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like a perfectly formed wild animal.
    He stopped with the water girdling his hips and raised his arms to slick back his long hair. His shoulders stretched, and his upper body seemed to form a heart shape for her delight. She suppressed a breathy, “Oh!” He shook his head like a dog, sending spray to make diamonds in the sun.
    He began to wade out of the water again, revealing more of his body, inch, by inch, by inch . . .
    Madeleine watched, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath—
    He turned suddenly, as if alerted by a sound.
    Madeleine looked away, horrified by her rampant curiosity and the disappointment she felt. She knew how a man was made. She’d laid out corpses.
    This man was nothing like a corpse. He was nothing like any man she had ever seen. She peeped back.
    He stood like a statue, watching the far bank of the river. Madeleine followed his gaze and saw three russet hinds prick their way delicately down to the water. They were alert for danger, but he stood so still they were unalarmed and dipped their heads to drink.
    Madeleine looked back to the man.
    If anything, his back was more breathtaking than his front. The smooth line from broad shoulders to hard buttocks was surely God’s perfect work. The long valley of his spine could have been drawn by God’s loving finger . . . She imagined running a finger from nape to cleft . . .
    Madeleine shut her eyes and said a silent prayer. “. . . deliver us from temptation . . .” But it was no good. She opened her eyes a slit.
    He had not moved. He stood as still as a statue and just as God had made him. There was no sign of race or rank, though she knew he was English from the long hair. Though it was darkened by water, it was blond, probably the golden Scandinavian blond much more common here than in Normandy.
    But he wasn’t a peasant. He was too tall, too evenly and beautifully developed to be of such low class. It needed good food from birth and long years of training in a range of skills to develop a body like that—fluid, capable of wielding sword or ax throughout a long battle, able to control a warhorse, climb walls, draw a bow . . .
    Water from his hair formed a rivulet in the cleft of his spine. It ran all the way down to his buttocks. Madeleine found herself imagining catching those drops of water on her tongue, running her tongue up that sensuous valley to the nape of his neck . . .
    She clapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes. What a thing to think!
    She heard something and opened her eyes. He was gone, leaving only ripples, and so were the deer. Had such a little noise alarmed them?
    The spell was broken. Madeleine hurriedly retreated and leaned against a tree—weak, breathless, and ashamed of herself. How extraordinary and dreamlike that had all been, and how wicked her thoughts. She would have to confess them.
    She wouldn’t dare!
    Who could he have been? There were no noble Englishmen left in this area. She could almost believe him of the faery world—a river prince, a forest king. Hadn’t she seen dark marks on his body which were surely magical?
    She didn’t dare investigate the river plants today. She might be enchanted and dragged down into the water to live as captive to a faery prince.
    It wasn’t fear she felt.
    To be such a man’s captive . . .
    She tiptoed away from the river back toward Dorothy and Conrad. And safety. Safety from faeries and her own wanton weakness—
    She was seized. A hand clapped over her mouth. She was entangled in a cloak. In a second, Madeleine found herself pinioned by a strong arm with her back against her captor, silenced by a large, calloused hand.
    Her fantasy had become terrifying reality, and this was no faery prince. She struggled and tried to scream. He was Saxon. He’d slit her throat!
    He said something she could not understand, but the gentle tone calmed her, and she stopped her futile struggle, though her heart still raced and tremors shook her.
    He continued to speak