She knelt down beside it, tugging him with her. He seemed more curious than angry now, which had to be a good sign.
“These waters are magical,” she said.
“Unlike the other mundanities here?” he said sardonically.
“It shows us things of the human world,” she went on, ignoring him. “It shows us those who need our help.”
She waved her hand over the water’s still surface, and slowly they began to stir. An image was revealed, a man seated by a window with a violin. His bow moved over the strings swiftly, almost violently. He seemed caught up in a musical spell.
“That is Signor Veracini,” she said. “He is Clio’s current project.” She waved her hand again, and a young woman gliding across a scarred wooden floor in a twirling dance appeared. “And that is Mademoiselle Delacorte. Terpsichore is working with her.”
The images faded, leaving only the silvery water. Tristan was silent for a long moment.
“Was I your project?” he said quietly. “Your task?”
“No, no! Not at all. I went to England to look in on the Chase Muses. They have been our protégés of a sort since they were born. You were just a—nice surprise.”
He suddenly grabbed her wrists, pulling her close to him. He held her tightly, not hurting her yet she knew she could not break away. Nor did she want to. At last he understood.
“If you are a Muse,” he said fiercely, “is that the only reason I can paint again? It was just some sort of—magic?”
Erato shook her head. She could not let him lose his inspiration, his rare talent! “No! I cannot create talent—it must already be there, inborn. I can only inspire the work, help artists when they cannot see their way clear. Your artistic gift is yours alone.”
His hand slid from her wrist, tracing a fiery path down her side, along the curve of her hip through her loose robe. He dragged her tight against his body. “Was this part of your inspiration? Having sex with me?”
“Tristan! No,” she cried, desperate to convince him. “I do not have sex with the artists. That is Aphrodite’s part of the job. You were just…”
“Just—what?”
“Different,” she whispered. “I did not go to England looking for you. I felt restless, bored, I needed distraction. A holiday. But you were so much more than I expected to find.”
His hand turned gentle as he lightly traced her backside, her soft upper thigh. She shivered at the sensations of his touch, longing for more. “What am I, Erato?”
“I—I told you. You are not like anyone else I have ever known,” she said. She held his face between her hands and stared deep into his eyes. She willed him to believe, to know.
He laughed ruefully. “I am not like anyone you have known? What about you? You are a goddess! I have never met a goddess.”
“I am just a Muse.”
“I imagined you a goddess when I first saw you, you were so beautiful, so full of life. But now you are one in truth.” He shook his head.
“And I have been searching for you for so very long,” she whispered. “Please, Tristan, stay with me here. You can paint, no one will disturb your creativity. Please, stay with me. I beg you.”
He drew back a bit, watching her solemnly. “For how long?”
“For always, if you will. For I will always want you. Need you.”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“Never. You can leave whenever you like, go back to England. For a visit, for your Royal Academy show—or forever. But this can be your home. I can be yours. I am yours.”
She kissed his cheek softly, then his other cheek, the tip of his nose. The sharp angle of his jaw, where she felt a muscle tighten under her lips. Her kiss trailed down his throat, to where the soft linen of the tunic lay in supple folds against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, his breath, the very life of him.
She could not give him up. She had to persuade him to stay with her. “Why?” he said roughly. “Why me?”
“Because I love you,” she whispered. The words she had never said, never thought she could say.
She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, tugging her back until she looked up into his fathomless brown eyes. “I love you, too, blast it all,” he said.
With a cry of joy, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely. Their lips and tongues met in a fiery, fervent embrace, full of all the wonder of finding each other at last, of declaring their love. The very air around them sizzled with celebration and passion.
They tumbled down to the soft grass, their limbs entangled. As their bodies were joined, so were their hearts, for all time. And they knew what it truly was to be home at last, together.
That was the real magic of the Muses.
Don’t forget to read in Amanda McCabe’s series THE CHASE MUSES in both print and eBook format from Harlequin Historical!
To Catch a Rogue
(April 2010)
To Kiss a Count
(June 2010)
To Deceive a Duke
(July 2010)
And be sure to check out more of Amanda McCabe’s historical romances always available in eBook format:
The Maid’s Lover
The Winter Queen
The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor
High Seas Stowaway
Shipwrecked and Seduced
A Sinful Alliance
A Notorious Woman
Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:
TAKEN BY THE HIGHWAYMAN by Amelia Casey
WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW by Bronwyn Scott
WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER by Lauri Robinson
AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION by Michelle Willingham
NOTORIOUS ELIZA by Barbara Monajem
THE MAID’S LOVER by Amanda McCabe
AWAKENING HIS LADY by Kathrynn Dennis
SEDUCING A STRANGER by Christine Merrill
THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER by Marguerite Kaye
THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS by Margaret Moore
THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham
AT THE DUKE’S SERVICE by Carole Mortimer
HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland
A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE by Terri Brisbin
DISROBED AND DISHONORED by Louise Allen
THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH by Diane Gaston
Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Harlequin Historical at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore.
Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to [email protected].
Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance novel at the age of sixteen in Algebra class, an epic starring all her friends as characters! That story will never be published (and she nearly failed Algebra), but now she’s the RITA-nominated, award-winning author of many other books and novellas. She lives in Oklahoma with two cats, a Pug, and a bossy miniature Poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at ammandamccabe.com for Behind the Book information, contests, and upcoming releases, and at riskyregencies.blogspot.com.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4888-9
To Bed a Libertine
Copyright © 2010 by Ammanda McCabe
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