“Yes.” He pushed the boat into the water. “As long as it was made by man.”
“Who else would make it?”
“I meant you can’t grab a floating log and decide to name it Santa Maria the Second.”
She thought about that. “What of rafts, then? They’re no more than a few logs tied together with a bit of rope. Does that still count?”
He gave her a blank look. “Get in the boat, Evie.”
“I’ll take that to mean you don’t know.”
She stepped in and eyed the closest bench warily. It would be humiliating indeed if she were to end up with splinters in her backside. But as McAlistair was watching and waiting, there was nothing else to be done but bunch her skirts up a bit and take a seat.
“Comfortable?” he asked, tilting the boat some as he stepped in and took his seat.
There was already an inch of cold water in the bottom, seeping through her half boots. “Quite. You?”
He nodded and used an oar to push them off the beach.
Evie’s heart gave a small leap of excitement as she felt the bottom of the boat scrape away from the shore.
This was nothing like rowing about on a lake. The water there was always still, always placid. Rowing with any strength and skill would send a boat gliding over the lake in a seamless line.
But here on the sea, there was endless movement. Gentle waves rolled up to lick at the wood and send their little boat rocking. And rather than cutting smoothly through the water, the boat seemed to struggle through each wave, the oars battling against the tide that would push them back to shore.
Evie estimated that it took them almost thirty minutes to make it a full ninety yards from the beach. From there, McAlistair turned the boat and began a course parallel to the shore.
Though just that morning she had imagined sailing off into deep waters, Evie was forced to admit that, given the condition of their little boat, staying within sight of land was a wise decision. She didn’t fancy a half-mile swim back to shore.
“What do you make of your first trip to the sea?” McAlistair asked after a time.
“Oh, I’ve been to the sea before,” she explained. “I’ve even been in it—well, my feet have—I’ve just never been on the sea before.”
“Ah. Well, what do you make of being on the sea?”
She studied his appearance, noting the fine sheen of sweat that had appeared on his brow and forearms. “It appears to take a considerable amount of work.”
“Takes some,” he agreed.
“May I give it a go?”
He gave her a dubious look.
“I’ve rowed a boat before, McAlistair. We’ve a pair of them on the pond at Haldon.”
“I know,” he replied, but made no move to hand over the oars.
She tilted her head at him. “Are you afraid of how it might look, letting yourself be rowed about by a woman?”
He thought about it. “Yes.”
“Male vanity,” she muttered. “I should have known you hadn’t gone uninfected.”
“I believe you mean unaffected.”
“No, I really don’t.” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Move over, then. I promise not to tell a soul.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I promise to tell every soul who will listen that I rowed the whole of the day at your insistence.”
An eyebrow arched up. “You would lie to get your way?”
“I’d have to, now, wouldn’t I? I just promised.” She smirked and waved her hand at him again.
Though she was certain he knew her threat had been made in jest, McAlistair nonetheless acquiesced. He set down the oars and stood to take hold of her waist to help her balance. He pulled her close as they shuffled past each other, and the heat of his hands and the nearness of his form sent a shiver of pleasure along her skin.
If she hadn’t been afraid of tipping them both out of the boat, she might have drawn the moment out.
Stifling a sigh of longing, she took her seat, waited for him to do the same, then began a leisurely row up the coast. Leisurely in pace, if not in effort. Forcing the oars through the churning waters was far more difficult than McAlistair had made it look, and it hadn’t looked particularly easy to start. Her arms began aching within minutes. It would be well worth the struggle, she told herself, to be able to say she had not only been rowed about on the sea, but that she’d rowed herself about on the sea.
Enjoying herself and her idea, she smiled despite the strain. And despite the patronizing look on McAlistair’s face.
“Do you expect me to give up so soon?” she asked, leaning back into the next stroke.
“Not for a few minutes yet.”
“O, ye of little faith.”
He smiled and made a show of stretching out his legs before him, as if settling in for a show. “Think you can row us back to shore?”
“Certainly, I could.” She wouldn’t make it halfway. “But I’m not ready to go back. We’ve only just come out.”
“Nearing two hours now,” he informed her. “And the longer you wait, the less energy you’ll have for the trip.”
“I’ll rest a bit before the attempt.”