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Abigail, who’d successfully cast her line thrice already, giggled. Miss Munroe politely didn’t say anything, although Helen thought she saw the woman roll her eyes. And Jamie, who’d already lost interest in learning to “flick” and was now hunting dragonflies with the puppy, didn’t even notice.
“Here.” Sir Alistair was suddenly right beside her, his long arms reaching over her head.
His breath was warm against her cheek as he worked the line free of the branch. Helen stood very still. She was trembling inside, but he seemed not at all affected by their nearness.
“There,” he said as the fly came undone from the branch. He stood behind her and reached forward and around her to demonstrate how to hold the pole. The light touch of his hands was devastating as he positioned her to his liking.
Keep your mind on the task, Helen scolded herself, and tried to look intent. She’d realized very early on that whilst she didn’t mind standing on a stream bank for long moments on end, she would never be a great fisherwoman.
Abigail, surprisingly, was another story. She had listened to Sir Alistair’s instructions with all the gravity of an apprentice learning an ancient and mystical art. And when she had correctly flicked the line to the middle of the stream for the first time, her pale little face lit up with proud joy. That, if nothing else, was well worth rising before the crack of dawn and tramping about in the wet grass.
“Do you have it now?” Sir Alistair rasped in her ear.
“Yes, uh, quite.” Helen cleared her throat.
He turned his head slightly, and his good eye met hers from only inches away. “I can instruct you further, if you wish, on how to properly manipulate the pole.”
Her cheeks flamed even though his voice had been too low for anyone else to overhear. “I think I have a sufficient grasp of the concept.”
“Do you?” His eyebrow arched as his eye gleamed at her diabolically.
She slid her hand slowly up the pole and smiled sweetly. “I am a quick learner, sir.”
“Yes, but I’m sure you wish to become an expert. Proper practice is in order, I think.” He leaned fractionally closer, and for a wild moment she thought he meant to kiss her, here in the open, in front of the children and his sister.
“Alistair!” Miss Munroe shouted.
Helen started guiltily, but Sir Alistair merely murmured, “Perhaps later.”
“Alistair, I have a fish!”
He finally turned at that news and sauntered over to where his sister was wrestling with her line. Jamie, too, was attracted by the excitement, and for a few minutes no one paid attention to Helen as she got her breathing back under control.
When she looked about again, Sir Alistair was trading jibes with his sister over the size of her fish. He didn’t notice that Helen’s little feathered fly had drifted into the shallow water almost at the bank of the stream, where no doubt there were very few fish. The bright blue sky arched overhead, gauzy clouds drawn across its expanse. The stream bubbled along, the bright water revealing smooth rocks at the bottom. The banks were green with fresh grass, and on this side there was a small copse of trees where Lady Grey had been laid to rest. It was quite lovely, Sir Alistair’s stream, a magical spot where ordinary cares didn’t seem to have sway.
Sir Alistair gave a sudden shout, and a silver fish leapt out of the water, dangling from the string on his pole. Jamie came running to see, Abigail jumped up and down, and Miss Munroe exclaimed and helped catch the string. In the excitement, Helen dropped her pole into the stream.
“Oh, Mama,” Abigail said mournfully when the fish had been safely stowed inside a rather tatty-looking basket. “You’ve lost your pole.”
“Not to worry,” Sir Alistair said. “It’s probably caught on the bank just past the copse. There’s a bit of a whirlpool there. Sophia, mind the children, please, while Mrs. Halifax and I fetch her pole.”
Miss Munroe nodded, already watching her line intently, and Sir Alistair took Helen’s arm to help her up the bank. Even that small touch, his strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm, made her breath grow short. Silly, she chided herself. He’s only being polite. But he didn’t let go of her arm once they’d made the top of the bank, and she began to be suspicious. He led her swiftly along the grass, saying nothing. Perhaps he was cross that he’d had to leave his pole to help her fetch hers. She was foolish, she thought morosely, losing her pole like that.
They made the copse of trees and turned to the stream bank, completely hidden from the children and Miss Munroe.
“I’m sorry,” Helen began.
But without saying a word—without any warning at all, in fact—he yanked her against his chest and captured her mouth with his. A great involuntary shudder shook her frame. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been waiting for this, unconsciously anticipating when he’d make his next move. Her breasts were mashed against the hard plane of his chest, and his hands grasped her arms as his mouth moved with fierce determination on hers. Oh, it was lovely.
So lovely.
She tilted her head, melting against him like warm custard over apple pie. Her skirt was a simple one, without panniers, and if she moved closer, maybe, just maybe, she might feel that most male part of him. It’d been so long since she’d been wanted. So long since she’d felt the flash of desire.
His hot lips parted over hers, and his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. She opened willingly, eagerly even. To be wanted like this was intoxicating. He claimed her like a conquering knight, and she welcomed him. His hand moved, drifting over her laced stomach and up to where her breasts were covered only by the thin material of her dress. She waited, breathless with anticipation, distracted even from the heat of his mouth, for that hand to act. He didn’t disappoint. His fingers dipped tenderly beneath the edge of her gauzy fichu, stroking, probing, tickling, and teasing her flesh. Her nipples had tightened to almost painful arousal, and, oh, how she wished that she could fling aside her clothing and let his hot palms cover her breasts.
She must’ve made some sound, for his mouth broke from hers, and he murmured so low that she had to strain to hear, “Hush. They can’t see us, but they might hear.”
He stared at his hand, still inserted under her fichu. She couldn’t help it—she arched to his gaze. He shot a smoldering look at her. Then he closed his eye and bowed his head over her bosom. She felt his tongue, hot and wet, probe the edges of her dress.
