Archie pushed past him and stepped onto the bridge. It was only wide enough for a single file line but seemed sturdy enough to carry the weight of the entire team. “Let me go first,” he said. “If I cross without incident, then we will know it is safe.”
Sir Bedford agreed, and Archie took a few tentative steps across the woven bamboo boards. They crunched beneath his feet but showed no sign of stress. Encouraged, he walked a few more paces. When he reached the center of the bridge, he looked back at the team.
They waited on the bank for him to cross, no one daring to speak, or even to stir. As the bridge wobbled under his weight, Archie crossed the remaining feet to the other side of the valley. Once his boots hit solid ground, the team let out one collective breath.
“Come along, everyone!” Linley’s father said, making his way onto the bridge.
Reginald and Schoville followed at his heels, holding onto the bamboo stalk railings with white knuckles. Linley and Patrick waited until the others were half way across before they started walking.
The bridge protested under their added weight. It rocked a little harder with every step, swinging as the wind whistled through the latticed boards.
“…Whenever I cross the river,” Patrick whispered. “On its bridge with wooden piers, like the odor of brine from the ocean comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands of care-encumbered men, each bearing his burden of sorrow, have crossed the bridge since then.”
“Who wrote that?” Linley asked.
“Longfellow.”
They crossed the halfway point just as the rest of the team stepped off onto safe ground. Linley and Patrick were alone on the bridge.
She tried not to look down at the river raging below. “I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I,” Patrick said, one step behind her. “I don’t know why I said it.”
Neither spoke another word until they stood with both feet on the solid earth. Patrick looked back at the bridge one last time, amazed that he made it across.
***
They reached the hills by nightfall and set up camp in the narrow, wooded dell. When supper was finished and the dishes put away, Linley heated up another pot of water on the small campfire. After nearly a week of being wet and muddy, she needed a bath. In her usual fashion, she hung her sheet of canvas as a makeshift curtain and slipped away while the men smoked their evening cigarettes.
Patrick watched her out of the corner of his eye. He watched her undress and toss her discarded clothing over the line. He watched her bare feet and ankles pad across the grass. And he watched, finally, as water pooled around them.
He rose, unnoticed, and walked toward her.
Behind the curtain, Linley ran the warm flannel over her face, behind her ears, and down her neck. She paused to let water’s heat seep into the stiff muscles of her body.
That was when she saw the shadow, illuminated by the campfire, standing just beyond her canvas panel.
“Who’s there?” She knew before asking who it was.
Patrick took another step closer and cleared his throat. “I was thinking about having a bath myself.”
“You can bathe in the morning,” she said. “Men seem to work up a sweat just sleeping in this heat.”
Linley dipped the cloth into the basin and squeezed water over her arms. He still stood there. She could see him. Why didn’t he say something?
Patrick listened as the water dripped and sloshed on the other side of the sheet. He longed to reach out a hand and caress the space he believed she occupied. Her naked body lay just out of reach.
It was almost painful.
Linley ran her wet, soapy hands over her chest. She remembered the burn of his mouth on her breasts. The feel of his hands, large and warm, as he clutched her to him. Patrick had wanted her then—did he want her now?
He stood there, his body silhouetted against the glow of the fire. Of course, he wanted her. How could he not? It was his principles as a gentleman that stopped him from taking her. And even they were faltering.
Patrick turned and walked away, leaving Linley to watch his shadow grow smaller until it disappeared completely. Back at the campfire, he stood with his hands in his pockets, thinking over the last few moments. Just knowing she was back there tortured his very soul. God, how he wanted her! But he would not—could not—let himself have her.
Reginald watched him from across the fire. “I’d better not hear any commotion coming from your tent tonight.” He knew where Patrick had been, and he knew that hungry look on the man’s face all too well.
“Commotion?” Patrick asked, coolly.
Reginald stood up and kicked over a camp chair. “Don’t be coy with me, Kyre,” he said, advancing on the man. “You want her so badly you practically stink with it.”
Patrick almost smiled. Perhaps the man was right.
“I see you slinking around here, waiting to snap her up like a snake in the grass.” Reginald stopped inches away from Patrick. “But I know all about you. Who you really are.”
Fresh from her bath, Linley stepped from the shadows.
“It was Lady Wolstanton I first heard your name linked to,” Reginald said.