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“Nice day for it.” James leapt neatly from the boat to the beach. His shirt was damp with sweat and spray, hugging his shoulders. He looked like a local lad in rough homespun. But his accent and his air forever marked him as exactly who he was.

A careless, arrogant, imbecilic aristocrat.

Her worst nightmare.

Those were nightmares, she’d decided. Those dreams in which she craved his touch. Some imp playing tricks when sleep left her undefended.

“Don’t mind me.” He swung around abruptly and surveyed the crashing waves.

“Stay just so.” Tib made a dash for the rock where she’d piled her clothes, sharp pebbles jabbing her feet, making her wince. “I’m dressing.”

“No need.” He waved an arm. “Bathe if you want to bathe. I won’t be but a moment.” He paused, turning his head, not so much that he could see her, but nonetheless, her heart seemed to trip down her ribs.

“Is this your secret beach?” he asked. “The one you told me about?”

“Aye.” Her hands shook as she yanked on her underlinens.

“I used to look for it.”

“There’s only one spot where you can climb down the cliff. And it’s hidden by gorse.” She raced to fasten her petticoat.

There. Now that she’d covered herself, she could think more clearly, and register surprise.

“You looked for this beach?”

“You said I’d never find it. That’s why I tried.”

Gratification flared. Throughout their childhood, he’d never seemed to take anything she said seriously. But her crowing about a secret beach had sent him on a secret mission, scouring the island.

A silly sort of triumph, and now—not even that.

“It took you over a decade.” She shoved her arms through the sleeves of her shortgown. “But you found it. Congratulations. My beach is no longer secret. And my cottage is ash.”

“About your cottage.” He turned his head a bit more, the wind twisting his hair into unruly curls.

She stared. “What about my cottage?”

“You only moved into it last month.”

“Eighteen days ago, to be exact.” She began to push buttons through holes, savagely. “Is that what you and my father discussed?”

She hadn’t spoken to her father. He was gone by the time she came in from milking. Her mother had taken one look at her swollen eyes, called her a poor ramfeezled hizzie, and sent her back to bed.

“Did he tell you he’s the reason I didn’t move sooner?”

Da had finished the new sheepcote late last spring, but midsummer came and went before she’d convinced him to let her make a home in the old one.

“He told me you were uncommonly attached. But that you couldn’t have stayed there through the winter.”

“Indeed I could have.” She realized she was pushing the buttons through the wrong holes and had to start over.

“Isobel. Your cottage had no hearth, no kitchen, no larder.”

“It didn’t have a butler either, but I made do.”

“You’re stubborn as a mule.” His shoulders stiffened. “That doesn’t mean you should live like one.”

The low roar of the sea filled the sudden silence.