Marguerite blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Undressing.”
“Yes, I observe the fact. I object to its context.”
“You once told me you wanted warmth.”
“I believe I was speaking of Italy, not public indecency beside a pier.”
“There is no public.”
“There are sailors.”
Tristan turned to the sailors. “Take the felucca beyond the rocks. Wait there until I signal.”
Oars dipped. The little vessel drew away from the pier, slipped around the curve of sun-warmed stone, and vanished behind the sheltering rocks.
He smiled and held out his hand. “Swim with me.”
The bay glittered shamelessly, all blue invitation and golden ripples. But water had a way of pretending to be friendly from a distance, only to become knives upon contact. She remembered the English sea, the cold shock of it.
“I am dressed for an official visit.”
“You are overdressed for a swim.”
“I am adequately dressed for diplomacy.”
“The Sicilians can wait. They are islanders. They understand tides.”
She gave him a look.
He removed his waistcoat.
Marguerite’s mouth went dry, which was inconvenient, because she needed it for protest. “Tristan, that water will be cold.”
He stepped close enough that his warmth reached her through her muslin gown. “Trust me.”
There had been a time when those words from a man would have required twenty-seven conditions, three witnesses, and a clear route to the door.
Now she simply placed her hand in his.
“If I perish before reaching Sicily, you will have to explain to the king that British diplomacy has been delayed by shivers.”
“I will accept the consequences.”
He helped her out of her gown with an attention so reverent that even the practical business of buttons became dangerous. Her stays followed, then stockings, then the last layers of civilized womanhood, until she stood in only her shift at the edge of the pier, sunlight on her shoulders, heart beating hard enough to frighten the fish.
Tristan plunged headfirst. The sea took him with scarcely a sound, closing over his shoulders. He looked up at her from the water, smiling, not the pirate now, not the ambassador, not theduke making speeches before kings, but her husband in a hidden bay, asking her to be brave for no audience at all.
“Well?” he called. “Are you drafting a treaty, or are you joining me?”
She did not move.
“I am,” she said firmly, “in preliminary negotiations.”
He ducked under the water—and then resurfaced directly beneath her, close enough that she yelped and staggered back a step.
“I can’t. My legs won’t move.” She sighed, mortified.
