that she was in no imminent danger; but he pushed that small consolation aside, feeling hot, prickly, and irritated. Just as he was about to yell out her name, a trill of female laughter and a splash drew his attention toward the pond.
Slade silently drew nearer to the sounds of splashing and singing. A sweet, clear soprano voice was rendering a bawdy popular ballad, “Come to the Bower,” with surprising innocence. The song triggered memories for Slade. It was the unlikely piece to which the men at San Jacinto had marched against Santa Anna's guns. On Charlee's lips it sounded strangely enticing. Still silent, he drew closer, finally brushing the tall grass aside to see an enchanting and startling picture.
Charlee stood on a large rock overhanging the pool, preparing to dive into the inviting water. If she looked cool, Jim felt distinctly the opposite. That couldn't be Charlee, the grimy, foul-mouthed, homely little urchin he had come to know and be exasperated with so often. The nymph on the rock was delicately curved, slim, and sleek, obviously a woman, not a scrawny girl child. Her breasts were surprisingly full, firm, and high as she raised her supple arms in preparation to dive. Her waist was tiny, and the subtle flare of her hips tapered to long, delicately formed legs and trim ankles.
He stood frozen to the ground, staring incredulously at the vision, a guilty trespasser unable to take his eyes from her lovely young body. Her face was partially obscured by her hair, now freed to flow in a mass of rippling silk down her back and over one shoulder. It glinted bronze, gold, even a strange silvery tan in the sunlight, the pale honey-brown changing colors with each gentle whisper of the breeze that caressed it. How had so much glorious hair been concealed in one miserable little knot? It fell well below her waist. He felt an unreasoning urge to grab great handfuls of it and bury his face in the gleaming coils.
Before diving, Charlee had carefully waded the perimeter of the creek to check for those supposed rocks beneath the surface. Finding none, she had climbed to this warm boulder to plunge into the inviting depths of the pool below. The sun felt glorious on her naked body, beating its insistent summer tattoo on her pale flesh. She stretched her arms up as if worshiping the azure heavens, wondering how it might feel to have the honey kiss of suntan all over her flesh instead of only her face and hands.
Such an unseemly pagan idea, she thought with a laugh, breaking forth in another raucous verse of “Come to the Bower.” Papa's drinking companions used to sing it in the tavern in St. Genevieve and she had often sneaked to town, sitting outside and absorbing all sorts of information that would have turned a lady's face aflame. But Charlee McAllister was no lady.
Slade watched her sleek little body slice cleanly into the still blue-green depths, half afraid she might fall victim to the same sickening accident as her brother. But before he could take three steps, she broke the surface and began to backstroke artlessly across the pond with her hair fanned out like a glossy bronze skein, floating around her shoulders. Two pointed young breasts sunned themselves impudently as she floated in silence.
Slade swore virulently to himself, trapped now in a hell of his own creation. Why, oh why, hadn't he stayed clear once he had heard her voice and the splashing? He might have known she'd swim mother naked, damn her perverse little soul. Of course, he never would have dreamed she looked like this. Fully aroused and hard, he clenched his fists in a misery of frustration and anger. He had been much too long without a woman, that was the problem. Rosalie was gone, and Sina only tantalized him with what was forbidden. Such trials would make a man succumb to the charms of any female in proximity. The rationalization sounded hollow even to
Slade silently drew nearer to the sounds of splashing and singing. A sweet, clear soprano voice was rendering a bawdy popular ballad, “Come to the Bower,” with surprising innocence. The song triggered memories for Slade. It was the unlikely piece to which the men at San Jacinto had marched against Santa Anna's guns. On Charlee's lips it sounded strangely enticing. Still silent, he drew closer, finally brushing the tall grass aside to see an enchanting and startling picture.
Charlee stood on a large rock overhanging the pool, preparing to dive into the inviting water. If she looked cool, Jim felt distinctly the opposite. That couldn't be Charlee, the grimy, foul-mouthed, homely little urchin he had come to know and be exasperated with so often. The nymph on the rock was delicately curved, slim, and sleek, obviously a woman, not a scrawny girl child. Her breasts were surprisingly full, firm, and high as she raised her supple arms in preparation to dive. Her waist was tiny, and the subtle flare of her hips tapered to long, delicately formed legs and trim ankles.
He stood frozen to the ground, staring incredulously at the vision, a guilty trespasser unable to take his eyes from her lovely young body. Her face was partially obscured by her hair, now freed to flow in a mass of rippling silk down her back and over one shoulder. It glinted bronze, gold, even a strange silvery tan in the sunlight, the pale honey-brown changing colors with each gentle whisper of the breeze that caressed it. How had so much glorious hair been concealed in one miserable little knot? It fell well below her waist. He felt an unreasoning urge to grab great handfuls of it and bury his face in the gleaming coils.
Before diving, Charlee had carefully waded the perimeter of the creek to check for those supposed rocks beneath the surface. Finding none, she had climbed to this warm boulder to plunge into the inviting depths of the pool below. The sun felt glorious on her naked body, beating its insistent summer tattoo on her pale flesh. She stretched her arms up as if worshiping the azure heavens, wondering how it might feel to have the honey kiss of suntan all over her flesh instead of only her face and hands.
Such an unseemly pagan idea, she thought with a laugh, breaking forth in another raucous verse of “Come to the Bower.” Papa's drinking companions used to sing it in the tavern in St. Genevieve and she had often sneaked to town, sitting outside and absorbing all sorts of information that would have turned a lady's face aflame. But Charlee McAllister was no lady.
Slade watched her sleek little body slice cleanly into the still blue-green depths, half afraid she might fall victim to the same sickening accident as her brother. But before he could take three steps, she broke the surface and began to backstroke artlessly across the pond with her hair fanned out like a glossy bronze skein, floating around her shoulders. Two pointed young breasts sunned themselves impudently as she floated in silence.
Slade swore virulently to himself, trapped now in a hell of his own creation. Why, oh why, hadn't he stayed clear once he had heard her voice and the splashing? He might have known she'd swim mother naked, damn her perverse little soul. Of course, he never would have dreamed she looked like this. Fully aroused and hard, he clenched his fists in a misery of frustration and anger. He had been much too long without a woman, that was the problem. Rosalie was gone, and Sina only tantalized him with what was forbidden. Such trials would make a man succumb to the charms of any female in proximity. The rationalization sounded hollow even to
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