The second time it had happened, however, the feeling had been completely different. It had been the night of his mother’s masquerade, right before he’d seen the woman in the silver dress. Like the time before, the sensation had started in his arms and legs, but instead of feeling numb, this time he felt an odd tingling, as if he’d just suddenly come alive after years of sleepwalking.

Then he’d turned and seen her, and he’d known she was the reason he was there that night; the reason he lived in England;  hell, the very reason he’d been born.

Of course, she had gone and proven him wrong by disappearing into thin air, but at the time he’d believed all that, and if  she’d let him, he would have proven it to her as well.

Now, as he stood in the pond, the water lapping at his midriff, just above his navel, he was struck once again by that odd  sense of somehow being more alive than he’d been just seconds earlier. It was a good feeling, an exciting, breathless rush  of emotion.

It was like before. When he’d met her.

Something was about to happen, or maybe someone was near.

His life was about to change.

And he was, he realized with wry twist of his lips, naked as the day he was born. It didn’t exactly put a man at an advantage,  at least not unless he was in between a pair of silk sheets with an attractive young woman at his side.

Or underneath.

He took a step into slightly deeper waters, the soft sludge of the pondbottom squishing between his toes. Now the water reached a couple of inches higher. He was bloody well freezing, but at least he was mostly covered up.

He scanned the shore, looking up into trees and down in the bushes. There had to be someone there. Nothing else could account for the strange, tingling feeling that had now spread throughout his body.

And if his body could tingle while submerged in a lake so cold, he was terrified to see his own privates (the poor things  felt like they’d shrunk to nothing, which was not what a man liked to imagine), then it must be a very strong tingle indeed.

“Who is out there?” he called out.

No answer. He hadn’t really expected one, but it had been worth a try.

He squinted as he searched the shore again, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees as he watched for any sign of movement. He saw nothing but the gentle ruffling of the leaves in the wind, but as he finished his sweep of the area, he somehow knew.

“Sophie!”

He heard a gasp, followed by a huge flurry of activity.

“Sophie Beckett,” he yelled, “if you run from me right now, I swear I will follow you, and I will not take the time to don my clothing.”

The noises coming from the shore slowed.

“I will catch up with you,” he continued, “because I’m stronger and faster. And I might very well feel compelled to tackle  you to the ground, just to be certain you do not escape.”

The sounds of her movement ceased.

“Good,” he grunted. “Show yourself.”

She didn’t.

“Sophie,” he warned.

There was a beat of silence, followed by the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps, and then he saw her, standing on the shore in one of those awful dresses he’d like to see sunk to the bottom of the Thames.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I went for a walk. What are you doing here?” she countered. “You’re supposed to be ill. That”—she waved her arm toward him and, by extension, the pond—”can’t possibly be good for you.”

He ignored her question and comment. “Were you following me?”

“Of course not,” she replied, and he rather believed her. He didn’t think she possessed the acting talents to fake that level of righteousness.

“I would never follow you to a swimming hole,” she continued. “It would be indecent.”

And then her face went completely red, because they both knew she hadn’t a leg to stand on with that argument. If she had truly been concerned about decency, she’d have left the pond the second she’d seen him, accidentally or not.

He lifted one hand from the water and pointed toward her, twisting his wrist as he motioned for her to turn around.  “Give me your back while you wait for me,” he ordered. “It will only take me a moment to pull on my clothing.”

“I’ll go home right now,” she offered. “You’ll enjoy greater privacy, and—”

“You’ll stay,” he said firmly.

“But—”

He crossed his arms. “Do I look like a man in the mood to be argued with?”

She stared at him mutinously.

“If you run,” he warned, “I will catch you.”

Sophie eyed the distance between them, then tried to judge the distance back to My Cottage. If he stopped to pull on his clothing she might have a chance of escaping, but if he didn’t...

“Sophie,” he said, “I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears. Stop taxing your brain with useless mathematical computations and do as I asked.”

One of her feet twitched. Whether it was itching to run home or merely turn around, she’d never know.

“Now,” he ordered.

With a loud sigh and grumble, Sophie crossed her arms and turned around to stare at a knothole in the tree trunk in front  of her as if her very life depended on it. The infernal man wasn’t being particularly quiet as he went about his business, and  she couldn’t seem to keep herself from listening to and trying to identify every sound that rustled and splashed behind her.  Now he was emerging from the water, now he was reaching for his breeches, now he was ...