Yet what of the visions?
As if on cue, Cassandra’s gaze snagged on a flicker of light reflecting off the gold mirror frame. Her vision blurred. Her heart pounded and she could feel herself begin to tremble. It was happening again.
“No, oh, no. Please.”
She scrambled from her bed, not even bothering to grab up a cloak before lifting a corner of the tapestry. Behind the woven silk, a door built into the stone wall opened slowly, silently, when she pulled a small lever.
Cassandra slipped into the corridor. It was dark, but she knew the way. Even running from the vision as she was, she knew every step, every turn in the long, descending tunnel. Her bare feet padded down the passageway hacked into solid rock for some distant ancestor. Some king or queen who’d ruled Breslovia before her.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever. But not even its comforting darkness could blank out the scenes of horror from her mind. So she ran faster, harder. Gasping for breath, trying to escape the inescapable.
She could smell the damp earth, could vaguely sense the wavery lightening of the tunnel’s end. But the splashing tumble of cascading water was drowned out by the cannon fire and screams reverberating in her head.
Sticky with perspiration, Cassandra plunged forward into the waterfall that hid the tunnel entrance. The cool water engulfed her, soaking her thin cotton nightrail, but it did not purge the horrific images.
“Try to think of something else,” Cassandra admonished herself as she tossed back her head, allowing the crystal droplets to pound her face. But it did no good. She could still see them, hear them... feel their fear.
Then, suddenly, another sensation overwhelmed her, clawing away at the visions. Her relief was short-lived. Cassandra swallowed, stepping far enough forward on the slippery rock ledge to look about. For she could swear someone watched her.
Blinking water from her eyes, she scanned the area. The moon was full, gilding the feathery willow trees that lined the glistening pool at the base of the falls. Somewhere in the night an owl hooted, and Cassandra let out her breath. She was letting fantasy blur the sharp edges of reality, much as mist softened the landscape. There was no one here.
No one knew of the secret tunnel but her. She was safe.
Yet the feeling that eyes followed her every move would not dissipate.
And then she saw him.
Cassandra stood still, as still as he, wondering if the stranger was real or another vision conjured up by her mind. Tall and muscularly built, he leaned against an oak’s trunk near the reed beds by the pool’s edge. Moonlight blazed on the open white shirt he wore, and caught the shine of his boots. His face was in shadow, but she could sense his eyes. They stared at each other for what seemed like long moments while her visions of death and destruction ceased. And all the while water tumbled over her body.
He was the first to move, pushing his shoulder off the tree trunk and taking several steps toward the pool into the moonlight before squatting down. His eyes left hers long enough for him to pick up a twig and toss it into the swirling water; then they were back, searching hers.
“You are real, aren’t you?” he finally said in a low deep voice. “For I should feel quite foolish conversing with a figment of my imagination.” He paused. “However lovely.”
Because she was thinking the same of him, wondering if she had conjured him up as a way to fight the awful visions haunting her on this night, Cassandra smiled.
His responding grin made Cassandra’s toes curl.
“Do you speak, Mistress Water Nymph?” The man accompanied his words by pushing himself to his feet and taking several more strides in her direction.
“Of course. But I’m no more water nymph than spawn of your imagination.”
“I can see that now.” His voice was even lower than before.
He was perhaps two rods from her, near the end of the ledge where she stood. He extended a hand toward her, and the spray from the falls quickly wet his sleeve. But he appeared not to notice as he stood, waiting.
His hand was large and well formed, the fingers long, and Cassandra could do no more than stare at it. She should turn around and retreat into the tunnel, she was certain of that. Even if he chased her she would find her way through the labyrinth better than he. Yes, that was what she should do. But though her mind made the decision, her body seemed unable to carry through.
Even when he moved closer.
“’Tis obvious you’re chilled. And I do have a cloak at your disposal.” He motioned back toward the tree, where he’d originally stood. Cassandra could see something on the ground, though she couldn’t tell what.
His boots splashed in the water.
Cassandra could see his face again, found herself beguiled by his expression. Without waiting to weigh the consequences her arm lifted. Before she could draw in a breath his hand, warm and firm, encompassed hers.
He drew her toward him till she was pressed against his wet hard body. Only then did he back up toward the shore.
Cassandra could barely breathe. Close up he seemed so much taller, so much broader. He was overpowering. One of his muscular arms held her to him, pinning her body to his. Her flesh tingled and she felt lightheaded. When his thumb lifted her chin Cassandra looked into blue eyes as clear and deep as the pool behind her.
“Isn’t this better than shivering beneath a torrent of water?” His voice, his words, were as soothing as the feel of his embrace. As the mesmerizing tug of his eyes.
She needed to pull away from him. To grab the cloak and cover herself. To return to the castle. There was a part of her mind that preached prudence. But though she tried, Cassandra could not make herself move away.
His fingers trailed down the side of her neck, catching a sodden strand of hair and brushing it back. Then his hand followed the flow of her hair, finger-combing it till it curled to the small of her back. And Cassandra could only melt against him.
“I’ve heard legends of maidens who live in the sea and tempt mere mortals with their beauty.” His warm breath wafted across her cheek. “But I ne’er thought to find one ’neath a waterfall.”
“I’m...” Cassandra hesitated. It was obvious he didn’t know who she was. He was a stranger to her kingdom. Yet if she told him there would be no more seduction. Naive as she might be, Cassandra recognized seduction.
Desire strummed through her like heady wine, and driven as she was by the need to forget the visions of destruction, she was momentarily thrown off balance.
Then the moment to tell him... to stop him... was gone. His mouth descended, covering hers in a kiss that seared her soul.
His lips were insistent, shaping hers, spreading and opening them to receive his tongue. His first thrust sent Cassandra’s hands to his shoulders. He was all bulging muscles and hot skin. So hot the layer of wet fabric covering him seemed to sizzle.
She had never felt such as him. Didn’t know that touching another could be so erotic.
When he lifted her, his mouth never left hers. They were moving, to where Cassandra didn’t know. Nor did she care. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her breasts pressed to his chest, and she let the fever seize her. Let it keep the haunting memory of the visions from her mind.
Only when he reached the oak tree did he put her down. And then only to scoop up his cape and snap the thick folds. The black fabric floated over the fern-covered ground, swirling the mist. It made a fine bed for her to lie upon.
She sighed when his body followed hers, welcoming his weight... the strong feel of him.
She waited for his lips to cover hers again, but instead they slid toward her ear, nipping and warming. He swirled his tongue along the soft crescent. Cassandra moaned and his mouth surged lower, finding the ridge of her collarbone, tasting.
He rose on his elbows staring down at her, and Cassandra felt bereft of his weight. Her arms lifted, tangling with his mane of dark, unfettered hair. Pulling him back to her. He hesitated, touching the curve of her shoulder while the muscl
es of his supporting arm corded sensually beneath the filmy fabric.
“You’re shivering, my water nymph.”
“Cassie,” she whispered. “My name is Cassie.”
The last of her name he tasted as his lips again covered hers. Then he was dragging his hands down her body, pulling the sodden nightrail over her head.
Cassandra expected embarrassment to overwhelm her, for no man had seen her thus. But there was none. Only the sweet oblivion of his scorching touch as he skimmed his mouth down over her breast. She moaned, unable to stop herself, when he sucked the puckered crest into his mouth. She was melting.
“Ah, Cassie, you taste so good.” His mouth moved lower, blazing a path between her ribs, and all Cassandra could do was sigh.
She’d never known such sensual pleasure... didn’t know it existed. Her mind seemed to have abandoned her. She could not think, only feel. The moist heat of his mouth. The carnal abrasion of his whisker-roughened chin as he inched lower down her stomach. The delightful tickle of his hair as it fell across her fevered flesh.
Above her the narrow leaves swayed in the breeze, a dreamy counterpoint to what was happening to her. It was as if she were floating on the clouds of her tapestry rather than lying on the ground. Floating. Swaying. Carried forth on the sensual tide of the stranger’s magical mouth.
He drifted lower, feasting on the arch of a hipbone, sliding along the juncture to her thigh. Cassandra’s eyes shot open and she pushed up on her elbows when she realized where his mouth was. But he only glanced up, his gaze meeting hers over the expanse of her naked body.
“Let me,” was all he said. Simple words that she seemed incapable of disobeying. And as soon as his tongue touched her fevered flesh Cassandra had no desire to stop him.
She drifted down, her head falling back onto his cape, then twisted from side to side as he worked his magic. He was no longer slow and gentle, but insistent—hungry. He licked. He stroked. He sent waves of pleasure washing over her.
Then his large hands dug beneath her, lifting, spreading, opening her more completely to the ravages of his mouth. Sending her over the edge of some mystical chasm with his exquisite torture.
Cassandra cried out, the sound mingling with the eternal fall of water, as the tremors crashed over her, scrambling her senses. She was whirling, skimming high above the earth, sailing into the heavens.
~ ~ ~
Max was going to burst, explode, if he didn’t divest himself of his breeches. He’d been hard and throbbing since he first glanced up to see her appear magically beneath the waterfall. Her gown was transparent, the water molding it to every curve and swell of her luscious body.
Desire, carnal and lustful, had clawed at his body, like a giant cat. It was still prowling.
At first he thought he was dreaming, still wasn’t certain this was real. Mortal women simply didn’t have such perfect skin, such softness. They didn’t smell as sweet or taste as erotic... or respond so intensely.
Max pulled away long enough to unfasten his breeches. Dream or not he wanted nothing more than to sink into the hot oblivion of her. His pulse raced as he slid between her open thighs. His first thrust impaled her. She arched, reaching for him, clutching his shoulders.
Everything about her was exciting him. Her creamy breasts, hard and pebbly from her release, seared his chest. Her hands tugged at his shirt, baring more skin to skim across hers. And her hips surged to meet his, matching every thrust as he sank deeper. Drowning. Drowning in the exquisite torture of her body.
As the explosion came he drove himself harder, plunging, lost in the molten ecstasy of her body.
“Cassie.” Max felt her tremble, felt the subtle squeeze as she climaxed with him.
Tremors gripped him, leaving him weak and bone tired. With a satiated moan Max sank down heavily, garnering just enough energy to roll onto his side. He gathered her close, a smile tilting his mouth when she came willingly, resting her cheek on his chest.
~ ~ ~
Cassandra came awake by slow degrees. She’d been dreaming. The most sensual, erotic dream imaginable. Her body tingled just thinking of it. She sighed deeply as she stretched her legs, only to freeze when her foot rubbed against something muscle-hard and hairy.
Cassandra’s eyes popped open. She barely managed to stifle a scream when she noticed the man sprawled out beside her. In the pale pewter dawn she could see him clearly. The man from her dream... Nay, it had been no dream. He lay on his stomach, one large muscular arm draped below her breasts. Her bare breasts.
His face was turned toward her, his eyes closed, thick dark lashes fanning his cheek. But she could remember those eyes, those clear blue eyes. She could remember everything that had happened... everything she had done.
How could she have?
Cassandra squirmed, trying to wriggle from beneath the man’s arm. His breathing changed. Hers stopped. A groggy groan vibrated from deep in his chest, and Cassandra bit her bottom lip. Please don’t have him awaken, she silently pleaded to whichever saint looked after fools—one of which she certainly considered herself.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there doing her best not to move, watching his face for any sign that his eyes would open. When he finally seemed to settle deeper into slumber, she again tried to extricate herself from his hold. This time she moved more slowly, breathing deeply only when she managed to slide free of his arm.
Pushing herself to her feet, she grabbed her nightrail and splashed into the pool. Hurriedly she climbed onto the ledge and dashed through the waterfall, leaving the stranger behind.
Returning to the castle... and her husband.
Two
“I gather you didn’t sleep with the queen last night.”
Albert, Grand Duke of Breslovia and consort to Her Royal Highness Cassandra I, waved away the servant who fussed with his lace cravat. “I wasn’t aware my... sleeping arrangements... were your concern.”
“Really?” Cardinal Sinzen, advisor to the queen and elder brother of the Grand Duke crossed plump hands over his ample abdomen.
The gesture was lost on the Grand Duke who studied his own reflection in the gilded mirror, before turning, satisfied, toward the cardinal. “You know the woman bores me.”
“Bores you?” The words sliced through the air and into Albert. He continued to meet his brother’s hard stare only by reminding himself that it was he who was the Grand Duke. He who married the queen.
Albert’s chin was firm, his voice nearly so, though a bit petulant. “She lies open beneath the sheets like a royal sacrifice barely able to summon up the mildest of responses.”
“Unlike your darling Madam Cantrell who screams her pleasure at your barest touch.”
Albert lifted a jeweled snuff box, more to admire his long slender fingers than the twinkling rubies, jerking his head toward his brother’s smirking face. There was too much assurance in those pale eyes, and a shiver ran down Albert’s spine. He would not put it past Sinzen to spend the nights with his fleshy body cramped into a tiny alcove and one eye glued to a peephole. Watching him. Watching him with Nicolette.
A slow smile curved Albert’s thin lips. “Do you enjoy watching what you seem unable to do? Does the sight of Nicolette’s lush body, open to passion, make you wish for more than your young boys?”
The cardinal’s expression never changed. “It makes me wish my brother were not so insufferably stupid.” Stepping forward Cardinal Sinzen cut off any blubbering response Albert might make with a lift of his red-robed arm. “Your position is tenuous... will remain so until you beget an heir on Her Highness. Need I remind you of our ultimate goal—of the reason you married Cassandra—or who arranged the match?”
Nicolette’s constant admonishments to be strong and stand up to his brother paled before Sinzen’s wrath. Albert fidgeted with the snuff-box clamp, thumbing it open only to clamp it shut again. Again and again. Spilling finely ground tobacco onto the gilded surface of his dressing table. “I think the bitch is barren,” he fi
nally managed to mumble.
“Her Highness,” Cardinal Sinzen emphasized the title as he took another step forward, noting the film of perspiration glistening on his brother’s upper lip, “mayhap is unable to bear a child. However I can count on one hand, nay with one finger, the number of times you’ve bedded her in the last fortnight”
“I don’t—”
Grasping his brother’s shoulder, pleased by the flinching of muscle beneath the puce satin, the cardinal softened his expression. “You need not enjoy the mating, Albert, nor must she.” His fingers tightened. “Consider it the price you must pay to sustain your lofty position. You do take pleasure in being the Grand Duke, do you not?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Then it seems such a small price to pay for the life you lead. For the opportunity you’ve been given to restore the throne to our family... to the rightful family.” Cardinal Sinzen loomed over his brother. “Your son, a Martinette, will be king. Imagine that Albert. After over three hundred years Martinettes will again reign over Breslovia.”
Albert was far less concerned about his son’s life than his own. But he never said as much, not when his brother’s fleshy face shone with excitement about the throne passing back to their family. He simply nodded, grateful the cardinal’s anger had abated. Thankful that anger hadn’t reached the intensity it might have.
It was difficult to imagine the two men in the dressing room of the Grand Duke’s apartments had emerged from the same womb. Where Albert was tall and lean, understandably proud of his face and form, his brother hid the bulges caused by consuming too much food and wine beneath long flowing robes. He could not camouflage his pumpkin round face, however, though he tried with a fancifully curled wig.
Temperament and intelligence separated these men nearly as much as appearance. Yet they were united by blood. Sinzen reminded himself of this as he patted his brother’s cheek.
“You do know Albert that all this depends upon you. I depend upon you.”
Albert’s lower lip settled into a pout, but only for an instant. Then he nodded.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 31