He turned away before temptation got the better of him. Instead, he pulled on a shirt and belted his kilt around his waist. Leaving a wee note for Isla so she wouldn’t worry, he slipped out the door.
Tavish dove intothe River Northcairn, the frigid water sluicing over his body, cutting and sharp. He welcomed the unpleasant jolt, letting it blessedly dampen his ardor. Surfacing, he shook water out of his eyes, swimming for the opposite bank.
The cold felt heavenly against his skin. If he came down here every morning and night, shocking his system into obedience, perhaps he could survive the next few weeks.
He stroked across the pool, back and forth, lazily rotating like the otters who plied these same waterways.
A swish of sound or snap of a twig—some shift in the very air—alerted him to her presence.
Treading water out into the open, Tavish watched as Isla set down a basket on the grassy bank, white Turkish bath towels and a brush spilling out.
He stared, eyes not knowing where to land.
Her glorious hair was down, unbound and cascading around her shoulders. The golden strands shimmered in the sunlight, haloing her head.
Her clothing was in a similar state of dishabille, a dressing gown tied just under her bosom. The same dressing gown she had been wearing that last fateful night at Kingswell. The sight of it recalled the memory of her curves under his palms.
“I liked your idea, and I thought I might bathe.” Isla lifted a bar of soap.
Bloody hell.
Had the woman no mercy?
“Here? Now?”
Even buried to the neck in snow, his body would still feel overheated.
She laughed. “Of course here and now. Unless the thought makes you uncomfortable?”
Uncomfortable? Absolutely. Just not for the reason she supposed.
She misread his hesitation. “You can turn around if the prospect offends your sensibilities.”
“It wasn’t my sensibilities I was considering. I am rather . . .” He glanced at his legs, treading water. “. . . unclothed, at the moment.”
She lifted an elegant eyebrow before pointedly looking at his shirt and kilt folded beside her basket. “Yes. I noticed.”
Damn.
Was he . . .
Was he blushing?!
Truly, Tavish couldn’t remember the last time he had blushed.
“I do believe a state of undress is assumed when one bathes,” she continued, voice wry.
“Aye.”
Their gazes met and tangled.
Her eyebrow lifted higher, and her hands went to the ties of her dressing gown. Was she even wearing a chemise underneath?
Tavish turned around before finding out. Seeing her disrobe would shred what remained of his control.
Even as it was, he had to endure the rustling of her dressing gown falling to the ground. Her tentative footfalls into the shallows of the pool. Her stuttering gasp and faint splash as she plunged into the cold depths.
Torture.
