Page 28 of Betrothal Between Enemies

‘You do tell the prettiest lies, Alistair. You’ve seen my eyes before.’ Most women would blush at such a remark. But not Ismay. She challenged it. For once, though, he wished she’d accept the compliment and take him seriously. Nonetheless, he was ready for her as the ferry bumped the dock.

‘Boys don’t notice such things. That doesn’t count.’ He hoisted the picnic basket on one arm and offered her his other with a wink, playing along with her teasing. ‘You can think of a place for us to picnic once I’ve completed my business with Signor Clementi.’

* * *

Damn him and his ephemeral charm. A wink and a smile changed everything. Ismay reluctantly looped her arm through his, and they made their way down the gangplank. A moment earlier, she would have sworn Alistair had been offering a sincere compliment.

But she was only kidding herself. He was an inveterate flirt, and they’d been immersed in the ruse for so long it was easy to forget—or perhaps she meant it was hard to remember?—that nothing was what it seemed. She supposed it was a predictable mistake to make in their circumstances. They’d had to pretend to like each other in order to get rid of each other, and they’d been wildly successfully in achieving that. She did not feel wildly successful, though. Ismay slid a sideways glance at Alistair. What she did feel was the weight of impending loneliness as the end of the ruse neared, and it was making her reckless.

* * *

Signor Clementi lived in a villa above the remote fishing village of Sant’Angelo on the south side of Ischia. The business with the signor was quickly concluded, and Alistair was in good spirits as they walked back down the hill to the village. ‘Have you decided where we are to picnic?’ he asked.

‘Fumarole Beach,’ she replied with a sly smile, anticipating the treat. Alistair would love the place. ‘It’s not far.’

‘Good, because this basket is heavy,’ he protested.

Ismay laughed. ‘Just think how light it will be on the way back to the ferry. Maybe I will carry it then.’ They walked in silence the rest of the way, enjoying the soft susurration of the water lapping the shore, the occasional cry of a gull in the blue sky. They reached a flat sandy expanse of beach, and Ismay reached down with her hand to test the ground. ‘We’re here. Take off your shoes.’

She began to work the laces of her half boots loose. ‘Ahh, feel that,’ she said at last, her bare toes digging into the sand.

‘It’s warm, really warm.’ Alistair looked perplexed in the best of ways, his feet buried in the sand, his bare, muscled calves on display below his breeches. He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up into the sky. ‘This is more than the sun’s warmth. What is it? Why is the sand…hot?’

Ismay grinned, pleased that he was pleased. ‘It’s a geothermal beach. There are volcanic vents beneath the sand. Some people say you can even cook on the vents, they’re that hot. But I’ve never done it.’

They began walking, shoes and stockings in hand, feet revelling in the heated sand, the freckle on Alistair’s toe flashing occasionally. ‘Folk medicine recommends burying yourself in the sand to soothe rheumatism and other aches with the heat.’

‘I bet it works, too,’ Alistair said and laughed. ‘I can imagine a beach with rows of people buried up to their necks in warm sand.’

‘There are thermal beaches all over Ischia. The more fashionable ones closer to the fortress are busy year-round, but the south side is not as populated, so we’ll have the beach to ourselves. I have one more surprise for you.’ She led him to a horseshoe-shaped cove protected by high cliffs. ‘This hot spring is like an old Roman bath.’ She bent down and trailed her fingers in the water. ‘Feel it.’

‘That feels like heaven.’

‘Well, you were searching for Eden earlier.’ She gave a mischievous smile. ‘This is the best I could do.’

Alistair stretched his arms out wide and made a slow turn. His joy was its own aphrodisiac. Her pulse raced at the sight of him, enrapt, as if he’d been given a gift of great import. Then he looked at her, his summer-sky eyes sparking with memory and mischief. ‘We’ll have the beach to ourselves, you say?’

She nodded, but his hands were already at his neckcloth, pulling it loose of its knot. ‘What are you doing, Alistair?’

He grinned. ‘I’ve already got my boots off. It would be a shame to waste this water. Come on, Iz, let’s go for a swim.’ He pre-empted her protests with a laugh, tossing aside his jacket and waistcoat. ‘Don’t tell me we just came here to look at the water, and don’t tell me you don’t want to. I remember how much you liked the swimming hole at Sessile Oaks.’ Then his shirt was over his head, sailing through the air to join his clothes in a messy heap on the sand.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of his chest, sleek and smooth, defined by muscle and hard planes. He was right. In her recklessness, she’d planned to come here knowing full well the water would be an irresistible lure for both of them, that there would be every opportunity—nay, every requirement—for nature to take its course. One did not swim in hot springs in their clothes. And yet, now that the moment had come, she felt in over her head. She’d not counted on this, on the sheer masculine glory of him on easy display, as if he walked around naked all the time. Perhaps he did—for the mistress with the emerald ear-bobs.

His hands worked the fastenings of his breeches, a reminder that he wasn’t fully naked yet. He pushed them down over lean hips and kicked them aside with nonchalance, leaving him in the thin linen of his small clothes, as if it was of no concern that he’d all but stripped in front of her. And why should it be of any concern? In his mind, they were just…friends. They were not lovers, and this was not a seduction. At least not to him. Meanwhile, her pulse raced and her mouth was dry, her body forcing her to acknowledge what her mind had tried—and failed—to obscure. She wanted him.

‘Come on, Iz. Do you need help?’ He stood there, hands on hips, the chiselling of his body on display as his small clothes slipped low. How lovely it must be to feel so free in one’s own skin. That did it. She was not going to stand there like a ninny. She’d engineered this opportunity, and she was not going to waste it.

Ismay untied the bow of her hat and set it aside. ‘Go on in. I’ll be right there.’ She shrugged out of her jacket. Her fingers worked her gown loose of their own accord, discarding clothing until she was in her chemise, so that her eyes could remain free to watch Alistair wade into the water, thighs and hips disappearing into the blue.

Alistair waved from the waist-deep water of the pool. ‘It’s warm, Ismay!’

She twisted her hair up into a hasty bun and ran towards the shore, executing a shallow dive. She came up beside Alistair, laughing. ‘This is glorious!’

Alistair ducked beneath the water, and she felt him push her legs out from under her. She yelped and went under, grabbing for him. Alistair darted away, and she went after him, underwater, coming up for air, then diving beneath again. The last time she came up, Alistair caught her about the waist and held her fast.

‘Pax, Iz.’ He was breathing hard and laughing, water glistening in his hair like a sea god. ‘I’m not a boy anymore.’

No, he certainly wasn’t. She wound her arms about his neck—for balance, she told herself, but she couldn’t ignore the hard press of his body where it met hers. The man was all muscle and—oh, goodness—his eyes were so blue up close, disconcertingly so. She cast about for a distraction. ‘The springs aren’t there for such rambunctious cavorting. They’re for soaking and socialising. The ancient Romans used the springs… Oh!’ She saw the drop of his eyes, the tilt of his head, too late. His mouth captured hers in a deliciously slow kiss. Against her better judgement—an admittedly flimsy barrier at this point—she melted into him: his mouth, his body, the warm water of the spring water flowing around them.