If he did…what was it he felt?
A suddenly very vital question, but one his expression, more stoic than impassive, did little to answer.
“Can you stand?” He sounded resigned.
Realizing her legs were still locked around him, she straightened them and tried; she was stable enough.
She drew her arms from his shoulders; he took her hand.
“Let’s get back to the boathouse.”
She let him steady her through the waves. In the boathouse she would be able to see his eyes, and perhaps get some idea of what was going on, what it was that seemed to be shifting and resettling in the landscape between them. She’d thought she’d got it right, but he seemed to want to tell her she’d got something important wrong.
They reached their clothes; he handed her his handkerchief. “Just dry your hands—there are towels inside.”
She did, then they collected their clothes and walked up the beach, the breeze cool but not cold on their damp skin; picking up their footwear, they climbed the steps to the boathouse door.
They went up to his retreat; leaving his clothes on the table, he lighted several candles, then went to a cupboard against one wall and pulled out towels. Turning from placing her clothes on a chair, she accepted one, and set about rubbing the last of the sea and its salt from her skin.
That done, she patted the wet ends of her hair, which predictably had escaped. Long, wet strands hung to her shoulders; squeezing them in the towel, noting he had much more to rub dry, she drifted to the long bank of windows overlooking the sea.
And thought of what she felt, wondered what he might be feeling.
Eventually she turned, and saw him sitting on the edge of the daybed, watching her. He searched her face, then held out a hand, beckoning. “Come here.”
She considered, then did. They had to talk; she had to learn…whatever it was he wanted to tell her.
He took her hand, with his other hand plucked the towel from her slack grasp and tossed it to lie with his. Then he drew her to him, reached for her waist, turned her, swiveled and shifted back, drawing her down to the daybed, settling her between his thighs while he lay with his shoulders propped against the raised back.
Her back to his chest, she couldn’t see his face; he was a hot, solid, muscular cushion behind her, his legs lying alongside hers.
She relaxed against him, into his embrace as his arms closed around her; he nuzzled her temple, brushing her hair aside with his chin to place a gentle kiss there.
Closing her eyes, she savored the closeness for one long moment, then asked, “Until when are you planning to remain in the country?” The most important, vital question, one she could no longer not ask.
He didn’t immediately reply, but then said, his voice even, “Forever.”
She frowned. She knew him well enough to gauge the nuance in his voice. He meant forever, literally. Opening her eyes, she started to turn, to look into his face.
His arms tightened, keeping her still. Then he sighed. “There’s something I have to tell you.” A moment passed, then he went on, “It would help, a lot, if you remain as you are and listen, and say nothing—do nothing—until I tell you the whole.”
She stayed silent and still within his arms. Wondering…suddenly worried.
He drew breath, then said, “I already know who I want for my wife.”
Her heart constricted, a sharp pain. She moved, unable to stay still.
He tightened his hold. “Just listen.”
There was an urgency in his voice, a taut tension that surprised her, made her listen even though she didn’t want to hear.
“I didn’t know who she was when I returned to fix the mill. But my sisters, and Sybil, too, forced me to look at her—really look. And when I did, I saw…” He paused, then went on, his words falling by her ear, earnest and intent; he wanted her to understand. “I already knew my criteria—the things I wanted in my bride. Age, birth and station, temperament, compatibility and beauty—that was my list. The lady in question obviously satisfied all those criteria except that I didn’t know her well, so couldn’t tell if we’d be compatible.”
He drew breath. “So I set out to discover if we were.” He paused; she suddenly felt cold, suddenly felt an inner quiver. She couldn’t think. Then more softly he asked, “Do you remember when I told you what our first kiss was about—what I said? But before we got to that, you’d already told me in no uncertain terms that you would never believe, refused to believe, that I would want you for my wife.”
A shiver materialized. She ignored it, frowned. “Me?” He shifted, and she wriggled and turned. Stared at his face as he flicked out the silk shawl that had been lying on the daybed’s back and spread it around her shoulders. She gripped it, clutched it, staring, stunned, at him. “You want to marry me?”
He met her eyes and quietly stated, “All along I wanted to marry you.”