The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Released her hands and caught her in his arms.

Yanked her close, locked her to him.

Ignoring her dripping state, he kissed her—hard, ruthless, ravishing, and desperate—kissed her witless.

Much better than being shaken witless.

When he finally consented to lift his head, she looked into his face, didn’t need her intellect to correctly interpret the tension holding him, to know that he had come very close to the edge of his control.

“I’m perfectly all right.” She spoke directly to what she knew to be his fear, the vulnerability he possessed, all because of her.

He humphed. The telltale tension eased only slightly. “As I remember it, the plan did not call for you to jump into the lake.”

His arms loosened; she pushed back. Stepped out of his arms as he reluctantly let her go. Lifted her hands to her shoulders and pressed down on her gown, following the line of her body to her hips and thighs, squeezing the water out and down, then grasping her skirts and wringing them.

“It seemed the most sensible way to go.” She kept her tone determinedly mild, as if they were discussing a hunt meet rather than her flight from a murderer.

“What if he’d been able to swim?” The aggravated growl was still tense and accusatory. “You didn’t know he couldn’t.”

She straightened, looked him in the eye. “I didn’t know about Ambrose, but I swim quite well.” She raised her brows fractionally, let a smile touch her lips. “And you swim even better.”

He held her gaze. She could feel him weighing what she’d said . . .

Suddenly realized. “You did know I could swim, didn’t you?”

His lips, until then a tight line, twisted, then he exhaled. “No.” His gaze locked with hers; he hesitated, then grudgingly added, “But I assumed you could or you wouldn’t have jumped in.”

She read his face, his eyes, then smiled delightedly as sudden joy infused her, rushed up through her. Left her feeling slightly giddy. She looked down, still smiling. “Precisely.” Linking her arm with his, she turned to see what the others were doing.

He continued to study her face. “What?”

She glanced back, met his eyes. Smiled gently. “Later.” Once she’d fully savored the moment, and found the words to tell him how much she appreciated his restraint. He’d stood at the lake’s edge, ready to step in and protect her, but, given she’d been able to do so, he’d held back and let her save herself. He hadn’t treated her as a helpless female; he hadn’t smothered her in his protectiveness. He’d behaved as if she were a partner, one with skills and talents somewhat different from his own yet perfectly capable of dealing with the moment.

He’d have stepped in the instant she needed him—but he’d resisted the temptation to step in before.

A future together really would work—with time, with familiarity, his overprotectiveness would become a more rational, considered response. One that considered her and her wishes, not just his.

Hope filled her, buoyed her with a joy totally divorced from their recent activities.

But those activities were still unfolding. Blenkinsop had joined the group in the shadow of the pinetum. Now he and Stokes turned, Ambrose supported between them. They marched him along the path, passing Simon and Portia at the bottom of the upward slope. His hands bound with her sodden shawl, Ambrose was still shaking; he didn’t even glance their way.

Charlie and Henry followed close behind, Charlie explaining all they’d been doing.

Henry halted beside her and took her hands in his. “Charlie hasn’t yet told me all, but I understand, my dear, that we owe you a great deal.”

She colored. “Nonsense—we all had a hand.”

“Not nonsense at all—without you and your bravery, they couldn’t have pulled it off.” Henry’s eyes had shifted to Simon’s face. A glance passed between them, deep with masculine meaning. “And you, Simon.” Henry reached out and clapped his shoulder.

Then glanced at her gown, suddenly became aware that she was clad in only two layers of silk, both drenched.

He coughed, looked away—up at the house. “Charlie and I will go on ahead, but you should hurry inside and change. Not wise to stand around in wet clothes, even in summer.”

Charlie grinned at Portia, nodded to Simon. “We got him!” His transparent happiness that all was now well, that they’d succeeded in rescuing James, Henry, and Desmond, too, was infectious.

They both smiled. Henry and Charlie walked on; they fell in behind, walking slowly up the rise.

As they crested it, the breeze sprang up, and sent cool fingers sliding down her skin. She shivered.