Page 27

They needed to stop.

“Up here,” he yelled to the men in front of him. Normally, he would ride in the lead position, but not with Gillian sharing his mount.

The riders veered off the old Roman road and made their way through a thicket of trees to the stream he knew was just to their east. Sure enough, the sound of running water reached his ears moments later.

The weather, if not his wife, cooperated today. There was hardly a cloud in the sky.

“Come,” he said to Gillian, knowing she’d need privacy to relieve her needs.

When the small river appeared in front of them, Graeme looked for an area with ample cover.

“There,” he said, pointing, and his wife understood immediately.

She all but ran to the underbrush, paused, and called out to him. “Will you turn your back?”

“No.”

She startled and made a face. “No?”

“I care more for your safety than your modesty,” he said, softening his tone.

“Well, I can’t . . . that is . . .”

“Gillian . . .” He took a deep breath. “We are husband and wife. I’ll be seeing much more of you than—”

“Ugh!” She squatted.

He did look up at the sky, but though his gaze was averted, his other senses were not. He could feel her moving, hear every rustle of the bush. If danger lurked, he’d sense it before he saw it. Luckily, the only danger was of him being unable to ride as he thought of her naked calves, her gown being hiked up. Her legs, his hand running down—

“I’m done,” she announced. A moment later, Gillian emerged and looked toward the river. He nodded and followed her.

Bending down, she leaned toward the water and cupped it in her hands.

“Be careful,” he said, knowing the rock she leaned on was more slippery than it looked.

Gillian rolled her eyes. Surprising given her propensity for decorum. What would his wife be like when she dropped all of the trappings of propriety?

Actually, he’d gotten a glimpse of just that. A glimpse that had procured him a wife.

“I can manage to wash my face . . . oh!”

She’d bent down to the river bank—and plopped into it as quickly as an osprey swoops into the water to retrieve its prey.

Graeme ripped off his sword and dove into the river. The strong current carried her along as easily as it did the leaves and twigs floating alongside her. His heart lurched as he reached out for the fabric of her now-drenched gown.

Pulling her toward the bank, Graeme called out and his men instantly gathered on the banks.

“Malcolm, grab her.”

The slippery rocks made it difficult for him to climb out to the bank. One moment, he struggled to keep her above water, the next, she was lifted from his arms.

Coughing and wet, Gillian appeared otherwise unharmed. He scrambled up after her and knelt by her side, looking for any signs of a gash. She hadn’t been in the water for long, but one could never be too safe. Infection could spread from such a small accident.

“Someone get her saddlebag and my tartan.”

“I’m fine,” she said, attempting to stand.

Graeme helped her up, recognizing the futility of arguing. For a proper lady, she certainly had a stubborn streak. Something sparked in her eyes—there one moment, gone the next—the change so quick he thought for a moment he’d imagined it.