The Water Nymph (12 page)

“Make love to me, Crispin,” she breathed into his ear. “I want to have you inside of me.”

It was the sound of his name on her lips even more than her words that unraveled him. That and the feel of her against him. Crispin could no more reason than breathe, but he was sure that if she kept touching him like that his vital powers would evaporate. He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and turned so he was sitting next to her.

Despite the proddings of his body, he felt suddenly cautious. “Are you sure?”

“I know what I want,” Sophie told him in a voice without hesitation. “I want you.”

Crispin pulled her so she was sitting astride him. Her silky thighs wrapped around his waist and her curls moving ticklishly over his member made him pray for control. He willed himself to go slow, not to hurt her, but he wanted her with a fierceness that threatened to overwhelm his restraint.

Sophie gasped in delight as she came into contact with his shaft, and gasped again as Crispin moved himself so she could slide up and down his length. Holding her with one hand, he reached down with the other and let his fingers ride over her whole length until his palm came to rest on her swollen nub. Sophie gave a little yelp and then another as he gently moved his palm in a circle, using its full breadth to massage her. He started softly, barely touching her, and with each circle he pressed slightly harder.

Crispin began to move his hand up and down again, rather than around, so his fingers and his palm were alternately gliding over her. He stroked her lightly at first, just skating over her wetness, and then pressed harder, so that his other fingers plunged into the folds surrounding her nub, massaging it from the sides, slipping in even deeper, even more completely. Her yelps gave way to moans, and she pressed herself against his hand, directing his fingers around and into her, furious for his touch, close to finding her release.

Keeping his index finger on her nub, tracing small circles with it, Crispin slid first one, then a second finger into her. She moaned, and he added a third, stretching her tight passage in anticipation of him. Then he moved his hand away and let it rest on her thigh, still holding her gaze.

“Are you certain you want this?”

Sophie nodded, unable to speak but completely sure she wanted more of him.

Crispin went on. “Absolutely certain? You are very taut. It might hurt. It might—”

Sophie reached out for him and pulled him to her. “I want to hold you inside me, Crispin, like I have never wanted anything else.”

Crispin reached between her legs again and touched her with both hands, but this time he did not stop there. Carefully, he used his fingers to spread the petals that surrounded her, opening her to him. He lifted her hips to rest the tip of his shaft against her and rubbed her little nub with his finger. When she bucked against him in pleasure, he slid into her, lowering her onto his member, stopping once for her to adjust herself, and then pushing himself completely into her narrow, warm, yielding passage. Crispin gasped with wonder. Sophie was smiling at him, arching to meet him, crying out to him. She made a present of her body to him, a present more precious than any other Crispin had ever received.

Sophie felt no pain, just pure, powerful pleasure as he moved into her. “Crispin,” she moaned, “this is heaven. You must never ever stop.” She pressed her chest against his to reach his mouth for a kiss. The sensation of him sliding into her while his finger stayed on her most sensitive place was driving her wild. She could not control herself, did not want to control herself, as the divine fullness between her legs brought her closer and closer to her climax.

Crispin was in agony. He was determined to delay his release until she had found hers, but sliding in and out of her firm passage as she pressed against him and demanded him was almost more than he could endure. He had planned to go slowly, be reasonable, not get lost in her, in the pleasure of being inside her. But planning and reason had no place in this new land she sent him flying over. He could not think, could not ponder, could almost not breathe as he soared on wave after wave of pleasure, savoring and glorifying in every long vibration of her body.

Crispin reached up and brought her mouth to his powerfully, parting her lips with his tongue. His kiss undid Sophie. She flew against him, clutching him, and he heard her laugh and felt her climax throbbing around him. She kept laughing, laughing and pushing herself against him, wanting to make the feeling go on forever, stretching it through one climax, then another, until Crispin could wait no longer and with a final deep thrust and a moan he had never heard himself make before he exploded into her, as she exploded around him for the last time.

Their bodies were still sending secret, pulsating messages to each other, Crispin was still inside her, beneath her, when Sophie’s laughter subsided. She kissed the side of his neck and his shoulder, and laid her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms tight around her.

“Can we do that again? Just exactly like that?” she asked when she had caught her breath.

“No,” Crispin replied definitively. He felt strange. It had been a long time since his last amorous excursion, but not so long that he had forgotten what it was supposed to feel like. And he knew it was not supposed to feel like he had woken from a boring dream into a fantasy world of light, color, taste, and smell that he had never known existed before. Was not supposed to make him feel like he was only now, for the first time in his life, home.

Sophie raise her head from his chest in alarm at his answer and his long silence. “No?” she repeated

“No. Not like that, anyway.” Crispin kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She was delicious. “There are too many other things to try.”

“Let’s do them all. Right now.”

Crispin groaned. Then lied. “There will be plenty of time for that.” He lifted her off him, shuddering slightly, and cradled her in his arm. “Now,
tesoro
, I think we should go to bed.”

Sophie, who was playing with the hairs on his chest, stopped. “What did you say? What did you call me?”

The word had slipped out without Crispin’s realizing it, completely inadvertently, as if it had spoken itself. “I said
tesoro
. It means treasure.”

“
Tesoro,
” Sophie repeated to herself as he carried her from the bath and settled her in his large, silk-covered bed. When he got in next to her, she reached out to him and led his hand between her legs.

“Thank you,” she said, pressing her curls against him, wanting him to know how grateful, how marvelous he had made her feel. “Thank you for…” The rest of her words were lost in the regular breathing of peaceful sleep.

Crispin watched her as she fell asleep, wound around him, watched the moonlight play over her bewitching features, watched her hair spread itself over her shoulder like a magical net, watched her enchanting breasts rise and fall with her breathing, and felt the base of his spine begin to tingle.

Dawn had only begun to part the clouds with her pinky fingers when the servant soundlessly closed the door to the Sandal Hall stable yard. Clutching a grimy notebook to his chest, he checked the windows to make sure he was not being watched and darted out into the Strand. He hesitated for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street, then rushed into a nearby alley.

The old beggar woman crouched outside Sandal Hall rose and followed him. She moved quickly toward the alley, showing herself far more energetic and taller than one would have imagined, and just as quickly stopped. The alley was empty. The servant and his carefully recorded notes of all that had transpired that night in Lord Sandal’s private second-floor garden had vanished.

“Is it time?” she asked, yawning.

“Time?” Crispin repeated.

“Time for you to show me the things we did not do last night. You said there were some.”

Crispin smiled and gently stroked her head. “There are,
tesoro
, but I think we had better wait. There is no reason to rush.”

Sophie nodded sleepily, then stretched and resettled herself next to him. “Very well. Wake me when it is time.”

For a few moments Crispin was so preoccupied with looking down at her and the feeling of her body along his that he forgot the object in his hand. His malaise from the night before had disappeared with the arrival of day, and he was overcome once again by her extraordinary appeal. Indeed, he was just thinking that perhaps it
was
time, when the reassertion of his professional duty brought him back to himself. He shifted gently, so as not to wake her, while bringing the object in his hands to his eyes.

From the feel and heft of it, there had been no question that it was a rock, but Crispin could also tell it was wrapped in something. That something now revealed itself to be a large, heavily inked piece of paper. Crispin had once narrowly averted being killed by lethal dust—a single whiff was enough to execute a man in five minutes—that had been sent to him within the folds of an apparently innocent-looking letter, and had, on another occasion, almost been blown to a thousand pieces by a seemingly innocuous-looking stone that was actually filled with gunpowder. He was therefore very careful now as he unwrapped the rock, but he might have spared his efforts. The rock was just a rock, the paper simply a piece of paper.

Or rather, a very particular piece of paper. As he smoothed it out on the bedcovers before him, he found the source of its menace. Across the top, in large roman type, he read, “
News From the Court of Her Royal Highness the Queen
and across the bottom, in slightly smaller type, “
Printed by Richard Tottle, Esq. By Order of Her Majesty
.” The story in the middle was rendered almost completely illegible, however, by the large letters scrawled over it. These read:

YER LORDSHIP MIND YER BUSYNESS OR YE WONT LIKE IT

Crispin chuckled aloud, waking Sophie again.

“Is it time now?” she asked with her eyes still closed.

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead. “No,
tesoro
, not just yet. But I fear it is time for me to arise.”

“And get food?” she asked, opening one eye. “I am glad you are hungry too. I could eat two dozen orange cakes.”

No sooner had she spoken than a knock sounded on the door of the bedchamber. Both of Sophie’s eyes snapped open now, registering fear.

“Don’t worry,” Crispin soothed her. “It can only be Thurston.” He slid out of the bed and moved toward the door, opening it just enough to speak through.

“Good morning, Your Lordship.” There was nothing in Thurston’s tone to indicate that it was the least bit unusual to be speaking to his master, naked and with lavender flowers caught in his hair, through a crack in the door of his bedchamber. “Their Ladyships send their greetings and request that you visit them at your earliest convenience. I also thought you might need this before your appointments begin.”

The door opened slightly wider and then, after a brief whispered exchange, closed. Crispin returned to the bed bearing a heavily laden silver tray, which he set in the middle of the coverlet.

Sophie was sitting up by then, studying the paper and rock with great attention. “What is this?” she asked, waving the paper in front of his face.

“I would say it is a joke,” Crispin replied, taking a large bite from a biscuit and offering one to Sophie.

“It doesn’t look like a joke to me,” she mumbled with her mouth full. “Did it come with the rock?”

Crispin nodded. “Through the window. Schoolboy stuff. No one would send a real threat like that. My god, you were not jesting about being hungry.”

Sophie smiled at him with her mouth full of her third biscuit, then frowned as she looked down at the paper. “What are you going to do?” she asked finally, between chews.

“First, I am going to wipe the crumbs of my breakfast from your face. Then I am going to ignore the note.”

Sophie’s frown deepened. “I would not recommend that. You cannot be sure they are not serious. I think you should cease your investigation.”

Crispin, who was trying to erect a barricade between Sophie and the biscuits before his breakfast was demolished, stopped suddenly and raised one eyebrow at her. “Is that what you would counsel? An end to my investigation?”

Sophie nodded, reaching around the pillow that had mysteriously appeared in front of the tray. “Absolutely.”

Crispin’s expression grew grave. “Miss Champion, I little expected this of you. Underhanded tactics like these.” He shook his head sadly.

Sophie ceased the contortions she was engaged in to reach the biscuits without falling off the bed long enough to demand, “What do you mean?”

“Do not bother to deny it. Clearly you hoped to win the bet by scaring me off.”

“You think I had this note, this rock sent?” Sophie was outraged. “You accuse me of cheating? Of—”

Crispin broke into a wide grin, and Sophie saw that he was joking. And that he was handsome. Very handsome. And very troublesome. “You—you—” she said, struggling for the right word.

“Bastard?” Crispin offered.

“Bedbug,” Sophie countered, poking him with her finger. “You were making fun of me.”

“It was the only way to keep you from eating all the biscuits,” Crispin replied, putting the last one, dripping deliciously with raspberry preserves, into his mouth entire.

Sophie had to look away from him as he chewed, not because she was upset at the loss of the biscuit, but because the small dab of jam on his chin was making her think about what it would feel like to lick it off, which made her think about kissing him, which made her think about having him touch her, which made her think about the previous night, which made it impossible to think about anything else. And she had something else to think about.

Crispin had only just swallowed when she addressed him, checking first from the corner of her eye to ensure that he had rid his chin of the distraction. “What did Thurston mean about ‘your appointments’?” she asked, apparently nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Crispin replied, licking jam from his fingertips. “Just a few things I must see to today.”

It almost worked. Sophie was almost too overwhelmed by watching his mouth on his fingers and imagining it on her fingers to notice the slight pause before he answered. But not quite. Her expression was grave as she said, “Lord Sandal, I little expected this of you. Underhanded tactics.” She waved a hand in disgust. Crispin appeared ready to speak, but she went on over him. “Do not bother to deny it. Clearly you are trying to win our bet by lying to me.”

Crispin rolled his eyes, then gave a resigned sigh. “You are correct. My appointments are part of the investigation. I sent letters to a handful of Richard Tottle’s subscribers informing them that I was considering taking over his printing business and wanted to discuss the terms of their subscription with them before I made my final decision.”

Sophie’s expression had changed entirely. “My lord, that is a marvelous plan. I thought all along there was something suspicious about the subscriptions, and now we will know for certain.”

“
I
will know for certain. You will not be there.”

Sophie’s expression changed again, this time to a glower. “Why not? What will stop me?”

“A warrant from the Queen’s constables and a bounty of two hundred pounds on your head as an escaped prisoner, for starters,” Crispin replied, unruffled. “Do not forget that you are a wanted criminal, with the hangman’s rope practically around your neck. If I were you, I would not be so eager to show myself in public.”

Sophie screwed up her eyes and scrunched her nose at him, and Crispin was glad to note that he had her stymied. He ignored the faces she was making as he brushed crumbs from the coverlet. Had he not turned to deposit the tray on a nearby table, he would have seen the dangerous smile spreading slowly across her face and would have been alerted to what was coming. As it was, he was completely unprepared and almost dropped the tray when he heard himself addressed in a thick Spanish accent.

“Don Alfonso, who fortunately abandoned his clothes here the other night, thanks His Lordship for his concern, but assures him his identity will trouble no one.”

Crispin was already shaking his head vehemently before he turned around. “Absolutely not. No,” he said, moving back toward the bed and cursing himself for underestimating her.

“Why not? Or was the threat of being taken by the constables merely a cover for your real fear that I will solve the murder before you do?”

Crispin was determined not to let himself be goaded. “Your disguise is wretched. Anyone could recognize you from across the county of Kent.”

Sophie sneered at him. “Nobody at the Unicorn recognized me.”

“I did,” Crispin pointed out sensibly.

“Perhaps, but you are uniquely pernicious. Besides,” she added, kicking off the covers, “what have you got to lose by letting me try? If I am identified, then I will be sent back to prison and you will win the bet. The only possible reason for your reluctance is that you recognize my superior wit and fear to lose.”

At that moment, as she lay stretched out naked on his sheets. Crispin recognized only her superior annoyingness. His professional instinct was once again aroused, and it pointed out to him that letting her sit in on the appointments would only solidify the trust he was hoping to breed in her and provide an opening for the questions he meant to ask. Not to mention that it would give him an opportunity to observe her, closely, in breeches.

“Very well, Miss Champion, you win your point. Don Alfonso can attend the meetings. On two conditions.” Sophie looked skeptical, but Crispin pressed on. “First, you will sit quietly and say nothing. And second, you must let me choose your mustache.”

Four hours later, Crispin Foscari, the Earl of Sandal, and his Spanish secretary, Don Alfonso, closed their second-to-last interview. They had learned several interesting things, among them that Sir Ichibald Riff thought the only thing worth talking about was his new wife, forty-six years his junior and feisty as a jaybird; that Lady Elery never went anywhere without her pet terrier, Carlyle, or her pet nephew, Gordon; that Carlyle was not partial to ravens, and that Gordon was partial to his aunt’s money and thought that spending any of it on “that Richard Tottle trash” was nonsense; and that the Duke of Groat was partial to Crispin’s French brandy. Sophie, in her capacity as secretary, dutifully recorded all of these pieces of information, and two dozen others, none of which gave the faintest glimpse into the mechanics of Richard Tottle’s subscription service. All three of the interviewees insisted that they had subscribed to Richard Tottle’s news service because they wanted to stay informed of Queen Elizabeth’s doings, although Sir Ichibald eventually admitted he had done it at the urging of his wife, who wanted to improve herself for him. “Not that I married her for her brains,” he leered, and Crispin had been forced to laugh in order to cover Sophie’s growl.

The interviews had taken place in Crispin’s library, and it was there that Sophie and Crispin awaited their final caller. None of the interviewees had cast so much as a suspicious glance in Sophie’s direction, a fact she was careful to mention to Crispin after each of the appointments, to which he retaliated that it was all because of the mustache.

Sophie had not batted an eye earlier when Thurston appeared with an enormous case filled with fake hairpieces, from which Crispin had selected a discreet mustache for her, thin and curling at the ends, which he hoped would be unflattering and therefore undistracting. Crispin had fobbed off her questions about why an earl would need such a number of disguises with an excuse about boyhood theatricals, and she little realized that she was now wearing a piece of the Phoenix’s elaborate collection of costumes, the collection that allowed him to move among European capitals without ever being recognized. She was, however, rather smitten with the hairpiece, and in particular with the fact that, unlike its predecessor, it did not itch at all.

“You will have to tell Octavia what is in this mustache glue,” she commented to Crispin when the door had closed behind a slightly unsteady Duke of Groat. “Her recipe was not nearly as good, and it gave me an allergy.”

Crispin, who had risen and passed through the door that led to the privy, groaned. “Please do not make me imagine that you intend to spend much more of your time traipsing around London bemustached. The city can hardly stand the gallants that swarm the streets now,” he said over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him.

Sophie’s retort was canceled by the arrival of a fashionably short, fashionably coiffed, fashionably painted, voluptuously endowed woman of middle age, swathed in dark green silk.

“Lady Dolores Artly,” Thurston announced, then bowed himself out of the room.

Lady Artly ran her heavily lined eyes around the large library until they came to rest on Sophie, who was contentedly twirling her mustache in a chair against the far wall. A small, seductive smile played over Lady Artly’s tinted lips as she approached Sophie’s chair and then curtsied. When she arose, one of her layers of green silk slipped deliberately to reveal a large expanse of powdered bosom. “It is
such
a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Sandal,” she purred.

It took Sophie only a fraction of a second to decide on a course of action. “The pleasure, Lady Artly, is all mine,” she said, pitching her voice low, and manfully gesturing the lady into a seat next to hers.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Grip the raven squawked, making Lady Artly jump in her chair and throw herself into Sophie’s arms.

“Do not fear, Lady Artly, it is just a bird,” Sophie murmured in a deep voice, trying to extricate her arm from her companion’s grasp while sending a warning glance in the direction of the raven, which, she could have sworn, winked at her.