Page 42
They managed a few steps forward before she stopped again with a breathless shake of her head. “’Tis no use. I’ll just wait ’ere and watch the waves a bit longer. I’ll make me way back when ’tisn’t hurtin’ so much.”
He gave her a dubious look. “And if ’tain’t ne’er better?”
She gave a shrug. “I’ll live out me life on the boulders, then.”
“Mmm, that be a fine plan.” He studied her for a moment, unnerving her under his stalwart gaze, then in a fell swoop, he scooped her in his arms.
Morvoren gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck instinctively, somehow managing to maintain hold of the cane, which rested against his back.
“What are ye doin’, Trevik Honeysett?” she questioned at once, gripping him all the tighter.
“I be returnin’ ye to Tristwick ’fore nightfall.” He readjusted his hands to hold her more securely around her back and beneath the crook of her legs.
Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, he strode across the cliffside.
“I-I can walk, ye know.”
“I believe we’ve already established that ye most certainly cannot.”
She eyed the swift-moving ground beneath them as they began their descent toward Tristwick. His footing was secure, but she still gasped when he landed hard stepping over a rock.
“I’ll not let ye fall,” he said.
She’d expected such words to be said in a defensive manner, but they were spoken so calmly, so certainly, she had a difficult time not believing them.
As they continued, Mr. Honeysett’s breathing grew labored, but he carried on, and a droplet of humility dribbled over into her vast sea of pride.
“I s’pose I ought to be thankin’ ye,” she said, “for helpin’ me back.”
“It be no trouble.”
She glanced toward him, eying the sweat beading on his brow. “The strain ye be under might beg to differ.”
“Well, if ye weren’t so ’eavy…”
She scowled over at him, only to find the corners of his lips curved up into a little smile. Heavens, but that smile was charming. Charming and insufferable.
She looked away, catching a sharp, sweet scent on the wind. What was that—lemons? She cast her eyes about, attempting to decipher from what direction the scent had originated, but as she turned back to Trevik, the smell increased.
The fisherman? That wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to smell of citrusy soap, he was supposed to smell of pilchards and hake.
“Are ye certain ye be fine walkin’ like this the entire way back?” she asked. Perhaps if he put her down now, she wouldn’t have to smell him so closely.
“It be the least I can do after I nearly drowned ye.”
Another glance back at him, another whiff of lemons. Such a fruit was common enough in soap, but for some reason, she wanted to breathe it in, to allow the clean, sharp smell to permeate her senses.
“I can only hope ye weren’t tryin’ to drown me on purpose,” she returned.
“’Course not. But ’twas me fault for fishin’ too close to the shore.” He glanced at her sidelong. “As ye mentioned ’fore.”
She had lectured him on that a time or two, hadn’t she? “Ye can’t be all to blame, I s’pose. I be the fool choosin’ to swim in the sea at dark.”
He was silent for a moment, and she wondered if he would focus on walking for the remainder of the journey. They passed the first house on the north side of the cove, just beginning to enter the hamlet.
“So that be what ye were doin’,” he said after another moment, “swimmin’?”
Blast. How had she been so distracted as to have allowed that piece of information to escape her?
