Harlequin E Shivers Box Set Volume 4: The HeadmasterDarkness UnchainedForget Me NotQueen of Stone

by Tiffany Reisz

  He was demanding, wanting more. His hand slid lower, past my hips until he reached the lacy trim of my slip. He roughly pulled that cold, wet fabric upward. I looked down then, and saw my nipples and they were shamefully swollen beneath the fabric. Farther down, past my navel, I pressed my legs tightly together forming a V.

  Now his mouth was upon mine again, distracting me, his hands sliding up my legs. Easing them open. I felt his touch at my most secret spot, felt two fingers opening my lips. A jolt, an awareness of acute pleasure passed quickly by me and so surprised was I that I overreacted to the sensation, rising upward and crying out.

  His voice was cajoling, soft. “Can’t you see you are meant for this, Zara?” His touch turned firm as he slid a finger inside me. He began trailing a slow pattern. First inside me, and then out, slipping higher until he touched the place that made me cry out. At that moment, I lived only for the searing pleasure of his touch. He nudged my legs wider. I was too swept away to protest, leaving me exposed and at his mercy.

  He stopped moving, shifted his position so that he had a perfect view between my legs. He stared intently. I followed his gaze, and saw my triangle of golden curls.

  He said, “You are most beautiful at this moment. Open and waiting for me.”

  I took a deep breath, embarrassed, and tried to close my legs. His arms were steel. I couldn’t move.

  “One day, Zara.” He said in a strangely harsh tone. “Not today, but one day soon.” He said simply, “Today I give you this.” And then he lowered his head. He put his mouth on my most tender part. The shock of it scared me and I jumped back, trying to scoot away from the unfamiliar sensation. He reacted roughly, grabbing my buttocks and dragging me back to his mouth only to descend on me wildly, almost like a madman. His hands held me perfectly still, and his tongue swept across me again and again.

  Who knew that heaven could be like this? Searing pleasure, unfamiliar sensations. What words could there be to describe such a feeling? I only knew that I drifted at the mercy of his mouth. I wilted against the grass, moaning. Each of my moans seemed to inflame him. He in turn went wild and inflamed me. On and on we went, winding tighter, until I could burst.

  Whatever shyness I possessed over that secret part of me melted away and my legs fell open. My hips rose to meet him, to demand more of him. Only then did he release the tight grip he had on me. He sat up, leaned forward and grabbed my hand and brought my palm to his crotch, lifting me from the ground as he did so. He was stiff as a board and bigger than I ever dreamed possible. It was proof of his arousal, of his desire for me. Shocked, I tried to pull my hand away, and again he held me still, flattened my fingers and pressed them against the length of him.

  He was so hard. It was so shocking and so exciting that I gasped. Navarre’s hand swiftly encircled my back. He lowered me gently to the ground and then his tongue was back at it, making me moan and cry out. Everything blurred together. Sensations and sound and light until I was untethered. A tight little knot of sensation swelled beneath his hand. Then exploded, flooding my body and limbs with an exquisite numbness. I moaned and grabbed at him, needing something. He rose then, covered my body and gave me the deep, possessive kiss of a victorious man. As I returned his kiss, he pressed the stiff promise between my legs. Not now, he had told me.

  I lay panting, spent, knowing at that moment that I had indeed entered the Garden of Eden. That I had just tasted the sweet bite of forbidden fruit. He lay motionless, breathing hard atop me. When he looked at me I felt acute embarrassment. I tried to curl away and shield my body from his gaze. How could I have behaved so wantonly?

  “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out and stopping me.

  “I—I—” I stammered, “I didn’t mean to get so…wild.” Whatever had come over me?

  He forced my arm so that I faced him. “Zara, don’t ever apologize for that. A man could live a thousand years—no, ten thousand—and be lucky to have a woman who responds to him in such a way. There’s no shame in that.”

  I heard it then, the thin high voice of my aunt, calling from the porch. Reality descended crushingly fast. It was already dusk and would be dark at any moment. “I have to go,” I said. I shook his arm off, rose and raced toward my clothes, awkwardly covering myself as I dressed. I slipped on my shoes without the socks, balling them in my hand. Then, I smoothed my hair and pushed the curls back into place. All the while I looked around in wild confusion, trying to figure out exactly what just happened. I turned to him. What does one say after a tryst? Goodbye? My cheeks were hot with embarrassment as I stumbled for some word to say.

  Navarre lay propped up on one elbow, relaxed and casual. “You’ll be back.” His words sounded so assured, so very smug.

  “You’re wrong.” I wanted to say more, but I knew now that it was best not to taunt him. I felt his eyes watching me as I rushed from the glade. And strangely, as I looked back, in the still water of the pool I saw a cloud of orange dye billowing beneath the surface. I ran, and this time I didn’t look back. Scraping my hands, I grabbed on to the tree limbs and climbed over the fence, landing in a heap on the other side, and running wildly for home.

  Chapter Five

  By the time I arrived back at the cottage dusk had yielded to dark. I was late, very late, and as soon as my foot stepped on the porch my aunt was at the screen door. “Zara, where have you been? I’ve been in a fright over you. I thought perhaps the Lucians—” She took me in her arms and hugged me, and I hoped that she couldn’t know by touching me what I had just done.

  “No, Aunt Cleo, nothing like that.” The lie came in a rush, breathless. Thinking quickly, I added, “I met a geologist. He words for the WPA, just like Pa. He showed me around.”

  “I know you were raised better than to go traipsing around with strange men.”

  “I was. But, with his uniform I trusted him. Plus, if you met him you’d know. He’s very sweet.”

  “Dinner is waiting,” she said with a curt tone.

  “I’m famished,” I said.

  We sat down to eat. I ate as if I hadn’t seen food in days, wolfing down the ham and green beans and helping myself to seconds.

  My aunt spoke. “Are you still wanting a canoe ride tomorrow? I was rather looking forward to it.”

  “I’d love a canoe ride.”

  “You still want to go?” Her voice had turned hopeful.

  “Of course. I can’t wait.”

  Afterward, we talked about the beach and about her childhood growing up near the water. I lingered, encouraging her to talk all she wanted, for I was afraid that once I lay in my quiet room, my thoughts would turn traitorous. And return to Navarre.

  Moths clung to the screens seeking our candlelight. Crickets chirped outside, and there, after dinner, my aunt told me a story I will never forget.

  “Zara, when I was eight years old, the river shifted and came within inches of our doorstep.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your grandmother—my older sister—she was ten years older than me and at that age where boys become important. I was too young to know the specifics, only that she got involved with a boy from the Lucians. On the night the river changed course she had come home very late. My father was irate. He knew that she was with a member of their group. He exploded at her, and called her all sorts of terrible names. I sat in my bed listening, wondering what she did that could have been so very awful that would drive my father to say such things.” She chuckled. “He was normally such a quiet man. But on this particular night he seemed almost a monster. She ran to her room crying and sobbing hysterically. It was right after that that she was sent away to Kansas, to distant family. That was how you ended up in Kansas. Father did not want her anywhere near the Lucians. Eventually, she settled and married and had your mother.” She took a sip of her drink and placed the glass neatly back upon the table before continuing in almost a whisper. “But the next morning, the river ran right up our yard and past the first step of the porch. I’ll never forget. I
sat on the porch and watched it. It almost looked like our house was floating downriver. But Father said it was the wrath of God. That’s when we started going to church all the time. And I never, ever looked down that path, past that gate.” Telling the story caused great emotion inside her, which showed upon her face. She stood and carried her plate and glass to the sink. Her back was to me. She said, “When you were late, I thought for a moment that maybe…”

  ‘No,” I said vehemently, suddenly promising myself that I would never scare her. Never. As I sat there, I could feel my body disagreeing, pulsing with the memory of what had just happened. But I assured her, and myself I suppose, “Don’t worry, Aunt Cleo. Please don’t worry.”

  I went to bed. For all my fears about sleeplessness, the moment my head hit the pillow I fell into a deep and restful sleep.

  In the morning we ate breakfast and then set out for our boat trip. Aunt Cleo told me that the canoe was staked in the rushes just north of the old wooden bridge. While she waited in the shade on the path, I dug around in the thick grasses until I found the canoe tied to a stake with an old rope. Two paddles were strapped to the side and I pulled them free. The boat was neglected. But after I cleaned it out I found it to be reassuringly sound.

  Holding my aunt’s hand, I led her to the canoe and guided her into the front seat. I would guide from the back. I was a bit nervous about my duties, but found that once we were underway it was rather easy to navigate. The canoe swept along with the flow of the river, and soon enough we slid underneath the bridge. We floated beside the red brick wall until it suddenly stopped, and I had full view of Navarre’s mansion.

  “Tell me what you see,” my aunt said. “It has been so long now, I wonder if it has changed.”

  “The wall just ended. There are oak trees all around, with heavy coats of moss on them. Wait. They are clearing now. Ahead I can see a bay of some sort, and oh, my goodness…the house.” I gasped. “What a house.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Tell me more.”

  “It’s a mansion. Spread wide, three wings I think. It’s white. Like marble. I see faint streaks of green on the stone. And so many windows! The tower. Aunt Cleo, the tower rises up higher than any tree.”

  She laughed. “It’s the same. I always loved to look at the house. Even though I feared it. I can see it has the same effect on you as it did me. You explain it very well. I can even see it in my mind. Look closely now, at the gardens—you’ll see the statues.”

  I did as she suggested. The gardens went from behind the terrace of the house, down the lawn and stopped just before a sandy beach area. Rows of hedges concealed almost everything, but I saw one statue, some sort of goddess with her arm rising in the air. I noticed with some horror that the other arm had been broken off and lay discarded beside the figure. There was no one on the shore or in the gardens, but still I had a nagging sensation that we were being watched.

  We came to where the river spilled its contents into the shallow bay. Where the freshwater and saltwater met there was a fan of dark fingers reaching out into the light blue waters. I turned for one last glimpse. The house stood boldly overlooking the water, and since I was farther out, I could see all of the estate. I saw a path that led to a high, towering archway of bushes, which I couldn’t see beyond, try as I might to peer through it. Beyond the hedges another small fork of the river emptied its inky waters into the bay.

  My aunt continued, “We can’t go too far into the main channel. We’ll be swept out into the gulf and it’s too difficult for a canoe. Keep an eye out for three channels, all together, like a branch. Turn there and approach the beach from the backside. The channels will be on your right. You might be able to see the beach…”

  I looked ahead. In front of us, the main channel led straight to the ocean, and I could see the choppy waves breaking outside the protection of the bay. A wide expanse of shallow waters coated with marsh grasses lay between us and the white sand dunes. Wind gusted over the shallow water and the marsh grasses rustled and tossed about. It was the farthest thing from a barren farm field that I could imagine. I thought of my mother growing up here as a young child, and I envied her.

  After a bit more paddling I saw the three small offshoots on the right. “I see them. The small channels.”

  “Good. Take the last one—you’ll have to aim for it early because the water will push you toward it faster than you think. It will lead to a perfect spot where we can enjoy the beach.”

  With a little extra effort because I was a novice, I guided the canoe toward the last small channel. We were in the marsh grasses now and they crowded the tiny passageway. I heard the rustle of the wind across the grasses. A few times I was clumsy with the canoe and we brushed against the long blades, sharp as razors.

  My aunt said, “I came here all the time as a child, you know. I would crab and fish and romp all about. I’m never happier than I am with the sand between my toes. I would sit and watch the mansion, waiting to see a human sacrifice.”

  I stopped paddling, the oar still in the water. The current tugged on the oar, pulled it against the boat with a hollow thud. “Sacrifice?”

  “Paddle, dear,” she reminded me.

  With a powerful stroke, I sliced through the water once more.

  She went on, “It was just a rumor. I still hear it now and again, at church or the post office. Sometimes a girl will go missing and the sheriff goes into a frenzy. But sooner or later they return. Always a false alarm. Thank goodness. Besides, I never saw anything suspicious.”

  So distracted was I by her story that I accidentally guided us into the reeds that lined the small channel. They squealed against the canoe and grabbed at my clothes.

  “Sorry, Aunt Cleo,” I said. “It’ll just take a minute to get back on track.” I pressed my oar against the marsh grasses, hoping for some firmness to push against. Finally, my pole struck the ground. I drove us back into the channel as clouds of silt billowed out beneath us.

  I wanted to know more about the rumor of sacrifices. But right then Aunt Cleo announced, “The breeze has shifted. I can smell the salt. We must be at the beach!”

  She was right. “We are.”

  “Oh, good. Just put the canoe onto the sand.”

  I aimed for the sand. “Here we are. Watch out for the landing.”

  She pulled her oar inside and the small vessel slid onto the sand more smoothly than I thought it would. I jumped into the water, enjoying my bare feet immensely, and then took Aunt Cleo by the hand and helped her to the shore. Hand in hand, we climbed the dune and there I saw the Gulf of Mexico.

  It was a blanket of glass with folds in the water caused by wind. It reminded me of the fields around our house on a hot day, when the sun would bake a false oasis of water onto the ground. Flat and even the water barely moved save for the small waves that lapped at the shore. “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “It’s good to be here again. I can see everything in my mind and I have you to thank for that. Even the smell of the ocean, the feel of the salt in my hair brings me back.” She took a deep breath. “I feel younger. Now, let me take a seat here on the sand, leave me to my memories and I’ll wait while you explore.” She sat right on the sand and looked almost majestic with her face turned to the sea.

  I went to the water’s edge, surprised at how soft and powdery the white sand was. Reaching down I grabbed some in my hand and opened my fingers and watched the wind scatter the grains fine as mist. Right then and there I fell in love with the sea, the broad blue sky above it and the mellow grasses that bowed and swayed like stalks of wheat in the breeze.

  I walked in the water a bit, collected shells, especially thrilled with the bright white sand dollars, which were chalky and rough in my hand and broke apart easily. Then I went and sat next to my aunt and we enjoyed the remainder of the afternoon, basking in the heat of the spring sun and telling each other about our lives. She was very lonely—I sensed that, confined as she was to her house and her memories.

  Fa
r too soon it was time to go back. I helped Aunt Cleo walk across the dune. When we reached the highest point on the ridge, I saw a most curious thing. A small, black cloud, thin as smoke curled in the air above the land. It spread and moved quickly, threading across the sky as if it were a living thing. Then, as I stood dumbfounded, the cloud split in two and snaked in different directions.

  “Aunt Cleo, there’s a strange cloud. A black cloud in the gathering twilight. It’s going fast. It almost looks alive.” I struggled for words to describe what I was seeing. “Like a dark ghost swooping across the sky.”

  She interrupted me, grew excited and clutched my hand. “It’s the bats! Oh, how I miss seeing them. Every evening they come out to feed. Of all the things I can’t see, I miss them the most.”

  We stood arm in arm and I described their movement to her. The cloud of bats streamed inland, rolling and dipping in the sky as one collective body, forming a tight ball, then releasing and streaming in another direction. Slowly they moved inland until I couldn’t see them anymore. By then, it was dusk and night was coming. I helped her into the canoe and we paddled home in silence.

  We approached the mansion. The setting sun poured fire onto the white stone. Some of the windows were illuminated and it gave an eerie light to the house. As we drew closer I noticed a figure on the beach, and knew even from our great distance exactly who it was. Navarre. He said nothing, didn’t move as we approached his shore. I forced myself to return his gaze, sensing a need to assert my will.

  He watched us approach, still as a statue and ominous in bearing. When the small boat was only a few yards away from the shore, a small smile crept over his lips.

  The mansion loomed behind him framing him in fire like a bronze god, beautiful but damned all the same. Remembering our tryst, I felt that ache, that wetness between my legs and unwittingly rocked my pelvis forward. Seeking his touch. The canoe teetered slightly, sending choppy waves headed in Navarre’s direction.