Morgan slowly untangled her arms from around his neck, setting her away from him. He bent down, picked up her clothes, and gently placed them back in her arms. He smiled at her, but his face was drawn, his expression tight.
“We have the rest of the week to look for that cliff,” he said, his voice even-toned. “After our swim.”
Sadie could only stare at Morgan, confused by his reaction. Why wasn’t he excited about this?
Morgan took hold of her hand again and started them walking down the mountain, west, away from where she really wanted to go. Sadie followed along meekly and thought about her pretend husband’s sudden change of mood.
With Mercedes’ hand firmly tucked into his,Morgan headed to where his magical stream ran into the Prospect River. Sweat broke out between his shoulders and ran in a trickle down his back. His right hand involuntarily curled into a fist, and his feet felt like stones as every step he took led him closer to the magical stream he wanted to keep secret from Mercedes.
Of all the hundreds of square miles in this valley, why did Plum’s accursed mine have to be located in his gorge? And why now, after all these years of searching with her father, did Mercedes have to be the one to find it?
Thedrùidh’s vision rose in his mind, and Morgan started to shake with the force of his thoughts. He released Mercedes so she would not feel his trembling. He walked ahead in silence, holding back branches for Mercedes when the trail became thick.
They broke from the woods and stepped onto a sandbar jutting into the magical stream.
Upstream the water rippled with gentle current over gravel worn smooth by time. But the stream’s path bent around the sandbar and eddied into a deep pool of calm water—
perfect for swimming, Morgan decided, and for making love to his wife.
Mercedes wasted no time. She dropped her bundle of clothes onto the sand and quickly followed it down, immediately unlacing her boots.
“Go away,” she told him succinctly, pulling off her boots and then her socks. Her hands went to the snap on her pants. “Find your own swimming hole farther downstream.”
Morgan pulled his sword from his back and set it on the ground, then unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, letting it fall beside his sword. Mercedes turned her head to discover he had not obeyed her order. She frowned at him.
He smiled at her. “I stink, too, wife,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “And I like this swimming hole,” he added, unbuckling his belt and pushing his pants down to his ankles.
His wide-eyed wife suddenly squeaked and turned to face the stream. “It’s broad daylight, Morgan. You can’t… we can’t just… ”
Morgan ignored her flustered sputtering and stripped naked, setting the rest of his clothes neatly beside his shirt. He hesitated, then took the cherrywood burl from around his neck and set it on top of his pile.
He didn’t need its help today to froth up the water. He and Mercedes could do that all by themselves.
Stretching his muscles against the cool autumn air, Morgan strode past his speechless wife and waded into the stream. He slipped under the water and kicked his way to the center of the pool before he turned and resurfaced. He let his feet sink to the bottom and stood facing Mercedes, the water only as deep as his chest. He brushed back the hair from his face and smiled at his still gaping wife.
“Hide in the trees to change,” he told her. “And wear only your shirt if you feel you must hold on to your modesty.”
He sent a splash of water toward her. “It’s not cold, Mercedes. Hurry up and join me.”
He bobbed his eyebrows and spider-walked his fingers through the air. “I’ll wash that beautiful hair of yours if you want.”
She darted a nervous look up and down the length of the stream, then suddenly jumped up and ran for the forest. Morgan lay back in the water and floated, smiling up at the deep blue sky. For all of her shyness, Mercedes seemed to be a willing wife, playful and energetic and eager.
And so comfortable here in these woods.
Now, if he could only get her comfortable with him.
Morgan watched from the corner of his eye as Mercedes silently tried to sneak into the water. The littlegràineag had emerged from the forest a good fifty paces from where she’
d entered. Now she was tiptoeing up the stream toward him, trying not to make any noise or ripple the water.
Morgan closed his eyes, smiled, and waited.
Strong feminine hands—both of which were naked, he was pleased to feel—landed on his shoulders with surprising force and drove him under the water. Morgan twisted and reached for the tails of Mercedes’ shirt, pulling her down with him.
His mouth captured her squeal under the water as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled their bodies together, snaking her legs around his waist and trapping him tightly. Morgan shouted, still underwater, the moment his groin came into contact with the naked, delicate, down-covered folds at the juncture of her thighs.
He ravaged her mouth while she stole the breath out of his body. Her hands tugged at his hair and dug into his shoulders. She wiggled her hips, further arousing him, setting him on fire as he hardened to stone.
They needed air.
Not that he cared at the moment. But Morgan had a thought that Mercedes’ eagerness might drown them both.
He planted his feet and stood, keeping his very passionate wife firmly locked against him. They both tossed their heads back the minute they surfaced, taking in large gulps of air. But before he could catch his breath, the littlegràineag’s mouth was covering his.
Morgan fell forward, sinking them both to the bottom, placing Mercedes between the gravel and his now rock-solid manhood.
And that was when Morgan suddenly remembered the foil packet that was still in his pants. On the beach. Much too far away right now. But Morgan simply didn’t care at that moment. This woman was his. He was hers.
He kicked his feet just enough to bring them to the edge of the pool, lifting Mercedes’
head above water and resting it on the shore. Still covering her, still locked in the embrace of her legs, he slid down just enough that he could touch the tip of his manhood to her feminine center.
Her eyes opened, blinking the cascading water away, and Mercedes smiled in anticipation of the passion he offered. Her hands dug marks into his shoulders as she used the heels of her feet to lift her hips against him, opening herself to receive him inside.
But he hesitated and pulled back.
“We don’t have protection, wife,” he said, closing his eyes against the urge to drive forward. “I need to go to my pants.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered, lifting her hips again and trying to pull his mouth back down to hers.
Morgan held fast. “Well, I do,gràineag. I will not have you crying foul in two months.
You’ll say the words in front of a priest before I put a babe in your belly.”
She gave him a fierce shove. And before he could right himself, Mercedes was up and running toward his clothes. Morgan didn’t know if she was going for his pants or his sword.
“Why didn’t you bring it into the water?” she growled as she knelt down and rummaged around in his pockets, making a mess of his neatly stacked clothes.
Morgan stood up and backed deeper into the pool while he appreciated the view of her beautiful backside. Soon she had the foil packet in her hand and was running back to the stream, her wet flannel shirt clinging to every delectable curve of her body, her long legs making short work of the distance between them.
Morgan heard the rifle shot the instant Mercedes lunged into his arms. When she landed against his chest, she was dead weight. He dove them both into the water, holding on to her with desperation. He covered her back with his hand and sank to the bottom of the pool, feeling the warmth of her blood against his palm as she lay limp and unmoving against him.