Page 3 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
He swung down off his horse. “I see,” he said, draping the reins over a branch.
“If you would be so kind, Farmer Broadwater’s house is just over that rise,” she said, gesturing. “He can fetch the neighbor’s boat.”
“Ah,” he said, brightening, “there is another boat. Where is it? I am sure that, given the circumstances, its owner would not object to my commandeering it.”
Elissa flushed. “I wouldn’t want you to go to such trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all.”
She swallowed. “It is a mile, maybe a mile and a half, down the road.”
“A mile and a half—” He broke off, looking affronted, and began peeling off his coat.
“Wha—what are you doing?”
“You cannot wait that long,” he said firmly. He hung his coat from another branch and began tugging at one of his boots.
Oh, dear God, he meant to come in after her! “Please, my lord,” she sputtered, “I would never expect for you to—”
“You should,” he said, grunting as the boot slid free. “Only a blackguard would leave you there with a storm coming.”
He had never seemed to understand that she wasn’t the kind of girl who received such solicitude. “I’m not worth the trouble,” she said ruefully.
He looked startled that she would even suggest such a thing. “Of course you are.”
She sighed. This was why Edward Astley would always be herbeau idéal. Not because he was devastatingly handsome (which he was), or because he was rich, or because he was heir to an earldom. Not even because he was so intelligent, although she had always found that even more appealing than his good looks. After leaving her father’s tutelage, he had gone on to win just about every award the University of Cambridge gave out, including its most prestigious, Senior Wrangler, which was given to the best student in mathematics. He had also been named second Classical Medalist, having completed the near-impossible feat of being a top student in both mathematics and classics.
But more than any of those things, the reason Edward Astley had always made Elissa a bit weak about the knees was because he had always been so kind to her.
By the time Elissa had been old enough to join her father’s classroom, Edward had been at Eton. But during school breaks, he would ride over twice a week to take some additional lessons. The days when he was there had been completely different. Her father’s other students seemed to be universally of the opinion that it was unnatural for a girl to study Greek and Latin. Mostly, they would ignore her, but there were a few, led by William Ricketts, who seemed affronted by her mere existence, and were constantly making remarks just skirting the inappropriate, trying to get a rise out of her.
But Edward would not brook any boorish behavior in her presence. As soon as William Ricketts started in on her, he would clear his throat, say, “Come, Ricketts,” and nod toward Elissa with a genial smile. He always assumed the best about everyone, assumed that Ricketts was a good sort who had momentarily forgotten that a lady was present (Elissa could have disabused him of that notion).
It hadn’t been anything extraordinary, just little things like the way he would smile and say, ‘Good morning, Miss Elissa,’ when she walked into the classroom. He often made an interested observation after she read her translation aloud (an event that was usually followed by the sound of crickets, at best). Once she had broken the nib of her pen, and he had immediately handed her his spare.
She knew very well that he didn’tlikeher, at least, not in the same way she liked him, nor did she expect him to. But he had treated her like his fellow student at a point in her life when everyone else had treated her like an oddity. It was a small thing, but one that meant a tremendous amount to her.
From the bank of the pond, he cleared his throat, recalling her to the situation at hand. “And it is obvious that you are rather cold.”
Oh dear—he had caught her woolgathering. “I cannot deny it,” she said, hugging her arms around her chest.
He divested himself of his second boot and waded into the pond. Once he was waist-deep, he leaned forward and began slicing through the water with smooth, precise strokes.
He made three attempts to disentangle the rope, twice diving under the water and not resurfacing for what seemed like too long. After the last attempt he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead (gracious, she had never seen a man with such thick hair in her life!) “You’re right,” he said. “It is well and truly tangled. I fear there’s nothing for it. We’ll have to swim. Please do not worry. I am confident in my ability to convey you safely to shore.”
She had no concerns on that front; she had seen how efficiently he’d cut through the water. The only question was the mechanics of how this was to be accomplished. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling with sincerity. “Um, how should I, er—”
“Let’s see. I can pull down on the side of the boat. Can you—”
“Yes, let me just—”
Her dress snagged on the lip of the boat as she slid into the water. She felt a rush of cold air all the way up to her thighs as her skirts were pulled up. Oh, dear—well, she was into the water so quickly, he probably hadn’t seen any higher than her knees. At least, that was what she was going to tell herself. She was gripping the side of the boat with both hands, in the water up to her collarbone, when he wrapped a warm, firm arm around her waist, pulling her body flush against his.
Even in the icy chill of the pond, he was warm beneath his thin linen shirt, and she instinctively curled into him, a groan of pleasure escaping from her throat. She had never been this close to a man. Never. Her breasts pressed into the firm planes of his chest, her stomach lay flush with his, and their legs tangled intimately beneath the water. His head was so near to hers she could feel his breath on her lips when he murmured, “All right?”
“All right,” she confirmed, her voice a squeak, and he was leaning back to push away from the boat when she remembered. “Oh—wait—I almost forgot my book!”
“Your… book?” he asked, his brow creasing.
