The Water Nymph (7 page)

“Tottle told you that?” Kipper asked, his eyes popping. “The bastard. I was promis—” Kipper interrupted himself. His mouth opened and closed in the air, highlighting his resemblance to a fish, before he went on. “Now I remember. It was for a subscription. You know, so every time Old Bess gives a new proclamation or law, he’d print it up and send it over. Also any news from court. Very handy. Must stay on top of such things.”

“I can imagine. What was the latest number about?” Crispin asked casually. “Was that the one about the war with Naples?”

Kipper nodded so furiously that Sophie feared his eyes might fall out. “Yes. Naples. He is ruthless you know. Very bad business, that Naples fellow. Sure you won’t have some almonds?”

Crispin was relieved to see out of the corner of his eye that, despite exploding with the information that Naples was a place not a person, Sophie had her mouth clamped shut and appeared to be leaving the questions to him. “How did you find out about this patriotic service?” Crispin asked with interest.

“How did I find out?” Kipper repeated, beginning now to arrange the almonds in a star shape on the table. “Why, I don’t remember. Must have been something the wife brought home.” He raised his eyes from his artwork to look uneasily at Crispin. “Why are you asking about all this anyway? What business of yours is it, Sandal, if I choose to educate myself a bit? Become a bit knowledgeable about the affairs of state?” Kipper, warming to his topic now, seized on Crispin’s earlier words. “It’s an Englishman’s duty, you know. It is patriotic, you said so yourself. What with this dangerous Naples fellow arrayed against us, we must all be ready to do our duty for England and for Bess, to take up arms, and shout together, ‘Death to Naples, the Ruthless Enemy of Our Queen.’”

This was too much for Sophie. She had her mouth open to speak, unable to keep from bursting any longer, when Crispin’s hand on her thigh stopped her. The sheer surprise of feeling it there was enough to silence her even before Crispin leaned close to whisper, “The next time you open your mouth, I will give you the longest, deepest, most devastating kiss you have ever experienced.”

Sophie swallowed hard and set her lips. She was sorely tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his threats, particularly about the chances of him giving her the longest, deepest, and most devastating kiss she had ever experienced, but another part of her reminded her that Sophie Champion had a policy of avoiding men’s kisses with the same fervor with which she avoided death, and this was not the time to compromise.

Kipper had moved his attention from the nuts to his companion and was wiping his brow, wet with the blessed perspiration of the patriot, on her fevered bosom during this exchange. He clearly felt confident that his speech had been successful in deflecting Crispin’s questions, and he smiled triumphantly as he raised his head from its cushion and faced Crispin again.

But triumph turned to tragedy when Crispin remarked in a voice tinged with wonder, “You are an inspiration, Kipper. You must tell me how I can subscribe.”

Kipper’s face darkened. “I tell you, I don’t know. And I wish you would stop hounding me, Sandal. I come here to get away from the teasing of Lady Norton and enjoy some pleasant company, for once”—here he gestured toward the painted blonde—“and you are getting in my way. Pleasant English company,” he added as an afterthought, leering at Sophie as if suspecting she was one of Naples’s generals.

“You did not happen to see Dickie Tottle last night, did you?” Crispin asked, unimpeded by the leer.

“I told you, I haven’t ever seen Dickie Tottle,” Kipper replied, gulping a handful of almonds. He went on with his mouth full. “Why would I spend an evening with a man when I could spend it with Angel? Last night I was sitting right here, just as I am now.”

The blonde leaned toward him to whisper, “Not exactly as you are now.” She licked her lips slowly and moved her hand to the laces on his leggings. This potent reminder made Kipper’s eyes bulge even more, and he gulped the almonds down as he set himself anew to the task of charting the peaks and valleys on the fine specimen of English womanhood beside him. He was so absorbed in this patriotic work that he did not bother to look up as Crispin dragged Sophie from the table.

Crispin could feel her seething next to him, but he ignored it as he guided her out of the building. Something that Kipper had said had given him an idea, and he needed a moment to assimilate it.

But Sophie’s anger would not be contained. She did not even notice the decor of the Worshipful Hall as she and Crispin exited, too absorbed was she in resenting the disrespectful, hideous, and wholly unacceptable behavior of the Earthworm of Sandal. He had silenced her, insulted her, and threatened her, and she was not going to let him get away with it. They had barely crossed the threshold of the patriotic association and reentered the stable yard when she wrenched her elbow from Crispin’s grasp and began, “You are the mo—”

Crispin pulled her toward him, cutting off the flow of words with his lips. “I warned you,” he whispered, not lifting his mouth from hers. “I told you this would happen.”

Sophie willed herself to push him away or pull away or run away or melt away or even simply turn away. She ordered herself to stop acting weak and foolish, to show him how strong she was, how she did not need him. Instead, she stood there and let his lips play over hers, first gently, then with more insistence.

As their mouths slid together with increasing pressure, Sophie felt a curl of heat begin in her stomach and spiral through her body, until she could no longer feel her legs, or arms, or hands, or nose. This was better than hot spiced wine, better even than orange cake, she thought sacrilegiously, and she wanted to taste more. Sophie lost herself in his kiss as she had not lost herself in anything for years, gave herself up to it completely, achingly, overwhelmingly. It was not frightening, not weakening, just devastatingly marvelous. Unable to stop herself, she let out a short moan as his tongue wrapped itself around hers.

Crispin was gone. He wanted to lap the moan off her lips, lips that moved deliciously under his, opening to let him explore them, parting so that he could run the tip of his tongue over them, trembling in response. Lips that moaned again into his, the sweetest sound he had ever heard, lips that parted more fully to let his tongue slip between them, circling slowly, tasting and licking and savoring the sweetness of her mouth, of her.

His tongue slid against hers, dancing around it delicately, gliding off its tip, embracing it in its warmth. Sophie was ravenous, for him, for his touch, for his flavor, starving for the feel of his tongue not only in her mouth and on her lips but everywhere, over all of her. Her body was filled with wave after wave of the intoxicating heat, washing over her, making her feel like she was spinning, like she was all powerful, and like she was going to collapse. She had never kissed anyone before, and she never wanted it to end. Pressing her body against his, she reached up and ran her hand through his soft, thick hair, urging his lips against hers, demanding them, begging them to cover her with their kisses.

Her hand moved from his hair, along his cheek, and toward his neck with a softness that contrasted with the heat of her kiss, a tentativeness that made Crispin gasp for breath. She really must have been some sort of Siren to have this effect on him, to take his wellgoverned body and make it completely ungovernable. His only thought was to get her out of the stable yard and her devilishly cut dress so he could feel her bare thighs against his, so he could touch her and taste her and lick her all over, so he could learn what it would take to get her eyes to open all the way, learn if they were blue or green, learn how she would react when she reached her climax, learn how his name would sound on her lips, learn how she would change his life.

Crispin pulled away, inhaling sharply. When he looked at her, she did not see the pain he was feeling, or the desire, or the awe, or the anger at himself, anger, bordering on fury, that he had allowed such a thing to happen, such thoughts to pass through his mind. He felt as though he had been a traitor to himself, as if he were undermining his own strength, his own power, his own survival. What if she had been sent by his enemies? What if her presence was a clever trap to weaken him, unhinge him, make him set aside the valiant, solitary strength that had served him so long, a devious weapon to make him vulnerable? Everything he knew about her, he reminded himself, made it seem possible. Everything he knew about her suggested he should put as much distance between them as he could if he was going to survive.

When he looked at her, she saw none of this, because he did not want her to. Instead, she saw what he planned for her to see, a look of triumph.

“I am glad
you
enjoyed that,” he said condescendingly.

Sophie felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach. Her face burned with shame, and she had to grip her hands into fists, tense every muscle in her body, to keep from trembling, to keep from doubling over in pain. He had purposely humiliated her, purposely led her on, only to laugh at her. He had pretended to be enjoying it himself, pretended to be feeling the delicious heat and tension just as she was, pretended to like her, just to make her feel wretched.

She wanted to wash herself, wash his taste from her lips, wash his fingers from her hair, wash his smell and sound and feel from her forever. He made her feel foolish, and embarrassed, and unwanted, made her hear a voice in her head she had struggled for so long to banish. “
You are filthy, wicked, and lustful
,” the voice had whispered to her in the darkness, “
and you must be punished
.” Sophie felt chilled again, and vile, and hateful, as the voice came back, the voice that she had striven so hard to block out. She had walked away from everything she knew, turned away from her past, in order to flee the voice. But she had never been able to escape its message.

Sophie Champion, she knew, should have slapped the damned Earl of Sandal. Sophie Champion should have told him that she would rather have kissed a Chinese death-snake—twenty of them—than him, should have laughed in his face, should have stomped on his toe, should have stormed off and never spoken to him, or thought about him, again. But she—the woman who was not always as much like Sophie Champion as she wanted to be, the woman who feared she really was wicked and vile—she could not.

Instead, she just stood and looked at her hands and wondered at the horrible ragged feeling in her stomach. After a long interval had passed she asked, in a quiet voice, “Shouldn’t we be going?”

All Crispin’s triumph and condescension drained from him. Without thinking, he put a finger under her chin and gently raised her face to his. Like that, with all the fierceness gone, it was even more entrancing than he remembered. His eyes locked on hers, searching, apologizing, and for a moment they were completely silent. When he spoke, his words came without premeditation. “I enjoyed it too,” he said, clearing his throat. “In fact, Miss Champion, I cannot remember when I have enjoyed anything more.”

Sophie felt a new kind of chill then. She just looked at him for a moment, wariness warring with disbelief and joy, and feared she might cry. She swallowed hard and shook his finger from under her chin. Turning her face slightly, she used the sleeve of her gown to get something out of her eye that was causing it to tear down her cheek, then faced him. “I do not believe I have ever met a man more odious than you are, Lord Sandal. If you ever do that again, I swear that I will give you the longest, deepest, most devastating disembowelment you can imagine.”

Crispin smiled broadly. “I can hardly wait.” He took her arm, which he noticed was shaking, and helped her mount the horse. When he slid on behind her, and felt her lean into him, he noticed that his arm was shaking too.

Sophie wondered later if it was because of what he had just done or what he was about to do. Because before the horse had taken three steps, a shot rang out and a deep voice bellowed, “Stop in the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. We have a warrant for the arrest of Miss Sophie Champion.”

Without the slightest flicker of surprise or hesitation, Crispin steered the horse toward the complement of heavily armed guards blocking the mouth of the stable yard. “Finally,” he told them, his tone berating them for their tardiness. “It has certainly taken you long enough. You can’t imagine what I have had to do to keep her occupied.”

“You bastard,” Sophie said, the numbness returning.

“You see what she is like.” Crispin addressed the captain of the guards, conspiratorially. “I have already spoken to her once today about her language, but she is reprobate.”

“Aye,” the captain agreed, looking at Sophie in a way that suggested he hoped to use her to test the old adage about women with loose tongues having loose morals. “She looks like a feisty one.”

“She is.” Crispin tightened his hold around Sophie’s waist. The gesture was unnecessary, because in her numbness Sophie was unable to flinch, let alone struggle. “If you and your men will clear the street, I’ll take her to Newgate myself.”

“Aye. But I got orders to manacle the prisoner and bring her surrounded by eight guards,” the captain said, shaking his head slowly.

“As you wish,” Crispin said, shrugging. “I can’t guarantee what might happen if I let her off this horse. She is very wily.” As he spoke, he squeezed Sophie tighter, wrenching her out of her numbness and causing her to struggle against him rather desperately for breath.

The captain saw this example of her unbounded wiliness and reconsidered his orders. “Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose if Your Lordship was to undertake to deliver her, no one could blame me for letting you. So long as my men are around, at least she’ll have her eight guards.”

Crispin gave him an encouraging smile. “It is the least I can do for my country,” he said, causing Sophie to squirm again, this time unforced. “And I should be happy for the escort, in case she tries anything devious.”

“Aye, aye,” the captain said, apparently by way of agreement, and he ordered his men into formation around Crispin’s horse. Only two of them had horses of their own, and they were to be the advance guard. The other six, including the captain, surrounded the horse on foot, ensuring that the prisoner could not escape from any side.

Sophie’s numbness had subsided, leaving her with an awful sickening feeling, which was not ameliorated by the firm grip Crispin was keeping on her waist. Indeed, as they left the stable yard, his arm tightened even more, and she turned around to protest.

“There is no need to do more damage to me than you have already done,” she hissed at him, seething. “You are a—”

“Be quiet.” Crispin did not even look at her as he spoke, but kept his eyes directed on the group of three men to his right.

“You dare to silence me,” Sophie growled. “After all—”

Crispin’s arm squeezing the breath out of her would have been enough to halt her words, but the events that followed left her truly dumbfounded. One moment they were riding in the middle of an unassailable cortege of guardsmen, and the next, they were flying over the guards’ heads diagonally. People along the street stopped to gawk as the aerial horse landed on the dirty surface of the road without missing a stride. Mud sprayed everywhere as they galloped forward, and the crowd parted hastily to let them pass rather than risk having their necks trampled by the Pegasean beast and its two riders.

When they had cleared the guards and were well ahead of the horsemen, Sophie felt Crispin lean forward slightly and pat their mount on the neck, whispering, “Good work, Fortuna.”

“That was incredible,” Sophie told him with breathless admiration, the words disappearing under the sound of Fortuna’s hooves.

Crispin nodded but looked grim. “We are not done yet,” he muttered with his jaw clenched, and as if on cue, the sound of hooves behind them grew louder.

Sophie leaned down along the horse’s mane and tilted her head to see behind her. The two mounted guardsmen were in hot pursuit, the lighter burden of only one rider giving their horses an advantage. They gained steadily, and the hooves of the lead guard’s horse were poised to trample Fortuna’s, when all of a sudden she lurched sideways.

Crispin urged Fortuna into a narrow alley that ran between two wider streets. Only one of the guards had been quick enough to make the turn, and Crispin felt momentarily relieved to have evened the odds somewhat, but relief soon turned sour. They had nearly reached the far mouth of the alley, and Crispin was already preparing for a sharp turn into the next street, when the second mounted guard appeared before him. Crispin tightened his grip on Sophie and gave an imperative tug on the reins, and once again Fortuna treated a group of astonished spectators to an aerial display. This time the maneuver was not quite perfect, one of Fortuna’s back hooves grazing the helmet of the guard blocking the alley. This had the happy effect of sending the guard flying from his horse, but also made Fortuna’s landing unsteady.

Fortuna faltered once as she touched down, and Crispin feared they would have to dismount, but she resumed her pace before the other guardsman had time to follow them. They were in another alley, this one longer and apparently curved, because Sophie could not see where it ended. Or rather, she could see where it seemed to end, in a blank wall that was rushing to greet them, but she felt sure if that were the case, Crispin would not be spurring his horse ahead with such wild abandon.

She was wrong. The pounding of the guard’s horse behind them echoed off the stone walls of the alley, growing louder as they reached what she was now sure was a dead end. She was about to turn around and ask Crispin if this was simply another one of his clever ways to make her arrest seem more exciting, when all the air left her body and she felt herself falling rapidly toward the ground.

Instead of hard-packed dirt, she fell on something yielding and was immediately dragged through a narrow opening. She barely had time to gain her feet before something was slid in front of the opening, and everything became dark. Very, very dark.

Sophie went completely cold, began to shake, and moved quickly toward the opening by means of which they entered and through which she could see a faint outline of light.

“What the devil are you doing?” Crispin demanded in a low and menacing whisper. “We are going the other way.”

“No,” Sophie shook her head. “No, I have to get out. I can’t stay here.”

“Nor can you go out,” Crispin told her impatiently. “A dozen of the Queen’s best guardsmen, not those boys we were tussling with earlier, will soon be making a thorough search of this area, and it is only a matter of moments before they find that trapdoor and follow us. Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her forward.

But she would not move. She stood there, terror stricken. “I can’t,” she said in a voice that was unfamiliar to Crispin, but in a tone he completely understood.

For the second time in as many days, Crispin was taken by surprise. This woman, who was completely unmoved by anything except the most goading insults, whom even the threat of death or the gallows or a crew of the Queen’s finest guards could not alarm, this woman whom men called a siren because she bewitched them, this woman who seemed not to know fear, she, Sophie Champion, was afraid of the dark. Acting on instinct rather than reason, he slid toward her and put his arms around her.

She flinched from his embrace and began to tremble violently. With harsh clarity Crispin understood that hers was no shapeless, childish fear, but a real, tangible fear based on something that had happened to her. He was surprised again, this time by the pang this realization brought with it.

“Sophie,” he whispered to her, removing one of his gloves and trying to take her hand in his. “Sophie, I do not mean you any harm. Do you understand?”

She recoiled from his touch again. He could not see her, but he could hear her jagged breathing. “Maybe,” she squeezed out finally. “But I cannot go in there.”

“Close your eyes.” His voice was low, soothing, not at all like the voice that haunted her. “Close your eyes and follow me.”

“No.” He felt her shaking her head. “I can’t. I won’t. I… I… I am—”

“I know.” Crispin spared her the pain of admitting her fright. “But you must trust me. I will not lead you astray. And it is your only hope of escape.”

Sophie was as mortified as she was terrified. She had never admitted to anyone that she was afraid of the dark. It was the one vestige of her childhood she had not been able to shed, the one link between Sophie Champion and the girl she had once been, and she hated herself for it. She knew Octavia had figured it out years earlier, because Octavia knew everything, but they had never discussed it, and Sophie had always felt it was her own secret. And her own, her only, weakness.

The sound of heavy footsteps circling around the entrance of the cavern lent urgency to Crispin’s voice as he broke into her thoughts. “Sophie, please. Trust me,” he admonished.

Maybe it was the sound of the footsteps. Or maybe it was the sound of her name on his lips. Whatever the cause, Sophie did then what she had sworn she would never do. She closed her eyes, extended her hand, and entrusted herself, her life, her body, to a man in the dark. At first she shuffled along behind him on the uneven surface of the cavern, barely responsive to his warnings to duck low or watch her step, breathing desperately in large, hungry gasps, but soon the floor beneath her feet grew more level, her fear began to ebb, and her breathing grew even.

His voice, smooth and low and kind and encouraging, kept her trembling at bay. The warm, unthreatening feel of his hand, leading her steadily and without innuendo, kept her moving forward almost without realizing it. Like that, with her eyes closed, the darkness seemed paradoxically to recede. She was somewhere outside of herself, cocooned in the safety of his words and his touch, impervious to the fears and voices that tormented her in the darkness. Instead of feeling weak and vulnerable, she felt safe. She did not know if they had been walking for minutes or hours or days when Crispin stopped, withdrew his hand, and told her to open her eyes.

She was standing in a narrow, wood-paneled hall, with no end in sight and a door on one wall. Crispin was holding a taper, which he had apparently taken from the large collection in a basket on the floor, and which he had lit as soon as she had relinquished his hand. The candlelight flickered unsteadily between them, and it took all of Sophie’s courage to raise her eyes to his.

“Are you all right?” Crispin whispered.

Sophie nodded. “Thank you,” she said, her voice still not quite her own.

Crispin put his finger to his lips. “
Shhh
. You are scarcely out of danger yet.”

“I thought,” she began, then stopped. “Out there, I thought…”

“That I was going to turn you over to the constables?”

Sophie nodded.

“I could hardly collect my winnings from you if you were in jail,” Crispin pointed out sensibly. And with great difficulty. For he found, standing in this narrow space with her, that his senses were completely inundated, and not by logic. The trust she had put in him, following him into the darkness despite her fear, made him feel as though he had been given custody of a rich, and dangerous, treasure, the only fear of a woman without fear, the trust of a woman who did not trust easily. In the flickering candlelight she even looked like a precious gem, her eyes, her lips, her hair, all seemed to be begging to be lavished with attention, covered in kisses, sampled by his mouth and hands and eyes and…

“We had better keep moving,” Crispin said, jolting himself to attention. “This way.”

And none too soon. There was a great clatter in the direction from which they had come, and the sound of voices began to reverberate along the walls of the hallway. Without thought, Crispin reached out his free hand to Sophie and, also without thought, she took it.

The candle blew out as they made their way farther down the hall, but Sophie was too occupied with listening to the approaching footsteps to notice. She heard the guards divide up the various passages and doorways, heard the heavy breathing of those who were following them, heard the curse of a tall guard as he hit his head in the dark. Suddenly, she felt someone trample on the hem of her gown, and a voice that sounded like it was in her ear yelled out, “I’ve got her.”

Crispin cursed himself for his earlier weakness, for the time he had lost in admiring her, as he felt desperately along the wall with his free hand. He hoped to heaven he remembered how the panel worked.

“I’ve got her,” the guard yelled again, and this time Sophie felt a hand grab her arm. “Bring the light, she’s right here.”

That was the guard’s last mission. One moment he was holding his prey, tight in his hand; the next, when his companions arrived with their lantern, he was holding nothing but an empty riding cloak. The shock of having a girl disappear into thin air, like some sort of apparition or demon, unsettled the guardsman completely, and from that day forward he was never right in the head.

His companions did not waste time pointing out to him the door in the wall ahead, but rather followed their hunch that the disappearing girl had merely left by that means and soon disappeared themselves.

The guards’ lantern cast only a dim light, not enough to see in front of them. But they could hear the muffled footsteps of their quarry, hear them rushing just out of range, and they quickened their pace. The footsteps sounded closer now and the guards could tell they were drawing near.

Sophie and Crispin had not stopped to catch their breath when they were safely on the other side of the panel, but had kept going.

As if by premeditation, they developed a series of hand signals that allowed Crispin to warn Sophie of changes in direction or steps up and down without having to speak. Sophie’s heart was pounding, and she could hear the sound of the guards’ footsteps, but it was strangely distorted.

“I see something up there,” the lead guard huffed to his followers as he raised his lantern. “I think we’re gaining on them.”

The words sent a chill down Sophie’s spine, but it was nothing compared to the chill she felt when she heard the dogs begin to bark.

“Stop,” Crispin whispered, but not early enough, and Sophie went careening into him.

“Why are we halting? They have dogs,” Sophie insisted, now pulling blindly ahead into the darkness herself.

But Crispin was unyielding. “Those are Lawrence’s dogs. The guards took the other tunnel, the one with the door. All the doors along that corridor are traps. Only the hidden panels go anywhere.”