[He hasn't let go of her hand, but to her surprise, she doesn't tug it back. She has before. She's loathed when men took too many liberties, who held on just to say they had, who take and take and take simply because they can.

But this isn't that. Rosalind feels no sense of entrapment; she's certain he'd let go if she gave the slightest inclination she wanted him to. But no: he's holding on, and it's lovely to have those rough fingers sliding over her own slender ones, just as it was nice to feel his cool skin and the lines of his body.]

That had best not be a prelude to you leaving me now.

[But that's a very kind offer, and good god, she's still smiling. It's faint, but it's there.]

Come up here. I'm going to get a crick in my neck if I keep looking down.

[Or I mean, she could go into the water, that would be fair too, but fat chance of that.]