Historical Romance March 2017 Book 1-4. Louise Allen

need to.’ Lucian got one arm behind her shoulders, dislodging her grip on the punt. She flailed as she tried to get hold of it again, her legs floated up and he slid the other arm under her knees. ‘There. I have you safe.’

      There was nothing she could do but submit to being carried ashore like some helpless shipwrecked maiden. Struggling was undignified and would only put them both under the surface again. Then she heard the shrieks and cries from the shore.

      ‘You have an audience for your gallantry,’ she said between gritted teeth as Lucian began to walk. ‘It appears that the entire house party is assembled on the shore to view the rescue.’ Her mama must have decided to have tea served on the lawn under the great cedar tree where there was an excellent view of the lake. ‘How gratifying. They presumably saw me hit you with the cushion as well.’

      Lucian grunted. The effort of walking through water that rose almost to his collarbone while carrying a woman in his arms must be considerable and, despite her feelings about him, there was an undeniable thrill in being carried like this. Which just went to show that even the most rational and independent woman could be turned into a quivering blancmange by a display of masculine muscle. And that realisation did nothing to cool her temper either.

      Sara focused on the shore through wet eyelashes and strands of soaking hair. Most of the female guests were at the water’s edge, shrieking encouragement, although one of the young ladies had managed to faint strategically into a gentleman’s arms. Her mother was still seated at the table calmly pouring tea and her father and brother stood on the boathouse jetty, apparently poised to carry out a full-scale rescue by rowing boat if necessary. Ashe was scowling, her father had the bland expression that meant he was controlling laughter, the beast.

      As Lucian reached the shallows within a few yards of the shore and began to emerge from the water Ashe took off his coat and ran back along the jetty to meet them.

      ‘Put this on.’ He flung it around her shoulders as soon as Lucian lowered her to the fringe of shingle. ‘That muslin is glued to you. What the hell were you playing at?’ That was directed at Lucian. ‘Sara could have been drowned.’

      ‘I can swim, as you know perfectly well.’ That was comprehensively ignored. Sara turned her back on the bristling male aggression and began to squelch uphill towards the tea table while the female guests surrounded her like a flock of agitated chickens.

      She finally arrived in front of her mother who handed her a large rug and gestured to a chair. ‘It is rattan, the water will not harm it and it is perfectly warm out here in the sun. Have a cup of tea, dear, and let us watch the men...er...analysing the situation.’

      Sara discarded Ashe’s coat, huddled into the rug and accepted the tea gratefully.

      ‘Whatever happened?’ someone asked.

      ‘Did you not see?’

      ‘‘We were all looking at this wonderful cake that Cook sent out because it is Miss Henderson’s birthday and no one noticed until the splash,’ her mother said. ‘More tea, dear?’

      Sara had a strong suspicion that her mother had seen everything. When she was a child she had been convinced that Mata had eyes in the back of her head and, although she now realised that she simply kept a very sharp eye on all the members of her family without seeming to do so, it still felt like witchcraft sometimes.

      ‘It was my fault. I stood up suddenly,’ Sara explained, more to quell the chattering than anything.

      ‘Entirely my fault, I stood up suddenly.’ Lucian’s voice rose clearly to them as he strode up the hill, flanked by her father and brother.

      ‘You both stood up suddenly?’ Lady Thale exclaimed.

      ‘We saw a Marsh Harrier,’ Sara said.

      ‘—an otter,’ Lucian explained at the same moment.

      ‘Incredible,’ Mata remarked. ‘Presumably the bird of prey had the otter in its talons as it flew over? Your Cousin Ernest will be so interested to hear that, he is a keen naturalist, I believe.’

      ‘The otter was swimming in one direction, the harrier flying in another,’ Lucian said. He was tight-lipped, presumably disapproving of the Herriards’ habit of levity.

      Even Ashe was grinning. ‘Ah, that explains why the punt overbalanced.’

      The ridiculousness of the whole episode was beginning to dawn on Sara. ‘I think I must go back to the house and change,’ she said, not quite managing to quell the unsteadiness in her voice. ‘I feel a trifle, um, shaken.’

      ‘Hardly surprising.’ Lucian strode forward, showering the assembled onlookers with lake water, much like a large gun-dog. He bent and scooped her out of the chair. ‘You must rest.’

      ‘Lucian!’

      He was already several strides away from the tea table. ‘Did you want to stay there dripping gently while we made a mess of our stories and dug ourselves even deeper into the mud?’

      ‘No, but I can walk.’ Although it really was delicious being carried like this. Sara reminded herself that she was angry with him and could not quite recall why. His shoulders were shaking, she realised, and not with the effort of carrying her. ‘Lucian, are you laughing?’

      ‘Of course I am.’ He twisted to check that they were out of sight, then sat down on the edge of the terrace, Sara still in his arms. ‘And so are you.’

      She made an effort to sit up, found that he was holding her too tightly and gave up. It was far too pleasant to lie there and share the joke, held against the wet heat of his body, the pair of them smelling of mud and lake water. ‘When Mata said that about the otter and the harrier, I nearly spluttered into my tea. And your face—I couldn’t decide whether you had a mouthful of pond beetles or were trying not to laugh.’

      ‘It was laugh or weep,’ Lucian said wryly. ‘I have hardly appeared in a very impressive light since I got here, have I? Almost floored by your brother on the drive, being raked over the coals by your father for my immoral behaviour with his daughter, making an utter mull of a marriage proposal and then emerging from the lake dripping with pond weed for the amusement of the entire house party.’

      Sara managed to lever herself upright and twisted to look into his face. It was exceedingly unfair that he managed to look so good even soaking wet when she imagined she looked as though she had just emerged from a close encounter with a ducking stool.

      ‘Is that really how you think you appeared? Let me tell you that your restraint in not punching Ashe straight back was admirable, you stood up to Papa with great dignity and courtesy and I have to admit to an utterly shameful pleasure at being carried around by such a strong man.’ Lucian began to grin, so she added, ‘But I agree, that was an appalling proposal.’

      ‘I know. I will try again when we are both dry.’

      He will? Did she want Lucian to propose? For a moment Sara seriously considered it, then she realised what she was doing. She did not want to marry a man who did not love her, whom she did not love—and it did not matter how good he was in bed, or how good looking or how eligible.

      ‘Lucian—’

      ‘You look enchanting wet through, you know. I feel as if I had fished out a water nymph.’ He gathered her in again and kissed her, open-mouthed, possessive, very certain.

      The weak, primitive female part of her kissed him back, tongues tangling, her body arching to get as tight to his body as she could, and all the time the sensible part argued that this was wrong, that she was encouraging the ridiculous notion that they might marry.

      Lucian released her far too soon for the primitive part. Too soon for the sensible part, if she was honest with herself. ‘That was skating rather too close to behaviour I gave my word not to indulge in while we were here. And you will catch a chill in those wet clothes. See—you are shivering.’

      She was shivering from reaction, not the wet clothes, but Sara did not contradict