Authors: Gaelen Foley
When she came to the bottom step, the water was about four feet deep. Her shoulder and knee were instantly soothed; her entire body felt pampered, weightless, caressed. She relaxed into it. After a moment of adjusting to the vigorous heat and the sensation of bathing in the natural cauldron, she pinched her nose and ducked under the water, rinsing the mud and cold rain out of her hair.
Braver as the moments passed, she ducked beneath the surface and glided underwater. The soaring sensation of swimming in the Grotto pool was like flying. It awakened her as she burst up to the surface again to the realization that she felt breathlessly free. Aye, freer than she had ever been in her entire life. Quite without meaning to, she had flown the cage in which she had dwelled for so many years. She found her footing in the pool once more and stood in water up to her waist, musing on the realization as she made a long, reddish-gold rope out of her waist-length hair and patiently squeezed the water out of it.
It was then, in the shadows at the foot of the stairs carved into the limestone, that she saw the silver, wolflike eyes glowing in the darkness. A man-shaped silhouette materialized amid the shadows and emerged slowly. It was Lucien. He had been watching her, but she felt no fear at the realization.
His white-hot stare burned into her as it traveled over her body and fixed on her breasts. She glanced down and gave a low gasp to see that her filmy muslin chemise had become quite transparent. It clung to her skin, showing him every line of her body and the dusky-rose circles of her nipples. Her pulse racing, she lifted her chin again, wide-eyed, and met his starved gaze—but checked the impulse to cover herself.
Holding his stare, she let go of the coil of her hair, letting it fall softly down her back. The stark longing that hardened his angular face was tempered by such knightly reverence in his eyes that she felt no urge to shrink from him, no fear. She held perfectly still and let him look, for in that magical moment of soul-deep recognition, she realized she had never met another man like Lucien Knight, and, more importantly, never would again.
As he stared at her in hushed wonder, it was as though the world stopped. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, a virginal water nymph, her tender skin flushed and glistening, the long tendrils of her strawberry-blond hair twining around her arms and slender waist, her thin muslin chemise wafting around her elegant hips like the white, delicate flowers of the lily pads she had studied so carefully in the garden. He could barely breathe for sheer worship. Yet fear surged through him in the next instant at the risk he had taken for the sake of protecting her from the storm. She knew now about the tunnel; she knew how to get away. The thought of her fleeing filled him with despair.
Forcing himself to lower his gaze, he walked slowly to the edge of the water, his expression concentrated, his every movement careful as he set down the armload of towels and clothes he had brought for her. His heart was slamming in his chest. He felt suddenly confused, unsure of what the hell he was doing. Crouching down on one knee beside the pool, he mutely offered her the bar of flower-scented soap.
She swam over with leisurely strokes, halting before him. She stood, clear, pure water streaming down her body, her eyes shining, Chartres-blue. He quivered at the warmth and moisture of her touch as she took the soap from his hand.
He wanted to ask her if her shoulder was feeling better, but he could not force out a single word. He tried to think of something charming to say to compliment her astonishing loveliness, but mere words were too cheap for the awe that he felt. His reaction shook him deeply; he no longer knew who was doing the luring and who was being lured.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Slowly, sensually, she sank back into the pool with a little smile of feminine invitation. Nearly panting with desire, he watched her glide the soap up her bare, sweet arm. He longed to drink the healing waters of the spring from her lips, her skin. To lick it from the core of her womanhood. “Lucien, you’re shivering.”
His chest heaving, he looked at her in ravenous hunger and knew, in this moment, that he could have her.
He could do it easily. Join her in the water and slowly seduce her, overwhelm her senses with pleasure. Take her innocence and, thus, keep her here with him forever. But he thrust the option away from him in revulsion, quite to his own shock. Not that way. Not for her. Not here in the Grotto—not for her first time. She was not ready. To be sure, he could bring her pleasure the likes of which she had never known, but she would regret it as soon as the moment’s fleeting bliss had passed. She would despise him. Worse, he would despise himself. As badly as he craved her, he did not want to win by trickery. It would only end in his making her as jaded as he was. If ever he was going to prove to himself that his honor still existed, though he was a snake of a spy, it had to start here, now, with
“Are you coming in?” she asked prettily, splashing a warm plume of water at him with her toe as she floated on her back.
His eyes blazed at the sight of her pale, nubile body, veiled only by water and wet, paper-thin muslin. With a great effort, he forced his answer. “No.”
She smiled, her lashes starred with droplets of water. “But you’re just as cold and muddy as I was. Aren’t your muscles sore from all that swordplay and boxing?”
“I will wait until you’re through,” he ground out.
“Why?”
Straightening up from his crouched position, he just stared at her until her innocent smile faded and she went still, understanding dawning in her blue eyes. A scarlet blush rushed into her cheeks. She looked away, recovering her maiden modesty all in an instant.
He closed his eyes and prayed for strength as she dove under the water and swam away from him to finish bathing in the candlelight by the carved stone steps.
About an hour later,
In her mind’s eye, she still savored her last glimpse of Lucien undressing for his turn at bathing in the Grotto pool. He had lifted his shirt off over his head, baring the sweeping curves of his rippling back muscles, lean waist, and broad shoulders. The thought of him made her knees weak.
A knock sounded at the door to her bedchamber, stirring her from her daydreams. When she got up and went to answer it, a liveried servant bowed to her.
“Good evening, miss. His Lordship invites you to join him in the library before going in to dinner. He bade me give this to you.” With both hands, he held out a small satin pillow upon which rested a key.
She furrowed her brow and picked up the key. “What does it open?”
The footman’s face colored. “Er, your chamber, madam.”
“Oh,” she replied, blushing crimson. Her heart instantly began to pound. What did this mean? Was it another mind game like their last encounter in the library? “Did he say anything?” she asked.
“No, miss. Shall I show you to the library?”
She gave him a wry look. “I know the way by now.”
When she walked into the library a few minutes later, all she could see of Lucien was his boots, crossed at the heels, and his hand hanging idly over the arm of the chair, a goblet of red wine dangling from his fingers. Horned shadows danced across the dim library, flung out by the high, spiky outline of his diabolically carved armchair as he sat before the fire. She went warily around it and looked at him.
Lounging in the big leather chair, he sat with his cheek resting on his fist, his elbow propped on the chair arm. He met her gaze but did not move or speak as she approached. The fire lit the yearning in his eyes. His lips looked tender and soft, slightly sulky, as though he were badly in need of a kiss.
“Hullo,” she murmured, clasping her hands loosely behind her back as she sauntered over and stood before him.
He just looked at her.
They stared at each other for a moment.
“How is your shoulder?” he grumbled.
“Much better. Lucien?”
“Yes,
“Why did you give me the key?”
“Shall I take it back?” he demanded, then dropped his gaze with a wince of self-directed irritation and rubbed his forehead. “Because I don’t want you to be afraid. Of me.” From beneath the visor of his hand, he slid her a pleading look.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
He lifted his head. “I know that you know about the tunnel. Now you’ve got the key. If you want to escape, I shan’t stop you.”
She considered this in silence for a moment. “Did I displease you?”
From the fire, his gaze swung back to her with a frank look of sensual torment. “What can you possibly mean?”
“My awkwardness, falling today like a clumsy thing. I feel like such a fool—”
“It is I who am the fool, Alice. Please, do not trouble yourself. It was all my fault,” he muttered, uncrossing his heels, sitting up straighter.
“How is that?”
“I should’ve made us wait out the storm at
took a step toward him. “I know. You are tired of being alone. You told me.”
“You don’t know,” he said in a low, almost hostile voice. He shook his head. “I don’t even know what I’m doing with you. You’re not like anyone else who’s in my life—” He stopped abruptly. “Did you ever drink too much wine,
“I’m not one to overindulge.”
“No, you wouldn’t be,” he said wryly. “Allow me to explain, then, that the more you drink, the more thirsty you become. Not all the wine in the world can assuage the thirst for water. Water. Wine makes you merry, but a man needs water to keep him alive. Pure, clean, sweet water.” He sighed, silent for a moment. He stared almost bitterly into the fire. “I am parched,
“I know,” she whispered. Lowering herself slowly to her knees by his chair, she took his hand and gazed up at him in youthful sincerity.
He watched her every move with firmly checked hunger. “It’s all right, if you want to run. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be,” he said, his cynicism growing sharper as it began to fail him. “Life with me is fraught with danger. Get out while you can—”