The Dragon's Bride

by Jo Beverley

  She went to the valve and began to turn the wheel.

  It took about three complete turns before the water passed through, and it had to be fully open for the fountain to operate properly. She turned it quickly.

  A spout of water exploded up. It pulsed roof-high then rained down again to hit the rock and splash out in a crazy pattern all around. Thoroughly soaked, she danced back, but she couldn’t help laughing with childish delight. She looked up at the tall spout, then down at the diamond-sparkling water shooting erratically around, spraying grateful flowers and bushes.

  And then she saw Con watching from the other side of the courtyard.

  He was still in shirtsleeves, and suddenly, he smiled.

  At her, probably, at her being wet and laughing at the water, but she didn’t mind. He was smiling a smile she remembered with joy.

  It was silly, it was nothing, but she couldn’t help the laughter bubbling up and bursting free like the fountain water. She put her hand over her mouth, but couldn’t stop.

  It could only have been moment, but her stomach was beginning to ache when she heard him say, “Don’t you think you should shut it off?”

  Gasping, she saw that he’d come close, over to the other side of the basin, but carefully in a spot between two arms of spray.

  “It seems a shame,” she managed to say.

  “Such untrammeled pleasure in Crag Wyvern?”

  The mad hilarity was simmering down. She wanted to say something about untrammeled pleasure, but had sense enough not to. She turned toward the wheel, but paused.

  The deflected jet that had first caught her was still spraying the wheel, as if to prevent anyone putting an end to its freedom. She looked back at Con but he merely raised his brows, still grinning at her. She took a deep breath, prepared, and ran for the wheel, turning it despite the drenching spray.

  The water stopped hitting her, but she heard a yell.

  She turned and saw that the pattern of spray had changed now that the pressure was lower, and Con had been completely drenched.

  Laughter won again, but then turned into a smile of simple delight. His hair was flattened to his head, water ran all down him, but he was standing there as if welcoming it, arms spread.

  Shirt plastered to him. Breeches plastered to him . . .

  She grabbed the wheel, but her hands seemed slippery and somehow weaker. Perhaps the water was truly fighting to be free. Suddenly hands were there to help her—strong hands, brown hands, hands marked with scars. Together they turned the wheel, shutting off the water completely.

  In the last splashes and into silence, she looked up at Con.

  He was no longer smiling, though something of it lingered in his eyes.

  “Revenge of the water?” he said.

  “I think it hated being forced through that fountain.”

  “Perhaps it just hated being forced.”

  His shirt showed every contour of his chest, and was almost transparent. It showed a dark shadow on the right side.

  It could not be ignored.

  She wanted to touch it but did not dare. She had to speak of it, however. “A dragon, I understand.”

  He seemed puzzled, but then his faced cleared. “Ah, the lusty maid saw it. Diddy, yes? We all had tattoos done—Van, Hawk, and I. The idea was that if we were searching for one another’s mangled bodies, we’d find the task easier. Not a bad notion, as it turned out.”

  The sudden bleakness was not because of Crag Wyvern or herself.

  “Who could you not find? Lord Darius?”

  “There were so many dead and dying,” he said, looking away again, but not in a way that broke the magic, “and some had been stripped, or trampled, or blown apart.” He shook his head. “You don’t want to talk about such things.” He turned to the fountain. “What do you think we should put in place of the dragon?”

  She wouldn’t let the connection break without a fight. There would be only brief moments like this, when once they might have been eternal. “He was a Rogue, you said. I remember you speaking of them.”

  He looked back at her, dark, but not because of her, not directed at her, thank heaven. “You remember a great deal.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “I remember everything, Con.”

  His lips twisted. “So do I.” But then he inhaled. “Yes, he was a Rogue. He wasn’t a soldier, though. He shouldn’t have been there. I should have stopped him.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want to be stopped.”

  “I should have stopped him anyway. Or prepared him better. Or—” He suddenly looked her over, and she knew, with clarity, that he’d remembered everything, and firmly closed a door. “That gray stuff would hide a tattoo, but it isn’t hiding much, you know.”

  She looked down and saw that of course her dress was molded to her body as much as his shirt was to him. Her corset shielded her upper body, but her belly, her thighs, the indentation between her thighs . . .

  Face flaming, she pulled the cloth away, flapping it to try to make it not adhere. She glanced at him and couldn’t help a shiver of excitement at the look in his eyes, even though it wasn’t proper, or respectful, or even particularly kind.

  “You’re not hiding much either,” she said, and let her eyes look at his breeches.

  “I know.”

  Her heart started to pound.

  “Are you as curious as I am, Susan? To know what it would be like? Now.”

  Curious and more than curious. A warm heaviness grew inside her, an ache. . . .

  After a moment she managed to say, “What of Lady Anne?”

  “She isn’t here, is she?”

  Ah. Her throat tightened. She made herself swallow.

  Curiosity. That was all it was for him.

  For her it was a longing which went much deeper, but she wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t be a convenient release and she wouldn’t offend against the woman he had chosen, even if she wasn’t here. She wouldn’t reduce herself to a whore, not even for Con. It would destroy them both.

  “She is here in spirit,” she said, and stepped back. “I must go and change, my lord.” She looked at the fountain behind him, however.

  “I think it should be a Saint George,” she said. “Crag Wyvern needs a hero to vanquish the dark.”

  Then she walked briskly into the house.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Con turned and leaned his hands against the rough, cold rim of the basin, looking down at the inches of water glimmering there.

  Saint George.

  A hero.

  Where had that youthful idealist gone?

  Susan had hurt him deeply but she hadn’t killed the hero. The war had done that. Oh, officially it had made him a kind of hero. He hadn’t been the dashing sort to attract a lot of notice, but he knew he’d done his job well for the benefit of his men, his general, and his king. Hawk had told him that Wellington had referred to him once as a “damned fine officer,” which was praise enough for any man.

  But the endless years, though full of excitement, triumph, and even pleasure among the bleaker times, had killed the saint. He didn’t fear what the future would do to him, but what he might do to others in his soulless state.

  Some fortune-tellers claimed to be able to reveal the future from reflections in water. What would anyone make of his?

  He’d summoned Lady Anne as his defense, and now she was a barrier. Susan wouldn’t come to his bed because of Lady Anne.

  That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  What he wanted, ferociously, was Susan.

  The sight of her laughing uncontrollably at the unpredictable spray had cracked something and carried him straight back to the sun-shimmered past. Then the sight of her body, lusher, more womanly in its mysteries, but still Susan, had undone him.

  He couldn’t let himself be used again, and despite the soulless need throbbing in him, he wouldn’t use her. But could he bear to leave here without experiencing Susan as she was now?

  He could
always tell her that Lady Anne was a possibility rather than a commitment. Tempt her with the chance of winning Crag Wyvern for herself. She’d claimed she didn’t want it anymore, but it must be a lie. Why else was she here?

  He suddenly had a wicked vision of Susan—womanly, experienced Susan—setting her mind to seducing him. . . .

  But Lady Anne was more than a possibility. He’d sent that letter.

  And she was the perfect, ideal wife for him.

  If Susan married him, it would be for Crag Wyvern. Since he had no intention of spending more than a duty week or so a year here she would be miserable.

  No, Susan would never wallow in misery. She’d fight for what she wanted. He’d seen men married to women determined to change them and their circumstances to suit. Seen them nagged into joining the army, leaving the army, changing regiments, spending beyond their means, saving beyond sanity.

  No peace in those homes. He’d told Susan the truth about his ambitions. What he longed for above all was peace. Peace and gentle pleasures in Somerford Court, where he thought he might eventually rediscover his soul, and perhaps even his youthful ideals.

  He leaned down, scooped some of the water, and splashed it over his face. It was warm from the sun by now, however, and did no good.

  He pushed away from the fountain and walked back into the house. He’d change and ride out again. It was the only safe thing to do.

  Susan was shivering by the time she stripped off her wet dress, and it wasn’t entirely from the cold. She’d never expected to feel such urgent, physical need for a man. She hadn’t known it existed!

  With Con all those years ago it had been an unknown, a mystery. With Rivenham it had been a plan. He’d brought her to desire, but it had been a deliberate path for both of them.

  With Captain Lavalle it had been a plan again, but a huge mistake. Physically it had been nothing.

  Worse than nothing.

  It had been disgusting.

  Now, without even touching Con, she ached, she burned for him. Out there in the garden, she’d longed to touch him, to press against the hard muscles his wet shirt had so tantalizingly revealed, to embrace him, to comfort him, to be comforted and healed. . . .

  She thumped down on the edge of her bed, still in her damp corset and shift, trying to understand this unexpected force.

  She knew she loved. That was a force of its own, but it was one she could rule with willpower. She loved, and because she loved it was possible not to show it, not to distress him with it, and to let him go to the woman he had chosen.

  But this . . . this was more elemental. Part of the ache, she was sure, was from struggling not to act, as if battling a fierce wind, or the pull of a stormy sea. It seemed all too likely that the force could overwhelm her, sweeping her into disaster.

  Disaster for them both.

  She shuddered, then stood to strip off the rest of her clothes, to rub herself sternly with a towel until her skin burned and the ache subsided.

  She had to leave. Immediately. She had no explanation she could give anyone, but Con would understand. She’d return to the manor, and then go elsewhere—

  She stilled, seeing many problems.

  She had no money until the Horde was prosperous again.

  She had nowhere to go, and no easy chance of employment. . . .

  It didn’t matter. For both their sakes, she had to at least leave Crag Wyvern. Mrs. Gorland could manage the household until a new housekeeper was hired.

  She’d claim she was ill.

  At the moment she felt almost ill.

  She pulled on a dry shift and added another working corset. She took out her second gray dress and put it on. If she was leaving she could dress in ordinary clothes—but this was armor.

  Yet it hadn’t protected her from Con. . . .

  She thrust away memory and added a starched fichu. She redid her hair, pinning it up tightly, and put on a cap, tying the laces.

  It wasn’t enough.

  There could never be enough.

  There was no protection except distance.

  She looked at her possessions—books, needlework, ornaments. What could she carry them in?

  She couldn’t delay to pack them. She had to go now.

  She walked out into the kitchen.

  “We’re almost out of butter, ma’am,” Mrs. Gorland said. “And I could do with a nice sirloin.”

  Susan longed to rush by but duty made her pause. “Send down to Ripford for the beef, and buy as much butter as you need from the village.”

  “Very well, ma’am.” Then the cook looked at her. “Are you all right, dear?”

  The switch from business to personal was almost too much for Susan, but she found a smile. “Yes, of course, but I need to go down to the manor again.”

  “That’s all right. We can manage fine.”

  “I know. Thank you.” Susan left, wishing she could take a proper farewell of them all.

  She felt she should sneak out by one of the small doors, but the main entrance was closest, so she headed there via the great hall. When she walked into that space a man was waiting.

  Con!

  No, not Con, thank heavens. Just Lieutenant Gifford. But he was someone else to talk to before she was free.

  “Lieutenant. May I help you?”

  He looked at her and blushed. She’d swear it was a blush. She looked down at her hastily put on clothes, but she couldn’t see anything embarrassingly amiss.

  He reached up and tugged at his military stock. “I came to speak to the earl, Mistress Kerslake. A maid is looking for him. For me . . .”

  Speak to Con? About smuggling? And Con probably knew David was Captain Drake and might say something. Surely he wouldn’t . . .

  She couldn’t deal with this now.

  Dear heaven. Con would be coming here at any moment!

  “Then if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have an errand to run.”

  She moved to one side to go around him, but he blocked her way.

  “I . . . I would prefer you kept me company for a while.”

  She looked up at him, trying to focus her mind on this. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I would prefer your company,” he said more firmly, looking a little alarmed, but also a great deal determined.

  Insane humor tried to bubble up.

  Was he going to propose to her?

  Here?

  Now?

  She stepped to the side again. “My errand is urgent, Lieutenant—”

  He blocked her again. “So is mine. Please, you will want to hear what I have to say.”

  Devil spit. Con could be here at any moment, or the maid returning to take Gifford to him! She pushed him hard on the chest with both hands, prepared to run if necessary. But he only fell back a step before grasping her wrists.

  “Release me!” she hissed, wishing she dared scream for help. “Lord Wyvern will be here directly. He will not like to see you holding me prisoner like this.”

  “Got to you already, has he? That’ll have to stop.”

  “What?” Either she was mad or he was.

  He looked around wildly, clearly checking to see if anyone could see them. He was flushed again, but this time with excitement. It glittered in his eyes.

  “I couldn’t quite believe it,” he said rapidly, quietly, as if they shared a secret. “But I saw you and the earl out in the courtyard. Only lovers look at one another like that, Susan. And to think I was advancing on your defenses so politely.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Giles, Susan. Giles.”

  “Lieutenant . . .”

  The flash of fury in his eye stole words for a moment. She made herself relax in his grip and look at him calmly. “Lieutenant, I’m very sorry but I could not possibly marry you—”

  His eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Dear lady, I’m not after marriage. I want what Captain Lavalle enjoyed.”

  Heavenly mercies. Her legs threatened to betray her. She’d always feared this,
that the cad would talk of it to other officers. It had been so many years, though. . . .

  Too late, she tried to bluff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes you do. Keen for it, Lavalle said, and now I see how right he was. The earl’s only been here two nights and he’s clearly had you. So now it’s my turn. You’re a fine looking woman, Susan. I find you a real cock-stirrer, especially in your starchy gray and white, your hair all tucked up under that cap. . . .”

  He was pushing her backward and she went, unable to think what to do. Her hips hit the center table and he trapped her there, licking his lips as he did so, pressing himself against her, trying to part her thighs.

  “Are you mad?” she said in a frantic whisper. “Release me immediately!”

  “A mere lieutenant not good enough for you after an earl?” He pressed harder so the table dug into her.

  “Stop or I’ll scream,” she hissed, meaning it, though then he’d tell Con about Lavalle. Oh, God. Oh, God . . .

  “No, you won’t. Or I’ll arrest your brother as Captain Drake.”

  Her throat seized up.

  He knew.

  No, she realized, her wits sharpening—he guessed.

  She made herself meet his eyes and look astonished. “David? A smuggler? You are mad.”

  “David, son of Mel Clyst, Susan, just as you’re daughter of Mel Clyst.”

  He stepped back and let her free, clearly confident now that she wouldn’t run. Should she run to prove David’s innocence?

  Before she could decide, he said, “I wondered why you weren’t respectably married by now, but you’re not Miss Kerslake of Kerslake Manor, are you? You’re the bastard daughter of a smuggler and a whore, and truly your mother’s daughter, by what I heard from Lavalle.”

  “Whatever he told you, he lied. I assume men often boast of these things if they think they can get away with it. He tried to seduce me, yes. Five years ago, I think. He did not take my rejection well.”

  She saw a flicker of uncertainty and pushed her advantage. “I’d thought better of you, Lieutenant, than to believe such doubtless boozy talk.”