Curling the fist holding the reins, she pointed her other hand toward the reeds just to the left of where he waited. “In there. Facedown, with a large purple bruise and a cut over his right temple.” She shifted, pointing to the stand of trees on the far side of the road. “And the horses were over there, with the remains of their tack.”
“What did they find with him?”
Rebecca frowned. “What do you mean? They found the phaeton and the horses.”
“In his pockets.”
“Callum, this is ridiculous. Get out of the water before you catch your death. They found nothing in his pockets but what he usually carried: money, his pocket watch, some calling cards, and one of Margaret’s hair ribbons.” She stopped, covering her eyes with one hand so he wouldn’t see her crying and accuse her of being weak-kneed or something equally ridiculous. “You’re an awful man, to make me remember all this.”
“Rebecca, look at me,” he urged instead.
Stomping one foot, she complied. “What?”
“I’m standing.”
“I can see that.”
“Nae, ye cannae. I’mstanding. I’m nae swimming or treading water. How does a man drown in five feet of water when he can swim like a fish, and when he could just stand up?”
“I told you he had a horrible bump on his head. He was unconscious.”
“And what did he bump his head on, then? The bank here is smooth, and the road’s fairly straight. Even if the horses spooked and bucked the traces, the carriage had to turn nearly eighty degrees left, roll down the bank, and keep him in the seat until it came to a stop in five feet of water, at which time he… floated away on his face?”
“That’s what happened, Callum. Precisely. So yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
He waded back toward her, water making his white shirt cling to his skin, the ribbons of muscle beneath making her abruptly wonder whether she needed to take a cold dip in the loch herself. The wolf shoved her head beneath his hand, and he gave her a scratch before he walked back up to the road. “I dunnae see it,” he said.
“Only because you don’t want to see it,” she countered.
That merited her a sideways glance. “I want to look at the phaeton now.”
Before she could lead Peaches over to a likely looking boulder, he took her around the waist and lifted her into the sidesaddle.Good heavens. The sensation of breathlessness lingered even after he released her to swing up on Jupiter, and Rebecca shook herself. Yes, he was strong. That fact didn’t make him less aggravating.
The wolf loped in a wide circle around them, making Peaches give a nervous sidestep. Glad of the distraction, Rebecca pulled the chestnut mare back under control and nudged her into a trot behind the big stallion. “Did you have to bring the wolf with you?” she asked.
“Waya watches my backside for me. And if she doesnae get a good run every other day or so, she gets irritable.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Mayhap ye could use a good run, yerself.”
Oh, that was enough of that. With a sniff she urged Peaches into a canter, passing by Callum and Jupiter. Half a dozen heartbeats later the pair drew even with her. Unless she wanted to gallop she would have to tolerate him, she supposed, but at least a canter would see them back home sooner. Not home, though, she corrected herself. Notherhome. Not any longer.
Back at the stable yard he kicked out of the stirrups and jumped to the ground before Jupiter could come to a complete halt, then strode over to take her around the waist before the groom, Thomas, could reach her. “Stop grabbing me,” she muttered, putting her hands over his as he lifted her to the ground.
“Ye didnae used to complain about it,” he returned in the same tone, letting her go again.
“I’m not eighteen any longer.” Smoothing her skirt,she headed around to the back of the stable, listening until he fell in behind her.
“Nae, ye arenae,” he agreed. “Ye’re… curvier now. Softer. Nae all skin and bone and sharp elbows in my ribs. I like it.”
That made her blush, when it likely should have made her turn around and slap him. “It is not appropriate to talk to me like that in front of this… thing,” she stated instead, and kicked the rear wheel of the phaeton. The fancy vehicle had always seemed frivolous, unlike her logical husband, and since the accident it had become almost a living embodiment of everything she hated about what had happened.
Callum didn’t reply to that, but sent her a sideways glance as he pulled the heavy canvas covering off the phaeton, walked around to the front of the vehicle and then, to her surprise, stepped on the front wheel and pulled himself up onto the water- and weather-worn seat. Shifting a little, he held out his hands as if he was holding the reins, then bent forward and back again, twisting from side to side.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“What did he hit his head on, do ye reckon?” he asked, having to fold over nearly double to lower his forehead near to the low dash rail above where his feet were braced.
“The phaeton no doubt bounced down the bank quite a bit. It could have been anything,” she retorted.
“Nae. I’m serious, Rebecca. Come and look. What do ye see that might have caused that blow to his head?”
