by Cach, Lisa
“No one knows for certain. All we do know is that it is very old.”
“How old?”
“My guess is that it could be from as early as the thirteenth century, based on the style of the carving and the construction.”
“Truly?”
Matt shrugged. “Then again, it could be no more than a hundred years old. Whatever the case, it’s sat here in this alcove ever since I’ve been in Penperro, and for as long as anyone else can remember, as well.”
“Does anyone ever sit in it?”
“There’s never been any rule against a parishioner sitting here, but no one ever does. I think they feel there would be something vaguely sacrilegious in doing so, as if it were a holy relic passed down from another age.”
They all straightened. “And now I’m going to sit here,” Konstanze said. “Didn’t anyone protest the notion?”
“They don’t yet know you’ll be here,” Tom said. “But when they do, I imagine their response will be as it has been to anything else to do with the mermaid: they’ll believe you’re real. They’ll want you to sit there, where you belong.”
Where she belonged. It was hardly that, and yet she was feeling some of the same thrill of anticipation that came whenever Tom had a new suggestion for his ongoing mermaid scheme. Perhaps that bench was where she belonged more than she had thought, if it meant a chance to play another facet of the mermaid.
She was, she admitted, more the daughter of her dramatic parents than she had known. All those years of daydreams had been but her way of demurely living out the urges in her blood. Tom Trewella had no idea of the demon he had unleashed within her: at this rate, promise to dead mother or no, she would be seeking out a stage to earn her living.
At least it was better than earning money the way the heroine of the Memoirs did.
Too bad they were at war with France; that made working on the Continent a bit difficult. The Colonies were an option, though. Surely there couldn’t be much competition for a talented singer in America—
“Konstanze?” Tom asked, in a tone that suggested it was not the first time he had called to her.
“Hmm? Yes?”
“Are you paying attention?”
She gave him a bright smile. “Of course.”
He ran through again what she would do on Sunday, pointing out where everyone would likely be seated and explaining when she should both arrive and leave. Being a soulless mermaid, she wouldn’t be expected to take communion. While he was talking Hilde grabbed Matt’s arm and insisted he give her a tour of the church.
“Now let me show you where you’ll hide before and after the service,” Tom said, and taking the lantern he led her outside, then around to the back of the church where it faced the sea. The land sloped down, the back half of the church sitting high on stone foundations. There was a small wooden door, no more than three feet tall, set into the stones and mortar. Tom took out an iron key and unlocked it.
“I’m to wait in there?” Konstanze asked, appalled at the dark little entrance.
“It’s dry and fairly clean,” Tom said. “Come look.” He held the lantern inside the opening.
Konstanze peered in, finding a space much larger than she would have expected. To one side, just within reach of the lantern light, was a stack of kegs. “Those aren’t what I think they are, are they?” she asked.
Tom gave her an innocent expression. “Every church needs wine.”
“And is that wine?”
He shrugged. “Some of it.”
Konstanze just shook her head, deciding there was little that could surprise her any longer about the smuggling in Penperro. French spirits stored under the church—why not? Perhaps next she’d see the resident customs man helping to unload a boat. “It looks like there are spiders,” she said, noting the cobwebs heavy between the stone groins of the low ceiling.
“They won’t bother you. At least there aren’t any snakes.”
She flashed him a look. “Snakes?”
“There aren’t any.”
How would he know? Had he sat under here in the dark? “Rats?”
“Ah, well…”
“I don’t mind mice, but I draw the line at rats,” she said. “I won’t be sitting in the dark listening to them scrabbling about.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
They straightened up and Tom shut the small door. “There are a few small gaps in the flooring of the church, enough that you should be able to hear what goes on up there without any difficulty.”
She nodded, thinking that it was too bad she couldn’t hide in the bracken fern valley. The seaward side of the church had its advantages, though. If anyone did see her arriving, they would see her coming from this direction, and if anyone watched her go— and they were not chasing her too closely—they would think she disappeared into the sea. She would lock the little door from the inside, guaranteeing that no one found her under the church.
It was full dark now, and when she turned around she could see the crescent moon floating high above the horizon, the deep blue-black sky heavy with stars. A breeze off the ocean played at the curls about her face and the long fringe of her shawl, the air cool but not cold. “It’s a beautiful night,” she said.
“At times like this I forget what the rest of the year can be like,” Tom said, standing close to her side. “In all your travels, did you ever see any place that was like Cornwall?”
She looked up at him, seeing only the faint glow of his skin and his white cravat. She recognized the pride of one who believed there was nowhere in the world that was quite like home.
“I saw parts of Cornwall abroad, in rocky shores or in blue water, or even in the color of the skies. Nowhere was quite the same, though. The hills would be the right shape, but the color of the rocks wrong, or the sky the same but the grasses and flowers different. There’s something unique here,” she said, looking out over the dark sea. Although they were only ten yards or so from the cliff edge, it was only a dull, faint thudding of the waves below that they could hear.
“What is it that’s unique?” he asked.
She wondered at his need to ask, the same need that a person in any country or village seemed to have, as if they needed to be defined from outside by someone who had seen more and could tell them how they were different or special from anyone or anywhere else. “There’s something barren here,” she said. “Something hard-scrubbed, as if the wind has scraped away all that is soft.”
“And the people?”
“Proud, of course. Hardworking. Pious. But also fond of fun, when they have a chance for it.” She could almost feel him thinking, trying to decide if that description fit him as well. “Except for you,” she amended. “A less pious man I have never met.”
“Ah, but you wouldn’t like me half so much if I were more so.”
“Have you ever noticed that those with the greatest pride are often those with the least of which to be proud?”
He laughed and took her hand in his, bringing it up so he could kiss its back. “Ah, Konstanze, however did I amuse myself before you came here?”
“With naughty books,” she grumbled, liking the feel of his lips on the back of her hand, and making no move to pull away. After all, Hilde the guard dog was right inside the church. They should be safe from each other.
She leaned in a little closer to him. He served as a shield against the sea breeze, creating a pocket of warmth. Surely it was innocent to enjoy that? “Do you ever think of leaving Penperro?” she asked, hoping that conversation would help hide the fact that she was drinking in the scent and nearness of him, her skin tingling with a yearning for closer contact.
“Sometimes.” He still held her hand, and gently pulled her nearer, laying the back of her hand against his chest. “But there is no reason to leave. What is there out there that I do not have already? Nothing is so dire here that I would wish to escape it.”
“You’re more like me than I thought,” she said softly.
&
nbsp; “How do you mean?”
“That’s how I was, with Bugg. It took a great deal of misery to spur me into leaving. Why is it we move on only to escape things? Why don’t we move on to go toward something better, instead?”
“We both did.”
“But if you had never fought with your friend, you would still be in that town.”
“It’s human nature, Konstanze. Change is hard. Starting over is hard. We don’t give up what we have unless we’re forced to.”
“I don’t want to be that way,” Konstanze said. “I don’t want to be trapped by security. I wish I had the courage to go off into the world without worrying about money or where I would sleep.”
He laughed. “That’s not courage. That’s foolishness.”
“For a woman, perhaps. Not for a man.”
“You’re not going to tell me you wish you were a man, are you?”
She looked up at him, her lips curling in a wicked smile. “If I were a man, I think you could get into trouble for holding my hand like this.”
“There’s a lot more than that for which I could get into trouble,” he said, lowering his head.
His lips were soft against hers, playing gently at first. She closed her eyes, feeling the thrill of his kiss sinking through her veins. Half-formed thoughts fell apart in her mind, the pieces scattered by the wash of pleasure and a painful, aching desire.
He dropped the lantern, the metal casing clanking as it hit the ground. Tom released her hand against his chest and brought both his arms around her, pulling her hard against his body, her back arching against his supporting arms as he deepened his kiss. She felt something hard pressing against her belly, and had just enough sense to wonder if that was the “erect machine” of which the heroine in the Memoirs spoke.
If it was, she liked it. Her body recognized it even if she herself was not certain, and she found herself pressing harder against it. Tom slipped a leg between hers, the top of his thigh nudging thrillingly up against her. As his mouth moved down her neck, his hands roved lower on her back, going around her buttocks, cupping and massaging them, using them to pull her more firmly against his thigh.
Her hands went up around his neck, her body going weak as the ridge of his hidden manhood came so near to rubbing against her sex. She felt as if a thousand drops of pleasure were raining through her body, washing away her muscles and her ability to control them. Images from the book mixed with her own yearnings, and she knew that what she wanted was that “machine” deep inside her. She wanted to give herself over to whatever Tom desired, to offer up her body for his pleasure as well as her own.
“Konstanze,” he murmured into her neck, and lowered her to the ground, her shawl forming a haphazard blanket beneath her. The shaded, tilted lantern was only a foot or two from her face, its muted glow reflecting in Tom’s dark-ringed, amber eyes as he raised his head. His pupils were wide and black despite the light, and she saw in their depths the force of his desire. Knowing he wanted her as much as—perhaps even more than—she wanted him increased her arousal. Instead of being frightened, she wanted to push him over the edge so that he would lose control and take her.
She slid her hands down from around his neck to his chest, feeling the shape of him beneath his vest and shirt, then moved her hands around his waist to his back, reaching down to squeeze his buttocks as he had squeezed hers. She raised one knee to the side and pulled him against her, his hips settling between her thighs, that tantalizing ridge of flesh pressing exactly where she wanted it.
He shifted to the side, lying half over her and kissing her deeply, his tongue invading and exploring her mouth as his hand pulled at her thin skirt and chemise. Her knee lowered back to the ground as he found his way beneath her hem and smoothed his hand up her leg, fingertips curling around to brush the sensitive place behind her knee. His hand kept moving upward, the strong thumb pressing on the soft flesh on the inside of her thigh, lightening as it moved up, her skin anticipating each inch as she silently urged him forward.
She parted her thighs, allowing him room to touch her, but infuriatingly just as he was about to reach the very center of her—she could feel the side of his finger against the outer edge of her sex—he moved his hand up and over her pelvis, pressing small circles into the softness just above. The motion pulled at her sex, creating faint sensations that made her want to beg for more. She wanted to push his hand down there, but was torn between the wish for instant gratification and the seductive pleasure of leaving him in charge. There was a delectation all its own in being forced to wait for pleasure.
His mouth left hers, trailing kisses down her neck and then pausing in the hollow of her throat, his tongue darting out to swirl in the small pool. He traced a path down her breastbone, then ran his tongue along the scooped neckline of her gown, its tip dipping beneath to brush along the tops of her breasts. He bent lower still and let her feel the warmth of his breath through the thin cotton, then lowered his mouth over her breast, his mouth hot in contrast to the cool night, his teeth pinching gently at the sides of her nipple and causing an answering rush of wet heat in her loins.
He lowered his hand over her, and she felt his fingers comb through her nether curls as he slid his hand downward, her folds parting and slipping into place around his long fingers. She moaned as his palm moved with gentle friction over the nub of her sensation, and when a fingertip ducked into her very center she arched her back, her knee coming up again as if on its own, her leg falling open to the side to give him all the access he could wish.
Slick with her moisture, his fingers came back up to her nub, stroking her with a silken touch. She wanted him to go faster, harder, and yet she could not bear him to stop this slow, gentle stroking, her hips straining to rise each time he touched her in just the right place.
She twisted her head to the side, closing her eyes against the lantern light, her fists clenched on the ground up beside her face. Tom slid his finger inside her, slowly, pressing deep until she could feel the knuckles of his other fingers nudging up against her. From somewhere within came a faint, nameless pleasure. She could feel the shifting of his hand outside her body, but did not know what he was doing deep within her that made the whole cradle of her sex tingle and shiver.
‘Tom!” Matt called out. “Tom! Are you back there?”
Tom froze with his mouth above her breast, his hand stilling between her thighs.
“Tom!” The voice was coming closer.
Low curses flowed from Tom’s mouth, curses she heartily seconded as he withdrew his hand and pulled down her skirts. He pulled her up off the ground, and she was still finding her balance when he flung her shawl around her shoulders. She felt the chill of the wet spot over her breast, and arranged the shawl to cover it, holding it tightly closed over her chest.
“We’re right here,” Tom called back, and a moment later Matt and Hilde appeared around the side of the church. “I’ve just finished showing Konstanze her hiding place. She’s none too fond of it.”
“Spiders,” Konstanze said weakly, glad for the darkness that hid what she was certain was a flaming blush of guilt across her cheeks. Her sex felt swollen, throbbing with echoes of her heartbeats, and she could feel the trickling wetness of her arousal seeping onto her thighs. Was that the “milky effusion” of which the book spoke?
She hoped Tom forgot her offer to return the book tonight. There was so much more she needed to read.
Hell, forget the reading. There was so much more she needed to do.
Chapter Seventeen
“Puss, puss,” Konstanze whispered into the shadows. Where had the cat gone off to? “Puss, puss. Here, kitty.”
There was a sudden crashing of wooden boxes behind her, then stillness. She huddled where she was, no longer so eager for the big tabby’s company. Tom had promised to do something about whatever vermin might be lurking under the church, and the overgrown half-wild cat was his solution. Konstanze hoped it decided to eat whatever it had caught well out of her
sight.
She’d been under the church for an hour now, staring at the boxes and kegs in the low light of a lantern. There had been footsteps overhead, but she guessed they were those of Matt and his deacon, putting all in order for the Sunday morning service. It was chilly under the church, and she wrapped her blanket more closely around her shoulders.
Since coming to Penperro, it seemed she had been spending an inordinate amount of time in dark, damp, rocky places, and almost always the reason she was there was Tom Trewella. Maybe hell itself was more like a damp cave than a fiery furnace. Her wicked thoughts and actions were linked to Tom, who was linked to dark rocky locales. Perhaps it was God’s way of warning her.
Not that she was listening.
The entire way home the other night her swollen sex had been further aroused by her walking, her folds rubbing against themselves and the tops of her plump thighs with each step. Tom had walked beside her, but she could not bring herself to look at him for fear that he’d somehow see her state reflected in her eyes, and throw her into the ferns to resume where he’d left off.
And she probably would have let him, if Hilde hadn’t been four paces behind.
She’d begun to worry that his fondling of her had led to a permanent change in her anatomy. The swelling had remained as she readied for bed, waiting impatiently for Hilde to settle in for the night. When she knew she had as much privacy as she could get, she’d reached for the Memoirs. Tom had apparently been too distracted by his own thoughts to ask for it back, for which she was grateful.
She’d read until her eyes stung, studying each passage where the heroine furthered her education, right up to the first time a man made his full penetration of her. Her ears straining to be certain Hilde still snored in the next room, Konstanze had let her own hand slip down beneath the covers, pressing against herself through her nightgown as she read and reread the critical passage.
Hilde had stirred and shifted then, and in fear of discovery Konstanze had shut the book and blown out her candle, sinking down under her covers with her mind full of wild and wicked imaginings.
