15
If there was anything Oliver should not have been thinking about the following morning, it was kissing Mrs. Iris Rumford. Yet here he was, thinking of little else.
Even worse, those thoroughly distracted thoughts had led him to blindly wander far from his post guarding the glasshouses. He didn’t even realize he was haunting the banks of the stream that ran along Durand Manor’s western border, until he spied Verity and Iris in the distance.
Iris. The name washed through him, making him shiver despite the warmth of the early-morning sun on his back.
It both suited her and did not suit her.
While she was as delicate and beautiful as that flower, there was something untouchable about the bloom, a haughty elegance that the woman did not possess.
He thought of her as she had been last night, the warmth she had shown to his mother and sister, the openness and even affection she had shared with him.
No, he thought from his place behind a tree, letting his gaze trail over her lithe form as she smoothed the blanket they had brought with them near the bank of the stream, she was not arrogant in the least.
But what was this warmth in his chest? Frowning, he rubbed at it with his hand.
Instead of dissipating, however, it only grew warmer, spreading, until it flowed into his torso, his limbs, even his cheeks.
What the devil was wrong with him? Had he forgotten his first impressions of her, his instincts screaming at him that she was up to no good?
That voice, however, was a mere whisper now, one he hardly heard over the beating of his heart, a loud thumping that only increased when he looked her way.
As he did now, eyes fairly devouring her.
Her hair was in its customary mass of messy blond curls, the gown she wore a delicate shade of leaf green.
She did tend to favor earth colors, he mused, a small smile curving his lips.
He reared back and blanched. Did he know her so well that he could identify such things, using words like customary and favor in regard to her appearance?
He glared as she stood opposite Verity, seemingly describing something with wide motions of her hands.
No, this wouldn’t do at all. He had to remain on guard where she was concerned.
Because eventually, with certainty, she was going to do something that would prove his first impressions of her had been correct.
And he refused to be caught off guard. Giving her one final dark look, he began to move off?. .? .
Until a high-pitched yell reached his ears and he turned to see Iris twisting Verity’s arm, pushing her face down toward the ground as his sister squealed in alarm.
In a blink he ducked around the tree, sprinting toward them, feet pounding the ground while fear and confusion and anger pounded through his veins.
At the sound of his approach both women looked up at him, twin expressions of shock on their faces.
Verity quickly righted herself, yanking her arm from Iris’s grip, which in turn caused Iris to lose her balance and, arms flailing, fall back. Right toward the stream.
Fury transformed to alarm, his mad sprint to rescue his sister turning into a mad sprint to rescue Iris.
He was far too late, of course. If he had been in his right mind he would have realized there was no way he could reach her in time.
But his actions were not checked by logic, and he reached for her just as she hit the water, his momentum sending him right in after her.
Everything moved in slow motion then, as often happens when disaster looms and there is no way to stop it.
Every detail crystallized in his mind: the sun glistening off the merrily babbling stream; the wispy grasses that kissed the edge of the water; the smooth rocks beneath the surface.
But more than anything, Iris’s face, eyes wide, bow mouth a perfect oval of surprise as the water splashed up around her, as if she were a water sprite in a fountain.
She truly was lovely, he thought in one ridiculously frozen moment.
And then he hit the chill water, and everything started up again in a chaotic jumble.
Cold water rushed over his body and face, into his mouth and ears, stinging his eyes.
But it was over within the mere span of a breath.
Or what would have been a breath if he could breathe.
Between the water covering his face and the wind having been completely knocked out of him at the impact, he felt he would never draw breath again.
What was it about this woman and his inability to breathe properly?
Hands fumbling over the smooth rocks beneath him, he fought to find purchase as he lurched upright.
The moment the air hit his face he gasped, drawing great gulps into his lungs.
Then he opened his eyes, to find Iris’s face close to his.
Water dripped from the tip of her nose and lashes, her brows were drawn together in the middle in worry, her once-bouncing array of chaotic curls hanging limp against her cheeks and neck.
He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
“Oh dear!” she cried. “Are you hurt?”
“Never mind me,” he rasped. He reached out, running his hands over her limbs. “Were you injured? Are you well?”
She stared at him, blinking. “You’re worried about me again?”
He scowled. “Of course I am. You could have been hurt—”
She threw herself into his arms. Again. Only now it was day and not night, and they were chest-deep in a stream—
And they were not alone.
His eyes shot to the bank. Sure enough, there was Verity, gaping at them. God knew what was going through her head. Whatever it was, it could not have been good. Previously chilled cheeks flaming with sudden warmth, he grasped Iris’s arms and gently pushed her away from him.
“We should get out of this water,” he mumbled.
“Oh! Of course. I’m so sorry.”
She scrambled to her feet, holding out a hand for him.
But though he ached to take that hand, he purposely ignored it, pushing himself to standing.
Water streamed from his clothing, dripped from his hair, filled his boots.
But he hardly noticed his own discomfort.
Iris’s dress was plastered to her body in the most revealing way, and though he jerked his gaze from her immediately, what he had seen was burned into his brain: tiny waist, subtly rounded hips, the gentle swell of stomach, long legs.
And the most perfect, most pert breasts imaginable.
Blessedly Verity chose that moment to let her presence be known, thereby distracting him from what the memory of that image was doing to his body.
“Oh my goodness.” She rushed forward, hopping about on the bank of the stream. “Are either of you hurt?”
“We’re fine, Verity,” he croaked. He cleared his throat, hoping to regain some semblance of poise.
Though how poised could he possibly be, looking as drenched and bedraggled as a wet dog?
Which made him remember Iris’s appearance.
Which heated certain areas of him that should not be heated.
But if nothing was left to the imagination where Iris was concerned, wouldn’t that be true for him as well?
Face burning, he surreptitiously clasped his hands in front of his groin.
“Why don’t you help Mrs. Rumford out of the stream?” he suggested tightly. “And use that blanket to cover her?”
“What? Oh! Of course.” There was general scuffling, water sloshing, small grunts as Verity helped Iris to dry land. It took every bit of self-control he possessed not to look their way.
After a moment he dared to glance at Iris. Her small face peeked out from the gingham, hands clasping the fabric tightly closed. The sigh he let loose was a combination of relief and disappointment, a fact he did not look too closely at as he finally made his careful way from the water.
But now that the chaos and shock had passed and they were all safe on dry land once more, Verity’s anxiety stepped aside for another emotion entirely.
She stormed forward, hands on hips as she glared up at Oliver. “Just what did you think you were doing, running toward us, scaring the life out of us?” she demanded.
Which reminded Oliver of why he had rushed forward in the first place. “I would think it was obvious,” he growled, turning to glare at Iris, trying very hard not to notice how utterly adorable she looked cocooned in the blanket. “What do you think you were about, attacking my sister?”
“Attacking?” She gaped up at him. “I wasn’t attacking her.”
“She was showing me how to defend myself,” Verity interjected hotly. “Something she told me she suggested to you last night during your walk home. Or have you forgotten?”
Actually, he had forgotten. Absolutely and completely forgotten. Feeling two inches tall, he uselessly asked, “Was that what she was about then?”
“Yes. And if you had bothered to take even a moment to check, you would have been informed of that and would not now be completely soaked. Why, if Iris does not catch a cold from this dunking, I shall be surprised.”
Which, coincidentally, was when Iris sneezed. Verity motioned to her, expression outraged as she glared at him, as if to say, Do you see what you have done?