Bartholomew Spies on Maida

With a blink and the chirp of a bird, his headache returned. Bartholomew decided he had had enough. With wandering feet, he took a circuitous route, examining unfamiliar territory.
A stream ran through the forest here, hemming it in for a portion, before the woods spilled onto Mr. Webb’s land. He made a mental note to ask if those errant trees were to be included in the total acreage of Badgworth Woods. Bartholomew followed the brook, keeping under the heavy canopy of sycamore and elm, catching glimpses of the cropland on one side. He kept out of the sun. A splash made him pause. Then he heard another.
“That’s cold,” said a voice. A female voice. A chill ran through him as if someone had stabbed an icicle in his neck. The shiver continued down his spine to his feet. No one is allowed in these woods. They belong to Mr. Crenshaw.
Another splash, and the sound of a pebble landing in the water reached him. He couldn’t fathom what type of woman would wade about in a stream, surrounded by a multitude of trees standing on sentry duty.
He waited for more auditory clues, but no new sounds drifted his way. Far off, life hummed in the woods, but the birds and trees were holding their breath near this unseen woman. One foot took a tentative step forward, and then another as he searched for her.
Bartholomew crept out from behind a massive elm and spied a woman raising the hem of a garment. Her actions slowed down, and time stopped. The white edge of her garment drew up and revealed the upper part of her legs. His mouth opened. A round, perfect pair of buttocks appeared. He groaned before slapping a hand over his lips to stifle the outburst. The mottled sunshine danced over a slim, naked back before the cloth soared above her head.
He had a brief glimpse of a face as she tossed the cloth on the shore. Her arms rose in a graceful arc, but his eyes fixated on the nude body. The darkness of the forest on his side of the brook contrasted with the sunshine filtering in from the fields beyond, creating a halo about her pale, naked form. He imagined a goddess bathing. She only needed dancing nymphs or cherubs surrounding her to complete the picture.
He shuffled to the protection of the next elm, closer to this mythical scene, silent and wary. Bartholomew was convinced the heat of the day and his hangover had conjured this vision. Her arms dropped, and locks of lustrous tawny-brown hair fell in a cascade down her back. He took a step; a twig snapped, and he froze.
The woman twisted around; her hands covered her nakedness.
That same ice dagger struck him in the neck, but instead of freezing him, he panicked and fled.

Snippet from: Uncovering Love