The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two Read online

  Crispin caught her finger. “I do not know. I would never find myself in prison.”

  “You ought to.” Sophie leaned in closer. “It is cowardly to send me somewhere you would not go yourself.”

  Crispin redoubled his efforts to stay cool and formal as their noses almost touched. “Your powers of reason overwhelm me. I did not send you to prison, Miss Champion, I freed you. At the possible expense of my life. And my reputation.”

  At the word reputation Sophie growled and brought her face so close to his that he could feel her breath on his cheek. “Why? Why did you bother? Was it so you could see me naked one last time?”

  Her tone lashed Crispin, and he pulled away from her abruptly, letting go of her finger at the same time. “I promise you, Miss Champion, your naked body has not once crossed my mind.”

  Sophie did not notice the tension in Crispin’s voice when he replied. She felt only the sting of his words, a sting underscored by his drawing away from her. She had not realized that they were so close, but when he moved, she felt his absence. “Good,” she affirmed forcefully, at the same time rising from the bed and taking the winecolored coverlet with her. “I am glad. And you will be glad to know that my naked body, while not crossing your mind, is crossing your threshold. This is the last you will see of me, or it, forever. I neither need nor desire your help. I’ll not wait around for the constables to arrive this time.” Having delivered this speech, she passed into his library and through the first door she saw, slamming it behind her.

  Crispin made no move to follow her. It was not because, as a fugitive from justice completely nude but for a burgundy silk bedcover, he knew she had nowhere else to go. It was because he did not give a damn what happened to her. Because she was at the very least a liar and a threat to his sanity, and he would be better off with her gone.

  And also because she had stalked right into his privy. He hoped she was enjoying it.

  Bastard, Sophie repeated to herself as she paced the diagonals of the small room. Bastard slug cricket mealyworm stinkbug. She was furious, furious at fate for landing her in this situation, and furious at herself for not being smart enough to escape it. It was not fair to make a dramatic exit and end up in the privy closet. It was a very nice privy, with a velvet-covered privy stool and an empty silver chamber pot and herbs on the floor to mask the odor and instructive paintings on the walls, but it was still a privy, it still smelled like a privy. And the only way out was the way she had come in, right past the no doubt gloating face of its owner.

  She could just picture him out there, smirking, waiting for her to emerge so he could make some crack about how he could see that she neither needed nor desired his help, that she could get herself out of trouble on her own. He would taunt her until the constables came, then feign surprise when they clapped her in irons and took her away. She kicked the chamber pot across the room, wishing it were his head. Or hers. Clearly, she no longer needed hers, since it was not working. The women in the prison had been right, Sophie Champion would never have ended up in this situation. Sophie Champion would have been smarter than that.

  Was smarter than that. And she would not let herself be held prisoner again just because she wanted to avoid the taunts of a detestable snout beetle.

  Pulling the coverlet around her body more tightly, Sophie turned toward the door to go, but found that it was already open.

  “May I come in?” Crispin asked from the threshold.

  It took Sophie a moment to respond, because he did not look anything like a snout beetle. Or anything like detestable. He had removed his doublet and was wearing only breeches and a thin linen shirt. Like that, in his most casual clothes, his broad shoulders and strong, sculpted legs were even more impressive, even more stunning. “Do as you please,” she said finally.

  Something flickered behind Crispin’s eyes at the offer, but Sophie did not catch it. “I merely came to tell you that your bath is ready, Miss Champion.”

  Sophie, who found that her fingertips had begun to tingle with the desire to touch the golden hairs visible at the neck of his shirt, at first did not hear his words. When they finally entered her mind, she could only stammer, “I do not want a bath.” Then, in a stronger voice she added, “Besides, I am leaving.”

  “I would really suggest you bathe, if only to reawaken your mind for your escape. It will make you feel better. And I assure you, you will enjoy it.”

  There was something in Crispin’s tone as he spoke the last words, something suggestive and alluring that dissolved Sophie’s opposition. He had entered the small room, filling it with his presence, and with his scent, and now with innuendo. I assure you, you will enjoy it, Sophie heard over again in her mind, and simultaneously felt her allergy returning, its symptoms worse than ever. Now, instead of just making her feel odd, it coalesced into real, particular desires. The desire for his mouth to cover her mouth. The desire for his fingers, all ten of them, to trace circles over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, her bottom. The desire for his arms to pull her close, for his tongue to seek out her tongue, for his body to slide against her body, for his lips to say her name. Wicked desires, a voice inside her head told her. The desires of a wicked, wicked girl.

  “I could not,” she said abruptly, her tone cold with self-loathing. “I could not take a bath with you.”

  Crispin misunderstood the strain in her voice. “With me? Of course not. You need have no fear of me. I would not touch you with a bamboo cane, Miss Champion.”

  His words stung Sophie. She did not know that Crispin was only repeating the exact phrasing of an oath he had taken while she slept, an oath that said he would not touch her or go nearer than necessary to her, for any reason. He had rescued her from prison exclusively because he needed to extract information from her, quickly. And for him to accomplish this purpose, he would have to keep his head unclouded, which meant keeping himself away from her.

  It had seemed like a better idea in her absence than it did now in her presence, particularly as she passed close to him on her way out of the privy.

  “I take it that you are accepting my offer of a bath,” he asked when they were both safely out of the small room.

  “Yes.” Sophie’s voice was taut with the strain of keeping it level. She would show him, show herself, show the voice, that she was not wicked. And his point about waking herself up had been just. “Only for the sake of my escape.”

  “Good. Follow me.” Crispin led her back into and then across his bedchamber, slid open the latch on one of the immense windows that made up the wall nearest to the bed, and gestured her to pass through. Together they crossed the perfectly manicured carpet of grass which covered the entire expanse of his second-floor hanging garden, following a flagstone path that led away from the bedroom and curved behind a thick hedge of lavender. The plant was in full bloom, covered in small purple flowers, and filling the air with its marvelous scent.

  Crispin motioned for Sophie to precede him, but as she rounded the hedge she froze.

  Everything in Crispin’s private garden was extraordinary, but what she saw now took Sophie’s breath away. She found herself in front of a crystal blue pond, from which steam was rising. It was surrounded on all sides by delicious-smelling flowers—roses, snapdragons, gardenias, orange blossoms, sweet peas—and the steamy vapors rising from the surface of the water were filled with the heady scent of their mingled perfumes. A statue of the goddess Venus seemed to float above the far end of the pond, water trickling melodiously from her pedestal, the white marble of the figure turning purplish pink in the gathering twilight.

  As she took in the fountain before her, Sophie thought that she had never seen anything, never even dreamed of anything so beautiful in her life. The mist rose up to greet her, wrapping its sweet smell around her, beckoning her in, but she could not move. Self-disgust was lost in the beauty of the place, and she could only stand on the edge, filled with awe and wonder.

  “Is there somethin
g wrong, Miss Champion?” Crispin asked when some time had passed.

  His voice was as cold and sharp as a cake-slice, cutting through Sophie’s awe and wonder and reminding her where she was, what she was. She shook her head, keeping her face averted from his. “No,” she answered quickly. But then, unable to stop herself, went on. “Or rather, yes.” She turned to face him now. “What is not wrong? Here I am, accused of murder, a fugitive from the Queen’s justice,” the captive of my wicked desires, she thought to herself, but said instead, “the captive of a man who hates me, with no—”

  A crease appeared in Crispin’s forehead. “How do you know I hate you?”

  “You have done nothing to hide it, my lord.”

  “True,” Crispin observed, nodding. “Carry on.”

  “Why?” Sophie was outraged, outraged by his callousness and by the tears that were creeping down her cheeks. She was confused and miserable. She hated him for bringing her to such a place, for making her feel the way she did, and she hated herself for not being able to stop it.

  When she spoke, she did not know what she was saying, and she felt like the words were coming not from her lips, but from somewhere deep inside her. “Why should I go on? So you can mock me further? So you can gather more evidence of what a fool I am? So you can stare at me with your passionless eyes? So you can let me know with even your smallest gesture how undesirable you find me?” Sophie was shaking now, despite herself, and her words spilled out in a torrent of pain. “So you can make me want you more, make me wonder more about what it would be like to have you hold me, what it would be like to wake up just once in your arms? So you can tell me how vile I am, how wicked—”

  Crispin took two steps toward her, wrapped her in his arms, and stopped her mouth with his lips.

  Chapter Eleven

  He kissed her with a force that surprised both of them, pressing his lips hungrily against hers, pulling her toward him, enveloping her in his embrace, in the heat of a desire that burned through his restraints, his self-control.

  Later Crispin told himself he had done it in order to win her trust, to make it easier for her to confide in him, to make her more willing to answer his questions. Later he assured himself that he had done it to expedite his investigation, that he had been acting on professional instinct. But at the time he was conscious only of the overwhelming desire that overtook his body in her presence, the desire to stop the words she was saying, erase them from her lips, to melt the pain and the fear and the shame he heard in her voice, to grow stronger by being strong for her. The desire to hold and kiss and touch and nibble and bite and love and caress her everywhere, to know this woman completely.

  In his kiss, Sophie forgot herself. She felt as if a spark passed between their lips, scorching away her self-loathing, scorching away her past, and igniting a ribbon of flame that unfurled throughout her body with amazing rapidity. The voice in her head was drowned out by the sensations of her body, by the heat that ran from where their lips touched down through her breasts, down to her toes, winding into a tight knot between her legs.

  She pushed her body harder against his, pressing herself against his chest through the coverlet, and felt his warmth on the points of her breasts. Their mouths opened to each other, and she felt his tongue caressing hers, wrapping itself around her, fanning the flames of her growing desire. She willed him to touch her and, as if by magic, his hands were there, sliding over the silky fabric of the coverlet, his palms moving slowly over the sides of her breasts until his thumbs came to rest on her nipples. He stroked them gently, making small wide circles over the fabric and then smaller ones. She cried out as he touched them, softly, cried out in pleasure, and in surprise as his touch echoed from there to between her legs, setting her completely on fire.

  Without thought, without taking her lips from his, she dropped the coverlet to the ground and stood before him completely naked.

  Crispin could not stop himself. His desire for Sophie became almost excruciating when her naked body pressed against his chest. Tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue, his hands passed down from the marvelous globes of her breasts, sliding down the curve of her waist, reveling in the suppleness of her skin. He had never felt anything so silky, so deliciously soft yet firm, anything he craved so much before in his life. His shaft pressed desperately against the fabric of his breeches, straining the stays, begging to be freed, and bucked even harder as her hand moved down his chest and rested there.

  Sophie was thrilled by the feel of his arousal, thrilled by the long, hard bulge that moved under her fingers. He liked her, liked to have her touch him. The thought of him responding to her that way intensified the flames within her, increasing the ache between her legs to a feverish pitch. As if he were reading her mind, she felt Crispin let his hands slip from her waist down to her bottom to trace slow circles there, and then move to the front of her thighs.

  Crispin’s thumbs traced the outline of the triangle of red curls between her legs, then dipped lower, into her wet heat, running up and down the length of her, grazing over the small pearl of flesh hidden there, now hot and swollen.

  Sophie gasped as he touched her, and Crispin took his mouth from hers.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked with real concern, but without moving his thumbs from their plaything.

  Sophie could not answer. The feeling of him touching her, touching her like that, touching her there, the feel of his thumbs gently massaging her tender bud, as he looked at her, deprived her of all speech. She gulped and opened her mouth. “No,” she managed to whisper. “It is only that, no one…” Her whisper trailed off.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Crispin searched her face.

  “Please no,” Sophie answered with feeling. “Oh, my lord, no do not stop.” She did not know what she was saying, she knew only that he had to touch her more, stroke her more deeply, soothe the ache that was threatening to take her body over. She had never felt anything more exquisite than his fingers there, anything more exalting, except now, when, together, they slid over her, first down, then back up, pulling her tight between them, one sliding over the top, the other pressing up from below.

  Just when Sophie thought that nothing could ever feel better, Crispin added the rest of his fingers. All five fingertips of Crispin’s left hand now played over her body, drawing her toward him, playing over her hot, slick wetness. He toyed with her bud, tickling it with his fingertips, then crushing it against the wide palm of his hand. He let it slip along the length of his fingers, pulling it between them, between his thumb and index finger, then between his index finger and middle finger, all the way down to his pinky, which he allowed to rest directly on her, making tight little circles. A tremor ran through Sophie’s body as Crispin increased the pressure, and he knew she was close. Without taking his pinky from her nub, he lifted his mouth from hers and began to move it down her body, first dusting her neck with soft kisses, then her breasts, then flicking his lips across her stomach, until he was kneeling before her, with his head between her legs. He brushed his cheek back and forth against the soft, sweet-smelling curls beneath her stomach, then turned his lips to the little pearl nestled there and gently wrapped them around it.

  When he took her into his mouth, Sophie knew she had died. Nothing earthly could feel the way this felt, nothing real could fill her with this fire, this mixture of extraordinary heat and warmth, this tightness that spiraled and became more and more taut. His tongue, slick but slightly rough, dabbed at her cautiously as his lips closed around her, one of his hands holding her open to him, spreading the petals that surrounded her bud so he could suckle it completely. The fingers of his other hand rested between her legs, and she felt one of them slide gently, slowly, slowly, inside her.

  Crispin slipped the tip of his middle finger in and out of her, letting it rub against the sensitive place just inside her passage. He spread her wider and when she looked down, she could s
ee the pink tip of his tongue flicking back and forth over her pink nub, first lightly, then harder. Faster, then slower.

  Watching him, watching his mouth on her body and feeling his hands holding her open and his finger slipping inside her, Sophie felt like she was dangling at the edge of a precipice or being slowly driven mad. Instead of soothing the fire inside her, Crispin was fanning it, making its flames increase until it raged unchecked. Each time Sophie thought she was going to explode, he stopped, withdrew his fingers, lifted his mouth, just blowing on her, letting her feel his hot breath on her but nothing else. And then, when he decided that her boil had calmed to a simmer, only then did he resume, starting slowly, lightly. Each time he began again the feeling was more intense, the fire burned hotter. He tickled her, teased her, tormented her with his light touch, making her body rage for him.

  With his lips he touched her gently, chastely, brushing her pearl against his stubbly cheek, and Sophie lost the battle she had been waging for control. She pressed herself against him, begging, insisting. “Please,” she cried out. “Please, Crispin. Please do something.”

  She did not know she had spoken, but the next moment she gasped with pleasure as Crispin slid his finger firmly into her tight passage and at the same time opened his lips wide and drank her in deeply, entirely.

  Pleasure built between her legs at his touch, unchecked this time, flooding over her as he licked at her. His teeth grazed over her, his fingers skidded across her, and pushed into her and pressed against her and Sophie knew her knees were going to give way. The fire he had been kindling inside of her burst into the whitest hot flames, which swirled over her, engulfing her, flames that surrounded her and lapped at her ankles and thighs and breasts and lips, burning through her reserve and fear and tension until they reached her most sensitive place, and as he sucked her in one last time, she exploded.