Chapter Eight
IAN reacted quickly before baser instincts could take hold. He rolled away from her and rose to his feet, careful to keep his back to her.
He focused on the outside. The rain had stopped and the early morning smelled clean. Heavy fog floated across the ground, and there was a bit of a nip in the air.
He struggled for sanity. He counted to one hundred, thought of the names of all the members of his family alive and dead, and started in on the sixty-three initial clauses in the Magna Carta before realizing sanity wasn’t coming.
Lust still reigned supreme.
“Mr. Campion?” She still wasn’t quite awake, still didn’t know his reaction to her. Was still sleepily sensual. Warm. Inviting—
“Stay here. I’ll be back. In a moment.”
He strode off through the wet grass. Thick fog meant there had to be water somewhere, and his prayers were answered as he stepped through a parting of the trees and found himself on the edge of a good-size lake.
Ian walked straight for it, tossing off his coat, pulling off his shirt, unbuttoning his breeches, kicking off his boots, and shaking off his socks until he was naked as the day he was born, and dove in.
The water was freezing—and exactly what he needed.
He planted his feet on the soft, muddy bottom and lifted his head and upper body out, gasping for air. All thoughts of Miss Harrell’s breasts, her warm, round buttocks, and his strong desire for both were shocked out of his system.
A shiver went through him and he lowered in the water as he watched tendrils of fog floating across the surface of the lake. His body adjusted to the icy temperature and he took off swimming, needing the exercise while he came to terms with what had happened.
He’d fallen asleep on watch.
He’d never fallen asleep on watch.
Pulling his arms through the water, he feared what it meant. He was losing the honed edge, the hardness, and he couldn’t afford to, not with so much at stake.
But then, everything he touched, he seemed to destroy—starting with his own youthful ideals years ago. He’d had to flee college, his studies, and his father’s plans for his future.
Then had come the army. He’d hidden from the English right under their own noses. What he hadn’t anticipated was for his brothers-in-law to die. It had been a stupid waste and he was tired. Bloody tired.
But he couldn’t give up yet. Not with Fiona, Janet, and their children needing him.
Ian lost himself in the rhythmic movement of his arms. He could have swam forever. Instead, he turned and headed back to shore, the angry voices in his head growing less powerful, until he could live with himself again.
And what of Miss Harrell?
The simple task of fetching her for her father was taking on Herculean proportions, and it wasn’t just because there was a group of murderers after her.
No, it was because she reminded him of the man he could have been. A man who could have presented himself to her. Who could have wooed and won her, even as an Irishman.
Instead, now, he was the outlaw, the pariah, the outcast. It wasn’t so bad for himself, except he’d taken his family’s honor with him.
Ian quit swimming and, curling himself into a ball, floated a moment, letting the water carry him.
His father had always boasted that Ian was like a fish in water. Floating, Ian thought he could hear echoes of his father’s voice in the murky silence of the lake…and his mother quietly answering him. They’d both been so proud of him, even when his youthful arrogance had cost them all they’d owned.
He shut his mind, not wanting the memories. The past was behind him. He’d learned long ago he could not dwell on it. If he did, he might go mad.
There was only one choice before him. He had to see Miss Harrell safe and collect his money. Money meant freedom and he desperately wanted to be free of his past. Somewhere in this world was a place where a man could be who and what he was. He’d find it—and not let them break him.
Nor would he allow an idealistic bluestocking with uncertainty in her eyes and a taste for adventure lure him into making another grave mistake.
Ian Campion knew who he was. He was far from perfect, but he’d promised himself long ago he’d live life according to his own dictates.
He straightened his legs and stood, throwing his head back and letting the water run in rivulets down his chest and the flat expanse of his abdomen.
The sun was burning off the fog and gilding the tops of the trees surrounding the lake.
The chill in the morning air hit his warm muscles and he felt clean and whole again. He had direction—
Someone was watching him.
A prickle of recognition danced over his skin. He took a step deeper in the water for the sake of decency before slowly turning toward the shore, the water barely covering his hips.
Miss Harrell stood there, her mouth wide open.
Their gazes met, and for a moment the air between them was charged—and then Ian’s sense of humor got the best of him. She appeared so shocked and he didn’t know why. There was a path of his clothing spread on the ground for anyone to see.
He broke the silence. “You seem to have a problem, Miss Harrell, with staying where I tell you to.”
Deep color flooded her face. She shut her mouth and he knew in that moment that he was the first man she’d probably ever seen the way God had made him. He was tempted to give her a better show just to see if her blush could grow more heated.
“I heard a splash,” she said, slightly indignant, as if the fault was his. “I ran to see if you were all right.”
A hundred quips leapt to his mind. With a more experienced woman, he might have said one, and depending on how she reacted, could have found himself spending the morning in a very pleasurable fashion.
But this was Miss Harrell. Miss Harrell, the “job,” one that could make his fortune, and he’d best remember that fact.
Still, he couldn’t resist teasing her a bit. Spreading his arms, he said, “I am fine. But I want to come out now. The water is cold.” He moved two steps forward.
Her reaction was everything he could have hoped for. Her eyes widened and she scrambled backward so quickly, her feet slipped on the damp grass and she landed on her bum.
She popped back up to her feet, her face afire. “You need a haircut,” she tossed out and then, turning, went running back the way she’d come, her red curls bouncing.
Slowly, Ian sunk beneath the water, swallowing his laughter until he could release it in bubbles.
Lyssa did not stop until she reached the shelter. There, she snatched up her plaid and threw it around her shoulders before collapsing on a log someone had once set there for a stool.
“Stupid! What a stupid thing to say,” she chastised herself under her breath. Mr. Campion was no doubt laughing at her expense.
And how could she have thought about his hair when the man had been standing naked in front of her? Worse, when his back had been turned to her, she had gotten an eyeful of his bare buttocks.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the male form before.
After all, she was a sophisticated woman.
She lived in the city. She’d seen nudes many times displayed in art and in certain pieces of sculpture.
She’d even seen workers and seamen without their shirts on rare occasions.
No, she wasn’t a stranger to the human body—but there was a big difference between cold stone or a scrawny chest and seeing the well-muscled Mr. Campion rise out of the water like some pagan prince.
He’d been a work of art…and in truth, she had followed the trail of clothing because she was curious.
Of course, then what had she done? She’d gaped like the village fool. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of him.
Lyssa dropped her head to her hands. How was she going to face him again?
As if on cue, she heard him whistling. A second later, he came out of the woods.
He was dressed, to a degree. He wore breeches and boots; his shirt-tail, however, was untucked and he carried his jacket and neck cloth.
His hair was still wet and combed back with his fingers.
He apparently had used his shirt for a towel. Damp, it molded itself to his chest.
She was struck anew by his casual elegance and athletic grace. He could have easily passed for a member of the Court with the right clothes.
Lyssa shifted around, uncomfortable.
He strolled into their small camp as if nothing was amiss and picked up his knapsack.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him pull out a clean shirt.
“Would you care to bathe, Miss Harrell? I do have a bit of soap.” He tossed the clean shirt over his shoulder and smelled the sliver of soap he’d carried.
“No scent, but it is of good quality. My sister makes it and Janet has a talent for soap. I also have”—he held up a tin—“tooth powder.”
The minute he made the offer, she felt gritty. Still, she wasn’t prepared to face him.
There was an awkward silence, and then he took two steps closer and prodded her with the bit of soap. “Come along and take it. You don’t need to be embarrassed, the sea serpent has his clothes on.”
The Irish lilt in his voice lent teeth to his teasing. She jerked her head around to glare at him while she took the soap and tooth powder. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say, and stood, her back rigid.
“Here,” he said and pulled off his shirt. “You can use this for a towel.”
She didn’t take the shirt from his hand or give him the benefit of comment but marched away, head high.
“I’ll keep watch,” he called, tossing the shirt aside.
Lyssa stopped. “You keep your eyes to yourself.”
“Yes, Miss Harrell,” he responded dutifully, and she knew he was implying that she hadn’t. She hurried down to the lake before he could see the heated glow on her cheeks.