To Win His Wayward Wife by Rose Gordon Page A

saw him, he looked like a hippopotamus,” she returned flatly.
    “And how many hippopotami have you seen?” he queried.
    “Well, none,” she admitted. “But I’ve seen drawings and murals on display of them though.”
    “Very well,” he allowed. “Well, you’re in luck, you’re a floater.”
    “What?” she asked, turning her face toward his. “How did you determine that?”
    He shrugged. “While you were waxing about hippos and Prinny, I let you go and you stayed afloat.”
    “You tricked me,” she mused with a smile.
    “Yes, I did,” he conceded. “I knew if I told you when I was going to let you go, you’d get nervous and tense up.”
    “Very sneaky of you, Your Grace,” she teased.
    “All right, now that you know the depth of my deception, let’s swim. You’re going to bring this arm,” he grabbed her right arm that was by her side and brought it up, rotating it as he went, “up and bring it around until it meets the water. You want it turned so that when it goes in, your hand goes in first, using the side of your hand and fingertips to break the water.” He held her arm and helped her make a few more rotations. “Very good. Now, you’ll alternate. First your right, then your left.”
    “My feet are sinking,” she fretted a minute later.
    He looked down to her dainty feet that had slipped below the water enough that only her toes were still above. “That’s normal. But if you’d like, I’ll move down and hold them up.” He scooted down a bit and supported her ankles with his palm.
    “Am I doing this right?” she asked, making another perfect stroke.
    “Perfect.” He moved the arm he’d kept under her back for support and slowly walked with her as she swam along the water. “If you really want to move, you can kick your feet, too.”
    “You’re holding them,” she pointed out.
    “I know. And I have no intention of letting them go, either,” he said, rubbing her anklebone with his thumb. “I was just telling you that you could use them if you needed to. But you’re just frolicking, there’s no need to use them now.”
    “Just like a man,” she muttered.
    He laughed. “How did you get your scar?” he asked to make idle conversation. He liked having her in the water. She was relaxed and seemed to be more trusting of him.
    “The one on my ankle?” she asked after a minute.
    He frowned and turned her foot over. Sure enough there was a large a scar that was two inches long and half an inch wide. “I was actually talking about the one here,” he said, rubbing a little knick that was down by her toes.
    “Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “When I was younger, maybe nine or ten, Brooke and I were sitting together in Mama’s Sunday school class. That wasn’t usually the case, I assure you, especially after the incident that led to the scar. Anyway, there were two rows of chairs and Brooke and I were in the second row with Liberty right in front of us. Bored from hearing of Noah and the flood for the thousandth time, Brooke and I quietly untied the bow on the back of Liberty’s dress. Then we each took our end and tied it around each side of her chair. You know that little piece of wood that connects the seat to the back support plank?” She turned her head as best she could to look down at him and waited to see him nod his understanding. “Well, when class was over, Liberty stood up, taking her chair with her of course, and the sharp edge at the bottom of the leg scratched my foot.”
    He laughed. “Was that the only damage done that day?”
    “Do you mean did we get in trouble when we got home? No. Mama used to carry around a tin of sweets and she’d let us have one at the start of church service. That week, she gave mine and Brooke’s to Liberty and banned us from sitting together in class ever again. It was nearly two years before we were allow to even be within arm lengths of each other at church. But to be honest, I think Mama found it just as funny as the