suitable wife, needs looking after, poor thing, young enough to breed from.’
‘Sara, that is not at all how I think of you.’ Lucian stood up and made to move towards her, his hand held out.
‘Yes, you do. I need a man to protect me, fight duels on my behalf, make sure I do not do unconventional things like running a shop or wearing male clothing. Why else would you offer for me out of the blue like this? You do not love me, you have already slept with me, you do not need to give me a reason to chaperon Marguerite—it can only be for your convenience and because your male arrogance thinks I would be better off in your charge.’
She found she was on her feet, too, one of the battered old cushions clutched in her right hand. Had she meant to throw it at him or was she simply gesticulating so wildly that she let it go? Whichever it was, Lucian had not been expecting it. It hit him squarely in the face, he clawed at it, staggered and then, with awful inevitability, the punt tipped sideways and they both fell into the lake.
Her skirts were only light muslin, her undergarments no more hampering. Sara surfaced within seconds, spluttering, and kicked the few strokes that enabled her to grab hold of the side of the upturned punt.
‘Sara.’ Lucian was right beside her, his shoulders just out of the water, and she realised that he must be standing on the submerged causeway. ‘Hell, are you all right? I thought I was going to have to dive for you.’
‘Yes. I can swim perfectly well, thank you.’ She swiped at a weed that was dangling from her hair and realised that the ducking had done nothing to cool her anger. ‘I do not think that trying to turn the punt back over is going to be easy.’
‘No, and unsafe, considering that you are out of your depth. I will carry you back to shore.’
‘I told you, I can swim.’
‘But you have no 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.’
