"Well," he said slowly. "I'm thinking that you're my wife, scowl on your face and all. No matter what comes, nothing and nobody can change that fact, Boots. And I'm glad of it."

"Oh," she said, her anger draining away to be replaced by a softer smile.

Robbie cleared his throat. "It's a fine day on the water and I for one wad be glad o' fish for my supper. Ye realize, Nathaniel, that this lassie o' yours canna swim? Little Lost is the richt place to gain the art o' it, shallow as it is wi' a guid sandy bottom."

"So it is," Nathaniel agreed.

"You'll need help with the beaver," Elizabeth pointed out to Robbie.

"Aye, weel, I hae made my livin' withe se beasties, an' they wi' me, for muny a lang year, aye? So I'll make do. And the truth o' it is, lass, that trout wa dna taste sac bad after the venison." He was skinning a beaver as he spoke, and he squinted up from this work to grin at her.

Nathaniel was glad of an excuse to have Elizabeth to himself again. There was more to talk to her about, and it would be easier if they were alone. And Robbie was right: she needed to know how to swim. When he pointed this out to her, she listened to his logic, but he could see that the idea was causing her some uneasiness. The sight of her flushing was enough to make Nathaniel's blood leap with wanting her, although it had been just a few hours since he had left her last.

"I have nothing to wear," she said in a low voice and out of Robbie's hearing. And seeing his grin, she pushed him, hard. "Will you behave?"

He caught her up against him. "Do you want me to behave?"

"In company, at least," she said firmly. With a little shake of her head, she pulled away from him and turned to Robbie, who was looking into the innards of a beaver as if something of immense interest were waiting there, his color the shade of poppies in bloom.

"If you can manage," she said, "we'll go down and see about those trout."

"Ach aye, lass, gae on wi' ye." He did not look up from his work. "I can manage if you can."

* * *

The lake was smooth and clear and shone like a sheet of beaten silver in the sunlight. The forest came down to its shores for almost three quarters of its irregular shape, giving way reluctantly to broad banks of deep green moss. A series of coves were hidden from view; Elizabeth had been here with Robbie, and he had pointed them out at good distance, warning her to keep away.

"The loons are nestin'," he had told her in hushed tones.

Elizabeth had thought it unusual that Robbie would be so concerned about the privacy of these birds, but in this as in other things she had taken his direction, and now when she came with Nathaniel to the edge of the lake they were rewarded. A pair of loons paddled past with their eyes blazing like rubies, each with a fuzzy chick nestled comfortably on a checkered black—and—white back.

"So simple in their coloring and still anything but plain," Elizabeth said quietly. "Geometric detailing to the point of gaudiness."

Nathaniel lifted his head and called across the water, "Whooo whooo whooo," until one of the pair raised its dagger like beak and gave back the call. They watched the birds disappear around the corner.

"Come, Boots, there's a warmish patch over there which will suit."

Elizabeth hung back a little, for she was worried, in spite of the emptiness of this corner of the world and their isolation, about the public nature of swimming. Nathaniel glanced back at her and grinned.

"You can leave your shift on," he called, once again reading her mind with an accuracy which she was starting to find somewhat irritating.

"Am I so predictable?" she asked when she caught up to him. At the water's edge a series of flattish boulders cooked in the sun, extending out in a jumble into the shallows where small fish darted. A bloodred lizard with a speckled back flexed and disappeared into the cracks. Nearby, a blue heron paced long—legged on the shore, ignoring them completely.

Nathaniel had set his rifle to one side and stripped down to his breech clout in a few movements. "About some things," he conceded.

She dared not look at him as he stood there in the warm sun, his skin glowing and his hair moving in the wind, for on her face would be evidence of what the sight of him did to her.

"I like your hair plaited," he said, surprising her. When she looked up, one brow raised, he continued. "You tug at it when you're thinking."

"Do I?" she asked, amazed to find that he was right, she had her plait in one hand and had been pulling at it. With one hand she undid the silver clasp that she now wore to secure it at the top; this she wrapped in her handkerchief for safekeeping, hesitating for a moment while she traced the flowers etched into the metal.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

She turned away from him to undress. She peeled the moccasins off her feet, untied her breeches to step out of them and then pulled the long overdress up and over her head. There was a breeze and it felt good on her bare arms and legs, pressing her shift to her back. She curled her toes against the warmth of the rock under her feet, and then she faced him, trying to smile but unable to.

"All morning," she said. "All morning I've been feeling you—the evidence of you—on my thighs, and I have not been able to think of much else. What that means—what it might mean." She could not bear to look at him anymore, and she dropped her gaze. "I may be with child. already." He was standing very close to her, but he didn't touch her.