He paused, as if making up his mind. "A forfeit then."
She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of forfeit?"
"A kiss."
"Och, well, I suppose, if I must." She gave a sigh of resignation, but her eyes were dancing and she lifted her mouth to his with a sweetness that fair pierced his soul. Her lips were cold, tangy with sea-salt but her kiss was all heat and sweet, dark-honey woman.
It was a feast of a kiss, luscious and intoxicating. He almost dropped her in the sea, forgetting himself, lost in the taste and feel of her. The little jerk as she grabbed him to save herself from falling pulled him back to awareness.
He waded out of the sea and deposited her on the sand.
They glanced at each other, then looked away, unsure of what to say—at least Cameron wasn't. The spilling over of lighthearted fun, into . . . Passion was the only word for it. It had shocked him.
He stared down at her, this slender sprite of a girl he'd married. He hardly knew her, and yet . . .
Her eyes were luminous, so blue against the shifting grays of the sea and the sky. A curlew wheeled overhead.
The silence stretched, broken only by the curlew's mournful cry and the sound of the wind and the waves. She brushed down her skirt, shaking out the wrinkles and the sand.
Still reeling from the unexpected surge of . . . feeling, Cameron took refuge in banality. He glanced at the banking clouds. "It'll probably rain later this evening."
"I'll fetch my things." She hurried up the beach, shook out the blue shawl and wrapped it around her. She picked up her shoes, hesitated and glanced at the clouds. "Must we return immediately?"
He shook his head. "There's still time for a walk if you want."
"Good." She slipped her arm through his and they started walking along the beach, Cameron squelching along in his sodden boots, Jeannie walking lightly across the sand, skipping every now and then to keep up with him, her shoes dangling from one hand.
The laird's bride, barefoot on the beach like any village urchin. It wasn't at all proper. But it felt so right.
Every now and then she stopped to pick something up, a shell, or a smooth stone, or a softly glowing piece of sea glass. She slipped them into her pocket.
"What do you want them for?" he asked, intrigued.
She shrugged. "I don't know, nothing really. They're pretty. I can't help it. I always collect things from the beach. Papa used to say I was half selkie."
"Not with those eyes, you're not."
"What's wrong with my eyes?"
"Nothing, they're perfect."
"But you said—"
"A selkie's eyes are brown, like a seal's. Your eyes are the color of the summer sky just after sunset, the brilliance of the day deepened by the coming of night." He swallowed, feeling suddenly embarrassed, and glanced at her, wondering whether she would laugh at his clumsy attempt at courting. The irony was he meant every word of it.
But she wasn't laughing. "That's beautiful, Cameron. Thank you." She hugged their linked arms closer. He could feel the slight swell of her breast pressing against him. They walked on.
"So what did you do today," she asked after a few minutes.
He told her all about the roofs they were fixing, and the new bridge he planned to build. She listened intently, and asked questions that drew him on to explain his plans for the future of the estate.
He hadn't really talked to anyone about those plans, not in detail. Uncle Charles had no interest in the welfare of those he called peasants, and as for his cousins, well, Donald might be interested, but his brother Jimmy was hopeless and would be bored by any serious talk.
It was a pleasure to test out his thoughts on someone who was interested and who asked intelligent questions. She really listened.
He suddenly remembered what Bridget had said, about courting and the importance of talking and listening. They'd almost reached the far end of the beach, and so far he'd done all the talking.
He turned for the walk back. "And how was your day? I'm sorry I left you to manage on your own—there's no telling how long we have before the winter weather sets in. This work is urgent."
