The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two

by Michele Jaffe

  Sophie bucked against Crispin, pushing into him and pulling away from him simultaneously, stopping his hand and insisting that it keep going, moaning aloud, first quietly, then louder, until her moans turned to joyful laughter and, still laughing, she collapsed on the ground.

  Crispin lay down next to her and took her in his arms. Her generous response to him, her laughter, was unlike anything he had ever experienced, filling him with a sense of power and joy he could not recall having felt before. Not to mention arousal. Which only grew worse as Sophie, recovered slightly, slipped her hand tentatively into the neck of his shirt and rested her palm on his chest.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “That was extraordinary.”

  “Yes, it was,” Crispin agreed. “But now I think you should take your bath.”

  “Mmmm,” Sophie said, moving her hand from his chest down to the stays on his breeches. She fumbled with them, brushing her hand accidentally across the bulge there, and it was Crispin’s turn to moan. Her fingers slipped into his breeches, the tips brushing at the tip of his shaft, and then she rolled him into her hand.

  “What are you doing?” he managed to ask through clenched teeth.

  “I want to give you pleasure too.” Sophie moved her hand up his length, and then down, enchanted with the strange texture of his organ. “I want to touch you like you touched me.”

  Her caresses made him feel like he was soaring. Without wings, without supports, over an unknown land without borders but with countless dangers. This woman, he knew then, had the power to destroy him. He was not prepared for this, prepared for what she was doing to him, something that went far beyond physical pleasure. Using every ounce of restraint he possessed, he brought his hand down and stopped her caresses.

  “What is wrong?” Sophie asked, alarmed.

  “Bath,” Crispin said in a tight voice. “You have not taken your bath.”

  “But—” Sophie began, and he silenced her.

  “Bath first. Then”—he waved his free hand, waving good-bye to that uncharted territory—“then we will see.”

  Without waiting for her to protest, Crispin rose and lifted her in his arms. He carried her the few steps to the pond and set her down gently. “Get in.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Did I do something wrong?” Suddenly the voice came flooding back, overwhelming her. “I apologize, Lord Sandal. I could not stop myself. I should go.”

  Crispin, who was having trouble thinking clearly, could not understand these words. “Apologize?” he repeated lamely. “Go?” She was never going anywhere. Or at least, not until he got answers to his questions.

  Sophie nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I shouldn’t have acted that way. So, so wickedly.”

  Crispin used a finger to raise her face to his and sought her eyes. “You were not wicked. You were wonderful. Do you understand?”

  Sophie shook her head. “It is kind of you to say so, but I know what you must think of me.”

  “I doubt that,” he said in a tone she could not read, but it was not one of disgust. “I doubt that very much.” Crispin was not sure he himself knew what he thought of her. “Sophie, what happened just now was not wrong. Did it feel wrong to you?”

  “But you pulled away. You were disgusted by me.”

  Crispin was having trouble understanding the words again. “Disgusted? Is that what you think?”

  Sophie gave a small nod.

  Crispin moved so he was standing right next to her and put her hand on his shaft. It danced under her touch. “I assure you I am anything but disgusted by you.” His voice, low and smooth, made Sophie feel strange and excited all over again. “I was merely suggesting we try something else. In the bath.”

  “You will come in with me?”

  “I will be back in a moment. You get in first.” Sophie was about to protest, but Crispin gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. “I promise I will be right back.”

  As she slid into the bath and settled herself on the underwater ledge which served as a bench, Crispin turned and made his way back to his room. He needed a moment to think, to organize his defenses, before he proceeded with his plan. There was no question that women were more pliant, more willing to answer questions, when they were amorously inclined. That, of course, was the reason for this seduction. But he would scarcely be able to ask any questions if he did not keep better control over himself. He raked a hand through his hair. Only six days stood between him and an accusation of treason, he reminded himself. Six days during which Sophie would be sharing his bed. Six days during which Sophie would be sharing his life. He needed to assure himself he did not lose track of what was important. And besides, night was falling and he wanted to light the garden torches so she would not have to be afraid in the dark.

  When Crispin returned, he found Sophie shoulder deep in the warm water, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. She looked like something out of an antique myth, a true Siren or one of the nymphs that were always such a temptation to the gods, the kind of magical creature who could lure even the most stalwart man from his duty. In the light of the torch that Crispin lit near the pond, the drops of water on her hair shined like a net of diamonds interspersed with rubies. Crispin shed the robe he was wearing and slipped into the water next to her, kissing her gently on the lips.

  Her eyes opened, to look into his, but she did not speak. Crispin moved over her and their kiss deepened, its origin not in their lips but somewhere outside their bodies. Sophie’s hands moved over Crispin’s back, studying, memorizing the feel of his muscles under her fingers, the way they moved and flexed as he adjusted himself over her. She twined them in the golden hair of his chest, then let her flat palms glide down his stomach to his hard organ.

  Crispin’s preparations, his plans, the words “six days,” none of them were force against the experience of her touch. Instead of lessening, it seemed to have become more powerful, to have grown more tantalizing, more overwhelming, in the intervening minutes. He moaned as she used both hands to move up and then down his shaft, moaned as her thumbs massaged the indentation at its tip.

  “Make love to me, Crispin,” she breathed into his ear. “I want to have you inside of me.”

  It was the sound of his name on her lips even more than her words that unraveled him. That and the feel of her against him. Crispin could no more reason than breathe, but he was sure that if she kept touching him like that his vital powers would evaporate. He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and turned so he was sitting next to her.

  Despite the proddings of his body, he felt suddenly cautious. “Are you sure?”

  “I know what I want,” Sophie told him in a voice without hesitation. “I want you.”

  Crispin pulled her so she was sitting astride him. Her silky thighs wrapped around his waist and her curls moving ticklishly over his member made him pray for control. He willed himself to go slow, not to hurt her, but he wanted her with a fierceness that threatened to overwhelm his restraint.

  Sophie gasped in delight as she came into contact with his shaft, and gasped again as Crispin moved himself so she could slide up and down his length. Holding her with one hand, he reached down with the other and let his fingers ride over her whole length until his palm came to rest on her swollen nub. Sophie gave a little yelp and then another as he gently moved his palm in a circle, using its full breadth to massage her. He started softly, barely touching her, and with each circle he pressed slightly harder.

  Crispin began to move his hand up and down again, rather than around, so his fingers and his palm were alternately gliding over her. He stroked her lightly at first, just skating over her wetness, and then pressed harder, so that his other fingers plunged into the folds surrounding her nub, massaging it from the sides, slipping in even deeper, even more completely. Her yelps gave way to moans, and she pressed herself against his hand, directin
g his fingers around and into her, furious for his touch, close to finding her release.

  Keeping his index finger on her nub, tracing small circles with it, Crispin slid first one, then a second finger into her. She moaned, and he added a third, stretching her tight passage in anticipation of him. Then he moved his hand away and let it rest on her thigh, still holding her gaze.

  “Are you certain you want this?”

  Sophie nodded, unable to speak but completely sure she wanted more of him.

  Crispin went on. “Absolutely certain? You are very taut. It might hurt. It might—”

  Sophie reached out for him and pulled him to her. “I want to hold you inside me, Crispin, like I have never wanted anything else.”

  Crispin reached between her legs again and touched her with both hands, but this time he did not stop there. Carefully, he used his fingers to spread the petals that surrounded her, opening her to him. He lifted her hips to rest the tip of his shaft against her and rubbed her little nub with his finger. When she bucked against him in pleasure, he slid into her, lowering her onto his member, stopping once for her to adjust herself, and then pushing himself completely into her narrow, warm, yielding passage. Crispin gasped with wonder. Sophie was smiling at him, arching to meet him, crying out to him. She made a present of her body to him, a present more precious than any other Crispin had ever received.

  Sophie felt no pain, just pure, powerful pleasure as he moved into her. “Crispin,” she moaned, “this is heaven. You must never ever stop.” She pressed her chest against his to reach his mouth for a kiss. The sensation of him sliding into her while his finger stayed on her most sensitive place was driving her wild. She could not control herself, did not want to control herself, as the divine fullness between her legs brought her closer and closer to her climax.

  Crispin was in agony. He was determined to delay his release until she had found hers, but sliding in and out of her firm passage as she pressed against him and demanded him was almost more than he could endure. He had planned to go slowly, be reasonable, not get lost in her, in the pleasure of being inside her. But planning and reason had no place in this new land she sent him flying over. He could not think, could not ponder, could almost not breathe as he soared on wave after wave of pleasure, savoring and glorifying in every long vibration of her body.

  Crispin reached up and brought her mouth to his powerfully, parting her lips with his tongue. His kiss undid Sophie. She flew against him, clutching him, and he heard her laugh and felt her climax throbbing around him. She kept laughing, laughing and pushing herself against him, wanting to make the feeling go on forever, stretching it through one climax, then another, until Crispin could wait no longer and with a final deep thrust and a moan he had never heard himself make before he exploded into her, as she exploded around him for the last time.

  Their bodies were still sending secret, pulsating messages to each other, Crispin was still inside her, beneath her, when Sophie’s laughter subsided. She kissed the side of his neck and his shoulder, and laid her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms tight around her.

  “Can we do that again? Just exactly like that?” she asked when she had caught her breath.

  “No,” Crispin replied definitively. He felt strange. It had been a long time since his last amorous excursion, but not so long that he had forgotten what it was supposed to feel like. And he knew it was not supposed to feel like he had woken from a boring dream into a fantasy world of light, color, taste, and smell that he had never known existed before. Was not supposed to make him feel like he was only now, for the first time in his life, home.

  Sophie raise her head from his chest in alarm at his answer and his long silence. “No?” she repeated

  “No. Not like that, anyway.” Crispin kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She was delicious. “There are too many other things to try.”

  “Let’s do them all. Right now.”

  Crispin groaned. Then lied. “There will be plenty of time for that.” He lifted her off him, shuddering slightly, and cradled her in his arm. “Now, tesoro, I think we should go to bed.”

  Sophie, who was playing with the hairs on his chest, stopped. “What did you say? What did you call me?”

  The word had slipped out without Crispin’s realizing it, completely inadvertently, as if it had spoken itself. “I said tesoro. It means treasure.”

  “Tesoro,” Sophie repeated to herself as he carried her from the bath and settled her in his large, silk-covered bed. When he got in next to her, she reached out to him and led his hand between her legs.

  “Thank you,” she said, pressing her curls against him, wanting him to know how grateful, how marvelous he had made her feel. “Thank you for…” The rest of her words were lost in the regular breathing of peaceful sleep.

  Crispin watched her as she fell asleep, wound around him, watched the moonlight play over her bewitching features, watched her hair spread itself over her shoulder like a magical net, watched her enchanting breasts rise and fall with her breathing, and felt the base of his spine begin to tingle.

  Dawn had only begun to part the clouds with her pinky fingers when the servant soundlessly closed the door to the Sandal Hall stable yard. Clutching a grimy notebook to his chest, he checked the windows to make sure he was not being watched and darted out into the Strand. He hesitated for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street, then rushed into a nearby alley.

  The old beggar woman crouched outside Sandal Hall rose and followed him. She moved quickly toward the alley, showing herself far more energetic and taller than one would have imagined, and just as quickly stopped. The alley was empty. The servant and his carefully recorded notes of all that had transpired that night in Lord Sandal’s private second-floor garden had vanished.

  Chapter Twelve

  The rock flew through the window of the bedchamber, bouncing off Crispin’s shoulder and landing on the pillow next to Sophie’s head. Crispin reached around Sophie, who was still sleeping curled up next to his body, and felt for the means of his rude awakening. As his fingers closed around it, Sophie’s eyelids fluttered, and she tilted her head upward to look at him with drowsy eyes.

  “Is it time?” she asked, yawning.

  “Time?” Crispin repeated.

  “Time for you to show me the things we did not do last night. You said there were some.”

  Crispin smiled and gently stroked her head. “There are, tesoro, but I think we had better wait. There is no reason to rush.”

  Sophie nodded sleepily, then stretched and resettled herself next to him. “Very well. Wake me when it is time.”

  For a few moments Crispin was so preoccupied with looking down at her and the feeling of her body along his that he forgot the object in his hand. His malaise from the night before had disappeared with the arrival of day, and he was overcome once again by her extraordinary appeal. Indeed, he was just thinking that perhaps it was time, when the reassertion of his professional duty brought him back to himself. He shifted gently, so as not to wake her, while bringing the object in his hands to his eyes.

  From the feel and heft of it, there had been no question that it was a rock, but Crispin could also tell it was wrapped in something. That something now revealed itself to be a large, heavily inked piece of paper. Crispin had once narrowly averted being killed by lethal dust—a single whiff was enough to execute a man in five minutes—that had been sent to him within the folds of an apparently innocent-looking letter, and had, on another occasion, almost been blown to a thousand pieces by a seemingly innocuous-looking stone that was actually filled with gunpowder. He was therefore very careful now as he unwrapped the rock, but he might have spared his efforts. The rock was just a rock, the paper simply a piece of paper.

  Or rather, a very particular piece of paper. As he smoothed it out on the bedcovers before him, he found the source of its menac
e. Across the top, in large roman type, he read, “News From the Court of Her Royal Highness the Queen and across the bottom, in slightly smaller type, “Printed by Richard Tottle, Esq. By Order of Her Majesty.” The story in the middle was rendered almost completely illegible, however, by the large letters scrawled over it. These read:

  YER LORDSHIP MIND YER BUSYNESS OR YE WONT LIKE IT

  Crispin chuckled aloud, waking Sophie again.

  “Is it time now?” she asked with her eyes still closed.

  He leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead. “No, tesoro, not just yet. But I fear it is time for me to arise.”

  “And get food?” she asked, opening one eye. “I am glad you are hungry too. I could eat two dozen orange cakes.”

  No sooner had she spoken than a knock sounded on the door of the bedchamber. Both of Sophie’s eyes snapped open now, registering fear.

  “Don’t worry,” Crispin soothed her. “It can only be Thurston.” He slid out of the bed and moved toward the door, opening it just enough to speak through.

  “Good morning, Your Lordship.” There was nothing in Thurston’s tone to indicate that it was the least bit unusual to be speaking to his master, naked and with lavender flowers caught in his hair, through a crack in the door of his bedchamber. “Their Ladyships send their greetings and request that you visit them at your earliest convenience. I also thought you might need this before your appointments begin.”

  The door opened slightly wider and then, after a brief whispered exchange, closed. Crispin returned to the bed bearing a heavily laden silver tray, which he set in the middle of the coverlet.

  Sophie was sitting up by then, studying the paper and rock with great attention. “What is this?” she asked, waving the paper in front of his face.

  “I would say it is a joke,” Crispin replied, taking a large bite from a biscuit and offering one to Sophie.