Days passed. Ignoring Goldie’s loud protests and Jack’s warnings that she might be ‘a bit fresh’, Belle saddled up Lady Marmalade and took her out over the farm fields in the crisp bright sunshine.
I’m still alive, she thought, inhaling the fresh air, enjoying the power of Lady as she trotted and then cantered her briskly and then gave her her head and let her show her phenomenal speed in a full-out gallop over the rain-softened earth.
Later, she brushed the mare down, fed her and Goldie carrots and went to help Jack out by fetching a fresh hay bale. She couldn’t even lift it.
‘Want a hand?’ he said, smiling.
‘Yeah, funny,’ she said, and he cut the string and she fed the horses.
She went back into the house just as Jack was going out again, the towel over his shoulder.
‘See you in a bit,’ he said, and walked off around the back of the garden.
‘OK,’ said Belle.
She waited a few minutes and then, curiosity overcoming her, she followed him, back around the outside of the old house, nearly slipping on the moss-covered flagstones. She paused. There he was – heading along the edge of the overgrown bottom field. She crossed the yard and then followed in his footsteps, keeping her distance. He walked head down, his steps light, springy. He could keep that up for miles, she reckoned. Tough bastard. At the far corner of the field, he vanished from view and Belle hurried on until she saw the slope he’d gone down.
She could hear the rush of the river here, could smell its cool dampness in the air. So this was where he went every day. And then she saw him.
He was down by the edge of the river, facing away from her. The towel was on the ground and he was stripping off his shirt.
I ought to look away, thought Belle.
But she didn’t. Couldn’t. She was mesmerized by the sight of him there, the sun trickling medallions of gold through the trees and onto his skin. The abs on the man! Then he turned and his tanned back was packed with muscle and to her shock she saw that it was also covered in scars, old ones she thought, that had long since turned to random puckered streaks of white. Was that why he was so unconcerned about her own disfigurement? She’d thought he was just being kind, trying not to show how appalled he was at the state of her face, but she could see that this might be the real explanation. He had scars of his own. He understood.
But where did he get them?
Now he was unbuckling his belt, unzipping . . .
I ought to look away . . .
Again, she found that she couldn’t do it. Her eyes were drawn to his taut buttocks, his hard thighs. She’d seen naked men before, she’d had boyfriends, she wasn’t a virgin, but the sight of Jack naked somehow sent her into a tailspin. She was intruding. Spying. It was wrong. But it was also amazingly erotic, watching him as he waded down into the water. She felt her nipples harden, felt heat and moisture between her legs.
He was in the water now, chest deep. Then he swam a couple of strokes, turned – and looked right at her, standing there on the upper bank. He was grinning.
Christ!
‘Going to join me then, Belle?’ he shouted up to her.
Belle felt hot with embarrassment. He’d known she was here, all the time. Cringing, she turned away.
‘Come on down. It’s nice in here,’ he said.
Nice? She couldn’t think of anything worse than immersing herself in water. She turned back to face him and shook her head. ‘No. Thanks.’
‘You’d never make a detective,’ he said over the roaring rush of the river. ‘Trailing the suspect at a discreet distance? Not your forte.’
‘You knew I was there all the time?’
‘’Fraid so.’
Belle sat down on the bank, clasping her hands around her knees. ‘You rotten git,’ she said.
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said, and swam off across the river.
It looked so nice down there – cool and inviting. Up here on the bank, her back was in the sun and she was hot from hurrying to keep up with him, his mum’s thick jeans heavy on her legs and his chambray shirt clinging to her sweaty skin. Maybe it would be nice to just dip her toes in. Maybe . . . but then she thought of black waters and terror. No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even think of going in.
Instead, she watched Jack. He was a powerful swimmer, using the overarm stroke, crossing the water from bank to bank in six quick lunges. Then back again. He did that ten times, and then waded to the edge of the river and . . .
She wouldn’t look this time. Belle scrambled to her feet and went back up into the sunshine and stared across the field, trying to get a grip on her racing pulse. Her heart was pounding in her chest; she felt breathless. She slumped down in the grass and sank her head into her hands. She sat there for minutes, unable to summon the strength to get up and go back to the farmhouse.
The water.
Him.
God, what was happening to her?
‘Ready then?’
He’d dressed quickly and now he was standing right beside her, the damp towel over his shoulder, looking down at her. Belle got back to her feet, trying to compose herself.
‘You know – there’s nothing in that water except a few trout and maybe a newt or two. Granted, they don’t get out to use the loo, but it’s pretty clean really,’ he told her.
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she spat out.
‘You want my advice?’
‘Go on then,’ she snapped.
She was angry at him and embarrassed with herself. Failing to follow him unnoticed. Behaving like a Victorian virgin with the vapours at the sight of him in the nude. How fucking ridiculous. And being very noticeably terrified about getting back into any large body of water. Christ, she was a mess.
‘When you remember it, the thing that scares you so much, kick it straight out of your brain. Refuse to think about it,’ he said.
‘Is that what you do? When you start to think about the thing that caused those scars on your back?’ she threw at him.
‘Yep.’ He started to walk down the edge of the field, back toward the house.
‘What caused them then?’ asked Belle, trailing after him.
‘Being in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ he said, and walked on.