Part 17 (2/2)
Senna's glare, set and determined though it was, did nothing to provide a solution to a single problem in her life.
She did not want to be in this boat, with Finian, not being touched. And that was madness. But something burning and insistent had been awakened inside her. She wanted him to touch her, was practically desperate for him to. That was ridiculous, and perhaps a sign of impending madness.
Rather than worrying about Rardove and his fury, or how she was going to salvage the business, or how she would ever get home again, and if she had a home to go to in any event, all her attention was focused on how to get this Irishman to touch her.
d.a.m.n the whisky.
All ensuing conversation that afternoon was desultory at best. It was getting toward late afternoon, and Senna was dying of heat. And boredom. The boat slipped effortlessly down the small river. Whenever a village appeared in the distance, Finian made her lie down flat again. Otherwise, nothing happened. Little talking, no touching.
And the heat.
”Can we pull to the side?” she suddenly asked.
He looked at her like she was mad. ”Are ye mad?”
”No,” she said very slowly, as if he might not understand. ”I am mucky. I stink.”
He sniffed. ”Ye do not.”
”You are mad. I've been lying in muck.” are mad. I've been lying in muck.”
”We're not stopping.”
Dour silence ensued.
”Just the tunic,” she said a few moments later.
The look he shot her was murderous. ”Don't.”
She threw him an equally warning glance. ”I'm hot.”
And it was hot. At this moment, probably the hottest it would be all day.
”Don't.”
”I'm dying of the heat.” She panted plaintively, to demonstrate. He looked away.
”If any of yer clothes come off, Senna, I'll roll ye into the river.”
She gasped. ”Just the-”
”Splash,” he said ominously. She drew back. ”Have ye learned to swim yet, in the last hour or so?”
”Of course not.”
”Then sit back.”
”I am sitting back,” she retorted sourly.
”We'll be there soon.”
”Not soon enough.”
He snorted.
”You really do snort a lot.”
”Ye complain a lot.” He nailed her with a look. ”Why don't ye take a rest? Lie on the packs, close yer eyes?”
And my mouth, she thought crossly. she thought crossly.
In the end, they came to an unpleasant compromise, wherein Senna perched over the side and washed her face and armpits and everything she could reach by pulling things aside but not actually disrobing, while Finian sat backward in his seat and stared the other way up the river.
”I'm all done,” she sang out.
He turned in stony silence and started paddling again.
An hour later she was about to go mad. No conversation, all heat and boredom, and the only reason her belly wasn't heaving dried bread and cheese over the side was because the tributary they traveled was shallow. The boat didn't rock much, and rarely shot forward with any purpose. But still, it was not not comfortable. comfortable.
She s.h.i.+fted for perhaps the hundredth time, levering herself to her knees, which creaked. She groaned and put a hand to her spine. ”I think my back is broken.” Her leg suddenly cramped. She grabbed it and tried to pound it out.
”Do ye know much about boats, Senna?” he asked sharply.
She eyed him. The cramp was fading. ”Some.”
”Then ye likely know ye don't want to fling yourself about like you're in a mad carol. Or you'll tumble over the side.”
”Is that so?” she said derisively.
A cool Irish gaze sailed over her. ”Keep jostling and ye'll find out.”
She looked at the sh.o.r.eline, sliding away. ”I can help, you know.”
He barely glanced at her.
”With paddling. I can take a turn.”
”No.”
”Why not?”
”Because we're almost there.”
In her excitement at the news, she tried to turn and kneel on the small wooden bench. The boat eddied around a little cove just then and hit a rock, unseen beneath the water. The boat lurched, Senna slid off the bench, her foot hit the bottom of the old boat hard, in just the right way, and went straight through into the water below.
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