He took her hand in his and laced their fingers—probably very unwisely. She dipped her head to rest on his shoulder. The soft brim of her bonnet bent easily to accommodate her.
“It is lovely here,” she said. “I will always remember today. Oh, but look, your poor boots are caked with sand.”
“It is more poor Quinn than poor boots,” he said.
“I am going to swim here,” she said after they had sat in silence for a while. “Not now, but soon. I am going to get right under that water and swim. Do it with me, Ben. You can swim. You told me so.”
“That was when I was a boy and had two fully functioning legs,” he said.
“I do not suppose you have forgotten how.” She twisted her head so that she could look up at him. “You walk even though I daresay every physician you ever consulted warned you you never would.”
“I am not exactly proficient at it,” he protested.
“You walk,” she said, lifting her head and glaring fiercely at him. “Swimming would be easier, would it not? You would not have to put weight on your legs.”
“I would probably sink like a stone and never be heard from again.”
He grinned at her. But could she possibly be right? What if he tried to swim and could not and was then unable to get his feet under him again? But what if he had listened to all the what-ifs with which his mind had bombarded him when he had tried to walk? He would still be lying on a bed or sitting confined to a chair. He may not be walking very well, but he was walking. He was here, was he not, sitting on a rock in the middle of a beach, a fair distance from the cottage?
“Coward,” she said.
He kissed her.
She tasted warm and salty, and he reached his tongue into her mouth to taste more of her. He gathered her more closely into his arms, and she twined both her own about his neck.
They were both breathless when he drew back his head.
“When?” he asked her.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “In the afternoon.”
They held each other’s eyes.
“I will have Mrs. Price cook dinner for two before she leaves,” she said. “We are bound to be ravenous after swimming.”
Ravenous.
They would be alone in the cottage.
She did not look away from him or he from her.
“I daresay I will eat every mouthful set before me, then,” he said.
“If you have not drowned.” She smiled dazzlingly.
He had not told her what he had learned about her grandfather, he remembered suddenly. Had anyone else told her? But he doubted it. Surely she would have greeted him with the news if she had heard.
But now was not the right time.
They were going to swim together tomorrow. And then dine alone together at the cottage. Both servants would have returned home for the night,
I promised that you would be safe from me.
Sometimes safety seems a dull, unadventurous thing.
16
After having luncheon together at the cottage, they rode into the village, Samantha on the horse Mr. Quinn had ridden earlier. He had found an old sidesaddle in the barn during the morning and had worked on it for a couple of hours, checking it for safety, making a few repairs, and cleaning and polishing it until it looked quite respectable. He would walk back to the inn, he assured Samantha. It was not far.
And so finally they rode together, she and Ben. Matilda would have forty fits of the vapors, especially if she could see Samantha in her very old blue riding habit. But Matilda already seemed like someone from another lifetime.
“It will really be a very short ride,” Ben told her, a note of apology in his voice. “It is no distance at all to the village.”
Just too far for him to walk. She understood. She rode slightly behind him and watched him. He always looked so very virile and at home in the saddle. She had almost thrown herself at him this morning, she remembered. Whatever had possessed her? But it had struck her that she would regret it if he went away and they had shared no more than longing and a few kisses.
It would not be wrong, surely, if they enjoyed a brief affair? They were both single adults. They liked each other. They were attracted to each other. It was too soon for her to think of marrying again, if she ever did. He had said he would never marry, and certainly he would not do so before he had found what he was searching for in life and had settled down—if he ever did.
So where would be the harm?
Would they swim tomorrow? Or would it rain, as it had that infamous day they had planned to ride together? Would he be able to swim? And what would happen afterward, when they were alone together in her cottage?
She did not have long for such thoughts. Fisherman’s Bridge was indeed only just over the sand dunes.
She was eager to see it and a bit anxious too. This village and these villagers would become a part of her life, perhaps forever. She would need to find acceptance here and friends and acquaintances and things to do. For a moment she wondered if anyone knew about her, but of course everyone would. Mrs. Price lived at the smithy, and Gladys lived here. Both were talkative and sociable. And Ben was staying at the inn.
“I wonder what the people here do for a living,” she said as she looked about her with interest.
“Some work here in the village,” he said. “There are fishermen, as one would expect from the name. I talked briefly at breakfast this morning with a potter who sells his wares to summer visitors both here and in Tenby. I believe most people, though, are employed at Cartref in one capacity or another.”