Page 81 of Bonetide

I lower the oar. I lean it back against the shed. I check the latch on the shed door one more time, then I cross the patch of grass and let myself in through the back door. I immediately lock the door behind me, and stand in the kitchen with my back against the door, breathing for a moment.

The cottage is warm. The kettle is whistling merrily. I have only been gone five minutes.

It felt like an hour.

I turn the kettle off, then refresh all the salt lines around the cottage.

I am going to dream about drowning tonight. I already know.

I do dream about drowning.

I dream a woman holds my ankles under the water, not letting go. I try to surface, but the surface is silver above me, and I cannot reach it. The woman’s grip is the grip of a person who has been waiting a long time to hold someone down, and the cold is the kind of cold that sinks into the bones. I wake with my heart hammering against the inside of my chest, the duvet kicked off, and the sheet damp under my back.

It is dawn, thank fuck. The light is grey and clean and I survived the night. The wind has died. The rain has not started yet, but the clouds have the heavy darkness of a downpour coming. I lie in bed for a long moment with my hand on my chest, remembering the dream wasn’t real, remembering to breathe.

Eventually I get up and get on with my day, though the only thing on my mind—other than the swimmer—is the fact that I’m driving over to the castle tonight. And that alone means I have to prepare for what’s to come. A few days ago, I might have alluded to such an event as the, “Iris and Alasdair Fuck Fest,” but now I feel it’s just too silly and crude. After Alasdair’s warning, and the look on his face, this has all taken on a much more serious tone. I guess there’s no point in pretending that it’s going to be just sex and nothing else, no matter what he says.

Still, I run a bath to make myself as fuckable as possible. I add the thyme salt to the bath and get in, using the same salt to exfoliate before I shave my legs and everywhere else. I stay in the water until my fingers wrinkle and the heat has gone into all the places that have been cold since I stood on the rocks last night, scaring myself silly.

I towel off. I rub the fancy Dipytique lotion Maddie gave me for Christmas into every part of my skin. The lotion smells like expensive roses and I imagine Alasdair running his nose along me, breathing me in.

I do my hair a little fancier than usual, styled straight with Effie’s loud but effective blow-dryer, then just a little bit of eye makeup and copious amounts of deodorant.

I look like a woman who has decided exactly what she wants.

I get dressed in skirt again since he seemed to like it so much, plus a cream waffle-knit with a soft scoop neck. A wool cardigan. And underneath it all…nothing. No bra, no underwear. The scoop neck is fitted enough to hold me up, and what’s the point in panties if they’re just going to come off?

Then I put on my combat boots.

I look at myself one more time.

The woman in the mirror is the woman I’m going to be tonight: a woman who will roll with the punches and make Alasdair see stars. The woman in the mirror is calm. The woman in the mirror does not have an oar in her hands ready to bludgeon a stranger to death.

I throw on a raincoat since the rain has already started, coming down light for now but will surely be heavy later as the wind picks up. Even though the walk to my car and back is short, I’d rather not be wet.

I drive his road for the first time as a driver and not a walker.

The trip is so much shorter. The trees close in over the road. The wipers work in a steady rhythm. By the time I am at the gateway, the rain has thickened, the courtyard is wet and silver, and there is a small lantern lit on a stone beside the place where I should park, as if he has set it out so I will not stumble in the dusk.

He’s at the door before I am out of the car, standing in the doorway. The light from the hall behind him shrouds him in silhouette. He has on a dark green wool sweater with a light plaid detailing at the shoulders, and dark trousers. No kilt, which is mildly disappointing.

“Good evening, Iris,” he says in that low, rich voice of his, sounding so formal.

“Good evening,” I say, matching his tone.

“Hurry in before you get wet.”

The drops of rain are fat as they bounce off my coat and I quickly step over the threshold. He closes the door behind me. The castle is warm. The fire in the front room is going; I can see the orange of it down the hall. He takes my jacket off my shoulders and hangs it on the brass hook where it drips.

He then turns me to him and gives me the smallest smile, eyes blazing with heat.

“Look at you,” he purrs.

“It’s just a skirt,” I say with a shrug, though I’m delighted with his response so far.

“It’s not just a skirt, Iris.”

He kisses me on the forehead. The kiss is brief and warm and utterly disarming.