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She shivered so violently she thought he would laugh at her again, but he didn’t. His arms came around her back, rubbing her wet skin to warm her, his touch so infinitely intimate now that they were both wet and dripping. He did not falter when she gasped. He held her more tightly against himself, but his chest was heaving with big breaths as if he were panting.
“I’m sorry I left you here in the water. I won’t leave you again,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.” A curse escaped him. “Your dress is drenched. With your hair all long and wet, plastered all over your, you look—”
“Unladylike, I know.”
“No.”
It was him who started shaking uncontrollably now. He swayed against her, and they both stumbled back, the water coming up to their knees, but she did not feel the cold.
The heat of Laurie’s body pressed against hers was spreading a fire in her body. Burning her from within. Another ripple wiped over her knees, water splashing up to her waist, but she barely felt it. Laurie’s hands were still around her waist, holding her in place, so that she wasn’t swept in.
“You look like a romantic heroine,” he said in a voice that was warm and decadent. “A magical one. An ethereal one, one that’s merely worshiped by humans. You look like one of those tragic heroines from a story. You look like you should be carried in a man’s strong arms, away from danger.”
She wanted to tell him to stop saying things like that, but all she could do was shiver.
“Like the ones in those half-penny melodramatic gothic serials you love so much,” he said.
“You mean the Lavinia Violette ones.”
She and Laurie had been reading her serials religiously like a pair of schoolgirls. Everyone called them overly dramatic and silly, but they did not care. The stories were full of suspense and romance and tragedy, and Jo and Laurie were waiting every week for the next installment, with bated breath, to find out if the heroine would live or die or get imprisoned in a tower or devoured by a vampire. They were silly—they were glorious. Thetonwould never admit it, but every single person, from a princess to a pauper, read Lavinia Violette’s tragic romances religiously. They were the most wide-spread half-penny serials in England.
And now, to be compared to one of these heart-stoppingly beautiful women—? Women who were so heroic, gorgeous, kind, brave… just soworthythat they were not even real, they were fictional. And by Laurie, of all people?
“I do mean the Lavinia Violette ones,” Laurie said.
“These women do not exist—no one is like those heroines.”
“You are.” Laurie’s voice was a veritablerasp. “Those absurd overdramatic abominations that should never have circulated in polite society.”
“Hey! You love them too!”
“I do, God help me,” Laurie’s laugh was half-sob. “I love your voice when you read them to me more than the actual story, but ifyouwere to write them—then I’m sure I would adore them. You are a much better writer than that Lavinia person, whoever she is.”
“She is a genius,” Jo said stubbornly.
Yes, the stories might be absurdly dramatic and inappropriate, but, oh, they were absurdly romantic too. Absurdly beautiful. They made one feel as if love and loss were real—they made one feel seen. Less alone. If she could write like that herself, holding the very soul of the reader in the palm of her hand with her words, toss it this way or that, break every single bone and then restore it back to life—she would die happy.
Laurie was scoffing, but he was not moving away. Had she thought the water frigid? She was burning now, burning from the inside out, her very skin on fire as it touched every hard plane and sharp angle of his long body. She was pressed against him, wearing nothing but a waterlogged threadbare nightgown—and somehow, this was even more terrifying to her than if she had been wearing absolutely nothing.
“She writes of mermaids and faeries,” Laurie was saying into her ear, his powerful arms bulging as he lifted her across his chest, out of the painful touch of the water. “Yet you are a real mermaid now, in my arms, foam on your gown, water sprayed on your curls. A thing made of beauty and wildness. How can someone be so entirely breathtaking and not know it? And you are nothing like those insipid misses of the ton either—the ones who pass for great beauties. You have an actual treasure in here.” He pointed to her forehead, then brushed away a wet piece of hair that was plastered to her temple. She trembled at his touch. “You are a goddess. An authoress. A sword-master. A marvel. Jo, you are everything. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
She tried to speak—couldn’t.
Tried to swallow—air went the wrong way. She choked.
Laurie held her, waiting. He wasn’t laughing now. His chest rose and fell as he embraced her shoulders from behind, like he used to do; she felt his breath against her back. His body surrounded her, keeping her safe. Keeping her adrift.
“I-I certainly could not write stories like Lavinia Violete’s,” she stammered finally.I guess now is a good a time as any to talk about books. My mind has finally gone.“I know nothing about love. How would I know? I… I’ve never even been kissed.”
Laurie froze. His body went rock hard, and his breath caught. She could not see him, as he held herfrom behind like that, but she could feel him go utterly still.
“What, never?” he murmured.
The burning in her skin turned into an agonizing fire, melting her. The tone of his voice was pure agony and hunger, melded into one. If she were to turn around now and face him, she would not be able to withstand this heat any more. She would turn to ash. She was sure of it.
“What do you think?” she murmured back. “Who would I ever ha—?”
The words died on her lips, as he turned her around to face him. He took a moment to take her shoulders in his hands, look deeply into her eyes, his own piercing blue, burning bright like two moons, and ask her a silent question. She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, barely able to breathe.
