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It was larger than he had first assumed, with more than enough room to stand and maneuver. Daniel clumsily divested himself of the majority of his clothes; he had chosen simple, no-fuss pieces for today, but that did not mean they were at all easy to remove. Eventually he stood in nothing but his smalls and a loose linen shirt in the chill space. He would not look down at himself, he told himself fiercely. The worst of his scars were hidden, after all. Even so he could not help remembering the one time a female had seen his unclothed body.
He shuddered at the memory. It had been shortly after Nathaniel’s unexpected death. He had been stunned, reeling. And yet his mind had clearly understood one devastating fact: he was responsible for the dukedom now. Which meant he must marry and produce an heir.
But Erica’s disgust of him was still fresh, an open cut doused liberally with salt on an almost daily basis. He had healed some, in body if not in mind, since that devastating day. Surely, he had told himself stoutly, determined to do right by his family, he was not as bad as all that. And so he had gone to the local pub, had gotten himself stinking drunk. And had accepted one of the barmaid’s invitations up to her room.
She had been willing enough to start. He could still recall the pleasure of her hands on his body as she began to undress him, the ache for a physical touch he had never experienced.
But, more than that, he remembered the pain that had surged in him as she’d uncovered scar after scar, soft gasps of dismay escaping her though she had hidden it as well as she had been able to. She had soldiered on, though, and he’d had a pitiful hope sputter to life that it could be done.
Until she’d come to his leg.
At the sight of his mangled flesh she had drawn back from him, a horrified sound escaping her lips, muffled behind a hastily placed hand. She had quickly recovered, of course. But he had not remained to hear her apologies, instead grabbing up his clothes and cane and hobbling from the room as fast as he was able.
“Your Grace, are you well?”
Mrs. Kitteridge’s voice trailed to him, banishing the vivid memory. He blinked in incomprehension for a moment, looking about at the rough walls and filtered sunlight coming in through the cave opening. Ah, yes, he was on the Isle of Synne, he recalled with a grim twist of his lips. And about to swim with a gentle young woman who would no doubt run screaming back to her grandmother’s house should she actually catch sight of the battlefield that was his body, no matter how she might defend him.
But it was much too late to back out now, wasn’t it? “I’m quite well, Mrs. Kitteridge,” he managed, his voice rough even to his own ears. And with that he took up his cane and made his way from the cave.
The sun blinded him for one brief moment, and so he did not immediately see Mrs. Kitteridge’s reaction to his appearance. But her breathy “Oh” was quite unmistakable.
He had never in all his time in battle felt the urge to flee, not even when the outlook appeared dire. Now, however, standing before this attractive woman, half-clothed, he had the mad desire to turn tail and run. “This was a mistake,” he mumbled, turning to retreat back into the cave.
“No!” And then her small hand was on his arm. He froze, caught between pleasure and pain at that light touch, and squeezed his eyes tight as the burn in them threatened to transform into tears.
“I know my appearance must disturb you, madam.” He gritted his teeth. “If you’ll allow me to dress, we can return to Seacliff and forget this ever happened.”
“You mistake me,” she said, her voice soft. “I am not disgusted by your appearance. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
He glanced sharply at her, unable to comprehend the meaning behind the unmistakably husky quality of her words. Only to find her staring with fascination at her hand on his arm.
Again that question burned through his mind: Did she want him? The very idea was incomprehensible. If someone who had vowed to marry him didn’t want him, if someone who charged for her services had been unable to take him to her bed, how could this lovely, gentle woman desire him?
Suddenly she blinked and, flushing bright red, stepped away from him. He felt the loss of her touch down to his soul.
“Ah, forgive me,” she said, the words sounding strangled in her throat. “That was inexcusably bold of me.” She stood still for a moment in utter confusion before, with a wild kind of laugh, she ducked around him and into the cave.
Daniel blinked. What the devil had that been about? But he wasn’t about to wait around and find out. Straightening his shoulders, he made his way to the water, taking care with where he placed his cane, prodding for the firmness of solid stone beneath soft sand.
The tide pool was large, and much deeper on one side than he’d first surmised, the pale green of the shallower area quickly darkening to hidden depths. The water at the surface, however, hinted at the life within. Small fish darted about, algae clung to the walls. He eyed it with trepidation for a moment. No matter the warmth of the day, it looked blasted cold.
But a sudden sound from her direction put a stop to any delay he might have been attempting. Dropping to the ground as quickly as he was able, he swung his legs over the edge and, sucking in a sharp breath, let himself sink feet first into the pool.
Ice. It was like pure ice needling his skin. He gasped, his limbs—among other things—instinctively drawing inward. “Shit!” he yelped. “What the ever-loving hell!”
Laughter reached him. He cast disbelieving eyes to where Mrs. Kitteridge stood before the cave entrance. She was dressed in a modest gray flannel shift secured clear up to her throat. And yet, though there was nothing seductive about it, desire pumped hard and fast through his veins. Her bare toes peeked enticingly pink from the edge of the garment, her hair a rich, thick plait over her shoulder. She was full-figured, and the simple garment was no match for her enticing curves. It hugged her breasts and flirted with the flare of her hips as she approached.
His mouth went dry, his mind going blank. Though he didn’t know if it was owing to the cold shutting down his bodily functions or the alluring sight of Mrs. Kitteridge.
“In my defense,” she said, stopping near him, “I didn’t think I would have to tell you it would be cold.”
He blanched. “Forgive my language, madam.”
She waved an unconcerned hand in the air. “As I’ve said, I’m not missish when it comes to such things. Now then, shall we get started?”
And with that she walked to the deeper end of the pool and dove in headfirst.
She disappeared under the water’s surface, then quickly shot up, gasping for air. Her head was thrown back, the shift clinging to the curve of her back. His heart pounded at the fleeting sight of it; despite the fact that it was undoubtedly a modest swimming garment, it left little to the imagination.
