And he . . .
He’d wanted to lay her down among the silver and china, between the puddings and the gravy, and lick her all over. He’d burned to take her upstairs to the master bedroom with its big, curtained bed and touch her, take her, own her.
Of course he’d done none of those things.
Sloat and the servants had been around to keep his lust in check. Whatever circumstances had driven her from her brother’s home and protection, she was a lady. He would not show her less than respect in front of his dependents.
Now, sitting in the open carriage with her hands folded demurely in her lap, she gave him the slumberous look he loved. “If you wished to satisfy your basic appetites, we could have stayed at the cottage. I have two chairs now,” she informed him smugly. “And a bed.”
His blood heated even as he laughed. She might be a lady, but he was still very much a man. He was urgently, painfully aware that he could have her back at her cottage and naked in under five minutes.
But he wanted more from her than civilized dinners or stolen rendezvous.
He turned the cart down the narrow track that meandered to the cove and the boat he had waiting. He was sensitive to every shift of her body on the narrow bench, of her thigh warm beside his. Beneath his tailored coat, he was sweating, his body as hard as the brake handle.
But he would not be distracted again. Every time in the past few weeks he had tried to broach the subject of marriage, Morwenna had turned the conversation aside, diverting him with a look, a touch, a whispered invitation.
Not that he had been that difficult to distract, Jack admitted ruefully.
He had planned this outing with all the care of a general plotting battle strategy. Out-of-doors, where she was most comfortable. By the sea, where he saw her for the first time. On an island, picturesque and private. He gave instructions for the basket, the blanket, the boat. His mother’s ring was in his waistcoat pocket. He had even directed Sloat to draft a letter to his lawyer.
This time everything was prepared.
Everything was perfect.
This time she would say yes.
Morwenna sat in the front of the boat, trailing her hand over the side. The water flowed between her fingers, rippling along her nerve endings, murmuring her name. Beneath the stiff fabric of her dress, her breasts peaked. Her toes curled in her tight new shoes. She longed to be naked in the ocean.
And yet she would not have given up her place in the boat for anything.
She looked at Jack, his dark hair lifting in the breeze from the sea, the sun reddening his nose and cheekbones, and felt a rush of love for him so intense her heart stumbled.
It cannot last, her brother had warned.
But didn’t that make the present even more precious?
This moment must be enough. She would make it be enough for both of them. She would fashion a string of perfect moments like a necklace of pearls—her gift to him. He would never regret loving her. While she . . .
Her throat felt suddenly tight.
We are finfolk. Her brother’s words echoed harshly in her ears. What do we know of love?
She had no experience with love, no example to guide her. Few pair bonds among their kind lasted through the centuries. Children were rare, grudgingly born and quickly fostered.
And yet . . .
She watched the muscles of Jack’s arms bunch and stretch, his big hands grasp the oars, and she lost her breath, falling into the creak and the rhythm of the oars. His scent, soap and linen, salty sweat and clean skin, tugged at her senses. He rowed strongly if not particularly well, digging deep into the water. One paddle caught a swell and shot a plume of spray into the boat.
He grinned ruefully. “Army men are better in the saddle than at the oars.”
“I love you in the saddle,” she assured him, and he laughed.
The sound warmed her heart and eased her doubts. He was so different. Different from her, yes, but also unlike any man she had ever known before.
All the men she had observed over the centuries were sea-faring men, Vikings, sailors, fishermen.
“You did not learn to row growing up?” she asked.
“Not in Cheapside. London,” he explained. “My mother’s family lived in Cheapside.”
Over his shoulder, she could see the island rising like a green wave from the blue and silver sea.
She wrinkled her forehead, struggling to recall what she knew of London. “There is a river in London.”
He glanced over his shoulder, angling the boat toward the narrow beach. “A very dirty one. Not for boys in boats and definitely not for swimming.”
“You cannot swim?” She could hardly fathom such a thing.
“I can paddle. Or I could.”
Before the injuries that scarred his leg, she guessed.
He turned back to her, his gaze lazy and amused. “I suppose you swim like a fish.”
“I can swim,” she admitted.
Her belly hollowed. Exactly like a fish.
The boat rocked in the shallow water. A tumble of gray rock protected a pale sickle of sand. Above the beach the hills swelled, covered in long grass and white and yellow flowers, yarrow and meadowsweet.
The paddles gleamed in the sunlight. The round hull scraped bottom. Morwenna stood, holding on to the side of the boat.
“I’ve got you.” Jack swung her into his arms.
She clutched at his shoulders. “You will hurt your leg.”
“You’ll soak your hem.”
“No matter. I—”
But he was already striding through the ankle-deep water. He set her gently on her feet, his broad hands lingering at her waist before he left her to fetch the basket.
She sighed and spread the blanket on the grass. The sun was very warm. She straightened, stretching her back, looking longingly at the bright blue water. She wished now she had waded ashore. Her dress chafed. Her boots rubbed. For a moment, she felt as confined by her human role as by her human clothes.
“Show me,” Jack said.
The sight of him, dark and muscular in his tight blue coat, soothed her. Steadied her. “Show you what?”
“How to swim.”
Longing surged under her skin. She resisted the temptation. “I cannot Change. Um. My clothes.”
“You don’t need to change.” A smile creased the corners of his eyes. “We can swim naked.”
Her heart tripped.
He had seen her naked many times. This was no different, and yet she felt curiously exposed. The ocean was hers, her life, a part of herself she had kept carefully separate from him. Now he was asking her to share it, to bring him into her world.
Jack stripped off his jacket and tossed it on the blanket. “There’s no one to see.”
He pulled his shirt over his head.
Her gaze traveled the heavy definition of his muscles, the pattern of his scars, the dark hair that fanned across his chest and narrowed to a line below his navel. Lust stirred, easy and familiar.
“We do not need to swim,” she said.
He unbuttoned his breeches. He was already half aroused, dusky and thick. “It will be fun.”
She did not need fun. She needed . . . She was no longer sure what she needed.
“The water will be cold,” she warned.
Jack glanced down at his erection. “That’s probably a good thing.”
She smiled in acknowledgment, reaching slowly for the front closure of her dress.
“I can do that.” His hands were there, between her breasts, slipping the delicate buttons from their holes. “Let me.”