The Water's Kiss Read online

Pulling away felt like a sin, her mind a whirl of right versus wrong, the two suddenly turned on their heads and upside down, Claire’s body fighting with her mind to do what was right. What was proper. What was part of her station.

  A lady did not entertain her former almost-fiancé in her private chambers while wearing a robe.

  And Claire was a lady.

  Breathe, she scolded herself. Breathe and catch your wits! The look Evan gave her melted her, his expression more a demand than a request, a luscious promise that transcended the ton, her father’s estate, her duties as a lady, her sense of right and wrong. The only “right” was here before her, in Evan’s form, hands that reached for her waist and lips that whispered it was all right, this was good, that they loved one another and she wanted to believe it, wanted to give in, wanted –

  Wanted control.

  Knock, knock. The door opened and Bridie scurried in, shutting the door behind her, averting her eyes. “The footman is searching for Mr. Michaelson! He needs to leave now!” And as fast as she’d come in, Bridie ran out, her footsteps fading down the hall.

  “Evan!” Claire hissed, pulling away, drawing her robe tight against her body. “If Papa learns of this, I’m ruined!” The red ball of fear exploded in her chest as she looked at him, frantic.

  Evan gave her a quick, light kiss and followed the maid, saving Claire from the arduous task of finding deep reserves of control that she was now certain she did not possess.

  “I am going to surmise that your attempt to talk with Landsdown was not fruitful,” his father said wryly as Evan walked into the house. The footman had barely opened the door as the words rang out in the foyer. Once again, Evan was struck by his father’s rat-like appearance, especially when he gloated. It was not appealing, and it always reminded Evan to weed out this particular personality trait in himself.

  “No. He was unavailable,” Evan replied in a clipped tone. He would not dream of telling his father about Claire, of the kiss, of any of it, the taste of her lingering in his mouth. All of his earlier kisses with Claire had been dry, quick affairs, a brush or a peck that tested boundaries and expressed interest. This had been an exchange that dug to their very cores, rooted in a passion he’d hoped from her but now knew, and his mind and body swirled with the anguish of confirmation and impossibility. Conversing with his father was low on his list of priorities right now. And the next sentence out of his father’s mouth reminded him why.

  “I have composed and sent a letter to the Viceroy of New Granada,” he said with a flourish, emptying a glass of whisky. Whatever warmth Claire’s kiss had deposited in him fled his body at the words.

  “Why?” Evan asked warily. This could lead to nothing good.

  Sebastian smirked. “After we spoke, I thought about the good fortune from Landsdown’s investment in the Spanish colonies. His ship came through, as did mine, but for some reason pirates attacked the viceroy’s investment. All was lost. I have my suspicions that part of the reason the viceroy is courting English earls – ” He stopped himself. “You have heard of Framingshire and the viceroy’s daughter, no?”

  Evan nodded. “So I’ve been told,” he muttered.

  In full lecture mode, Sebastian continued. “I believe the viceroy is hoping to marry his daughters off to wealthy nobles. He’s made a poor choice there,” he chuckled.

  This was new information for Evan. “Framingshire is having financial problems?”

  Sebastian’s face collapsed a bit, his eyes beadier than usual, his lips pursed. “Indeed. You cannot have that many whores and not fall into trouble, especially following in the footsteps of a father who hired even more.”

  Evan stayed silent. Eventually, Father would get to the point. What did Framingshire have to do with Father and the viceroy? Evan thought he knew the answer, and it sickened him, but he needed to hear it straight from Sebastian’s mouth.

  Unnerved by Evan’s composure, Sebastian continued, voice faltering a bit, though it might just as well have been from the whisky. “If the viceroy is marrying off women, why not marry one to you? So I’ve made an inquiry.”

  Evan made a rude noise. “Why? So I can have Framingshire as a brother by marriage?” He pretended to be offended by the idea, but really made the statement to dig for more information.

  “No. Because our family wealth makes you attractive, and the father is a viceroy. He has the ear of the king.” His father paused and laughed. “Though not the current imposter king of Spain. Plus, Manuel de Vargas was a decorated military hero like you. Spanish army,” he sniffed, “but well received.”

  “What if I do not want to marry some South American noble?”

  “It is a simple inquiry. It will take months to hear a response. In the meantime, by all means, pine away after Claire Hanscombe.” He shook his head in pity. “You know, you can do much better.”

  Battlefield fury poured into his bones. He grabbed Sebastian roughly by the shoulder and pulled back to punch him, regaining control seconds before launching the blow. Stepping back from his shocked father, whose face now seemed so vulnerable and sniveling, he simply turned around and walked away.

  “That poor girl married off to Framingshire deserves better! And so do you!” Sebastian shouted, the words falling like raindrops on a hot roof, dissipating as Evan’s anger drained from his body, the blend of every emotion from the night turning into a storm of turmoil that settled into his dreams, rendering him useless.

  As he crawled into bed, waving away his valet, his last thought before sleep took him was of Claire at the waterfall, his subconscious sending him into dreams so erotic he likely blushed in his sleep.

  A beam of faint sunlight was her next cogent experience, and as she rubbed her eyes she realized she had dozed off and slept through the night. Not even the roosters were yet awake; the silent, all-too-still first seconds of dawn were hers, alone.

  She sat bolt upright in a panic, then lay her cheek back down on a cold section of sheet. Unsettled, she sat up again, then fidgeted. Sigh. Nothing had changed in her sleep. Evan was still so close but so far, and the man so, so far away, Prince Ludwig, was the one she never wanted to meet.

  The waterfall poured into her thoughts, a quiet refuge, and she slipped from the house, needing an interlude, the alcove of peace and release. The trail there was easier now to navigate, as she seemed to have memorized the twists and turns, making what had once taken such conscious effort now a simple journey.

  And there it was, beautiful and full of life and power as ever. Just like me, she thought, the vanity of the idea surprising her as much as the actual thought. Who was she to consider herself beautiful? Full of life? And power – that was a ridiculous thought. A tiny ant wandered over her shoe; she had about as much power as it did, so vulnerable, capable of being completely destroyed should the whim of something greater decide to change fate.

  Disrobing was easier this time, and she set her clothes on the rocks, closer to the steady stream of water, having chosen a dress that she could shove on quickly should the need arise. The water seized her skin, her lungs, her diaphragm and throat, making her belly cringe and her undersides groan with the pain of sharp, cold, wet needles. As she sought equilibrium, balance – anything stable – she found herself melting into the harshness, enjoying an external torment that took her away from the internal pain of impossible love.

  Pleasure, though, was in her own hands.

  Papa could marry her off to some brute in a land nearly as bad as the South American jungle, but he had no power here. Only she could harness nature to do her bidding. And she did. This time, more skilled, she found the sweet spot, floating on her back now, feet finding the right rocks, her hair a wet carpet stretched out behind her in the water. Next time she would braid it, for simplicity. Now it mingled with the river weeds, little fingers making her shiver as she found the exact, perfect nerve center, a vortex of –

  Oh, there it was. Her belly clamped and her thighs parted as her mind filled with Evan, his muscled hands
, those strong, soft lips she imagined kissing hers, his tongue dancing and touching every part of her mouth, claiming her for him. Oh, how she wished for it, craved him, wanted so much more with him, to be wed and bedded and –

  Hands clasped her bottom with force, making her jolt. “Hello,” Evan whispered in her ear, his appearance so impossible she thought she was dreaming it. “Don’t move. Let me,” he said, licking the soft skin between her ear lobe and neck.

  She gasped. He stood behind her, shirtless, his arms under her back, cradling her and holding her in the water, the back of her head pressed into his chest. She looked up and saw him, upside down, smoldering eyes locked with hers.

  “Eleven mornings have passed, Claire,” he said, smiling. “Eleven mornings I have waited. Twelve, I see, is my most lucky number.”

  “But why?” She realized the question was ridiculous as the words slipped from her lips. This, obviously, was why. Wet silk swirled in the water, agitated by the bubbling water’s waves, roiling beneath the stream’s plunge and cycling back to the surface. Her naked legs and most intimate parts were barely concealed by a thin layer of water now, his taut arms two beams of support that help her in place on her back.

  “I am here to help,” he murmured, moving her hips and centering her under the water. As it hit the sweet spot she lost her language, began to twist, to arch up and seek it. He dotted her neck with little kisses, warrior’s arms balancing her just so, facilitating what she wanted, watching her until she turned away, the power of everything so great she could not bear to think.

  “Claire, let go. Let go, my darling,” he guided, staring at her. She wanted him to stop looking, then wanted him to watch, wanted him to do more than watch, and as the thought flickered through her mind a great wave of red desire took over, built up behind her eyes, in her throat, spread into her womanhood and exploded as she splashed and cried out his name, the sound muffled only by her inhibition, a truer love’s song one she would never, ever utter.

  He caressed her hair and as the joy subsided she turned, twisting into an embrace, the kiss nearly an afterthought, but his barely-restrained need now seemingly unleashed in the roughness of his kiss, the probing of his fire, how his arms claimed her skin. His touch was a form of ownership, her muscles, her breasts and the rest of her in his hands, now searching in intimate places so drained she thought them not capable of more.

  But oh, how they were. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the water’s edge, gently laying her down on a patch of soft, fleece-like moss. Both his hands roamed over her neck, plunging into her wet waves of hair, his mouth raking over hers, now his hands on her breasts, pulling her chemise both down and up, exposing more of her than she had ever exposed in her life for any man.

  If nature allowed her to tear open her body and reveal her soul, she would have. Evan’s touch was the closest she could get. His manhood pressed against her as he covered her body with his, the kiss intense, his hand clasping hers, his hips grinding into her, her hands finding his shaft and fumbling to do...what? Something. Some deep need led her to that, to touch him there, to make this all more, under the day’s new light as they broke every law of the genders in her father’s own gardens.

  Papa. Mama. Rules. The ton. She pulled back as if someone had tossed a bucket of snow on her.

  “Oh, Evan! I cannot.”

  He pulled her to him, the heat of his chest warming her. Heating her. Lighting her on fire. “We can, Claire. Oh, my, we can.”

  She tilted her head back and drank greedily from his lips as he kissed the hollow of her neck, pressing his fingers into her jaw line, sliding her wet, blonde waves aside. Her breathing was harder to control, his hand so good, so right, splayed across her skin. Did he know how much power he had over her? How he invaded her thoughts, her dreams, her fantasies, that it was his face, his lips, his body she imagined when she dreamed? When she touched her –

  Ah, she gave in, just for a few more moments, knowing this was all she could take. All she could give. And then –

  “No, no, Evan. I cannot let you give me a baby.”

  That halted him. “What, my dear?”

  “A baby. It would be my ruin. Papa has found me a match.” One more minute of this and she would give him her maidenhood, let go all restraint, love him with complete abandon and have him enter her, the two joined by lovemaking that would be both the culmination of all that was right with the world, and a simple act that could ruin her forever.

  While men could take all the risks in the world, she could not.

  He pulled back and sat on the ground, knees up, hands raking his hair, clearly shaken. He seemed so vulnerable, so boyish, so adorable that she questioned her sanity, wondered if she should just let temptation run its course and worry about silly rules later. “Ah. I see.” He inhaled sharply, then used his breath to put his passion in place. “Who?”

  “A prince in Bavaria.” Putting it into words made it more real. A physical pain took over her abdomen, as if the words themselves had stabbed her.

  “That tiny country? It is as old as one of my horses!” he laughed. So did she. It felt good.

  “I know. ’Tis true. Papa, though, is determined.”

  “Yes. He is.” Evan skipped a few stones on the water, his skill yielding three, four shallow skips. Ripples of chest muscle danced across his skin as he stretched his arm for the throw. She wanted to lick him, kiss him all over, throw her body on his and –

  Claire’s ears perked. Was that a sound? Alarmed, she stared at Evan, who leaned in as if to kiss her again. The bushes rustled; he stopped, having heard it too. They split in two, each rushing to their respective clothes piles. Each was dressed in seconds, separated by yards of vegetation.

  She looked around wildly and then – there. A deer. A doe and her baby. Both stared intently at the humans, then the doe nuzzled her babe, shooing it away from the alcove. Claire sighed, then looked at Evan, who just shrugged.

  Tears filled her eyes. He frowned, a look of compassion and empathy, of heartbreak and loneliness. “Oh, Claire,” he sighed, taking her into his arms, an embrace not of passion but of sadness. Melting, she let the tears spill over, felt them dampen parts of his dry shirt, felt herself empty a tiny part of her that needed so much more.

  A rooster crowed in the distance. Time. Oh, how she needed more time. But what she needed she rarely received, and this would be no different. “I must go.” A quick kiss on the cheek was all she could muster before she broke free and ran, madly seeking speed to replace despair.

  Ah, God, he was absolutely blind with arousal. So blind he didn’t see the tree root in his path, the thick trunk tripping him, sending him elbows-first into a thorny thatch of branches. Extricating him took more mental power than he retained, and soon he found himself helpless, like a ten year old ensnared in a loose clothesline, a hot temper ready to blow from sheer stupidity and overwhelm.

  Breathe, Evan, breathe. The dark cyclone of fury slowed to a gray wind, a shadow of a storm within, and in short time he pulled away the prickers and stood, tiny threads torn here and there on his coat but none the worse for wear. Scratches dotted his unclothed skin and that suited him just fine; the niggling pain took his mind off the emotional torment of Claire.

  Of course he wouldn’t give her a baby! Was she mad? He knew they could not consummate until they were wed. Oh, how he knew it, restraint fraying at the edges of his world, like a loose thread so fragile that one small tug unraveled all.

  Her skin. Her face. Her body in his, thick, round cheeks of her back side in his hands, palms filled with her curves, his lips on the pulse of her neck, his body touching hers as the rush of climax overtook her, wanting so much to be the source of that, wishing to be in her, to thrust and –

  Damn it, he was hard once more.

  The walk home became all the more uncomfortable. Stings from scratches were preferable to this. He shifted himself, setting his trouser buttons in a more aligned manner and walked fast, then jogged, hopin
g the exertion would pump his blood elsewhere, anywhere but there.

  Hopeless. Not only was the situation without a shred of a chance, he himself was pitiful. Holding a woman under the waterfall as she...though it had been an amazing experience, it had provided him with no closure.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and he picked up his pace. Just what he needed – a storm to chill his bones. Illness was preferable to this. As he walked briskly another clap of thunder struck and then, as if it hit the perfect frequency to make a pitch strike a chord within him, he –

  Dear God.

  He knew how to make this work.

  Running home, he wrote the letter in his head, knowing exactly what to say to put his plan in place. The risk was all hers, though. Would she take such a high-stakes chance?

  He could never live with himself if he did not try.

  And, he suspected, neither could she.

  Dear Claire,

  Meet me you-know-where tomorrow.

  Yours,

  E.

  Bridie had delivered the sealed note just now, a puzzling conspirator’s smile on her face, only hours after Claire’s encounter with Evan, her skin still barely dry from the morning’s dip, her nerves still half-disheveled and her mind now a low hum, down from a loud roar.

  A lump in her throat made an audible click as she slumped to the floor, clutching the note. What was she doing? Who was she? This was not the Claire she had been her whole life, the perfect lady in training for her debut, for her seasons, for marriage and, some day, children. Instead she found herself an insatiable woman, sneaking off to do unnatural things and nearly fornicating in the gardens with Evan.

  If she were more pious, she would think a demon inhabited her.

  Perhaps it had. Letting the question settle a bit, she stared out the window. No rush; the next morning was fitfully far away. Surrender. The word floated through her thoughts and she felt her shoulders relax, her cheeks lower, her forehead unwrinkle, her tense body melt a bit. Mama often said that Claire tried too hard to make things go her way, and the world doesn’t work like that. She saw the wisdom in Mama’s words; surrendering was her last vestige of control, wasn’t it? Ironically, by giving in to that over which she was powerless she could have some control.