Divine by Mistake

by P. C. Cast

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy get out of a shirt or vest so quickly. Eager was too slow a word. In moments he was causing the pool to slosh and spill over as he waded to me, hands filled with bubbles and sand. As he joined me he offered me the sand soap and I gratefully scooped out a handful (which was, by the way, warm from his touch) and started soaping up my arms, pits, and well, other places. I had to rise a little out of the water to get to some of the other places. I tried to stay turned away from him because he just stood there, watching me, slowly rubbing some sand around his own chest. Which was now very bare—and very muscular—and very broad. Good thing the water was cold; I was suddenly beginning to feel warm. Imagine that.

  To take my mind off his chest, I dunked myself all the way under the water, shaking my head until my hair was good and soaked. Emerging back above water (and trying not to sputter unattractively), I reached for more of the sand soap from my very handsome soap holder. The sand felt wonderful as I rubbed it furiously into my hair, and I liked the unusual, sweet scent that drifted down my shoulders with the bubbles. It smelled a little like vanilla, or maybe honey, mixed with some kind of nut.

  “I can do that.” His hands replaced my own and he took over for me, massaging the soap into my scalp with warm, firm fingers. “You will be warmer if you stay covered by the water.”

  I crouched back down and felt him kneeling behind me. His hands worked through my hair, rubbing and pulling, being careful to keep the soapy bubbles from falling down into my eyes. His body was only a few inches away from me—I could feel the heat of him radiating through the water.

  “That feels wonderful.” I meant it as a comradely compliment, but it came out of my mouth as a breathy moan. His hands drifted from my head to my neck, gliding with slick, hot fingers down to my shoulders and back to the base of my neck then up through my scalp again. I leaned until I felt my back touch the heat of his chest. His hands stilled on my shoulders. I placed my hands over his and then glided them up his soapy forearms, loving the hard feel of his tense muscles.

  “Don’t stop,” I whispered. Through my back I felt his heartbeat increase as his hands moved forward and down under the water, taking the heaviness of my breasts, one in each of his hands, and squeezing them gently while he drew me more firmly against his body.

  This time I didn’t even attempt to make my moan sound comradely. The cold of the water combined with his heat and the slickness of the soap. I felt everything inside of me liquefy. Turning in his arms, I rose just far enough out of the water so that our faces were almost even with each other. His hands dropped to cradle my waist and I reached up, ringing the excess soap from my hair into my hands and piling my sudsy hair in a ball on top of my head. Not taking my eyes from his (which was difficult because I really wanted to gawk at his gorgeous chest), I began rubbing the soap over his torso.

  “I can do that,” I purred.

  He smiled as my words echoed his. I lathered his chest, working the sandy soap up to his shoulders and down his wonderfully muscular arms. Then I swiped the extra soap, cupping the bubbles in my hands and reaching under his arms to rub them around his back. The tips of my breasts worked seductively against his chest, moving to the rhythm of my hands.

  I think his breathing had increased, but I couldn’t be sure because my heart was hammering so loudly in my chest it seemed to be drowning out all sound—except his deep moan as he bent down and covered my mouth with his. His hands slid from my waist to cup my ass, and my breasts flattened against his chest as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pressed into him.

  Naturally, my hair had to choose that precise moment to fall down out of the soapy ball on top of my head and flop directly into the space between our eyes and noses.

  We split apart—sputtering and wiping soap from our eyes and mouths.

  “Maybe I should rinse now.” The sexy, throaty tone of voice I was going for was pretty much ruined when I spit a big blob of sandy bubbles out of my mouth and onto his chest. “Oops, sorry.”

  “Urmph.” He was busy cupping handfuls of water up to wash the sand and soap out of his eyes.

  I dunked myself under the water, rinsing and rinsing until I seemed to have the soap and my hair under control. I ended up crouched back under the water, watching him try to get the soap out of his eyes.

  There he was, this big, strong man/horse kneeling down in the water with about half of the horse part of him submerged, splashing water in his face, which really only caused more and more bubbles. He looked like someone who was being forced to take a bubble bath and was pissed off because of it. A giggle escaped my mouth.

  He squinted at me, trying to blink the remainder of the soap from his eyes.

  I giggled again.

  “What is so fun—” As his lips formed the beginning of the word funny a bubble popped out of his mouth, just like he’d blown it from a big ol’ wad of Bazooka.

  I couldn’t stand it—at the sight of that bubble popping from his serious, soapy face, my giggles convulsed into laughter.

  At first he just stared at me, but when my laughter made me snort he joined me. Pretty soon I was clutching one of his arms to keep myself from drowning. Eventually our laughter quieted and left us smiling at each other. I shivered suddenly and wondered how I could feel so warm inside and actually be freezing on the outside.

  “You look cold.” He reached out and tucked a stray tendril of wet hair behind my ear.

  “I am. I guess we should get dried off.”

  “Yes.”

  Neither of us moved. We kept smiling at each other like our brains were as frozen as our feet (well, my feet, his hooves). Standing so that the water covered me only to below my rib cage, I stepped slowly toward him, liking the way his eyes traveled over my wet body. I sucked in my tummy and knew the distant firelight was reflecting softly off my curves, flattering my voluptuous body. His dark eyes told me he liked what he saw, and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I had never been one of those women who felt it necessary to starve or puke away their bodies.

  I reached forward and kissed him lightly, whispering into his lips, “You’d better rinse off—that soap will itch your fur if it dries.” Then I turned and headed to where we’d left our clothes and the blanket. Behind me I could hear a lot of splashing and grunting as one very large horse-guy tried to get himself unsoaped.

  I wrapped myself in the blanket and vigorously began drying with one end of it. Now I was really cold and my hands shivered and shook so hard I almost dropped the blanket. ClanFintan plodded noisily out of the water and joined me on the bank.

  “If-f-f-f you s-s-shake water on m-m-me I’m going to p-pull your t-t-tail.”

  He snorted a laugh at me and grabbed the blanket from my frozen hands. Before I could complain, I found myself in the middle of his vigorous toweling. I sucked in my breath as the rough blanket brought the blood rushing back to my extremities.

  “You take a lot of care.” His voice sounded very businesslike. He had part of the blanket draped over my head and he was kneeling to the side of me, drying my back and front at the same time. I felt a little like a piece of silver that was being polished.

  “Don’t complain—it’s not attractive.” I had to yell through the blanket to make myself heard. Suddenly the blanket was removed and draped over his shoulders and he began handing me articles of my clothing.

  “It was not a complaint.” His voice was gruff but his eyes sparkled mischievously at me.

  “Well, okay then.” I held my damp hair out of the way and offered my back to him. His warm fingers deftly retied the leather. After I slipped on my boots, I took the blanket from around his shoulders.

  “My turn.” As he put on his vest, I busied myself toweling off his wet fur. There really was a lot of him. I mean, he was a seriously big guy/horse/whatever. By the time I had him fairly well dried I wasn’t so cold anymore. Folding the blanket and tossing it over his back, I slipped my hand in his.

  I sniffed the air.
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br />   “Do we smell better?” He grinned down at me.

  “Yes.” I wrinkled my nose back at him. “And I think I smell something cooking. Something yummy.”

  His nostrils flared. “Pheasant.” He took a step forward. Instead of moving with him, I tugged at his hand to hold him back. He gave me a questioning look. “I thought you were hungry.”

  “I am, but, well, I want to ask you something.” I held his right hand in my left, and with my other hand I plucked nervously at my lip.

  “What is it you wish to ask?” His voice was friendly and curious.

  “It’s, uh, about this shape-shifting thing.” I tried to meet his eyes, but I kept glancing away like a kid asking about the friggin birds and bees.

  “You may ask me anything you wish.”

  “Can you really do it?” My voice was a whisper he had to lean toward me to hear.

  “Of course I can.” I was looking at his chest, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Tonight?”

  He paused for a moment. Then his hand touched my chin. Gently he lifted it so my eyes met his. “There is nothing I would like more. But I cannot shape-shift tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  His thumb brushed across my lips. “Shape-shifting requires an enormous amount of energy. I can only maintain another form for a limited time, and when I regain my normal shape I am in a weakened state.” His smile was bittersweet. “As much as I desire otherwise, we cannot afford that weakness tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I understand.” I let my disappointment show and was rewarded by his warm hand traveling down to caress my neck. I shivered, this time not with cold.

  “I am sorry.” He lifted my hand and, as he had done on our wedding day, turned it over and took the meaty part of my palm gently between his teeth.

  I swear, a rush of electricity shot from his teeth straight to my crotch.

  “Be careful,” I purred at him. “I may just bite back.”

  “I am counting on it.” His nip turned into a kiss and I loved the way his hot breath felt against my palm.

  We walked back to the camp hand in hand. I was cleaner, but decidedly colder—at least some parts of me were colder. I glanced up, enjoying his strong profile and liking the fact that he slowed his pace to mine. Some of my parts were warmer, too. Not that I minded.

  The guys had been busy while we were gone. They had two large fires going a few yards in front of the barn entrance, and over both were spitted several chicken-looking things, already sizzling and popping with juices. More bread and cheese appeared. My mouth was watering, and I thanked Dougal with a big grin when he handed me a wineskin and a hunk of bread. The sweet horsies had pulled a fallen log near enough to one of the fires for me to sit comfortably. I took my seat and started running my fingers through my wild hair, attempting to calm it while it dried in the warmth of the fire (between bites of bread and gulps of wine).

  “Try this.” ClanFintan offered me the comb he had used earlier on my hair.

  “Thank you.” Purposely I let my fingers linger on his. I couldn’t help it—he was just so damn nice to touch. Probably something to do with the horse/guy mixture. It made me want to pet him. A lot.

  I worked the comb through my wild hair while the guys cooked and talked. ClanFintan moved between the two campfires, talking to his men and doing guy stuff (like wiping the already spotless blade of his claymore and scratching his privates—no, I’m just kidding, I didn’t actually see him scratch). I felt his gaze continually find me. Every so often I would meet his eyes and a look would pass between the two of us. You know the look—when you first fall in love and you can feel his caress in a gaze. It was nice but a little disconcerting. My powers of concentration (such as they are) felt befuddled and I was glad that I wasn’t going to have to solve any math problems. Well, I mean even more glad than usual.

  It seemed that very little time had passed when the centaurs began dividing up the cooked birds. They were so hot the skin was split and sizzling, making me blow on the leg I was trying to eat as well as on my fingers. But it was delicious—and I didn’t hesitate to accept a second piece when it was offered.

  After dinner we sat around the fires, digesting and talking. ClanFintan stayed near me. Dougal and Connor shared our fire. Three other centaurs clustered around the other campfire. Dougal explained to me before I could worry (he said with a shy smile) that this time the two “missing” centaurs were taking their turn watching our perimeter.

  If I had given it much thought before tonight I would have probably found it bizarre that a creature who was half man and half horse could sit and converse after dinner. But I suppose you wouldn’t really call it “sitting.” Their horse bodies reclined with legs folded under them—which gave their human torsos the appearance of, well, sitting. It sounded strange, but I was beginning to understand that just about everything centaurs did was with an otherworldly grace. Which makes sense because, well, this was another world.

  Anyway, we were relaxing and I was beginning to feel warm and dry and maybe a little sleepy. Dougal started humming a tune that sounded very much like one of my favorite Enya melodies, but I couldn’t really place it. It was just vaguely Celtic. Suddenly he stopped humming and smiled expectantly at me.

  “I was just wishing our bard was with us—then I remembered we have someone even better.” He had raised his voice and all the centaurs were looking his way. “We have been blessed with the presence of Epona’s Beloved! The best storyteller in Partholon!”

  As I blanched, all of the horsies grinned and shouted something that sounded like, “Hear! Hear!” I looked at ClanFintan for rescue, only to find he was beaming proudly and leading the salute.

  I know it was unusual, but I didn’t know what to say.

  The jubilation slowly died down, leaving Dougal looking at me as if I’d just told him he couldn’t have dessert.

  “Forgive me, my Lady. Perhaps you are not in the mood for storytelling after today’s events.” He looked at me pitifully with those big, brown eyes. Like a humongous puppy.

  Jeesh.

  “No, I, uh, just need a moment to, uh—” pause and stall for time “—think of which story I would like to tell.”

  Oh, God. Which story which story which story which story? I have almost the entire Cat in the Hat memorized, but somehow I didn’t think it was particularly appropriate.

  My little teacher brain started rifling through my mental file entitled “Nearly Worthless Stuff You’ve Memorized.” And, bam! Sophomore English came to my rescue!

  I smiled at Dougal and saw him practically squirm with pleasure. If he had had a puppy’s tail, I’m sure it would’ve wagged vigorously—and he probably would’ve wet himself. He really was cute.

  For years I have been attempting to hammer into sixteen-year-olds the beauty of the poetic ballad. I’m pretty sure to no avail. But my effort to enlighten the masses has had one side effect—I can recite The Highwayman and The Lady of Shallot backward, forward, in my sleep and standing on my head (which I’ve never actually tried in class—yet). I like them both, but I’m a little partial to The Highwayman, especially the version put to music by Loreena McKennitt. Alfred Noyes had written a very cool ballad, but Loreena had sprinkled it with Irish magic. Very tragic—very Celtic. And easier to recite than the original.

  I played at straightening my hair (a futile attempt) and my clothes (another futile…well, you get the idea) as my mind raced through the stanzas, substituting appropriate phrasing for awkward words, such as claymore for musket, blade for trigger, shattering the night with a scream instead of the blast of a musket…etc., etc. I hadn’t noticed any guns since I’d been here, and I figured that if this world had them then it was a pretty good bet that the centaurs would own some.

  I stood up and threw back my shoulders, giving them all my best “pay attention to me I’m the teacher and I love to be the center of attention” look. They appeared to be an attentive class. I cleared my throat and began:

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nbsp; The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

  The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

  And the Highwayman came riding—

  riding—riding—

  The Highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

  Now, I know I can’t sing, but I also know that even in my own world I am a pretty darn good storyteller. My students love it when I read or recite to them. I do all the voices. According to them, “it’s cool.” So, I may not be Loreena McKennitt with her hauntingly beautiful pitch and tone, but I wasn’t trying to be. I didn’t sing the ballad; I recited it with passion and expression.

  By the second stanza I had them.

  He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

  A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

  They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!

  And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

  His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

  I walked around the campfires as I spun the tragic and beautiful story of The Highwayman, working my audience. They smiled their pleasure as Bess (the landlord’s daughter) plaited “a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.” I gravitated to ClanFintan as I told of how Bess’s Highwayman kissed the waves of her hair and swore to return to her by the moonlight, “though hell should bar the way.”

  Then I stiffened my spine and threw up my chin—and I became Bess as the Redcoats gagged her and bound her to her bed, attempting to use her as the means to trap her beloved. I let my eyes fill with tears as Bess gallantly ran a sword through her breast and screamed a warning (which I substituted for the musket shot—I didn’t think Noyes would mind, him being a dead Englishman, stiff upper lip and all) so that her Highwayman wasn’t captured.

  Then the centaurs’ eyes widened when the Highwayman found out it was his love who was killed warning him.

  Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,