Chapter 23 #2
“A naked man is not the best at…hiding anything.”
Christine laughed softly, his words whispering against her neck. She felt the hairs rise, felt the chill that stroked her spine, made her squirm. Her imagination would not allow her to dismiss the sight of Tristan rising naked from the water. Glistening. Smooth. Strong.
“Swimming will relax you, especially in water this warm. It is like a giant bathtub. Try it…I will even leave the room if that is what concerns you.”
He will laugh when he learns the truth. He will make fun of me.
“I…cannot,” she repeated, “it is the water…I am…afraid.”
No laughter. No snort of ridicule.
“You cannot swim?” he asked.
“No. I never learned when I was a child. Then I lived at Gillray House, and it was too late. Once, I fell into a river near the house. I was running away. Trying to. I thought I was going to drown.”
Still no scorn. No jokes at her expense.
“Would you like me to teach you?” Tristan asked.
So surprised was she by his response that she turned to face him. He stood close enough that he could have kissed her simply by leaning his head forward a few inches. It made it easier to keep her eyes from straying where they should not. His eyes met and held hers.
I will not step back. I will not run away. You are to be my husband. I should be comfortable around you, even if it is a marriage of convenience.
“Am I supposed to be shocked?” she asked, breathless.
“By what?”
“By your nudity.”
“You did not knock, so I’ve had no opportunity to cover myself decently. Do you wish me to teach you to swim? So that you might take advantage of this pool whenever you wish?”
Christine bit her lip. She was tempted. Deeply tempted. The notion of being in the water with him. Even if he covered himself with a shirt. Of being held by him, her body supported while she…did whatever one does when learning to swim.
“Very well,” she whispered, “but cover yourself…please.”
Tristan’s smile was crooked and, finally, mocking.
“Should I blindfold you?” he asked.
“I will close my eyes.”
She did so and heard Tristan walk across the room. A moment later, he had reentered the water. When she opened them, he was covered from the neck down by the dark water.
“Are you decent?” she asked.
“I am wearing breeches beneath the water,” he said.
She looked around but could not see where he had left his clothes.
Cheeks flaming, she discarded her robe and cautiously sat on the stone edge of the pool.
Dipping her toes into the water was like getting into a bath.
The water was beautifully hot. She pushed forward, letting her feet and then her legs slip into the water, questing for the bottom.
She did not find it. Then her hands slipped, and she fell in, splashing through the surface and sinking several feet. Panic seized her, and she thrashed for a moment until she felt a strong arm around her waist, pulling her upwards.
“Put your feet down. This part of the pool is five feet at the most. Stand,” Tristan commanded.
His chest was hard against her back. His muscles were stone and his grip iron.
She felt absurdly safe, given how afraid she was of water that she could not see the bottom of.
That hold was so solid that she trusted it implicitly.
It would not slip. Would not weaken. She pushed her feet down and touched smooth stone.
Relief made her limbs weak as she stood, the water reaching her chest. Tristan stayed close, moving silently and gracefully through the water around her like a fish. His eyes were watchful. And hungry.
“Better?” he asked.
Christine wiped her hair from her face and nodded. “Much.”
Her nightdress was clinging to her breasts, the material rendered transparent. She saw his eyes locked on hers, never wavering. Never lowering. So, she did not scramble to cover herself. She stood there, chin lifted, nipples pressed against the flimsy material, breasts perfectly outlined.
“So, how do I avoid making a fool of myself like that again?” she asked.
Tristan grinned and reached out his hands. “Take my hands and let your legs float up behind you. They will do so naturally.”
Christine found this hard to believe, but she took his hands and lifted one leg. Then the other. Her body sank, and she fought to keep her head above water. It remained so and, to her amazement, her legs came floating up behind her.
“Now kick, gently up and down, from the hip.”
She did so, looking into Tristan’s eyes as he began to slowly move away from her. She clutched at his hands.
“I won’t let go,” he told her, “kick.”
She floated. Her body moved after him faster and faster, arms stretching out. He moved away from her until only her fingertips held onto his.
“Don’t let go!” she cried.
“It won’t make any difference. I’m not holding you up anyway,” Tristan said, then he shot away from her.
Terror seized her. She sensed he had drawn her into the deepest part of the pool, that the water was more than her own height deep. She kept kicking.
“Move your arms, like the paws of a dog. You’ve seen a dog swimming, haven’t you?”
Christine did so, and to her amazement, she stayed afloat. Water splashed her face, went up her nose, and into her mouth. Her nightdress clung to her and inhibited her movements. But she did not sink. In fact, she moved through the water towards him.
“That was a rotten trick!” she spluttered.
“You’re swimming, aren’t you?” Tristan laughed.
“Wait until I catch you!” Christine exclaimed.
Tristan laughed aloud and dove beneath the surface. She looked around for him, waiting for him to surface. The water calmed as though it had never been disturbed. The ripples of his dive faded away.
When he emerged, it was behind her, a hand tickling her stomach, an arm slipping around her waist. His embrace tightened, and as she spun to face him, he held her aloft, her stomach pressed against his.
Christine found herself looking down at him. His face seemed boyish with mischief. He truly was different in this, his domain, than he had been beyond Duskwood. She slapped his chest.
“Do not frighten me like that?” she said.
“Do not make it so easy,” Tristan retorted.
They bobbed in the water. Christine’s hands came to rest on his shoulders, fingers stroking the slick, wet skin. She touched his neck, then his chest. Her legs came to rest against his, and she realized that she could not feel the fabric of the breeches.
“You are wearing nothing at all!” she gasped.
“You found me out,” Tristan grinned, “but unless you put your head under the water, you will never know. So what harm is done,”
She gasped in outrage. “It is positively indecent.”
“Not for a married couple.”
“You get ahead of yourself. We are not married yet.”
“Almost.”
“And when we are, it will not be…in the fullest sense,” Christine reminded him.
A shadow fell across his face. She found herself caressing the frown from his features, wanting to see that mischievous smile again.
“Let us not speak of that,” Tristan said.
“We must. It is our reality.”
“Not here. In here, there is only us and the water. Everything else stops outside,” Tristan said, “that is my rule.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Christine said softly. “Are there any other rules I should be aware of?”
“Only one. And only for you.”
They came together mutually to kiss. Tristan supported her in the water, his body holding her up, pressed against her, strength and hardness against her soft vulnerability. He tipped her chin up and kissed her.
For Christine, it felt as though it were the fulfilment of a prophecy.
A moment she had awaited. A tension that had been building ever since she had learned, from him, how much pleasure could be born out of their bodies.
The kiss sparked a fire within her. They spun lazily in the water, Tristan keeping them both afloat.
Christine’s legs raised, and Tristan found the hem of her nightdress, lifting it up her pale legs as they entwined themselves about his hips.
Then Christine felt the urgent pressure of his manhood against her loins.
The evidence of his desire. She gasped as it was pressed between them, saw Tristan’s eyes widen, his lips part.
Christine tightened her grip on him and earned a gasp that could have been her name.
He sank into the water before recovering, rising up again.
His hands found her buttocks, explored her hips and her back, caressed her breasts.
They kissed feverishly. Christine felt Tristan’s hand grip the neck of her nightdress.
One hand only held the fabric taut and then ripped it as though it were a cobweb.
It split wetly, tearing down the middle. He kissed her breasts, taking each nipple between his teeth, one at a time, and sparking such feelings in Christine that she had never felt before. She felt like her blood had become fire. Her nerves alight with energy, spreading heat throughout her body.
The desire he ignited within her made her want to claim him, to pull him into her, to be one with him.
As her desire came alive, it was mirrored in his body.
She writhed, and he clutched. Feeling possessed by him awakened her even more, grasping at his shoulders, wanting more.
He found space between them and spread his hand over the flat of her stomach. Then lower.
He found the heart of her womanhood. Found, with expert precision, the part of her that she most wanted touched and was most afraid to be touched. To do so would be to erase a line that could not be redrawn. But then that line had been thoroughly erased beneath an oak tree at Greystone.
She whispered his name, burning from within. She spoke his name aloud and cried out to God. She was an inferno. She screamed his name as pleasure exploded within her and her limbs turned to water.