With confident movements, he wrapped one end of the rope around his chest and ordered his men to tie the opposite end around a nearby pine. The men obliged and then held on to the rope, bracing their feet on the path as Alistair slowly walked backward down the slope, trusting the rope and his men with his weight.
Alistair had always been agile and sure-footed. Another detail Chrissi was annoyed to remember.
“Almost there, Mrs. Newton.” He still faced the slope, but his voice was calm and assured. “Unfortunately, ye will need to cling to my neck in order for my men to haul us both up. Can ye manage that, do ye ken?”
“Yes, Ali—my lord,” she replied, hating how his Christian name clung to her tongue.
He stopped mere inches away from where the bog began, feet braced against the solid embankment. Keeping one hand on the rope, he reached back with the other, beckoning her forward.
Inching on her knees, Chrissi wrapped her hand around his forearm, allowing him to pull her from the mud with a squishypop.
Gracious, she had forgotten how strong he was. The coiled power in his arm, the muscles bunching and pushing against the sleeves of his white linen shirt.
“Now, wrap your arms around my neck,” he ordered.
“The mud . . .”
“It will wash out. This is the only way to get ye up the slope. Ye will need to hold fast.”
Swallowing, Chrissi did as he ordered, looping her arms around his neck and clinging tight.
She might as well have dipped her head into a witch’s potion labeled Remembrance of Lost Love.
Wave after wave of memories washed through her.
The distinct smell of his cologne—warm ambergris with hints of sandalwood and citrus.
The tiny brown mole on his right earlobe, the very one she had loved to nibble.
The stubborn curl at his temple that poked outward, no matter how much pomade he applied.
The faint bump in his nose caused by a tumble from an oak tree when he was nine.
“I’ve got ye,” he said, words gruff, face half-turned toward hers.
Only then, when he clutched her to him—when every finger of his right hand pressed into her midsection with scorching heat, when their noses practically touched and his breath was a puff of air against her own lips—did recognitionfinallyflash.
He froze, head rearing back and eyes flaring wide. His jaw sagged and his hold on the rope slipped.
They both lurched backward before he secured his grip, steadying them and pulling Chrissi that much tighter against his chest.
“Chris?” he rasped, her name a surprised gasp of air.
“Alis,” she replied with a nod.
They had always laughed at their nicknames—Chrisfor her,Alicefor him. A humorous swapping of their genders.
She felt only slightly relieved that he had recognized her. Her vanity would have liked the moment to have occurred much,muchsooner.
But his current reaction was gratifying.
He stared. And stared and stared.
The arm holding her trembled. From emotion? The heft of her body? The lingering weight of his treachery?
“Shall we heave yous up?” a voice called from above.
They both looked to the farmhand holding the rope.
