“We can leave our towels there,” she suggested, pointing to the rock.
He had a bag slung over his shoulder and had more in it than just a towel, she suspected. She had not brought any clothes but the ones she wore.
She set down her towel and took off her bonnet. She made sure her hair was in a tight knot at her neck and that all the pins were pushed in firmly. But Gladys had done her job thoroughly. She had also been a bit giggly when she knew that Samantha was not going to wear her stays.
“Are you just going to wear your shift in the water, Mrs. McKay?” she had asked. “I am envious, I am. It’s turned into a beautiful day, hasn’t it? And that major is going to swim too, is he? He is ever so gorgeous, isn’t he, even if he is a little bit crippled. I wouldn’t mind seeing him stripped down for a swim, I can tell you.”
“Gladys!”
“Oh, sorry, Mrs. McKay,” she had said, coloring.
Samantha smiled now at the memory. And she pulled her dress determinedly off over her head even though she felt very exposed in just her knee-length shift. One could hardly go swimming fully clothed, could one?
He had removed his hat and his coat and waistcoat and neckcloth, she saw when she turned. He had just sat down on the rock to pull off his boots and stockings. It was not easy for him to do, she could see.
“Would you like me to help?” she asked.
He looked up and shaded his eyes with one hand—and said nothing while his eyes roamed over her from head to foot.
“Sorry,” he muttered after a few lengthy moments and lowered the hand. “No, thank you. I can manage.”
She felt scorched by his glance.
It took him a while. He was so very different from Matthew, she thought as she watched. He was stubbornly independent.
There was a wicked-looking scar across the top of one of his feet, she saw when he had removed his stockings—gouged there by a stirrup, perhaps? He was fortunate that his foot had not been completely severed. He was not, she realized, going to remove his pantaloons. But he pulled his shirt free of them, crossed his arms, and hauled it off over his head.
She stood looking at him while he raised his eyes to hers. She had lain close to his naked upper body that night at the inn, but she had not seen it, and she had not explored it with her hands. There was a nasty puckered scar between his heart and his shoulder.
“A bullet?” she asked.
“I was more fortunate than Captain McKay,” he said. “The surgeon was able to dig it out.”
She winced.
His chest bore other scars, some worse than others, as did both his arms. Any one of those wounds could surely have killed him. She raised her eyes to his and licked her lips.
“You were in more than one battle?”
“Eight,” he said, “and a number of more minor skirmishes. Cavalry are always getting embroiled in skirmishes.”
Rather than marring his appearance, the scars somehow accentuated his masculinity. And it was very clear that he worked on his physique. His muscles were firm and well defined. He looked suddenly like a tough, even brutal soldier. Brutal in battle, that was. But magnificent as a lover?
She took a step back and turned to look at the water. There was an uncomfortable throbbing in her womb, and the sun felt hotter than it had a few minutes ago.
“The water is close,” she said. “Can you walk there without your canes if you set an arm about my shoulders?”
“You are not my servant,” he said.
“Is it such a humiliation,” she asked him, “to set your arm about me and lean on me for a short distance? Will it quite diminish your masculinity?”
His jaw was set hard when she turned back to him. But he nodded and then smiled.
“I believe it will challenge my masculinity,” he said. “I have noticed, you see, that you are scantily clad.”
So that was the reason he was reluctant to touch her?
“Are you a prude, Major Harper?” she asked him.
“Merely a normal red-blooded male, ma’am,” he said brusquely, getting to his feet with the aid of his canes and then setting them back against the rock and taking two steps without them before reaching for her. “Lead me to cold water, please. And the faster the better.”
It was amazing what a difference a few layers of clothing could make—or the lack of those layers. Yesterday she had been aware of his lean, strong physique as they walked in the water and it had attracted her. Today she could feel the power in his bare arm about her shoulders and was aware of the rippling muscles in his chest, pressed to her side. She was aware of his masculine hip, of the warmth of his skin. She was aware of his height—a few inches above her own. And she was aware of her own near nakedness next to him.
She felt as if some of her half-shriveled youth was gathering itself into bud getting ready to burst into bloom again.
She turned her face up to his as they reached the incoming water and laughed.
“It is c-c-cold,” she said, deliberately stuttering as they stepped into it. She splashed it with her feet and sent cold droplets splashing all over them. “We are going to f-freeze.”
Tramp was running along the edge of the water behind them, barking with excitement and further wetting them.
“It is too late to change your mind now,” he said, grinning back at her. “I am going in, and you must too because I need you to get from here to there.”
An incoming wave broke over their knees, and Samantha gasped.
“Whose silly idea was this?” she asked.