by Henke, Shirl
The moment she had described the background she wanted to use for the portrait, he had asked if she knew how to swim. Beth had been raised in the Georgia backwoods where being unable to swim was tantamount to courting death by drowning. Everyone, female as well as male, swam in the Blackthorne family. Derrick was pleased. He would pose for her during the morning in return for her spending the afternoon in the pool with him.
Just thinking about that swim made her hand tremble as she focused on her sketch. “This is going to be wonderful...if I can only capture...”
“You're mumbling as though you have a mouthful of feathers, puss,” Derrick could not resist teasing. Her look of intense concentration was arrestingly erotic in a strangely innocent way. He loved the way the tip of her tongue lightly glossed those lush pink lips, the way small white teeth bit the lower one when she was deep in thought. Her eyes flashed to him, then back down to her work, and a long coil of dark red hair bounced back and forth over her shoulder.
She's still an innocent...in spite of me. That thought had considerable power to disturb him, and he had been plagued with it often. Beth had known full well what she was doing when she had come to his bed. Good family or no, she was American, living the unfettered life she had chosen, far from the strictures of the proper English society in which he had been raised.
And what would happen to her when he left? For all her youth and trust in the goodness and beauty of the world, she was a strong woman who would accept the inevitable and get on with her life. He had reassured himself of that repeatedly whenever his conscience—usually a Greek chorus of one, namely Alvin Francis Edward Drummond—chided him for their liaison. What he refused to consider, kept buried in the deepest recesses of his heart, was what would happen to him when he must go.
And go he would, all too soon. He had used a variety of means to intercept correspondence between the Murats and Napoleon. The exiled emperor was planning an escape. As soon as Derrick learned his destination, he would deliver the critical information directly to the heads of state assembled in Vienna, then await orders that, he hoped, would at last allow him to purchase a commission in the army and fight openly.
“Your expression has changed again, Derrick,” she scolded. “Such a brown study. Perhaps I could capture that pensive quality in the finished oil,” she mused more to herself than to him.
“Enough. My leg's gone to sleep and my neck most probably will never turn to the right again,” he said, standing up and stretching, then striding over to her. “Put down the charcoal and paper,puss. 'Tis noon.” He pointed toward the sun high overhead. “Time for a nice, cooling swim.”
“Tis unseasonably warm today, I agree, but the water will be a bit more than just cooling, I warrant.”
“The bold Georgia frontier woman, afraid of a bit of cold water?” he teased, pulling her into his embrace. “Then I shall just have to warm you up first...‘til you're so warm you'll be burning...eager to plunge into the depths...” He punctuated his words with kisses, running his hands over her body, slipping the drawstring at the neckline of her blouse and freeing her breasts.
The moment his mouth tugged gently on a nipple she moaned, burying her hands in his hair, then running them down to his chest, where she seized his shirtfront and began pulling it open. She tore off several buttons in feverish haste when his hands glided beneath her skirt and caressed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, murmuring his pleasure at the moisture already dewing on her petals.
Her skirt dropped with a soft slither, pooling around her feet, followed by her loose blouse. He shrugged off his shirt as she worked on his fly, her fingers clumsy with need, yet once his sex sprang free, the deft delicacy of her artist's touch made him the one to moan with pleasure.
“You drive me mad, Beth. I don't think I can wait—”
She released him and spun away with a husky laugh, kicking off her sandals so she was completely naked in the noonday sun. “The last one in the water has to feed peeled grapes to the winner!” she shrieked with glee, dashing toward the small tumbling waterfall while he struggled to pull off his pants.
“That's cheating and you know it,” he called after her. Long used to swift summonses to dress in haste, he had already rid himself of his boots and made quick work of the pants, then tore out after her.
His long strides caught up with her just as they reached the water's edge. Derrick scooped her up in his arms and stepped into the pool, which was cold. Then he tossed her into the deepest part, where she landed with a loud splash and a high-pitched squeal of dismay.
“It's freezing!” Her teeth chattered as she treaded water in an attempt to warm herself. “But I won the contest,” she crowed triumphantly.
“Not so, puss. I was the one who first touched water. I win.” He pointed to his feet, around which the clear water lapped, turning them decidedly blue.
She splashed him with icy droplets, crying, “That is cheating!”
“That cooks your goose,” he shouted, diving in after her as she turned and swam away. The cold nearly stole his breath, but he cut though the water with clean powerful strokes until he caught up to her, no easy feat since she was quick as an otter. Seizing her from behind, he pulled her against him, murmuring, “I'm freezing, thanks to you. So you shall just have to warm me.”
Beth turned her face up to his, knowing he would kiss her. “You warm me, Derrick,” she said as his mouth claimed hers, hot and fierce in spite of his protests about freezing. Their combined body heat made them impervious to the temperature as the kiss deepened. She levered her body higher by wrapping her arms around his neck as his tongue plunged rhythmically in and out of her mouth. His erection pressed between her legs, stone hard and hot as the sun. And she melted like wax over him, clamping her legs around his hips, opening to his second invasion.
They rocked in the water, he thrusting back and forth, she gliding up and down while he fisted his hands in her long wet hair and she dug her nails into the rippling muscles of his back. They finished in one swift, breathless spasm of bliss, then grew still. His feet were planted on the mossy bottom of the pool, steadying them as she slithered down his body, standing on tiptoe to brush her lips against his playfully.
“I warrant the water's risen a degree or two by now...what do you think?”
“I think you owe me some peeled grapes, dropped one at a time in my mouth,” he replied, pulling her toward the bank, where a large picnic hamper sat beside their hastily discarded clothing.
“ Tis you who owe—”
“I overtook you before you—”
“We shall compromise,” she interrupted, opening the hamper to take out a large fluffy towel, which she offered to share with him. Laughing, they dried each other, tugging on the cloth, trying to make it reach. Then all laughter died and they were once more in each other's arms, cocooned in white linen, looking deeply into each other's eyes.
“What is it about you...that I can never get enough?” he murmured as his lips descended on hers.
They slowly sank to the ground, rolling on the crisp dry winter grass, kissing, caressing. Then she rolled up on top of him, her thighs straddling his torso. “Just to show you what a sporting woman I am, I shall go first.” With that, she reached into the hamper and pulled out a fat bunch of sweet yellow grapes and began to peel one, making a slow production of it. Then she held it over his mouth, commanding, “Open for me.”
He obeyed. She popped the grape inside, then began peeling another. His hips moved restlessly beneath her as he chewed and swallowed. She could feel his staff brushing against her buttocks and wriggled provocatively. He groaned.
“Witch, you enjoy torturing me, don't deny it.”
“Deny it? Why should I? You...are...such a...delight... to torture...” she replied between kisses.
As she fed him another grape, his hands cupped her buttocks, kneading them in a slow sensuous rhythm until he could feel her thighs quiver. “Naughty puss. I can feel your wetness on my belly,” he scolded.
“And I can feel your great club striking my backside...who is the naughty one, hmmm?” As she spoke, she arched her spine, throwing her long wet hair backward until it teased the sensitive tip of his phallus.
He muttered an oath of endearment as the swift jolt of pleasure rocketed through him. Her breasts, nipples hard and rosy, stood erect, jutting out as if inviting his hands. Unable to resist, he complied, cupping them around the soft globes, lifting and teasing them. She shook her head, sending the weight of her hair brushing back and forth over his shaft, then reached back with one hand and stroked it, using the other to cup his sac.
“Now you go too far,” he gasped, trying to unseat her so he could roll on top and plunge deep inside.
“Ah, no, not nearly far enough,” she murmured in reply, easing up, then back on her knees, guiding him to the portal.
“Now!” he cried, arching up.
But she only raised herself higher, continuing to tease him with her hands, then rub the pearl-dewed tip against the creamy softness of her outer lips. When her legs began to tremble so greatly that she knew they could no longer support her, she sank slowly down onto the steely length of him, taking him deep, deep inside.
They moved slowly, she riding him as his hands held her hips, setting a rhythm together, unhurried this time. The sun beat down on them and the towel tangled around their legs, but neither noticed as they took their pleasure, savoring every moment as if it were their last.
And well it might be, he thought as he looked up into her radiant face. “You shine brighter than the sun,” he whispered, and I shall miss the sun...
* * * *
“I mislike this,” Derrick said, tossing down the latest report from the British emissary on Elba assigned to watch Napoleon.
“I take it you've also read the dispatches from the latest group of Royal Navy officers to visit Boney's ‘capital,’ ” Drum said as he laid out Derrick's court clothes for the evening's gala.
“A pack of gullible fools. Bonaparte simply tells them he's resigned to ruling over a tiny island a mere skip from France and they swallow it whole.” He took a sip from his cup of thick steamed coffee laced with cream,.a pleasure he had learned to enjoy in Naples...one of the many pleasures to which Beth had introduced him. Tonight might be the last they spent together. Don't think of it.
“You heard the reports regarding Boney's ‘spring planting and his orders for refurbishing his summer residence in the hills. A smoke screen?” Drum speculated.
“Most likely. The Oil Merchant believes he'll sail by March first. I concur, especially since hearing the rumors of supplies being loaded on his ships at night.”
“Something is afoot, little doubt,” Drum agreed, bale-fully picking up a well-gnawed riding boot from behind the armadio and holding it in front of Sir Percival’s unconcerned nose. “You shall be the death of me—or I of
you once this ghastly misadventure is over,” he added darkly.
Used to the running battle between Drum and the dog, Derrick ignored them, his thoughts torn between Beth and the fast-moving events on Elba. “If I pick up nothing useful at court tonight I'm for Livorno tomorrow to see if the Oil Merchant has any hard evidence with which to convince those dunderheads in London. Failing that, I shall go to Elba.”
Drum paused in his selection of Derrick's cravat, a serious consideration for the little dandy, and said, “You most certainly cannot leave without explaining to Beth.”
“I fear I shall be forced to do just that. If I tell her in advance that I'm leaving, she will speculate with her friend the contessa, who you well know is closely connected to Murat's court. Vittoria would go to the king with her suspicions and I might never be allowed to leave.”
“Beth would not betray you if you explained the circumstances,” the little man argued stubbornly.
“Just because the Peace of Ghent has ended hostilities between her country and ours does not mean she would take it well if she were to learn that I have been a spy since first we met in her nation's very capital. No”—he shook his head determinedly—“this is a matter of our country's security—the very peace of Europe hangs in the balance. I can ill afford to moon about like a schoolboy. Nor can you continue to play marriage broker.”
Muttering imprecations, Drum returned to his task as his mind raced ahead, re-forming plans. Just wait. You may run away, but if Quintin Blackthorne is half as formidable as Alex says he is, you shall one day be forced to face up to your obligations.
* * * *
“Is the English princess really as awful as they say?” one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting whispered to Vittoria as she scanned the door to the grand ballroom, where the Prince Regent's estranged wife Caroline would enter as honored guest of the Murats.
“Not so much awful as just a bit on the homely side and really quite sad,” the contessa replied.
Always the charmers, King Joaquim and his Queen Caroline had made Princess Caroline welcome when she deigned to visit their small country during her long odyssey to escape her disastrous marriage to Prinney. However, Vittoria's attention was not fastened on the royals, but rather on her young charge and Beth's handsome escort, who stood talking with several Neapolitan nobles on the opposite side of the crowded room.
The contessa had marked how Derrick Jamison's fluency in Italian had improved in the few short months he had spent in Naples. She had cautioned Beth to no avail, for even when he would break engagements with her and send no word for days on end, Beth would defend his inattentive behavior. She was utterly besotted, Vittoria concluded with resignation.
Vittoria knew he could not be trusted. But how to prove it—indeed, did she really wish to destroy Beth's happiness? Now that the war between the United States and the British Empire was over, did it really matter? Perhaps not for Beth, but if Jamison was working toward his country's goals of keeping Napoleon on Elba and overthrowing Murat as king of Naples, then it mattered a great deal to the contessa. What she wished and what Beth wished might be quite the opposite. What would she do if faced with a decision that would cost Beth her first love...and perhaps destroy Beth's love for her friend as well?
Across the room, far from those troubling thoughts, Derrick and Beth whirled about the dance floor. She floated on a cloud of delight with the music, the warm spring air and the man holding her. He was preoccupied by the courier he had seen ushered quietly up to the dais a moment earlier. Murat had read the message while smiling broadly, then handed it to his queen, who was considerably more skilled at hiding her emotions.
What the deuce is going on? He knew he had to get his hands on that message, which the queen had now given to Maria Walewska. Napoleon's “Polish Wife” also smiled unabashedly. Just then the music stopped and Princess Caroline was announced. Every head craned to see the English regent's unwanted wife, a pale, plump dumpling of a woman, as their Polish guest quietly absented herself from the festivities.
“Such deep thoughts. Are you on her side or your awful Prinney's?” Beth asked.
Pondering how he could learn the contents of the message the Countess Walewska had taken with her, Derrick did not immediately reply. “Oh, er, I suppose I've never given it much thought. The Brunswick royal house always ran to lantern-jawed women; but then, Prinney's no Brummel himself.”
“Spoken like a true male. I imagine your fastidious man Drummond shares that unenlightened opinion.”
Derrick barked a laugh. “No, I daresay he would take up the poor princess's cause without a moment's hesitation.” As he has yours.
“Then perhaps I've misjudged him—even if he does dislike dogs.”
“So do I—at least King Charles spaniels.” As he spoke, his eyes strayed to the small anteroom into which his Polish quarry had disappeared.
“If you ever decide to rid yourself of him, do remember that I should love to have him.”
Before Derrick could reply, his opportunity to pursue Bonaparte's mistress arrived in the person of Francisco Fiore. When her old
friend asked for the honor of the dance, Derrick excused himself and quickly made his way through the press to find Napoleon's mistress.
As he slipped through the door and closed it behind him, Derrick did not see Captain Evon Bourdin watching him.
Chapter Eight
Derrick found himself in a small, lavishly appointed antechamber. No one was about, but the faint trace of her musky perfume indicated that the Polish wife had just passed through. Another door stood slightly ajar. He followed his nose down the corridor, hoping he could run Napoleon's mistress to ground before becoming hopelessly lost in the maze of the old palace.
Then, about halfway around the second turn, he heard women whispering in a Slavic language he took to be Polish. He paused in front of the door, recognizing Maria's voice. Improvising quickly, he knocked. Speaking in French, he inquired, “May I enter, my lady?”
“Who is there?” a soft voice inquired nervously in atrocious French.
Derrick opened the door and bowed politely. “Ramon DiMiglio, my lady, a member of his majesty's security.”
Maria was quite pretty in a pale blond way, with wide Slavic cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes, although her mouth was a bit weak. She motioned him inside uncertainly as her maid, a stolid Polish grandmother in a babushka, stood guard beside her chair. “I do not recognize you,” she said haltingly, obviously confused.
He gave her his most winsome smile as he saluted her tiny hand. “That is because my position requires that as few people as necessary know that I guard the king and queen.” He spoke slowly so that she could follow his words. Although he was fluent to the point of being able to pass himself off as a Parisian, her French was sketchy at best. “His majesty bade me follow you because he is concerned about your safety...and that of our emperor.”
