Part 35 (2/2)

It was also the first overt compliment he'd given her since she'd first laid eyes on him again, and it was absurdly potent enough to make her blush.

She couldn't remember a time she'd changed color in the presence of Landsdowne, or any other man, really.

Apart, perhaps, from when she'd gone pale upon reading ”The Legend of Lyon Redmond.”

Which made her think of Landsdowne, and his hands, strong and square and aristocratic, the signet ring gleaming as he stirred sugar into his tea and confessed to maybe, possibly, mildly disappointing another woman when he became engaged to Olivia.

And here was Lyon, who was incapable of doing anything mildly, yet again offering her something new, something she might or might not be equal to, something that might or might not be wise.

”Take this, too, because you'll need to dry off.” Lyon thrust the rolled blanket at her, and she tucked it beneath her arm. ”You can walk right up to the waterfall, and tuck yourself behind it. You'll see.”

And then she suddenly reached up pulled her ribbon loose and gave her head a good shake, giving her hair up to the breeze, which immediately began tossing it about like a new plaything. And then she kicked off her slippers and lunged to seize them up in one hand, hiked her dress to her calves in the other-let him admire that view-and set out toward the waterfall.

”For all you know, I'm covered all over in iridescent scales,” she said over her shoulder.

”Good G.o.d, I hope so. Then all my dreams will have come true.”

Her laughter trailed her, unbridled and musical as that waterfall.

IT WAS THE one thing that had been missing, he realized. That sound more than nearly anything meant ”Olivia” to him.

He stood and drank it in.

She sounded free and happy. An innocent sort of happy. It was like birdsong after a rainstorm, when birds all sang their fool heads off, throwing their hearts into it.

She should always be this happy.

And then he noticed something on the ground nearby, a sc.r.a.p of s.h.i.+ning fabric.

She'd dropped her reticule.

He picked it up, and a comb and something folded into a tight, white square tumbled out and unfurled on the way, fluttering to the ground.

He picked it up gently, frowning, and ran it through his fingers.

And then all at once he knew what it was.

His thumb found ”LAJR” embroidered in the corner.

How had she gotten it? The handkerchief was spotless, apart from a tiny drop of blood.

And then he remembered: it was from the night he'd left Pennyroyal Green. The night his father had hit him.

She'd kept it this long.

And she'd carried it with her folded in a tight square.

He closed his eyes, and once again, his chest exploded with light, like the first time he'd held her in his arms.

Perhaps this was all they would ever have-an hour or two of bliss here and there, strung together like jewels by interludes of longing and loss. Perhaps they were destined for nothing more than a few pockets of time, tucked away into their lives, hidden from everyone and everything the way this cove was hidden from the rest of the beach.

Still.

He watched her go with bemused wonder at fate, his lungs constricting a little with yearning. That ever-present desire that always had its claws in him and seemed to doom him to restlessness.

She loved him. She always had.

He knew it as surely as he knew the color of his own eyes.

And he was just as certain then he'd been born loving her, as surely as he'd been born with blue eyes. It was that simple. That permanent.

And if it was a curse, then he didn't know what a blessing was.

Now he knew what must do, for her sake and for his.

OLIVIA TRIPPED DELICATELY along the beach in her bare feet until the damp sand b.u.t.ted up against cool silvery-gray stone, its jagged edges polished through who knows how many centuries of rus.h.i.+ng water. She took a step up, easing past the waterfall into the recess behind it. It was deep enough so that the smooth back wall of the arcing cave was dry, if cool, and the damp, earthy, mineral smell was a perfume. She inhaled deeply.

She peered out through the curtain of water.

On the sh.o.r.e was a little stack of clothes and a pair of boots and a blanket spread out neatly, which meant Lyon had adroitly stripped and must already be in the water.

Men. Bless their heathen little souls.

And in for a penny, in for a pound.

She could accomplish this quickly if she didn't pause to mull. It was an easy enough thing to slip her dress off over her head once she'd finished with the laces, and after that, she slipped off her s.h.i.+ft. She folded all of it neatly and stacked it against the stone wall.

And just like that, she was entirely naked outdoors and about to step beneath a waterfall, which wasn't a very English thing to be or do.

Though she wouldn't be at all surprised if one of her brothers had done it once or twice.

She stood, simply enjoying being nude, unfettered by anything that defined her, like fine English clothing. The air was warm and dense and velvety, a caress, and it turned mundane acts she'd never given much thought to-raising her arms, walking in bare feet, giving her head a toss to pour her hair down her bare back, shake her hair down her bare back-into sensual ones.

She stepped beneath the water and gasped, and then she laughed in shock.

The contrast between the cold water and the silky air was a brand new kind of bliss. She held the soap beneath the water and rubbed it between her palms.

Too vigorously as it turned out.

”d.a.m.n!”

The stones amplified her voice as if she were on stage at Covent Garden.

The soap leaped for its freedom from her grasp and landed with a splash in the pool below and immediately began sailing away.

LYON DUCKED BENEATH the water and burst to the surface swiftly. A quick little baptism, an attempt at clearing his head.

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