“There’s no such thing as fate, Rhys.”

“Yes, there is,” he said. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Her world started to spin. She pulled away from his embrace. “You can’t honestly claim to live by such a belief. Just waiting to see what destiny brings?”

He shrugged, picking up a pebble at his feet and lobbing it into the pool. “This is what I’ve learned, over the course of my life. Fate is fate. Things will happen the way they’re meant to happen. It’s pointless to resist.”

“Pointless?”

Meredith blinked at him. His argument was starting to chafe her pride. She didn’t appreciate the insinuation that all her work and sacrifice over the past ten years had been pointless. That no matter whether she’d married an arthritic innkeeper or spent her days foraging for roots and slugs, she would still be standing here, with Rhys, at this moment. She wanted him to recognize the effort she’d made to hold this village together. Not only recognize it, but respect it. And she wanted him to see that he could make his own fate anywhere. With his strength, determination, rank, and wealth, he could have so much more than the rural life he envisioned in this place.

Somehow, she needed to shock him out of this blind, persistent belief in destiny.

She cast a brief glance sideways, over the edge of the outcropping. “Perhaps it’s my destiny to fall into that pool.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous about it? You said yourself, if it’s meant to happen, it will happen. I’ll fall into that pool. And what then?”

He retreated a pace, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I—”

“What then, Rhys?” Her eyebrows rose. So did her voice. “Should I just be still and wait for my destiny? Would you just sit back and wait to see if I’m fated to drown?” She inched away from him, closer to the edge. “After all, it’s pointless to resist.”

Recognition flashed in his eyes. “Merry Lane, don’t you dare—”

“Fate is fate,” she said.

And then she took a large, retreating step … into nothing.

Chapter Nine

Meredith wasn’t there anymore. Rhys’s bones weren’t, either.

And what he rationally knew must have passed in an instant, seemed a bloody eternity. An eternity during which, of all absurd things, he found himself pondering science.

He’d never understand the principle of gravity. How was it that his heart soared into his throat, at the same time the earth was tugging her body down?

For that matter, the earth was taking its damn sweet time with the tugging.

Splash.

Finally. Oh, thank God. Splash was good. Splash was much, much better than thud. Or crack.

He was jarred into motion. Maddeningly, his first motion was to sink to his knees with relief. But a half-second later, he’d scrambled to the edge of the overhang and stuck his head over, scanning for a glimpse of her in the darkened pool. If she’d drifted left, been caught beneath the falls … she’d be churned and tumbled by the force of the cascade, with no escape.

But no. He caught sight of her to the right. The light fabric of her dress billowed beneath the clear surface, like the reflection of a cloud. She’d been spared the rocks and falls. But the pool was deep there.

Damn teasing woman. She knew how to swim.

Didn’t she?

Without tearing his eyes from the pool, he tossed his coat aside and began yanking at his boots. Surely any moment now he’d see her break through the surface. She’d smile up at him, taunting and triumphant, those silver eyes flashing like flints.

Any moment now.

“Meredith,” he bellowed, pulling his right boot free. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point. It isn’t funny.” He faltered with the left boot. Damn stiff knee always made it harder. Still she didn’t surface. Perhaps she was tangled in weeds. Or maybe she’d hit her head on the way down.

He wanted to curse, but he didn’t. No breath to waste. By the time he finally had off with both boots, exertion and panic were driving the air from his lungs. With a ragged gulp to refill them, he dove after her.

The cold smacked him first. Then the wet seeped in. He fought the impulse to flail about the surface, instead letting the weight of his body pull him deeper.

Into the dark.

He opened his eyes to the stinging water, straining to make sense of the murky shadows. With Herculean effort, he forced himself to be still and turn a slow circle in place.

Rocks.

More rocks.

Shaft of sunlight, bubbles from the falls.

Empty darkness.

Meredith.

In one stroke, he was at her side. Throwing an arm about her waist, he powered their way up with the other, until they broke the water’s glassy surface from beneath. From her first splash to their surfacing, the entire ordeal had probably lasted thirty seconds. Rhys felt like thirty years had been added to his age.

Kicking fiercely, he pushed them to the pool’s edge, where it was shallow enough for him to stand. He set Meredith on a boulder submerged just below the water’s surface, cradling her head and shoulders in his arms while the water did what it would with her billowing dress.

She did not move. Her eyes were closed.

Sputtering, he pushed the hair back from her face and bent his head to check for breath. Warmth puffed against his cheek.

“Meredith.” He gave her a shake. “Meredith, wake up.”

Some vestige of his battle mentality asserted itself. There was once a time when he’d been cool and collected in such situations. He checked her for obvious signs of injury, looking in vain for signs of swelling or blood.

When that yielded no discoveries, he resorted to frantic shaking again. “Jesus, Meredith. Don’t do this to me.”

Her eyes fluttered open. Straightening her arms, she brought herself to a sitting position on the boulder. Her legs dangled free in the water.

A faint smile nudged the corners of her lips. “If that was a test of faith,” she said evenly, “I think you failed.”

“You … You …” Rhys shook a finger at her. “Damn it, you know that was—”

“Fate?”

And now he swore. Violently, crudely, punching at the water as he did. Rhys knew anger. He’d lived angry, to one degree or another, nearly all his years. But never before had he felt so enraged and so relieved in equal measures. The combination was so dizzying, so confusing … he couldn’t even speak, or think.

Only act.

When she laughed at his rage, he wedged between her floating legs, pulled her lithe form flush against his angry bulk, and quieted her mouth with his own. No tenderness. No caution. Just raw emotion and need.

Now then, Merry Lane, he thought as he drove her jaw wide and made his best attempt at possessing her with his lips and tongue and teeth, just you try to laugh at this.

She didn’t laugh. No, she moaned with pleasure and clutched him to her shivering body. Gave back as good as she received, catching his tongue and pulling him deeper into the kiss. They battled with lips and teeth, each working to persuade the other. Eventually the argument slowed, deepened, became more of a thoughtful discussion, and then … and then, delicious accord. They moved in a rhythm, his tongue stroking hers, and she clung to him, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his hips. They fit together so perfectly, as though they’d been fashioned just for this. Even she couldn’t deny it.

He let her up for a quick breath, as a test.

“Rhys,” she breathed. “Yes.”

And then he kissed her again, triumph surging through his body and centering in his groin. He was hopeless with words, couldn’t sing worth a damn. Even the way he ate his food sent women fleeing. But when he kissed her, she went pliant in his arms. This mouth was good for something.

Their garments were soaked through, matted to their skin. He could feel every contour of her body, every rib and nipple and fingertip. And by the way she ground her pelvis against his, he assumed she could feel every hardened ridge of his. Despite the coolness of the water, heat smoldered between their bodies. Her thin muslin skirt and petticoat swirled around them on the water’s surface, leaving her bared beneath.

Her leg twined around his, and he thrust his hand under the water to grip her thigh. Encouraged by her soft moan, he slid his palm up the underside of her leg and cupped her backside. And once he’d gone that far … he couldn’t stop himself. He reached between her thighs to touch her sex.

Their kiss slowed now. He took his time, exploring her mouth gently with his tongue. Tracing her folds lightly with his fingertips. She shifted in his arms, giving him freer access, and he slid a finger inside her heat.

God, more mysteries of science. How could she possibly be wetter than water? But she was. Wet, warm, slippery, inviting. For him.

For him.

Gasping, she tore her lips from his. “Can you feel that?” she whispered, pressing kisses to his jaw and ear. “Can you feel how much I want you? I’ve wanted you for so long.”

If the evidence weren’t currently sheathing his finger, he could hardly have believed that she wanted him at all. But what did she mean, for so long? He’d barely been back in town a week. Though he’d give her that—it had been a damn long week.

Releasing his neck, she burrowed one hand in to the space between them, cleaving his waistband from his chilled abdomen. The wet fabric didn’t have much give, but her agile, slender fingers slipped into the gap and worked slowly downward. He froze, one finger still buried inside her. Her breath came hot against his ear. At last, her fingertips grazed the swollen head of his cock.

“Jesus.”

She swirled a finger around the tip, and pleasure exploded inside him. He bit her shoulder to hold himself back.

“I want you.” She licked his cheek. “I want you.”

“Merry …” The word struck a chord in him. “Say you’ll marry me.” He knew she was reluctant, but he had this one advantage. She wanted him. Against all sense and reason and laws of nature, she wanted him. He’d intended to wait for marriage, but he’d settle for a betrothal. Hell. Right now, he’d settle for just about any syllable out of her mouth that rhymed with “yes.”

He drew his finger out of her sheath, then plunged it deeper. “Say yes. Say it now.”

Now. Please let it be now. And then he could take her, right here. Slide straight into that slick, inviting heat. And for once in his life, it might feel right.

“Say yes.” He added a second finger, pushed deeper still.

“I …” Panting, she let her head fall to his collarbone. “I can’t marry anyone. My father. The inn. The village … They all depend on me.”

“Let them depend on me.” He cinched his free arm about her waist. “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll protect you, and your father, and the village. I’d never allow you to come to harm.”

“Rhys …”

He nudged back, forcing her to lift her head. The doubt was plain in her eyes. Why couldn’t she believe him? Perhaps it was too much to expect, after only a week—but damn. It still hurt that she didn’t.

And then, a horrible thought struck. Maybe she didn’t believe him because she knew it was a lie. He had allowed her, and her father, and the entire village to come to harm, long ago. He’d allowed them to suffer for the fourteen years since.

Could it be she knew something of the truth? He’d never spoken about that night, not to anyone.

With deep regret, he withdrew his fingers from her body and took her by the waist, setting her back on the boulder. She bit her quivering lip, and he rubbed his hands up and down her arms to warm them. He tried, very hard, to ignore the tight knots of her nipples, thrown into stark relief by her wet gown.