That'll Be the Day

by Kress, Alyssa

  Him? Underwater, Emile froze. A sickening thought occurred. What, pray, would keep Carver's slashing knife from killing the girl—and not himself?

  Idiot! He'd put the girl in danger! How could he have set his own worthless life above hers? Then, to further his horror, Emile felt her squirm out of his arms.

  No! Emile pushed upward. If she surfaced first, Carver would kill her. He'd slash at anything that rose from the water. Panicked, Emile yelled at the top of his lungs to get the cutthroat's attention.

  Or he might have yelled at the top of his lungs, if a powerful kick directed at his backside had not propelled him face first back into the water. Emile swallowed a large gulp of soapy liquid.

  "Worm!" he heard the female exclaim. "Idiot madbrain."

  Choking, Emile whirled. He caught the damn woman's mouth and covered it. She growled and jerked in his arms. "Be still!" Emile hissed. "They're just out—" And then he stopped to hold his breath and listen.

  There wasn't a sound but the splash of water against the sides of the tub.

  A wide grin spread across Emile's face. He'd done it. The ruse had worked and Carver had passed on.

  Best of all, the girl in his arms was safe.

  He felt himself trembling. By luck, he hadn't caused any harm. This time, anyway. The relief he felt was overwhelming.

  Then her elbow connected with his ribs. "Ow!" Off-guard, he made the mistake of releasing her mouth.

  "Low-down, rotten cur," she spat. "You will pay for daring to handle me this way."

  Emile eyed the woman. She looked mad enough to combust. And lovely enough to belong to somebody. If he didn't get out of there fast he supposed he would, indeed, pay dearly. Smiling, he held out his free hand. "Calm yourself, mistress."

  "Calm myself!" She knocked her fists into the water. Soap splashed into Emile's eyes. "Surely you want your little friends to hear me squeal. How else will they know you dared to touch me?"

  "My little friends? Oh, no more of that, now." Seeing she was about to splash again, Emile grabbed both her wrists.

  "Oh! You will be sorry." Immobilized once more, the woman sneered up at Emile. "My curse will strike you just as it has struck every other man who's dared to get too close to me."

  "Your—? Hey!" Emile adjusted his grasp as the woman suddenly jerked against his hold. "Look." He strove for a reasonable tone. "I know you're angry. You have every right to be. As will any, uh, friend of yours. In sooth, I am powerful moved to get out of your vicinity. So if you'll just, um, be still, I will do so. Completely. You'll never have to see my blessed face again. Hm?" Emile smiled encouragingly.

  But the anger only flashed hotter in her face. "Oh yes, now, now, you want to get out of my 'vicinity.' Ha! Now that you've—Now that you're afraid, and quite correctly, too." She paused, her nostrils flaring. "Do not imagine you have hurt my feelings. Do not pride yourself that far. I am quite used to being treated like a—like a monster."

  Emile frowned deeply. He hadn't treated her like a monster. A little rough, maybe—

  Her chin shot up. She glared at Emile, passionately. "Am I not a woman?"

  His eyes popped wide.

  "Well?" she demanded. "Am I?"

  What in the world—?

  Her glare intensified.

  "I— Uh, that would be my guess," Emile stammered.

  "Your guess." She spread her hands, still grasped by his, to either side. "Did I not feel like a woman in your arms?"

  Emile choked. Aye, she had felt like a woman, and a lush, supple specimen indeed. But he did not think it wise to remember that. She obviously belonged to somebody. If he wanted to leave in one piece, it had better be now.

  But she wasn't done with him. Her gaze narrowed. "What about my skin?" She pulled one hand from his to pinch her upper arm. "It is as soft as any other woman's, isn't it?"

  Flabbergasted, Emile stared at the tender flesh caught between her fingers. "Your skin..." It was pale and soft. "I—I guess," he croaked.

  "You guess!" Scorn personified, she wrenched her other hand from his. Dazed, Emile stepped back from her. He might have remembered his original intent, to leave, had not two wet globes suddenly lifted to the surface of the water. "My breasts," she demanded. "Are they not womanly?"

  Emile stilled. His gaze dropped to a pair of the most luscious breasts he had ever seen. Water slicked the creamy skin and dripped from a pair of large, brown nipples.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "Yes," Emile heard himself whisper. "Oh, yes. Your breasts, they are quite womanly. Perfect, in fact."

  "Perfect!" She sounded very surprised.

  Emile lifted his eyes. "Your tail end, too," he thought to add, "is passing excellent."

  "My tail end!" She sounded more surprised than ever, and sank until her breasts disappeared again under the surface of the water.

  Emile met her wide-open eyes with a crooked grin. He did not understand her questions. Some intelligent instinct reminded him he'd better run, but—she looked so uncertain and the heat he'd felt during their scuffle underwater returned in a rush. Mayhap this was providence. She'd saved him with her bath, and he would...reassure her. Yes, he would take care of a matter in which her own man had been negligent.

  "Your lips as well," he soothed, and took a water-logged step toward her. "They are ripe and plump. Shall I kiss them?"

  "What?" The woman gasped as Emile pulled her close. "Wait! Wh-what are you doing?"

  He smiled. He was probably doing too much, but for all her surprise, she was pliant in his arms. There was a look of wonder in her eyes. She wanted reassurance. He would give it. "I am kissing you," he answered, and lowered his mouth toward hers.

  Ten little fingers clapped over his lips.

  "But—my curse," the woman chirped.

  "Your curse." From behind her fingers, Emile mumbled, "What's that?"

  Her hands drifted down. "You mean...you do not know?"

  Emile's face warmed. Partly because he didn't know and partly because of the way her eyes had widened. She was apparently only just figuring out that was his erection pressed against her stomach.

  Her eyes swept down and then up again. She looked stunned. "My God," she whispered. "You really do not know."

  Emile realized he had no idea of anything at all. Did she want him or not? Her shock said not, but on the other hand, she did not appear frightened or disgusted. On the contrary, she looked thoroughly...impressed.

  His face got warmer. Impressed? Just what did she expect of him? But even as he stood there, worrying, he could feel the heat of her naked body. And those were her breasts, the breasts he'd so admired, smashed so sweetly against his chest. Emile groaned.

  Impressed could work...

  "Oh, fine," he murmured as he lowered his head. "What's a little curse between you and me?"

  She gasped.

  At the same moment Emile heard a foot crunching on gravel outside the tent.

  "Mistress?" a deep and cultured voice queried. "You are not yet done with your bath?"

  Emile's eyes dropped to meet the woman's. He'd known it. He'd known she had a man! "Don't," he breathed, and squeezed her shoulders.

  But she only drew in another outraged breath. "What's a little curse—?"

  "Mistress!"

  Emile uttered a profound oath as a man as tall and thin as a pikestaff came running through the untied slit of the tent. "Mistress!" the man cried, and glared murder at Emile. "I will save you!"

  The mistress did not appear to need this assistance. With an expression of righteous fury she was drawing back her arm.

  "Pig shit!" Emile exclaimed. Caught in the tub, he managed to duck the more punishing blow from above. There was no way, however, to avoid the open-handed slap of the woman.

  "There is nothing cursed about me!" she proclaimed, as her hand connected with Emile's head. "Ha! Nothing different from any other woman!"

  Pain immediately exploded through Emile's head. Too much pain. By some absurd chance the woman's hand had
caught the very spot Carver had already softened with his fistful of grapeshot. Amused, Emile opened his mouth to chuckle. Instead a flood of water poured in. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

  No, he thought. She couldn't have. One naked little woman could not have accomplished what half a dozen cutthroats had failed to do. But the black rose up. Emile actually felt an instant of panic, as if his life had any worth to anybody, and then he managed to chuckle, after all.

  To think he'd be dead—and Stone would never know.