“I think the wind has blown my things dry,” she said. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m all right—men’s clothing being adapted for use, not ornament! But I must find something to wrap you up in. We may be here for hours and the frock you’re wearing has about as much warming capacity as a spider’s web.”
He disappeared below into the tiny, single-berthed cabin, and presently returned armed with a couple of blankets, one of which he proceeded to wrap about Magda’s shoulders, tucking the other over her knees where she sat in the stern of the boat.
“I don’t want them both,” she protested, resisting. “You take one.”
There was something rather delightful in this unconventional comradeship of discomfort.
“You’ll obey orders,” replied Michael firmly. “Especially as you’re going to be my wife so soon.”
A warm flush dyed her face from brow to throat. He regarded her with quizzical eyes. Behind their tender mockery lurked something else—something strong and passionate and imperious, momentarily held in leash. But she knew it was there—could feel the essential, imperative demand of it.
“Well? Does the prospect alarm you?”
Magda forced herself to meet his glance.
“So soon?” she repeated hesitantly.