Sandra Field - Wildfire

Wildfire

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

HE WAS in love.

Smiling to himself, Simon Greywood rested his paddle across the gunwales, the canoe sliding silently through the mirror-smooth water. It was early enough in the morning that mist, cool and intangible, was still rising from the lake, wreathing the reeds and granite boulders that edged the shore in phantasmagorical folds. Although birds were singing in the forest, some of them so sweetly that they made his throat ache, their cries merely scratched the surface of a silence so absolute as to be a force in itself.

The silence of wilderness, he thought. A wilderness as different from the city he had left only two weeks ago as could be imagined. In London, no matter what the hour of day or night, there was always the underlying snarl of traffic, the sense of people pressing in on all sides...whereas here, on a lake deep in the Nova Scotian forest, there was not another human being in sight. He loved it here. Felt almost as though in some strange way he had come home.

From the corner of his eye he caught movement. A wet brown head was swimming purposefully towards him, churning a V-shaped wake in the water. Wondering if it could be a beaver, for Jim had told him there was a dam in the stillwater near the head of the lake, Simon sat motionless. Within fifteen feet of the canoe the animal suddenly veered away from him, slapped its tail on the lake with a crack like a gunshot, and in a flurry of spray dived beneath the water.

The tail had been broad and flat, highly effective as a warning signal. So it was a beaver. Chuckling softly, Simon picked up his paddle again and stroked through the channel between the two lakes, carefully avoiding a couple of rocks that lay just below the surface. The water level was down, Jim had told him, because it had been such a hot, dry summer.

He had not paddled as far as this second lake before. What had Jim called it? Maynard’s Lake? Not a name that in any way expressed the serene beauty of the still, dark water that reflected in perfect symmetry the rocks and trees surrounding the lake and the small white clouds that hung above it.

Following the shore, he worked on the Indian stroke that Jim had been teaching him, a stroke that enabled him to stay on course without ever lifting the paddle out of the water and thus to move as silently as was possible. Best way to come across wildlife, Jim had assured him, describing how he had once got within forty feet of a moose by using that particular stroke.

The shoreline meandered down the lake in a series of coves, each lush with ferns and the pink blooms of bog laurel. The mist was slowly dissipating as the sun gained warmth. All the tensions that had driven Simon for as many years as he could remember seemed to be seeping away under the morning’s spell; he felt utterly at peace in a way that was new to him. And he had Jim to thank for it. Jim, his brother, from whom he had been separated for nearly twenty-five years...

A series of loud splashes came from the next cove, shattering the quiet and his own reflective mood; it was as though some large animal had entered the water and was wading through it. A moose? A bear? In spite of himself, Simon felt a shiver of atavistic fear ripple along his nerves. He might feel as though he was at home here. But in terms of actual experience of the wilderness he was a raw beginner. He’d do well to remember that.

He edged nearer the granite boulders that hid him from view of the next cove. There was a gap between the rocks, too narrow for his canoe, but wide enough that he should be able to see what was causing the disturbance without himself being seen. Sculling gently, he came parallel with the gap, and as he did so the splashing ceased with dramatic suddenness.

He had not dreamed it, though. The surface of the water in the cove was stirred into ripples and tiny wavelets, on which the lily pads placidly bobbed. But of the perpetrator of the ripples there was no sign.

Moose, he was almost sure, did not dive. Did bears? He had no idea. Holding himself ready to do a swift backup stroke if the situation called for it, Simon waited to see what creature would emerge from the lake. Another beaver? A loon?

A head broke the surface, swimming away from him. Long hair streamed from the skull back into the water as, in a smooth, sinuous curve of naked flesh, the woman dived beneath the lake again. Tiny air bubbles rose to the top, and the ripples spread slowly outwards.

Simon took a deep breath, wondering if he was indeed dreaming. He had been under the impression that Jim’s cabin was the last little outpost of civilisation on this chain of lakes; certainly his brother had not mentioned that anyone else lived further out then he. So who was this woman, who had appeared and disappeared like some spirit of the lake?

As if in answer to his question, she burst up out of the water again, her profile to him this time, the sun glinting on her wet cheeks and white teeth, for she was smiling in sheer pleasure. The force of her stroke brought, momentarily, the gleam of her shoulders and the smooth swell of her breasts into sight, inexpressibly beautiful. Then, in a flash of bare thighs, she knifed below the water.

His nails digging into the polished shaft of his paddle, Simon waited for her to reappear. When she did, she was facing him. But the rising sun was full in her face, and he was sure he was invisible to her.

He knew two things with an immediacy that knocked him off balance.

First, of course, he knew he did not want to disturb her in her play; for play it was, as innocent and joyful as that of a young otter. To frighten her, or alert her to his presence, was the last thing he wanted.

He could not tell what colour her eyes were, nor her hair, clinging as it was to her head. Nor, even with his artist’s trained eye, could he discern details of her face: she was too far away, and the sun shone too brightly on her features. What he received was an impression of both motion and emotion, of vivid life intensely embodied. She was a creature of the moment, this woman. Most certainly she was no lake spirit. That was too ethereal a designation by far. She was a woman of flesh and blood who was, he would be willing to bet, as much in love with life as he himself was in love with the wilderness.

As she rolled over on to her back with easy grace and began splashing away from him, her breasts hidden in the spray and then exposed to the sun, their pink tips shining wetly, he admitted to himself what the second thing was. He desired her. Instantly and unequivocally, as he had not desired a woman for a long time. If he were to obey his instincts he would drive the canoe around the rocks, scoop her up and then make love to her with a passion he’d thought he had lost.

Sure, Simon, a voice jeered in his ear. Canoes aren’t designed for lovemaking. Both of you would end up in the lake. Anyway, a woman as vital as that one might want to choose her partner herself. Assuming she hasn’t already got one. Get real, as Jim would say.

The woman rolled over on to her stomach, her spine a long, entrancing curve. But her mood had changed from play to work. For nearly fifteen minutes she swam back and forth parallel to the shore with a businesslike crawl, all her movements supple and strong. Then, diving again, she headed towards the shore.