be one she’d hold dear night after night after night.
* * *
F ive Years Earlier
Devonshire
Water nymphs were supposed to be the very devil. Troublesome. Mischievous. Capable of dragging a man quite willingly to his watery death. The young woman reclining back on her elbows in the bottom of one of his father’s rowboats was all those things and. . . More.
She was simply more. More than any other person he had ever known. His world was full of empty headed people who said what was supposed to be said when it was supposed to be said. One ongoing routine or set out play that could only be delineated from the pain of death or social ostracism.
She was different from everything he had ever known. From her long, blonde, tangled hair which hung unfashionably far down beyond her waist, to her witty, sharp, blue eyes, to her body. . . Her lush body virtually visible to him through the thin, wet linen. God, he could lose himself in her body.
The soft line of her white throat descended to fragile collarbones and then down to breasts not too large. Almost small really. But they were taut and the nipples, soft pink through the white fabric, were hard. She did nothing to hide them from him.
It was impossible.
Mad even.
Everything about her suggested she wasn’t a woman of bad reputation, except for this patent display of femininity. Garret couldn’t fathom it, but he was quickly losing himself moment by moment to the girl before him. He had to stop this line of thought. This need to take her with him and never let her go for fear he would lose this completely foreign feeling of freedom and simultaneous captivity.
“Do you often do that?” he asked, his own voice rough to his ears.
She tilted her head to the side, her wet locks falling over shoulder. “Do what exactly?”
“The Lady of Shalot bit?” he said unintelligently, but his brain didn’t seem to be functioning in a normal pattern. It kept wondering, if he looked down her body, would he see the soft shadow of curls at the apex of her thighs?
She hesitated then laughed, clearly at herself. “Yes.”
“Indeed?” surprise ripened in his voice. He hadn’t played games of make believe since he was very small.
“You don’t? Imagine things?” she asked, surprise mirrored in her own lovely clear tones.
Once he’d been sent down to school, such things had been discouraged. Sons of dukes did not go charging after imaginary dragons. Though apparently they did save drowning maidens. “No. No, I don’t.”
She eyed him slowly, her eyes traveling carefully over his face and then his shoulders, his chest, and then back to his eyes as if she had seen the promised land.
“Pity,” she breathed softly.
“Why?” He was genuinely curious. Curious at her gaze. At her demeanor. And hanging on every fascinating word this bizarre young woman uttered.
“Well,” she began simply, “the imaginary world is so much better than this one.” Her eyes darkened a little with sadness, but then they sparkled. “I don’t always play the Lady of Shalot, you know. She’s far too tragic for every day. But the weather was fine and I came upon this lake and there was the boat, and I said to myself, ah Camelot!”
He glanced away from her for a moment, half expecting to see Arthur’s castle towering somewhere in the distance. “Another tragic story really.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He glanced down at the pond, his heart pounding at the knowledge that if he had not come along, she, like her clothes, would now be floating at the bottom of the serene water. “Love affairs always seem to go wrong in the ballads.”
She laughed, a lush deep sound that was nothing at all like a bell. “That’s because tragic ending are the best.”
“Hardly,” he said amused by her sense of drama, his eyes turning back to her hypnotic face. “You wouldn’t have liked to drown?”
“Definitely not.” There was a long pause, her breath clearly hitched in her
* * *
F ive Years Earlier
Devonshire
Water nymphs were supposed to be the very devil. Troublesome. Mischievous. Capable of dragging a man quite willingly to his watery death. The young woman reclining back on her elbows in the bottom of one of his father’s rowboats was all those things and. . . More.
She was simply more. More than any other person he had ever known. His world was full of empty headed people who said what was supposed to be said when it was supposed to be said. One ongoing routine or set out play that could only be delineated from the pain of death or social ostracism.
She was different from everything he had ever known. From her long, blonde, tangled hair which hung unfashionably far down beyond her waist, to her witty, sharp, blue eyes, to her body. . . Her lush body virtually visible to him through the thin, wet linen. God, he could lose himself in her body.
The soft line of her white throat descended to fragile collarbones and then down to breasts not too large. Almost small really. But they were taut and the nipples, soft pink through the white fabric, were hard. She did nothing to hide them from him.
It was impossible.
Mad even.
Everything about her suggested she wasn’t a woman of bad reputation, except for this patent display of femininity. Garret couldn’t fathom it, but he was quickly losing himself moment by moment to the girl before him. He had to stop this line of thought. This need to take her with him and never let her go for fear he would lose this completely foreign feeling of freedom and simultaneous captivity.
“Do you often do that?” he asked, his own voice rough to his ears.
She tilted her head to the side, her wet locks falling over shoulder. “Do what exactly?”
“The Lady of Shalot bit?” he said unintelligently, but his brain didn’t seem to be functioning in a normal pattern. It kept wondering, if he looked down her body, would he see the soft shadow of curls at the apex of her thighs?
She hesitated then laughed, clearly at herself. “Yes.”
“Indeed?” surprise ripened in his voice. He hadn’t played games of make believe since he was very small.
“You don’t? Imagine things?” she asked, surprise mirrored in her own lovely clear tones.
Once he’d been sent down to school, such things had been discouraged. Sons of dukes did not go charging after imaginary dragons. Though apparently they did save drowning maidens. “No. No, I don’t.”
She eyed him slowly, her eyes traveling carefully over his face and then his shoulders, his chest, and then back to his eyes as if she had seen the promised land.
“Pity,” she breathed softly.
“Why?” He was genuinely curious. Curious at her gaze. At her demeanor. And hanging on every fascinating word this bizarre young woman uttered.
“Well,” she began simply, “the imaginary world is so much better than this one.” Her eyes darkened a little with sadness, but then they sparkled. “I don’t always play the Lady of Shalot, you know. She’s far too tragic for every day. But the weather was fine and I came upon this lake and there was the boat, and I said to myself, ah Camelot!”
He glanced away from her for a moment, half expecting to see Arthur’s castle towering somewhere in the distance. “Another tragic story really.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He glanced down at the pond, his heart pounding at the knowledge that if he had not come along, she, like her clothes, would now be floating at the bottom of the serene water. “Love affairs always seem to go wrong in the ballads.”
She laughed, a lush deep sound that was nothing at all like a bell. “That’s because tragic ending are the best.”
“Hardly,” he said amused by her sense of drama, his eyes turning back to her hypnotic face. “You wouldn’t have liked to drown?”
“Definitely not.” There was a long pause, her breath clearly hitched in her
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