Page 47

“I can’t identify many zoophytes,” she confessed. “I’m not an expert on seaweed either, truth be told.”

“Raleigh already told it. Some tosser changed your lecture topic.”

“Professor Charles Heywood.” She made a face. “I’m a British woman, so I must speak of seaweed. That’s what British women do.”

“Is it?” He sounded bemused.

“It’s the stereotype in professional botanical circles. British women are seaweed enthusiasts. We collect indiscriminately and stick our innumerable specimens into scrapbooks in our shell-stuffed parlors. The professional scientists think more important work happens in laboratories than parlors. The scientists tend to be men, in case you’re wondering. The women tend to be amateurs. Their contributions to science are largely ignored, or absorbed by their male correspondents.”

She looked at him. He was looking at her. At such proximity, she could distinguish the blue in his moody irises without magnification.

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t remember what she had been going to say next. His lashes lowered just a fraction. Her gaze dropped to his lips. She went so still that her breath stopped in her lungs. It was with a convulsive gasp that she jerked her head to the side and pushed up from the pool’s ledge.

She stared at the curve of the bay, at the distant crescent of the beach, and then, horrified, at the swirling water that divided the rocks from the shore.

“Blast.” She shot up to her knees. Griffith rose to his knees too, languidly, and considered the breaking waves.

“I warned you,” he drawled.

“Warned me?” If only she could spit purple poison, like a sea hare. “You distracted me! I’d have moved to higher ground long before now if left to my own devices.”

“We’ll never know.” He shrugged.

“You might never know. I know!”

This amused him, or the situation amused him. He was smiling faintly as he replied.

“The water’s not deep yet. We can wade to the dunes. Give me your basket.”

“I don’t trust you with it.” She jammed her tools and her gloves between the chutney jars. She stood in haste, then bent to grab the handle. The basket bumped against her legs and clanked.

“Suit yourself.” He was up in an instant and bounding down the rock’s slope, leaping out into the water with a whoop. He spun around to face her, and a waist-high swell knocked him sideways.

“Deuced cold,” he called cheerfully. “Deeper than I thought. Can you swim? Beatrix couldn’t swim. That complicated the last exodus.”

Beatrix. One of the models.

“I’m not a siren,” Muriel muttered. “But I can swim.”

“What?” called Griffith.

“Soak your big head!” she yelled.

He grinned and snatched off his cap, shoving it inside his coat. He let himself tip over with a whoop and a splash, and floated on his back, limbs splayed.

“I’ve got something!” He righted himself and lifted a fistful of lime-green leaves.

“Sea lettuce.” Muriel sighed.

“Do you want it?”

“No.”

“Plenty of it, if you change your mind.” He flopped over again.

It was hard to stay annoyed with him, splashing around as he was, like a drunken seal. Hungover seal. She skated down the rock on her backside and dropped into the sea, rising at once onto her tiptoes as the frigid water lapped her ribs, the basket clutched to her chest. A wave nearly overset her, and she staggered as she tried to kick her legs free from her twisted skirts.

“May I?” He appeared beside her, hair plastered to his forehead. She let him hook the basket over his elbow. He was taller, after all.