Border Bride. Deborah Hale

      He bowed with an exaggerated flourish, “As you command, Lady of Glyneira. I am your humble servant.”

      Enid used her paddle like a huge spoon, to fling a splash of water his way. “Don’t be mocking me, Conwy ap Ifan. You haven’t a humble bone in your whole body and you never did!”

      During that instant she let her attention wander, the coracle got away from her again, twirling her downstream before she managed to bring it back under control. All the while Con stood on the bank laughing at her awkward efforts to handle the fractious little craft.

      It was Enid’s turn to laugh when he pushed off into the water and promptly began to spin in circles. Muttering a stream of curses in some outlandish tongue, Con fought with the coracle until he nearly tipped himself into the water.

      “A fine way to take your ease, this,” Enid called to him, her voice laced with genial mockery.

      “Get away with you!” As the current drove Con’s boat close to hers, he grabbed at the edge and pushed it into another spin. “This was Idwal’s idea, not mine, I’ll thank you to remember.”

      Enid squealed with mirth as she battled to remaster her dancing coracle. Con laughed, too, though whether at her or himself, she wasn’t sure.

      His laughter sounded so good in her ears, perhaps it didn’t matter what had prompted it.

      Out on the river that sun-dappled spring afternoon, the years Con had been apart from Enid drifted off downstream one by one. With each jest, each volley of laughter, and each meeting of their eyes, a powerful current of remembrance carried them closer to the old days when they’d been inseparable companions.

      “We can’t frolic about here until sunset and come home with an empty net,” Enid protested when they’d finally regained some of their old knack for managing the coracles.

      “Why not?” Con asked. “I say it’ll be time well spent supposing we don’t so much as see a fish.”

      “You would.” Enid pulled a wry face, soon tempered by a fond smile. “One of us must be practical though.”

      “You would,” Con countered with a grin of pure devilment.

      That sparked a gleeful battle to see who could soak the other worst, accompanied by shrieks, whoops, and fits of laughter that left them limp and gasping for breath. By the time they noticed their surroundings again, they had floated some distance downstream.

      Canopied by wide-reaching branches of tall trees on both banks, the stream broadened and deepened along this stretch of water, slowing the current. Gazing around him with newly appreciative eyes, Con admired the rich, varied pattern of greens.

      “In all my travels, I’ve never seen a spot more lovely than this.” He hadn’t meant to give voice to the thought.

      As long as he could remember, Con had cherished the notion that distant places must be better than his humble home. Without a doubt, he’d seen many marvels in his travels. But their exotic beauty had not touched his heart as did this lush expanse of border wood. Nor had any bejewelled Byzantine courtesan stirred him as did this diminutive Welsh widow in her coarse-woven work gown.

      Now Enid gazed around her, too. “I take it for granted most of the time. Or think it’s only because this is home that I find it so wondrous. Thank you for making me look at it with fresh eyes, Con.” A shiver went through her slender frame.

      A gentle breeze raised Con’s skin in gooseflesh, too. “Damn me for a fool, drenching you like that! We’d better dry ourselves off before we try catching any fish or all we’re likely to catch is a bad chill.”

      For a moment Enid looked as though she meant to argue the point. Instead she replied, “It mightn’t be much use trying to cast our net just now, anyway. After our carrying on, the poor fish have probably all swam off to Hereford, frightened for their lives.”

      As she paddled toward a grassy outcropping of riverbank, she called to Con over her shoulder, “You needn’t bear all the blame for getting our clothes damp. I was every bit as quick to splash as you, and a better aim. I expect you’re twice as wet as I am.”

      How could he resist such a challenge?

      “Never!” He struck the water with his paddle, sending one last great spray raining down on Enid.

      “Bounder!” She scrambled ashore, her movements nimble as a girl’s, hauling her coracle up onto the bank. When his craft came within reach, she grasped the lip and toppled it, sending Con flailing into the water.

      He came up sputtering, “I’ll make you sorry for that.”

      After heaving his coracle onto the bank and retrieving his paddle before it floated away to England, Con wallowed ashore and raced off chasing Enid, who already had a good lead on him.

      She’d kilted up her skirts so as not to trip herself, perhaps not realizing that the provocative glimpse of her bare legs spurred Con to run faster in pursuit.

      His nostrils flared wide, drawing in air to feed the fire inside him. His pulse pounded a swift beat in his ears. It outstripped even the muted thud of his fleet footfall on the soft earth carpeted with last year’s leaves and new growth of ferns and moss. His body roused with the wild instinct of a stag scenting a doe.

      Leaping over a fallen tree trunk, Enid spared a quick glance behind to find Con gaining on her. Dusky eyes flashed mock terror and genuine mischief.

      As she crossed a sun-drenched patch of thick moss, Con tackled her from behind. His diving grab brought them both down onto the springy turf in a reckless tangle of limbs, panting with laughter…and perhaps something more?

      With each deep draft of air Con gulped, the capricious odor of spring assailed him—sweet new growth rising from the pungent decay of the old. He caught the scent of a woman, too. Wet wool, wet hair, the subtle musk of sweat…and desire?

      Beneath the coarse fabric of Enid’s kirtle, the soft flesh of her breasts heaved against Con’s chest. Her bare leg slipped between his. Her thigh rubbed against the lap of his breeches, sending a surge of pure animal lust coursing through him.

      He groped for her leg, shoving her gown higher as his lips sought hers. The way his body throbbed to lose himself in her, it felt as though he’d spent the past thirteen years in a cloister rather than well and frequently bedded by a succession of eager women.

      Or perhaps those years and those women were nothing more than the dreams of an ambitious youth. Perhaps he was still only a boy of seventeen, green as spring grass and aching fit to burst for the ripening maiden who tantalized his every thought. Cariad Enid Du. Dear dark Enid.

      His mouth closed over hers—demanding, yet pleading, too, in its way. Her kiss put him in mind of hard cider. Half tart, half sweet, wholly intoxicating. As her arms encircled his neck and her fingers plowed passionate furrows through his unruly hair, Con had reason to be glad of his sodden clothes.

      At least they might prevent his fevered flesh from bursting into flame.

      If she let Con keep on like this, the heat of her body was apt to make her clothes dry from the inside out! Enid wriggled beneath him, wishing Con had been this eager on the night they’d begotten their son, rather than ale-addled and content to let her have her way with him.

      Their son! Enid’s tardy self-control caught up with her at last. Her aim had been to lure Con into a verbal commitment, not a physical one. She didn’t dare let him sow another babe in her belly, ruining her hopes for wedding Macsen ap Gryffith.

      Fighting her lips free of his, she fought her own desire at least as much as his.

      “Do you always work this fast to satisfy yourself when you come to a new place, Con ap Ifan?” Frustration sharpened Enid’s voice as she pushed her skirts down to cover her bare thighs. “How quickly you forgot your vow not to kiss me again.”

      Con jerked back from her, his face betraying more surprise and dismay