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Authors: Lindsay Randall
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worried him no small amount. He decided it was time to pay a visit to the lovely Lady Lissa Lovington....
Chapter 5
Lissa looked up at Lord Wylde, who stood beside her near the water's edge. The sun was fully up and shining on them with a bright patch of heat. Since leaving the lodge, they had fallen back into a mode of trout angling and had—thankfully—left any and all mention of their shared kisses behind.
In the interim, Lissa had managed to study the flies flitting above the Dove and instantly decided that the handmade ones she'd created in the river hut were all wrong.
"If you do not mind," she said aloud, sitting on a rock by the riverbank and pulling out all the supplies she'd brought with her, "I believe I shall tie a handmade fly of my own creation."
She bent her head, getting to work.
Lord Wylde stared down at her. "What about the green-drake, and the other fly?"
"Not quite right," Lissa murmured, her mind on her task.
"But I thought they were your chosen flies."
"I was mistaken. That happens, y'know. An angler can plot and plan all he wants before reaching the water about what type of fly to use, but once at the water the accomplished angler will always reassess things."
"Reassess?"
"That's right. Just as the wind will shift, flies will come and go. Whatever fly you thought best might not be at all the desired choice." She studied the feathers she'd brought, and the hooks as well. "Nature can be tricky, Lord Wylde. One must always be prepared."
He digested all she said. "And are you, my lady," he asked, "prepared?"
"Of course," Lissa replied. "I've brought with us all manner of feathers and threads and hooks. An accomplished angler is accustomed to forgoing his preparations and will simply allow the sight of the nature surrounding him to choose his course of action."
"So what you are saying, then, is that in spite of all your knowledge of insects, you really haven't a clue as to what will entice a trout to move toward a hook."
Lissa frowned up at him. "What I am saying is that an angler must prepare to be flexible in his methods of hooking a trout. And I am that. Now, if you'll just move to the side, so that I can get the best of the sunlight, I shall construct an odd type of fly that is a sum and whole of the insects now buzzing about."
Wylde indulged her, though appeared skeptical. "I see no single, perfect fly."
"Precisely," Lissa said, energized by the fact that they were now embarking—finally—on a course to catch the elusive trout. "The fly I shall create will be a collection of the many flies flitting about. We shall 'make do,' as my father used to say." She busily tied some feathers and thread around a rather large hook. "There. This is it," she said.
Wylde looked at the hook she presented him. " 'Tis huge," he said.
Lissa nodded, pleased with her handiwork. "And colorful. If you can cast it correctly into the water, it will be the perfect bait."
"If I can cast it correctly?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I do not. Pray tell, what exactly is your meaning?"
Lissa stood up. "Cast the line with purpose, of course. This is the point in our bargain, sir, when your knowledge comes to the fore," Lissa said, trying not to notice that he was staring at her overly long. "I am adept only at recreating nature on a hook, not at casting. You, sir, will be the one to place the hook in the water and entice our trout to strike."
Lissa moved to get a better view of the fallen log and the water pooling around it. She spied several trout bellying-up near the bottom. "There is a trio of them there, sir."
Wylde finally pulled his gaze away from her. "Where?"
"There. About a yard away from the middle of the log. They appear to be slumbering. No doubt they are watching the water above them for any signs of a tasty fly."
"I see them," said Wylde finally. "And there are four, not three."
Lissa squinted her eyes. "Ah, yes. Four. Right you are, sir. And two of them are large enough to
Chapter 5
Lissa looked up at Lord Wylde, who stood beside her near the water's edge. The sun was fully up and shining on them with a bright patch of heat. Since leaving the lodge, they had fallen back into a mode of trout angling and had—thankfully—left any and all mention of their shared kisses behind.
In the interim, Lissa had managed to study the flies flitting above the Dove and instantly decided that the handmade ones she'd created in the river hut were all wrong.
"If you do not mind," she said aloud, sitting on a rock by the riverbank and pulling out all the supplies she'd brought with her, "I believe I shall tie a handmade fly of my own creation."
She bent her head, getting to work.
Lord Wylde stared down at her. "What about the green-drake, and the other fly?"
"Not quite right," Lissa murmured, her mind on her task.
"But I thought they were your chosen flies."
"I was mistaken. That happens, y'know. An angler can plot and plan all he wants before reaching the water about what type of fly to use, but once at the water the accomplished angler will always reassess things."
"Reassess?"
"That's right. Just as the wind will shift, flies will come and go. Whatever fly you thought best might not be at all the desired choice." She studied the feathers she'd brought, and the hooks as well. "Nature can be tricky, Lord Wylde. One must always be prepared."
He digested all she said. "And are you, my lady," he asked, "prepared?"
"Of course," Lissa replied. "I've brought with us all manner of feathers and threads and hooks. An accomplished angler is accustomed to forgoing his preparations and will simply allow the sight of the nature surrounding him to choose his course of action."
"So what you are saying, then, is that in spite of all your knowledge of insects, you really haven't a clue as to what will entice a trout to move toward a hook."
Lissa frowned up at him. "What I am saying is that an angler must prepare to be flexible in his methods of hooking a trout. And I am that. Now, if you'll just move to the side, so that I can get the best of the sunlight, I shall construct an odd type of fly that is a sum and whole of the insects now buzzing about."
Wylde indulged her, though appeared skeptical. "I see no single, perfect fly."
"Precisely," Lissa said, energized by the fact that they were now embarking—finally—on a course to catch the elusive trout. "The fly I shall create will be a collection of the many flies flitting about. We shall 'make do,' as my father used to say." She busily tied some feathers and thread around a rather large hook. "There. This is it," she said.
Wylde looked at the hook she presented him. " 'Tis huge," he said.
Lissa nodded, pleased with her handiwork. "And colorful. If you can cast it correctly into the water, it will be the perfect bait."
"If I can cast it correctly?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I do not. Pray tell, what exactly is your meaning?"
Lissa stood up. "Cast the line with purpose, of course. This is the point in our bargain, sir, when your knowledge comes to the fore," Lissa said, trying not to notice that he was staring at her overly long. "I am adept only at recreating nature on a hook, not at casting. You, sir, will be the one to place the hook in the water and entice our trout to strike."
Lissa moved to get a better view of the fallen log and the water pooling around it. She spied several trout bellying-up near the bottom. "There is a trio of them there, sir."
Wylde finally pulled his gaze away from her. "Where?"
"There. About a yard away from the middle of the log. They appear to be slumbering. No doubt they are watching the water above them for any signs of a tasty fly."
"I see them," said Wylde finally. "And there are four, not three."
Lissa squinted her eyes. "Ah, yes. Four. Right you are, sir. And two of them are large enough to
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