Two of them waved back, and Caro liked to think it was her father, or perhaps her mother. At least they’d know that she and Hayworth hadn’t murdered each other. Yet.
The sun set as they walked back to camp, and Caro let out a jaw-cracking yawn. Max bumped his shoulder against hers.
“Early night for you, sleepyhead.” He motioned to the shelter. “In you go. I’m going to stay up for a while and make sure the fire doesn’t go out.”
Caro didn’t bother to argue. As the sun dipped beyond the horizon in an extravagant display of salmon pink and lavender, she shuffled beneath the leaves. The light from the fire was extraordinarily comforting. It flickered shadows on the sand, and she dozed, half-listening to Max moving around the clearing, and adding fuel to the fire.
“’Night Caro.”
His low tones drifted through her fuzzy brain, and she managed to mumble, “’Night, Max.”
Her last thought, as she drifted off to sleep, was; When had she started thinking of him as Max, and not Hayworth?
Chapter 13
Max was already up and fishing when Caro awoke. She had no recollection of him sleeping next to her at all. Had he stayed up all night with the fire? Had he decided to forgo the shelter entirely and sleep elsewhere? Was the idea of sleeping next to her so unpalatable? She didn’t snore, did she? Or smell?
Surreptitiously, she lifted the collar of her shift and took a sniff.
She pushed away such depressing thoughts as she splashed her face and plaited her hair. This might be the most unexpected Christmas day she’d ever spent, but she would contribute her share to the day’s bounty.
She gathered some mangos, then returned to the beach. Wading into the turquoise shallows, she rearranged several small rocks into a V shape that funneled into a shallow rock pool. Then she splashed about, trying to herd shoals of fish into her trap, as a farmer’s dog might drive a flock of sheep.
It took numerous attempts—the fish presumably being more intelligent than sheep—but eventually six small silver-blue fish raced into the pool. She quickly closed the exit with a rock, then used her petticoats as a rudimentary net to catch them.
By the time she returned, panting, wet, but victorious, Max was cooking something over the fire. He squinted at her against the sun, and her heart gave a little thump at his rumpled, piratical appearance. Even without decent sleep and a daily shave the man was obnoxiously attractive.
“What have you there?”
“More fish. And mangos.”
“I caught a lobster between the rocks.” He gestured at the crustacean suspended on a stick over the fire. “Not exactly what I imagined we’d be eating for Christmas dinner, but never mind. Let’s pretend we’re in England, at your house, with no expense spared. What are we eating?”
Caro smiled at his attempt to stay positive. “Well, I suppose we would have roast beef, or roast duck. Roast potatoes, carrots, peas, and parsnips. And gravy, of course.”
“Mmm.” Max smacked his lips in appreciation and held up a coconut shell full of water. “And presumably some wine from the cellar.” He took a sip, then passed it to her. “An excellent vintage.”
Caro took a seat next to him by the fire and sampled the ‘wine’.
“What would be for dessert?” he urged.
“Ah, well, that would be Christmas pudding.”
“Set alight with brandy?”
“Of course. And topped with cream, or brandy butter, or custard.”
“I’d have all three,” he said solemnly.
“And if you still had room after that, then I suppose we’d have a few mince pies and a sherry.”
“I feel full just thinking about it.” He glanced sideways at her, and the laughter lingered in his eyes as he lifted his hand and trailed his finger down the bridge of her nose and across her cheek.
“You’ve caught the sun,” he murmured. “You’re all pink.”
She flushed even more at his unexpected touch, certain she must be the same color as the lobster. Her stomach somersaulted, but she tried to brush off her nervousness with a joke.
“Oh, the shame! My vouchers to Almacks will be withdrawn.”
