Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

A little further on, he broke into a loping run.

Regardless of his insistence on watching over her, his rational mind did not expect another attack, not here on Geoffrey’s land. Why, then, was his chest tightening—why was apprehension filling him?

He was running when he broke into the final clearing—and saw, across the meadow, Caro halfway across the narrow bridge. She was still steadily walking, looking down. Smiling, pushing aside his distracting premonition, he slowed. “Caro!”

She heard. Straightening, lifting her head, she turned, reached for the handrail as she grasped her clinging skirts and flicked them about. She smiled in glorious welcome. Grasped the rail as she released her skirts and raised her hand to wave—

The handrail broke. Fell away as she touched it.

She valiantly tried to regain her balance, but there was nothing to clutch, to cling to.

With a faint shriek, she toppled from the bridge, disappearing into the swirling mists boiling up from the racing waters funneling through the narrow gorge, hurling themselves into the deep waters of the weir.

His heart in his throat, Michael sprinted down the meadow. Reaching the bank, he frantically searched, simultaneously hauling off his boots. He was shrugging out of his coat when he saw her surface, a bobbing white welter of muslin skirts flashing into sight at the mouth of the weir. Her silk-fringed shawl dragged at her arms as she struggled to raise them, to stroke, to float.

The rushing current pulled her back down.

She was not a strong swimmer; the current, fueled by the torrents gushing past either side of the island, was sweeping her into the weir.

He dived in. A few swift strokes brought him to where she had been. He came up, trod water, trying to glimpse her, to more accurately gauge the current’s direction. The undertow was ferocious.

She resurfaced, gasping, some yards farther on. He plunged back into the swirling waters, went with the tow, added his own powerful strokes to it—glimpsed a murky whiteness ahead and lunged for it.

His fingers tangled in her gown. Grabbing, grasping, he closed his fist about a handful—remembered just in time not to yank. Wet muslin would simply tear, rip away; desperate, he lunged again, touched a limb—latched his fingers around her upper arm and locked them.

Battling the powerful undertow, he fought not to get swept further into the convergence of the two arms of the stream. There, the water churned, its force powerful enough to pull him under, let alone her.

She was exhausted, gasping, fighting for breath. Steadily, he pulled her to him until her clutching fingers found his shoulders, until he could wrap one arm about her waist.

“Easy. Don’t thrash!”

She responded‘ to his voice, stopped flailing, but gripped him harder. “I can’t swim well.”

There was panic in her voice; she was battling to contain it.

“Stop trying—just hang on to me. I’ll do the swimming.” Looking around, he realized the only safe way out was to move sideways into the quieter body of water between the two tumbling currents created by the arms of the stream. Once in the relative calm, he could tow her back to the island.

He juggled her, moving her to his left, then, still fighting the tow that wanted to swirl them on, he edged them inch by inch, foot by foot to the left. Gradually, the force pummeling them lessened until finally they were in calmer water.

Drawing her to him, brushing the wet hair from her face, he looked into her eyes, more blue than silver, darkened with fear. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Just hold on—I’m going to take us back to the island.”

He did, exercising great care not to get swept back into the currents racing past on either side, then, as they neared the island, wary of rocks beneath the surface.

With an effort she lifted her head and gasped, “There’s a small jetty to the left—that’s the only place where it’s easy to get up.”

He glanced around and saw what she meant—a jetty less than a yard square stood out from the island, a few sturdy wooden rungs providing a means to climb up to it. Just as well; the sides of the island, now he could see them clearly, worn and cut by decades of floods, rose up, relatively sheer, no useful hand- or footholds, and with an unhelpful overhang at the top.

A narrow paved path wound up from the jetty to the cottage. Readjusting his hold on her, he set course for the jetty.

She was exhausted and trembling by the time he got her onto it. They slumped side by side, gasping, simply waiting for some semblance of strength to return.

Lying back, shoulders propped against the bank, he stared unseeing at the sky. Her head lay cradled on his arm. After a few minutes, she turned his way, weakly raised a hand to touch his cheek. “Thank you.”

He didn’t reply—couldn’t. He caught her fingers, trapped them in his, closed his eyes as reaction—realization—poured through him, so intense it was frightening, a fright that shook him to his soul.

Then her weight against him, the faint warmth reaching through her drenched clothes, the gentle intermittent pressure of her breast against his side as she breathed, registered, and relief flooded him.

He realized he was squeezing her fingers; he eased his hold, raised them to his lips. He looked down; she looked up. Her eyes met his, a frown dulling the silver.

“You know,” Caro murmured, trying valiantly not to shiver, “I think you’re right. Someone is trying to kill me.”

Eventually, they climbed up to the cottage. She refused to let Michael carry her, but was forced to lean heavily against him.

Once inside, they stripped; there was clean water to wash away the mud and linen towels with which to dry themselves. Michael wrung out their dripping clothes, then they hung them in the windows where the sun streamed in and the warm breeze could catch them.

She speared her fingers through her toweled hair, combed out the tangles as best she could. Then, draped in shawls her mother used to use in winter, she crawled into the V of Michael’s thighs as he sat propped against the head of the daybed, and let him wrap her in his arms.

His arms tightened; he held her close, leaned his check against her damp hair. She crossed her arms over his and clung.

Simply held tight.

He didn’t exactly rock her, yet she felt the same sense of caring, of being cherished and protected. They didn’t speak; she wondered if he kept silent for the same reason she did—because her emotions were so stirred, roiling so close to her surface that she feared if she opened her lips, they’d come tumbling out, willy-nilly, without thought for what they might reveal, where they might lead. What they might commit her to.

Gradually, the slight shudders that still racked her—a combination of cold and fear—eased, driven out by the pervasive heat of his body, by the warmth that seeped slowly to her bones.

Yet it was he who stirred first, who sighed and eased his arms from under hers.

“Come.” He placed a light kiss on her temple. “Let’s get dressed and go back to the house.” She shifted to face him; he caught her gaze, continued in the same even, determined voice, “There’s lots we need to discuss, but first, you should take a hot bath.”

She didn’t argue. They dressed, pulling on their clothes, still slightly damp, then left the cottage. Crossing the bridge was no real problem; although it was narrow, she’d crossed it so often, she didn’t truly need the rail.

Michael stopped just before he followed her off the bridge. Crouching, he examined what remained of the post that had supported the rail at that end. He’d caught a glimpse of it as he’d rushed down to the bank, before he’d dived in; what he saw now confirmed his earlier observation. The post had been sawn almost through; barely a sliver had been left intact. All three of the posts had been treated similarly; the upper portion of each had been virtually balancing on the lower section from which it had been all but severed.