It was the perfect expression to lead to a kiss. Allie should know. She had used it more than once on a gentleman in the salons and ballrooms of Venice.
But then, she had never wanted another man’s kiss as much as she wanted Ethan Penn-Leith’s.
As she turned, however, she neglected to mind the fishing pole in her right hand. Or the narrowness of the rock upon which they stood. Or the bulky poof of her petticoats.
One moment, Allie was lifting a hand to grasp Ethan’s neck and pull his mouth down to hers. To finally,finallykiss him again.
The next, the long fishing pole twisted in her skirts, upsetting her balance.
She pitched backward, windmilling her arms . . . once, twice . . .
. . . before toppling gracelessly into the deep pool.
Ethan, quite simply, panicked.
One moment, he had his arms wrapped around hisladra, the scent of her exotic perfume filling his nostrils, his lips at her neck, the intoxicating give of her lush body under his palms . . .
And then Allie whirled around, breaking his hold on her. Her skirts tangled her legs, sending her tumbling into the river with an indelicate screech, her body disappearing under a mushrooming plume of water.
Stunned, he found himself staring at the river and, inexplicably, still holding his fishing rod.
Ethan tossed the rod aside and immediately dove into the pool after her. The shock of the cold water momentarily froze his limbs, panicking him further.
Could Allie swim? And even if she could, would the weight of her wet skirts drag her down to a watery grave?
He surfaced to find Allie treading water beside him, her skirts ballooning and helping to keep her body afloat.
Huh. Unexpected that.
Even more unexpected was the wide smile on her face.
His panic eased.
Shaking water from his eyes, he grinned. “When I asked if ye were ready tae take a leap into kissing myself, I didn’t ken ye would act literally.”
“You clearly were ready for the plunge, as you jumped after me.” Allie slapped the surface, sending water spraying.
Ethan dodged the arc of water and swam toward her.
With a shriek, Allie attempted to stroke away, but her skirts were too bulky and the pool too small for her to escape. He caught her as she attempted to clamber out up the bank, pulling her back into the river.
“Nae, ye cannot escape me so easily, lass.” He held her against his chest.
“You and your Scottish heritage,” she gasped, elbowing his ribs and paddling out of his arms. “This water is chilling my Mediterranean blood.”
“Och, lass, ye be too soft. A wild swim is good for the circulation and digestion.”
“You Scots are all mad!”
Laughing, she lunged forward and, grabbing his shoulders, pushed him under the water. Ethan reached for her, but the slippery mass of her skirts eluded his grasp.
When next he surfaced, she was scrambling out of the river, dripping wet and laughing wildly.
She had never looked more beautiful.
“I fear you have ice for blood,” she called.
“Nae, lass. Merely proving we Scots are made of sterner stuff.”
