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Only a sliver of space remained between them, a few fingers of air.
And air was so much fuel.
The moment stretched.
“What?” she breathed, tipping forward, reaching up.
“What what?” He blinked, gaze sharpening.
She froze.
He stepped back.
Something went ashy in her chest. “You said you wanted something.”
“I did. I do. That is—I want to go to Selchskerrie.” He flicked his eyes down to her half-raised arms. Her hands had clenched into fists.
“Despite my apology, you still want to crack my skull,” he remarked. His jaw tightened then he gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You can try, of course. But you’ll have to wait.”
With that, he strode for his boat.
4
Tib gave herself a shake. Lord Blane. Kissing her. Preposterous. She’d gone raving mad. She should have been trying to crack his skull. In fact, she’d gathered her ammunition at this very beach, three years ago, for the ambush at the Fairy Dale.
Since then, her brain had softened.
Luckily, James still interpreted her every move as strictly adversarial.
If he suspected that she’d raised her arms, not to deal a blow but to grip his shoulders, to pull him into her . . .
A sick knot bunched in her stomach.
She’d never recover. There was dignity in fighting a losing battle against a high-and-mighty English landlord. There was none in kissing him. Good God. There was even less in craving his kisses when he’d as soon kiss a pig. A mule.
James considered her a pest.
He thought she had the manners, and the cleanliness, of a barnyard animal.
Wide-awake, in the light of day, she possessed far too much spirit, and self-respect, and justified ire, to imagine anything but animosity between them.
Didn’t she?
She’d given herself a shake, but now a shiver went through her, involuntary, her skin responding to the memory of his skin, how it felt to the touch.
What was wrong with her?
“Damn!”
His muttered oaths carried to her on the wind. He’d rotated the skiff and now confronted the difficulty of his position.
The beach was secret, a sheltered cove, challenging to access from shore, and, at certain times of day, nearly impossible to escape by sea. The inlet was narrow, a channel worn through cliffs. Pinnacles of basalt pierced the agitated surface of the water.
James muttered something that sounded like puke stocking.
“Looks like you will have to wait,” she called, and he twisted, exasperation on his face. He might have been exasperated with her, or himself, or the situation. She didn’t care.
“The lordliest lord in the world can’t change the tides,” she pointed out, slipping into her shoes. She approached him, spent waves lapping her soles. “It’s running in. And the wind’s blowing with it. You hear that roar?”
