Maida and Bartholomew Meet Cute

Bartholomew de Courcy, surveyor, develops a headache. He dismisses his helpers and seeks the shelter of the trees clustering thickly around a stream. Unexpectedly, he encounters a trespasser on this private land.

The trees were thicker here on the descending side of the ridge, smoothing out where Webb’s fields lay in flat rows. Bart followed the river, keeping under the heavy canopy of sycamore and elm, and catching glimpses of the cropland through the trunks. He kept out of the sun. A distinct splash in a brook 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 chill ran down his spine to his feet. No one is allowed in these woods. They belong to Mr. Crenshaw.
Another splash and a sound of what sounded like a pebble landing in the water. He couldn’t fathom what sort of woman would be splashing about in the stream, surrounded by trees standing stiffly on sentry duty.
He waited for more auditory clues, but heard nothing. Far off, he heard the regular hum of life in the woods, but he thought the birds and even the trees were holding their breath near this unseen woman. One foot took a tentative step forward, his torso ducking low behind one tree, and then another as he searched for her.
Bartholomew crept out from behind a massive elm and spied a woman raising a garment over her head. The activity seemed to slow down, and he felt time had 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 rose above her head.
He had a brief glance of a face as she tossed it to the shore. Her arms rose in a graceful arch, but his eyes fixated on the nude body. The darkness of the forest on his side contrasted with the sunshine filtering in from the fields beyond and created a halo around her pale naked form. He imagined a goddess bathing. She only needed nymphs or cherubs dancing around her to complete the picture.
He shuffled to the protection of the next elm, closer to this mythical picture, silent and wary, 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, covering her nakedness. Bartholomew took a step, a twig snapped. He froze.
The woman twisted around, her hands covering her nakedness.
That same ice dagger struck him in the neck, but instead of freezing him, he panicked and fled.

Snippet from: Uncovering Love

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