Burning Up

the lines from his face and put that lazy, satisfied glint in his eyes.
    She smiled.
    “Wind’s picking up,” he remarked.
    She could feel a shimmer of vapor in the air, a powerful current flowing from the west. “It must rain sometime,” she said apologetically.
    “We’ll be home before then,” he assured her.
    Home. Such a round, firm, settled word. The warmth inside her grew.
    “I want to go to Arden,” she said.
    He nodded. “I told Cook to prepare a special dinner for us.”
    She was touched by his thoughtfulness; amused by his appetite. “After that lunch?”
    The empty picnic basket rested between the seats. She nudged it with her foot out of the water that had collected in the bottom of the boat.
    “We should celebrate. I have something to give you,” Jack said.
    She looked at him, instantly diverted from the puddle at her feet. “What?”
    “My mother’s ring. A cabochon sapphire.” He cleared his throat. “Of course you might prefer a different stone. Or a larger one.”
    She did not care about the size or the stone. The look in his eyes meant everything. “I would love to wear your mother’s ring.”
    Pleasure shone in his dark eyes, but he only said, “Wait until you see it.”
    “Tonight.”
    “Actually, I have it in my pocket. I still haven’t proposed to you properly.”
    She arched her eyebrows. “There is a proper way to propose?”
    “Generally the man goes down upon one knee.”
    “I think I might quite like you on your knees. Just think of all you could do . . . down there. But the way you proposed was better.”
    He cocked an eyebrow. “Without ceremony?”
    “Naked,” she explained. “And inside me.”
    His gaze kindled. “Most im proper. But since it persuaded you to say yes . . .”
    A pop .
    A lurch.
    A rush.
    Morwenna stared, bewildered, as a black rag washed between the seats. The bow dipped suddenly beneath Jack’s weight. “What . . . ?”
    Water gurgled in the bottom of the boat. The picnic basket listed on its side in a rapidly growing pool of water.
    “Jack?”
    A wave washed over the side. Her seat slanted under her.
    “We’ve sprung a leak.” His voice was calm and sharp. “Stay with the boat.”
    The water gushed to his boots. There was a hole, she realized. Under his seat. She was not frightened, only bewildered and annoyed.
    “Hold on to the boat,” Jack ordered. “The hull will float if—”
    Another wave rushed the boat. He dropped the oars and grabbed for her.
    She reached for his hands as the world went suddenly, wildly awry. The boat pitched, the bow plunged. The sudden weight of the water flipped the solid hull, throwing her into the cold salt sea. Brine filled her mouth, blurred her eyes . . . She heard a splash, a thunk, as her head bobbed under the surface. Sputtering, she raised her face, raking streamers of wet hair from her eyes. Her skirts mushroomed, billowing around her. And Jack . . .
    Her heart clenched like a fist.
    “Jack!”
    He floated a few yards away, arms thrashing feebly. His eyes were open. Dazed. A great bloody gash streaked his forehead.
    He was hurt. In danger. Something—the hard wooden edge of the hull as it flipped or the end of an oar—must have struck him when they capsized.
    She kicked toward him, hampered by her skirts. Her legs were tangled, heavy, her half boots full of water.
    He groaned. “Morwenna.”
    “I’m here,” she called frantically. “It’s all right. I am—”
    Terrified.
    His eyes rolled back in his skull. His head dropped forward.
    He slid beneath the water.
    “No!”
    She lunged for him, reaching, reaching . . . Her fingers brushed something. His hair. His sleeve. She gripped tight and tugged, hauling him to the surface, turning his face to the sky. Was he breathing? His face was pale, his lips slack.
    A wave smacked into the hull and broke over them. They both went under. Morwenna kicked her sodden skirts, struggled to support Jack’s head. Her breath burst from her lips in an absurd staccato rhythm like a song or a prayer: Please, please, please.
    Water was her element. But she was trapped by her clothes. Trapped in this body. Jack was easily twice her size and weighted by his boots. The gash on his forehead was red, wet, and open like a mouth. Her heart drummed in panic. She could call the seals. She did not have the strength to save him.
    Or time to wait.
    “Jack.” She spoke sharply, urgently, into his ear, willing him to respond. “Hold me.”
    His lids lifted. His