Bride by Mail. Katy Madison
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Название: Bride by Mail
Автор: Katy Madison
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
Серия: Mills & Boon Historical
isbn: 9781472043948
isbn:
Except Olivia was all too aware of the man beside her. His every movement set off a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. He set the lantern on a rock and leaned his rifle against a tree. He drew his shirt over his head. Spellbound, Olivia stared at the bare expanse of his chest. His bronzed skin stretched over rippled muscle.
Jack jumped onto a large rock, startling her out of her reverie. She folded her arms over her chest to settle the odd tightening in her nipples.
Cold, she told herself. The damp air around the stream was cold. Yet oddly heated and loose jointed would better describe her current state.
Jack leaned out over the edge of the rock and splashed water onto his chest and shoulders. The play of his muscles under his skin was fascinating. He dipped his face in the rushing water and then threw his head back. Droplets arced through the air, catching the light from the lantern and then fading into the darkness beyond the circle of illumination.
He turned toward her, shut one eye and swiped water away from his face with a broad hand. “I thought you wanted to wash.”
“Yes, of course.” Olivia stepped gingerly toward the edge of the rushing water. The stream frothed around rocks and boulders. The sides lapped at grassy shoals. She stepped close, but her foot sank and tore grass from the soggy bank. With Jack watching her, she didn’t want to slip.
Jack lathered up with a brown bar.
Wary of the rushing water and the dark shadows concealing who knew what, Olivia stepped onto a large rock. Her chosen perch was not as flat as his. She wobbled, fighting for her balance.
Kneeling on the surface, she reached down into the icy water and flinched. “That’s c-cold.”
“Snowmelt off the mountains.” Jack stood and brushed water from his arms. He shoved the wet tendrils of his hair back from his face. “Streams around here are always cold.”
Scarcely able to look away from him, Olivia cupped water in her rapidly growing-numb fingers and raised it to her face.
“Want this?” he asked. He held out the brown bar.
“I brought my own, thank you.” Olivia unwrapped the perfumed bar of factory-milled soap she’d bought in Connecticut.
“The biscuits are probably done.” Jack leaped off his rock and retrieved his shirt.
Although the icy water made her shiver and shake, Olivia lathered her face and neck. Taking care not to get her clothes wet, she rinsed.
Jack lifted the lantern, casting the stream around her into darkness. Undoubtedly he was impatient to get back. Olivia placed the soap back in its paper wrapper and dunked her hands in the frigid flow. Wiping her hands on her towel, she stood. She stepped toward the side of the stream.
Jack leaned and retrieved his rifle. The lantern swung behind him and the illumination disappeared as she stepped onto another stone. The wet surface of the stone provided no purchase. Her demi-boots were barely meant for walking, and the thin heels made her skid worse. Off-balance, Olivia flayed. The precious soap squirted out of her hand and plopped into the stream.
She twisted to retrieve it. Her heel skidded sideways and slipped off the rock. She pitched forward. She caught her soap just before her face hit the surface. The icy blast made her gasp.
Water filled her mouth and nose. The freezing water stabbed with a thousand pricks. Coughing and sputtering, she thrashed. The rushing stream rammed her, knocking her feet sideways. Her lungs refused to fill with air. Rocks shifted under her hands and knees. Each time she tried to find purchase, the bed shifted. The knifing flow relentlessly tossed her like a cork.
God, she didn’t want to drown now.
The memories of clawing to be free of the underwater train wreckage flashed in her head, jumbling with the pounding of the creek water. The same sense of imminent death coldly knifed her. Her throat tightened. Silent screams echoed in her head.
She had to survive. Her hands scraped the streambed. If she could reach the bottom, surely she could push up. Her lungs fought to expel the inhaled water. Choking, she convulsed, coughing.
No! She wouldn’t die now. Not like this. She scrabbled against the rocky bottom. Her thick, sodden skirts caught the water like sails. Their weight dragged her. The rush of water swept her along. Her head glanced off a rock. Her starved lungs sucked in water as blackness closed in.
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