Page 5 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
She felt mortified. “I’m so terribly sorry. I—I guess I’m colder than I realized.”
“It’s no trouble.” He studied her for a beat. “I apologize—this is not going to be entirely proper. But I can’t think how else to get you home before this storm breaks.”
He led his horse slowly back to the log, keeping a hand hovering near her leg in case she started to sway. He climbed up behind her, then lifted her up and settled her on his lap. He wrapped one arm securely about her waist, holding her firmly against him, and took the reins in the other.
“Is this all right?” he asked tentatively.
All right? Of course Edward Astley sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her away on his white charger was not “all right.”
It was her every schoolgirl fantasy come true, is what it was.
But she could hardly tell him that, so what she said was, “It’s all right.”
“Come,” he said, “let’s get you home.”
CHAPTER3
Edward had never imagined a context in which he might think to himself,Thank God I’m wearing these soaking wet, ice-cold trousers.
But considering he had the delectable Elissa St. Cyr in his lap, those trousers were the only thing preventing him from dishonoring himself.
The first thing he had done after getting her out of the pond was to wrap her in his coat. He had done this out of genuine concern for her health, but it also had the positive effect of covering her siren’s body, deliciously displayed in that whisper-thin, clinging dress.
Not that he wasn’t still picturing what she looked like beneath his coat, to say nothing of the moment she slipped into the pond and her dress had been pulled up to her thighs. Images of delicate ankles, finely turned calves, and petal-soft skin were going to be seared on his brain for all eternity. But the coat helped.
A minuscule amount.
God, when he had told her she looked “rather cold,” he had somehow managed to look her square in the eye instead of staring longingly at her nipples.
He hadn’t been that proud of himself in quite some time.
His horse picked his way through the grove of cherry trees to the path, and Edward pointed him back toward Bourton-on-the-Water. He studied the sky. “I think we can make it before the storm breaks.”
“Thank you,” she said, peering up at him shyly. There was a rather large clump of pondweed tangled in her hair. Several clumps, truth be told. He wondered whether he should mention it and decided against it. He suspected this was the type of thing a lady might find embarrassing.
Even slightly blue and covered in pondweed, she managed to look alluring. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck for balance, giving him an unimpeded view of her eyes. They were pale green with just a hint of blue. Her eyelashes were a shade darker than her hair, and the contrast with those sea glass green eyes was mesmerizing…
She cleared her throat, and he realized he had been staring. “May I ask what brought you out this way?” she said.
“I paid a visit to your father,” he said, grateful for the distraction of some conversation. “There was something I needed to ask him.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent edition of Longinus’sOn the Sublime, the one by the anonymous translator that has caused such a sensation.”
“Of course.”
“The publisher is sponsoring a contest, pitting their mystery translator against all comers. It is to be held at Oxford three weeks hence.”
This was about as much information as Edward had about the contest. The organizers were keeping the exact format a secret, as they wanted to determine the contestants’ extemporaneous abilities, rather than what they could compose a month in advance. But Edward was a Cambridge man and had spent four years vying for various Browne Medals and Member’s Prizes. He knew how these things generally went. You were allowed a lexicon and a dictionary. You would be given a Greek work to translate into English, or an English poem to translate into Latin. Or perhaps the judges would select a theme, and the contestants would compose an original work on that theme. It could be in Latin or Greek, and in either poetry or prose. Or you would be asked to compose a Latin ode in the style of Horace, or a Greek epigram in imitation of those in theAnthologia. The exact format wouldn’t be revealed until the morning of the contest, but it was usually something along those lines.
“I heard about the contest as well,” Elissa said, biting her lip as she peered up at him. “Will you, uh, will you be entering?”
“I will,” Edward confirmed.
Given a choice between eating a bucketful of broken glass and entering this contest, he would have pulled out a spoon and tucked in. He hadn’t touched a volume of Greek verse since taking his degree from Cambridge five years ago. His university experience had been grueling in the extreme. It was fine for his friends to spend four years carousing, but, having shown promise in the classics from an early age, Edward’s family had high expectations for his university career.
And so he had spent most evenings shut in his room, translating Latin and Greek until he nodded off at his desk. And… it wasn’t that he had nothing to show for his efforts. He had a half-dozen Browne Medals and Member’s Prizes shoved in the back of his desk drawer. But there was only one accolade that really mattered: the Chancellor’s Classical Medal. He could still recall the day he had learned of the award’s existence. He’d been six years old and had memorized the opening of theAeneidin Latin. His tutor, Mr. Brownlee, had brought him before his father, and after Edward had recited the lines, Mr. Brownlee had excitedly informed the earl that he had never seen so much talent at such an early age, and that Edward “might win the Chancellor’s Classical Medal someday.”
