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The way he said it, as though he still had something to prove, widened her eyes.

He’d gone raving mad. Who on earth could think him weak? Not her, certainly. To her very great dismay, she knew full well that he combined solid muscle and iron resolve.

Had he not only listened to all of her childhood insults but also filed them away? Stewed on them over years and years?

“No one could do it,” she said. “Not Rabbie, or Davie. No one. Rowing now requires two. The way I see it . . .” She tipped up her chin. “You don’t have any option but to accept my help.”

He pushed back his hair angrily. “Accepting your help isn’t an option.”

“Fine.” She shrugged, struggling to her feet. Her lips tingled. She could still feel a phantom pressure, the echo of that fleeting kiss.

But it hadn’t been a kiss. It had been another accident, the most disastrous yet, triggering this insane offer.

“Do what you want.” She stepped out of the boat, her wobble due to its unsettled motion, not her weakened knees. Surely not.

The boat was scraping rhythmically against the pebbled beach.

She stepped away, retreating out of the reach of the waves.

“Go, then.” She made a shooing motion. “I know you’re in a hurry. Although . . .” She paused and fisted her hands on her hips. “Drowning will delay your arrival significantly.”

This time his guttural sound was definitely an oath.

“Isobel.” He almost groaned it. “I refuse to risk your life.”

She felt something very like a flutter.

“Oh,” she said softly, wonderingly, as though she’d just realized something important. But what? There was nothing to realize. He didn’t want her to die. That was a low bar when it came to fellow feeling. The rasp in his voice—just the effect of the salt in the wind.

The flutter faded. Her mind worked clearly again.

“You will risk my life,” she told him. “If you want to get there now, it’s the only way. But don’t worry yourself. It’s my choice. And you’re going to make it worth my while.”

After a moment’s tense silence, he threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a bitter laugh. It was boyish, that mischievous laugh she knew so well.

“I don’t want to ask.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“The Fairy Dale.” Every moment, the waves broke farther up the beach. Water was already running over her shoes.

Every moment, this venture grew riskier.

“I’ll row the strait with you,” she said. “And you’ll promise to put the kiln somewhere else.”

“Well played.” His drawl was unsurprised. With a fluid motion, he rose and sprang to the shore, dragging the boat around. He remained bent for longer than necessary, studying the rocky beach.

She tried not to wince, certain he’d recognized some quality of the pebbles, connected them with that rain of blows.

When he straightened and looked at her, his gaze wasn’t accusing, but rather thoughtful.

“You know, don’t you,” he said, “that I didn’t select that site for the kiln to spite you, or to provoke the Queen of Elfland. I selected it for the limestone, and the moss.”

“And the level ground,” she interrupted. “I remember. Limestone, moss, and level ground—they do exist together elsewhere on Dearnrigg. I listed a dozen alternatives.”

“I remember.” He raised his brows. “But you weren’t the only person with whom I consulted. Everyone else preferred the dale.”

“Mr. Somerville.” She made a face. “Who lives in a great big house in a great big town and wants to teach the farmers how to grow great big potatoes.”

“Mr. Somerville has agronomic expertise.” James spoke coolly, but the corner of his mouth had kicked up with amusement. “He’s a highly respected improver. His books have helped landowners modernize.”