oars without protest and Gideon took them, settling easily into the rhythm.
And to his mild surprise, the small concession gave him an unexpected sense of satisfaction.
Because Beatrice Beckman was not a woman inclined to ask for help.
Nor to trust easily.
But she trusted him.
A THING APART
Much later that night, Beatrice sat before the fire in her bedchamber, her damp hair unbound, one hand lifting the heavy strands away from her neck as the heat worked its slow magic.
It was far later than she ought to be awake.
And yet, sleep felt unlikely, for the day had not gone at all as she had imagined—and, rather inconveniently, not in any troubling way.
In fact?—
Beatrice frowned slightly and shifted the fall of her hair over one shoulder.
She had enjoyed it. Thoroughly.
And not simply because she’d won the contest. Or because of the ride in the boat. Or the trip to Gunters after, where Gideon insisted she sample an absurd number of ices.
Curiously, it was because of… him.
She had expected Gideon to be overbearing. Disapproving. A slightly more handsome version of her brother—before Dash had diverted all of his attention toward his current campaign.
But Gideon hadn’t been like Dash at all. In fact, he’d been rather agreeable. Amusing, even.
Which was… inconvenient.
Beatrice reached for the towel draped over her shoulder and pressed it lightly to the ends of her hair.
