that the answers would emerge in their own good time and in the place of their choosing.
“You have unmanned me, sweeting,” he whispered at last, breaking the spell. “Destroyed my resolve, decimated my defenses.”
“Did you imagine I intended otherwise?” she returned in soft teasing, taking the free end of the strap that was still attached to her wrist and drawing it around his neck, pulling his head down to hers, tasting his lips with the tip of her tongue as a bee sips nectar. “I
hold you
prisoner now, do I not?”
“I fear so.” His hands reached up to grasp her wrists. “And it is a pretty tangle in which we are enmeshed, lass.” She felt the languor leave the hard body, the muscles tauten in thigh and belly as he prepared himself to move away from her. She pulled the strap tighter.
“Tell me, Ben. Tell me why it is such a tangle.”
“Were I to do that, my sweet Bryony, I should not ’scape hanging.” His voice was very sober, and the hands imprisoning her wrists gripped tighter, then broke her hold as if he were prying loose the little fingers of a baby, and slipped the strap from her wrist. He rolled off her and stood up. A glint of laughter in the black eyes chased away the somber expression.
“For a wood nymph, you are shockingly disheveled!” Bending, he caught her beneath the arms and pulled her upright, picking moss and twigs from the shining mass of black hair, brushing off dirt and grass that stuck to her sweat-slick skin. He shook his head in mock defeat. “I fear that it will have to be the creek again.” Sheprotested, laughing, as he scooped her up and waded into the water. Still holding her, he dipped her beneath the surface, and she relaxed into his hold, lying heavy in his arms as she gave herself to the cool water lapping silkily over her skin.
“What an indolent creature you are,” he murmured, smiling down at her peaceful face, eyes closed in lazy pleasure, the raven’s hair streaming on the surface of the water. “It seems you cannot even take a bath for yourself.”
Her eyes shot open at the mischievous note, but the alert came too late to save herself. Before she could grab on to him, Ben dropped her. Chuckling, mightily pleased with himself, he left her floundering and sputtering in laughing indignation and waded to the bank.
“Bully!” Bryony accused, standing, hands on hips, in the waist-deep water.
“Not at all,” he denied, sounding hurt. “I am going to prepare your breakfast. I look after you very well.”
Which was undeniably true, Bryony reflected, watching him stride, wonderfully naked, through the trees. There was much softness in the man. Why would he not trust her with the truth?
She made her own way to the bank and picked up the soft lawn nightshirt that had been discarded in such haste during those wondrous moments when their bodies and minds had touched. The garment was much the worse for wear, she thought ruefully, shaking out the folds. Then her eye caught something she had not noticed before—two letters embroidered in white at the back of the collar:
B.C.
B
for
Benedict.
That was easy enough. What did the
C
stand for? And, more to the point, did she dare ask? Itwould be a perfectly understandable question, quite natural, under the circumstances. She dropped the shirt over her head, rolled up the now grubby sleeves, and fastened the limp cravat at her waist. Her hair dripped chilly water onto her shoulders, and she shivered uncomfortably. High summer it might be, but water was still wet and tended to be cold when it clung to the skin.
She ran through the trees back to the clearing, her bare feet now hardly noticing the prick of the pine needles. There was no sign of Ben, but a fire had been lit in the stone ring, and she sat down beside it, holding her wet hair to the warmth.
“It seems to me you need something a little more practical to wear.” Ben’s voice came from the cabin door, and she turned curiously. “Put this on.” He
“You have unmanned me, sweeting,” he whispered at last, breaking the spell. “Destroyed my resolve, decimated my defenses.”
“Did you imagine I intended otherwise?” she returned in soft teasing, taking the free end of the strap that was still attached to her wrist and drawing it around his neck, pulling his head down to hers, tasting his lips with the tip of her tongue as a bee sips nectar. “I
hold you
prisoner now, do I not?”
“I fear so.” His hands reached up to grasp her wrists. “And it is a pretty tangle in which we are enmeshed, lass.” She felt the languor leave the hard body, the muscles tauten in thigh and belly as he prepared himself to move away from her. She pulled the strap tighter.
“Tell me, Ben. Tell me why it is such a tangle.”
“Were I to do that, my sweet Bryony, I should not ’scape hanging.” His voice was very sober, and the hands imprisoning her wrists gripped tighter, then broke her hold as if he were prying loose the little fingers of a baby, and slipped the strap from her wrist. He rolled off her and stood up. A glint of laughter in the black eyes chased away the somber expression.
“For a wood nymph, you are shockingly disheveled!” Bending, he caught her beneath the arms and pulled her upright, picking moss and twigs from the shining mass of black hair, brushing off dirt and grass that stuck to her sweat-slick skin. He shook his head in mock defeat. “I fear that it will have to be the creek again.” Sheprotested, laughing, as he scooped her up and waded into the water. Still holding her, he dipped her beneath the surface, and she relaxed into his hold, lying heavy in his arms as she gave herself to the cool water lapping silkily over her skin.
“What an indolent creature you are,” he murmured, smiling down at her peaceful face, eyes closed in lazy pleasure, the raven’s hair streaming on the surface of the water. “It seems you cannot even take a bath for yourself.”
Her eyes shot open at the mischievous note, but the alert came too late to save herself. Before she could grab on to him, Ben dropped her. Chuckling, mightily pleased with himself, he left her floundering and sputtering in laughing indignation and waded to the bank.
“Bully!” Bryony accused, standing, hands on hips, in the waist-deep water.
“Not at all,” he denied, sounding hurt. “I am going to prepare your breakfast. I look after you very well.”
Which was undeniably true, Bryony reflected, watching him stride, wonderfully naked, through the trees. There was much softness in the man. Why would he not trust her with the truth?
She made her own way to the bank and picked up the soft lawn nightshirt that had been discarded in such haste during those wondrous moments when their bodies and minds had touched. The garment was much the worse for wear, she thought ruefully, shaking out the folds. Then her eye caught something she had not noticed before—two letters embroidered in white at the back of the collar:
B.C.
B
for
Benedict.
That was easy enough. What did the
C
stand for? And, more to the point, did she dare ask? Itwould be a perfectly understandable question, quite natural, under the circumstances. She dropped the shirt over her head, rolled up the now grubby sleeves, and fastened the limp cravat at her waist. Her hair dripped chilly water onto her shoulders, and she shivered uncomfortably. High summer it might be, but water was still wet and tended to be cold when it clung to the skin.
She ran through the trees back to the clearing, her bare feet now hardly noticing the prick of the pine needles. There was no sign of Ben, but a fire had been lit in the stone ring, and she sat down beside it, holding her wet hair to the warmth.
“It seems to me you need something a little more practical to wear.” Ben’s voice came from the cabin door, and she turned curiously. “Put this on.” He
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