Chasing Cassandra

by Kleypas, Lisa

  They relaxed together slowly in the aftermath, their joined flesh resonant with deep twitches and throbs of pleasure.

  Cassandra sighed and purred as his hands coasted over her tired limbs. “I think I was begging,” she admitted, “near the end.”

  Tom pressed a soft laugh against the side of her throat, and kissed her flushed skin. “No, sweet. I’m sure that was me.”

  DAYLIGHT CAME IN through the transom windows, slowly melting away the shadows inside the railway carriage stateroom. It was with mild surprise that Tom awakened to discover Cassandra sleeping next to him. I have a wife, he thought, propping himself up on an elbow. The situation was so agreeable and interesting that he found himself smiling down at her idiotically.

  His wife looked vulnerable and lovely, like a nymph sleeping in a wood. The fantastical profusion of her hair was like something from a mythological painting, curling golden locks spreading everywhere in lavish disarray. At some point during the night, she had donned a nightgown. He hadn’t even been aware of it—he, who always snapped awake at the slightest noise. But he supposed it was only natural to have slept heavily after the hectic pace of the wedding day, followed by an evening of the most mind-obliterating pleasure he’d ever experienced.

  For Tom, discovering what pleased and excited a woman, what made her unique, was a challenge he had always relished. He’d never slept with a woman he hadn’t genuinely liked, and he’d applied himself enthusiastically to satisfying his partners. But there had always been limits to the intimacy he had shared with them—he’d been able to lower his guard only so far. Some of his affairs had ended badly as a result, eroding into bitterness.

  With Cassandra, however, he’d discarded many of his defenses before they had ever set foot in the bedroom. That hadn’t been deliberate on his part; it had just … happened. And while he’d never had the slightest inhibition about physical nakedness, making love to her had brought him dangerously close to emotional nakedness, which had been more than a little terrifying. And at the same time, astonishingly erotic. He’d never known anything like it, every sensation magnified and reflected infinitely, like pleasure repeating itself in a hall of mirrors.

  In the aftermath, he’d brought Cassandra a warm compress for between her thighs, and water to drink, and then he’d lain beside her while his mind had begun its usual process of sorting through the events of the day. To his surprise, he’d felt her inch closer until she was pressed all along his side. “Are you cold?” he had asked in concern.

  “No,” came her drowsy reply as she’d settled her head on his shoulder, “just cuddling.”

  Cuddling had never been part of Tom’s bedroom repertoire. Bodily contact had always been the prelude to something else, never an end in itself. After a moment, he’d reached over with his free hand to pat her head awkwardly. He’d felt her cheek curve against his shoulder.

  “You don’t know how to cuddle,” she said.

  “No,” Tom had admitted. “I’m not sure what it’s for.”

  “It’s not for anything,” Cassandra had said with a yawn. “I just want to.” She’d snuggled even closer, hooking a slender leg over one of his—and had promptly fallen asleep.

  Tom had stayed very still, with the weight of her head on his shoulder, brooding over the realization of how much he had to lose. He was so damned happy to be with her. She was his worst liability, as he’d always known she would be.

  Now as his wife lay there illuminated by morning, Tom’s fascinated gaze moved along the long, lace-trimmed sleeve of her nightgown to her slender hand. The white crescents of her fingernails were smoothly filed, the surface buffed to a glassy sheen. He couldn’t resist touching one of them.

  Cassandra stirred and stretched, her deep blue eyes unfocused in her sleep-flushed face. Blinking, she took in her unfamiliar surroundings, and smiled slightly. “Good morning.”

  Tom leaned over her, brushed his lips across hers, and moved lower to rest his head on the upper slope of her chest. “I once told you I didn’t believe in miracles,” he said. “I take it back. Your body is definitely a miracle.” He played with the intricate fine tucks and ruffles of the nightgown. “Why did you put this on?”

  She stretched beneath him and yawned. “I couldn’t sleep unclothed.”

  He adored her prim tone. “Why not?”

  “I felt exposed.”

  “You should always be exposed. You’re too beautiful for clothes.” He would have expounded on the theme, but was distracted by the sound of her stomach growling.

  Blushing, Cassandra said, “We didn’t have dinner last night. I’m starving.”

  Tom smiled and sat up. “The chef on this train,” he told her, “knows over two hundred ways to make eggs.” He grinned at her expression. “You linger in bed. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  AS TOM HAD expected, the travel arrangements made by Rhys Winterborne were superb. After breakfasting on the train, Tom and Cassandra were conveyed to Weymouth Harbor, where they boarded a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot private steam yacht. The captain himself showed them to the owner’s suite, which included a private glass observation room.

  Their destination was Jersey, the largest and southernmost of the Channel Islands. The lush and prosperous bailiwick, only fourteen miles off the coast of France, was famed for its agriculture and breathtaking landscapes, but most of all for the Jersey cow, a breed that produced unusually rich milk.

  Tom had been a bit skeptical when Winterborne had told him the honeymoon destination. “You’re sending me to a place predominantly known for its cows?”

  “You won’t even notice your surroundings,” Winterborne had pointed out laconically. “You’ll be in bed most of the time.”

  After Tom had pressed him for more details, Winterborne had revealed that the hotel, La Sirène, was a seafront resort with every modern comfort and convenience imaginable. With its secluded gardens and individual balconies, it had been designed to ensure privacy for its guests. A superbly talented chef from Paris had already made a name for himself at the restaurant, creating exquisite dishes from the abundance of fresh produce on the island.

  Thanks to the skill of the yacht’s captain and crew, who were familiar with the strong currents and ridges of sunken rock around the archipelago, the crossing was relatively smooth. They arrived within five hours, first approaching the high, rocky headland, then rounding the southwest corner of the island. The terrain became increasingly lush and green-mantled as they came to the bay of St. Aubin, framed with immaculate white sand beaches. La Sirène presided serenely over the scene from a series of elevated garden terraces.

  As Tom and Cassandra disembarked, the chief harbormaster welcomed them onto the pier with a great show of deference. He was accompanied by a coast guard officer, who became wildly flustered as soon as he was introduced to Cassandra. Looking a bit dazed, the young officer began to talk to her without pause, offering a wealth of information about the island, its weather, its history, and anything else he could think of to keep her attention.

  “Give your tongue a holiday, lad,” the harbormaster said with a touch of amused resignation, “and let the poor lady have a moment’s peace.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Now, you may escort Lady Cassandra to the covered parapet over there, while Mr. Severin confirms that all luggage has been brought out of the ship.”

  Tom frowned, glancing at the crowded pier.

  The white-haired harbormaster seemed to read his thoughts. “It’s but a short distance, Mr. Severin. Your bride will be more comfortable there than standing here with cargo being unloaded and wharfmen running about.”

  Cassandra gave Tom a reassuring nod. “I’ll wait for you at the parapet,” she said, and took the young officer’s arm.

  The harbormaster smiled as he watched them leave. “I hope you’ll pardon the lad for his jabbering, Mr. Severin. Great beauty such as your wife’s can make a man nervous.”

  “I supposed I’d better become accustomed to i
t,” Tom said ruefully. “She causes a stir every time we’re out in public.”

  The elderly harbormaster smiled reminiscently. “When I came of age to take a wife,” he said, “I set my heart on a girl in the village. A beauty who couldn’t so much as boil a potato. But I was sore in love with her. My father warned me, ‘He who weds a beauty courts trouble.’ But I put on a lofty air and told him I was too high-minded to hold her looks against her.”

  They both chuckled.

  “Did you marry her?” Tom asked.

  “I did,” the harbormaster admitted with a grin. “And thirty years of that sweet smile has made up for many a burnt chop and dry potato.”

  After the steamer trunks and luggage had been accounted for, a trio of porters undertook to load it all on a coach from the hotel. Tom turned toward the covered area of the pier in search of Cassandra. An incredulous scowl crossed his face as he saw a gathering of dockworkers, porters, and cabmen near his wife. A navvy called out to her—“Gi’ me a smile, ye sweet tidbit! One little smile! What’s yer name?”

  Cassandra tried to ignore the catcalls, while the coast guard officer stood by, doing nothing to shield her.

  “Now, now, Mr. Severin—” the old harbormaster said, following as Tom headed toward Cassandra with swift, ground-eating strides.

  Tom reached his wife, blocked her from view, and sent a chilling glance at the navvy. “My wife doesn’t feel like smiling. Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

  The catcalls faded, and the navvy met his gaze, taking his measure … deciding to back down. “Only that you’re the luckiest bastard alive,” the navvy said cheekily. The crowd broke up with a mixture of chuckles and guffaws.

  “On your way now, lads,” the harbormaster said, briskly dispersing the gathering. “Time to go about your business.”

  As Tom turned to Cassandra, he was relieved to see that she didn’t seem upset. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded immediately. “No harm done.”

  The officer looked sheepish. “I thought they would tire of their sport if we ignored them long enough.”

  “Ignoring doesn’t work,” Tom said curtly. “It’s the same as permission. Next time, pick the ringleader and go for him.”

  “He was twice my size,” the officer protested.

  Tom shot him an exasperated glance. “The world expects a man to have a backbone. Especially when a woman is being harassed.”

  The younger man scowled. “Pardon, sir, but these are rough, dangerous men, and this is a side of life you wouldn’t know about.”

  As the officer strode away, Tom shook his head in perplexed annoyance. “What the devil did he mean by that?”

  Cassandra reached out a gloved hand to stroke his coat lapel, and looked up at him with laughing eyes. “I think, my dear Tom, you were just accused of being a gentleman.”

  Chapter 24

  “I THOUGHT YOU NEVER SLEPT late,” Cassandra said the next morning, as she saw her husband stir in bed. She stood at the French doors that opened onto the private balcony, shivering slightly at the cool morning breeze.

  Tom stretched lazily, like a big cat. He rubbed his face and sat up, his voice sleep-scratchy. “My wife kept me awake for most of the night.”

  Cassandra loved the way he looked with his eyes heavy-lidded and his hair tousled. “That wasn’t my fault,” she told him. “I had planned to go to sleep right away.”

  “You shouldn’t have come to bed in a red nightgown, then.”

  Biting back a grin, Cassandra turned to gaze at the stunning view of St. Aubin’s Bay, with its long stretches of clean white sand and intensely blue water. A rocky islet at the end of the bay featured the ruins of a Tudor castle, which the hotel concierge had said they could visit at low tide.

  Last night she’d dared to put on a scandalous garment Helen had given her for the honeymoon. It couldn’t really be called a nightgown—in fact, there was hardly enough of it to qualify even as a chemise. It was made of pomegranate-red silk and gauze, fastening in the front with a few coquettish ribbon ties. Helen had used a French word for it … negligée … and had assured her it was exactly the kind of thing husbands liked.

  After one look at his wife dressed in nothing but a few scraps of silk and a blush, Tom had tossed aside the novel in his hands and pounced on her. He’d spent a long time caressing and fondling her over the thin fabric, licking her skin through the gauze. His mouth and hands had charted the sensitive terrain of her body, exploring by millimeters.

  Gently, ruthlessly, he had teased her into a state of erotic frustration until she’d felt like an overwound watch. But he hadn’t taken her fully, whispering that she was too sore, that they would have to wait until tomorrow.

  She had moaned and pressed herself against him, struggling for the elusive pleasure, while he’d laughed softly at her impatience. He’d untied the little ribbon fastenings of the negligée with his teeth, and had worked his tongue down between her thighs. The delicate prodding and stroking had gone on until her over-stimulated nerves had ignited in a deep and wracking release. He’d caressed her for a long time afterward, his touch as light as eiderdown, until it had seemed as if the darkness itself had been moving over her, slipping tenderly between her thighs, feathering the tips of her breasts.

  Now, recalling her own wanton enjoyment of the intimate acts they’d shared, Cassandra felt pleased but shy in the light of day. She adjusted the belt of her velvet robe and didn’t quite meet his gaze as she suggested brightly, “Shall we ring for breakfast? And then go out to explore the island?”

  He grinned at her studied casualness. “By all means.”

  A simple but well-prepared breakfast was brought up and arranged on a table near one of the wide plate-glass windows. There were poached eggs, broiled grapefruit halves, a rasher of bacon, and a basket of small oblong cakes that appeared to have been twisted and turned partially inside out before they had been deep-fried to golden brown.

  “What are these?” Cassandra asked the waiter.

  “Those are called Jersey Wonders, milady. They’ve been made on the island since before I was a boy.”

  After the waiter had finished setting out the food and left, Cassandra picked up one of the cakes and took a bite. The outside was lightly crisp, the inside soft and flavored with ginger and nutmeg. “Mmm.”

  Tom chuckled. He came to seat her at the table, and bent to kiss her temple. “A cake that’s shaped like a shoe,” he murmured. “How perfect for you.”

  “Have a taste,” she urged, lifting it to his mouth.

  He shook his head. “I’m not fond of sweets.”

  “Try it,” she commanded.

  Relenting, Tom took a small bite. Meeting her expectant gaze, he said a touch apologetically, “It’s like a fried washing-up sponge.”

  “Bother,” she exclaimed, laughing. “Is there any kind of sweet you like?”

  His face was just over hers, his eyes smiling. “You,” he said, and stole a quick kiss.

  THEY WENT ON a walk along the esplanade, enjoying the sun and the snap of cool sea air. Next, they headed inland to the town of St. Helier, with its proliferation of shops and cafés. Cassandra bought a few gifts to bring back to England, among them some figurines carved of local pink and white granite, and a walking stick for Lady Berwick, made from the stem of a giant Jersey cabbage, which had been dried and varnished.

  While the shop owner wrapped the items, which would be conveyed to La Sirène later in the afternoon, Tom browsed over some merchandise displayed on shelves and tables. He brought a small object to the counter, a wooden toy boat with a carved sailor figure holding an oar. “Will this float upright in the bath?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the shopkeeper replied with a grin. “The local toymaker weights it to make sure. Can’t have a boat from Jersey floating sideways!”

  Tom handed it to him, to wrap up with the rest.

  After they had left the shop, Cassandra asked, “Is that for Bazzle?”
>
  “It might be.”

  Smiling, Cassandra paused in front of the next shop window, filled with displays of perfume and eau de cologne. She affected interest in the gold and filigree bottles. “Do you think I should try a new scent?” she asked idly. “Jasmine, or lily of the valley?”

  “No.” Tom stood behind her and spoke softly near her ear, as if imparting some highly confidential information. “There’s nothing better in the world than the scent of roses on your skin.”

  Their shared reflection in the plate glass blurred as she leaned back against the hard support of his body. They stood together, breathed together, for a few hazy moments before continuing on.

  At the corner of a narrow granite-paved street branching off Royal Square, Cassandra stopped at a handsome stone house. “A date stone,” she exclaimed, staring at the lintel over the door, formed of chiseled granite blocks. “I read about these in the guidebook in our suite.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an ancient Jersey Island tradition that when a couple marries, they chisel their initials in granite, along with the date the household was established, and set it over the door. Sometimes they join their initials with a symbol, such as a pair of entwined hearts, or a Christian cross.”

  Together they scrutinized the stonework on the lintel.

  J.M. 8 G.R.P.

  1760

  “I wonder why there’s a number eight between their names?” Cassandra asked, puzzled.

  Tom shrugged. “It must have had personal significance to them.”

  “They might have had eight children,” she suggested.

  “Or eight shillings left after they built the house.”

  Cassandra laughed. “Maybe they had eight Jersey Wonders for breakfast every morning.”

  Tom drew closer to the lintel, staring intently at the masonry work. After a moment, he commented, “Look at the pattern of the granite. Vein-cut, with horizontal stripes running across the surface. But on the center block with the number eight, the stripes are vertical, and the mortar is newer. Someone repaired it and put it back the wrong way.”