He swam and swam, as he did every day, his legs kicking behind him, his arms cycling over his head. Yet every gulp of air and kick of his legs, every slap of his hands slicing the water, brought a thought of Thea. Memories, questions, images of Thea in a future that could not be. Thea, who was lying to him. Thea, who longed for balls and society and London. Thea, whose vitality made him yearn to be a different man.
He swam, harder, faster, further, flipping around and doing it again and again. Every muscle in his body worked to keep him moving, until it became difficult to catch his breath. Drowning seemed excessive, so when he neared the bank once more, he stopped and sucked in air.
He dug his toes into the mud, the water lapping at his chest, his drawers clinging uncomfortably to his thighs. Gripping his wet hair, Rafe let out a bellow of frustration and turned.
There she was.
Thea sat on a flat rock hanging over the water’s edge. The skirts of her blue walking dress were bunched around her knees, displaying a hint of white undergarments, and her bare calves and feet dangled in the water, intriguing pale shapes under the surface.
Her ankles. Those famously, fabulously fascinating ankles.
The swim had stolen all his thoughts, but Rafe did not need to think. Of its own will, his body turned, and he pushed through the water toward her.
In her own defense, Thea had removed her shoes and stockings and sat on the rock before she’d noticed Rafe swimming.
She had intended to pack first thing, but no sooner had she opened her empty trunk than she developed the notion of saying her farewells to Brinkley End. After all, she reasoned, a delay of a couple of hours would not matter, in the grand scheme of things. She was in no rush to get to London, given that her pamphlets would not be ready for days.
And it was such a warm day, and her feet were hot and tired, and it wouldn’t matter if she sat for a while with her bare feet in the water.
But when she’d seen him swimming back and forth in that absurdly vigorous manner, she found she could not move.
Neither could she move when he came to a stop. The water lapped at his skin, halfway up his naked, heaving chest. She barely had time to marvel at the breadth of his shoulders, when he lifted his arms to wipe his face, revealing the shape of his ribcage, and the muscles shifting under his skin, and the jagged scars marking his shoulders and ribs. Then he gripped his hair and roared at the sky like a beast, and she wondered fancifully if he was indeed some magical, mythical beast. Until he turned and looked right in her eyes, and she knew, without a doubt, that he was all man.
A man with the intent gaze of a hunter.
Slowly, he lowered his arms and rested them on the surface of the lake, the muscles in his chest again shifting in interesting ways. He advanced. His feet, always so sure of themselves, did not miss a step. The water grew shallower as he came closer, revealing more of his naked torso as he approached. Thea’s hungry eyes tried to devour all of him at once: the broad shoulders, the muscular arms, water sliding over the hairs on his chest. More ridges of muscle, like weathered bricks in a timeless castle wall. His navel. Was that more hair? And then—
He stopped. Right in front of her. The water lapped at his lean waist, vexingly hiding what lay beneath. On his arms, dark hairs gathered in wet spikes, the sun catching in the drops of water.
Thea tracked back up his body to meet his eyes, still the color of brandy, but hot brandy that stirred her own rising heat. His gaze was so intense she had to look away, to his dark hair, the curls not so wild when wet. A droplet of water trickled over his cheek and jaw, down his throat, gathering other droplets as it went. She followed its progress all the way down his body, gripping the rock so she would not catch that droplet on her finger and touch it to her tongue.
A strange longing hit her so forcefully she forgot to breathe.
A fierce, hungry longing to dive down inside him, like he himself was a lake and she could travel deep under his surface and discover what marvels lay beneath. Surely, she’d find some magical kingdom, within his depths, where she could begin to understand the workings of his mind, his heart, his body, his soul.
It started with his eyes, she knew. So she gathered her courage and looked back at his face.
“You were swimming,” she said, her voice too high.
“Hmm.”
“I never saw anyone swim like that before. All that splashing.”
“I learned that method from watching members of a Native tribe in America.” His voice sounded rougher, smokier than usual. A little breathless; from his exertions, no doubt. “It enables one to swim with more power and speed.”
“What is chasing you?”
“Hmm?”
“You do not swim to a destination, so surely you require speed only if something is chasing you?”
Thea thought she made an excellent point, but Rafe had that look again, as if he didn’t know what to make of her, yet enjoyed her anyway.
He sidled another few inches toward her. Perhaps if she straightened her legs, she could wrap them around his waist.
“It’s the crocodiles,” he said solemnly.
“You have crocodiles in your lake in Somersetshire?”
He edged closer. “Don’t worry. They’re mostly friendly.”
“Friendly crocodiles?”
“Mostly friendly.”
Under the water, he grabbed her ankle. She yelped then slammed her mouth shut. His hand was firm and sure and oddly warm, and as he traced her bones with his thumb, sensations sizzled up her legs.
“So…” His eyes dropped to her ankle in his hand, still under the water. “The famously, fabulously fascinating ankles.”
When he released her foot, it came to a natural rest against his hip, where his skin burned her and the waistband of his drawers tickled her. He ran his fingers up her calf to the back of her knee, then down again. Up and down.
And perhaps it was those sizzling sensations, or the defiant thought that she had as much right to touch him as he did her, or the desperate knowledge that soon she must leave, she must confess, and never again would he spout nonsense about crocodiles or argue about dessert or hold her ankle in his hand—whatever compelled her, Thea touched him too.
She poked at a sunlit droplet of water on his shoulder and smeared it over his skin. Her fingers brushed the edge of a ragged scar.
“The jaguar got you here, too,” she murmured.
“Hmm.”
Spreading her fingers wide, she pressed her whole palm over as much of his shoulder as she could.
“It was in a tree and pounced on me from behind,” he said. “I heard it and spun, and it caught my face.”
“And then?”
She trailed her fingers along his collarbone. He didn’t seem to mind. He was still running his hand up and down the back of her calf. And even when his touch slid down, the sensations kept going up and up and up.
“The other men were there with the dogs and guns. The jaguar decided I wasn’t worth the trouble and leaped up into the trees. It was over before I understood it had begun.”
“They didn’t shoot the jaguar, did they?”
“It was too fast. Besides, I cannot blame it; I was in its forest, stealing its flowers.”
Gently, he lifted her ankle, straightening her knee. Her leg looked small in his big hand, his weathered skin darker than her own. Though he touched her only in the one place, she felt his touch everywhere, from her throat to her breasts to her quim.