Page 26 of The Damsel
She imagined that this must be what death felt like. The part after one took their last breath, at least. She supposed dying itself would be rather painful. But then … there might be this. Darkness, quiet, a body that was lighter than air. No pain, no despair, no fear. No rage. Simply her, water, and the dark.
Her lungs burned, her throat clenching as her body began to fight against the submersion. Yet, she continued to let herself sink, testing her own resolve. She often contemplated letting go; taking in a long breath and filling herself with water until she choked on it, discovering if her theory about what lay beyond death proved true.
But, whenever she reached the point at which she must take a breath or die, the primal instinct toward survival urged her to fight. And so, she kicked her arms and legs, propelling herself upward, back toward life. Breaching the surface, she released the breath she’d been holding and dragged in a fresh one, tasting and smelling it all so much clearer than before she’d gone under.
When she pushed wet tendrils of sopping hair out of her eyes, it was to find the pink and orange rays of dawn bursting forth on the horizon.
She swam toward land and hoisted herself free, the chilled air of the morning biting at her wet skin. Her nightgown still clung to her, but no longer from the remnants of a painful dream. She didn’t feel the pain, orhim, anymore. Their air prickled her arms and legs, pebbled her nipples, caressing her legs as she walked up the bank. Then there was the warmth of her dressing gown as she pulled it on and held it closed over her body.
Sliding her feet back into her slippers, she trudged back toward the home—reborn, and renewed.
Chapter 5
Robert tramped through the woods bordering Briarwell and Easton Park, taking his time to avoid the snare of protruding roots. He peered through the trees and through the dark night, searching for the familiar property on the outer edge of the neighboring estate. He knew the lands as well, having spent countless summers running through these very trees, chasing a ribbon of vibrant, auburn hair. As children, Daphne and Robert had been the best of friends, with Bertram rounding things out quite nicely. In the years after his brothers had gone off to school, Robert had reveled in their companionship, glad to have children his own age with which to play.
Catch me, Robert, catch me!
Daphne would run barefoot through these woods, her giggles floating on the breeze. The games hadn’t gone away as they grew older—they’d only changed. They had gone from a trio, wading in streams and throwing stones, to a twosome—he and Daphne sneaking away from her brother. The transition from girl and boy to woman and man had altered everything between them, and the need for privacy became paramount to exploring the differences in their bodies, in their feelings toward one another.
Catch me, Robert, had turned into,Kiss me, Robert, Daphne’s voice deepening from a girlish chirp to a sensual purr.
As he tread the familiar ground, he could swear he still heard her voice, could still see that streak of red hair just ahead. The memories didn’t hurt as much as they had four months ago, though they did leave a bitter taste in his mouth. For years he’d pursued her thinking all his waiting and longing would eventually come to an end. It had been part of the game—her slowing down enough that he could overtake her, laughing when swept her off her feet.
Reality had been nothing like the game, and Daphne hadn’t slowed for him. She’d dashed headlong into someone else’s arms, leaving him to put the pieces of his shattered heart back together.
The irony of his current position wasn’t lost on him. He walked through these woods where Daphne haunted him, in search of a different woman. Or rather, in search of confirmation. He’d accompanied his mother on a visit to a neighbor’s home for tea this afternoon and heard gossip stating Lady Cassandra Lane had settled in into the dower house at Easton Park. His pulse had raced at the mention of her name, the news that she was near enough for him to walk to her making his mouth go dry. Since he’d first heard the news of her imminent arrival, he’d thought of little else. He’d spent hours contemplating her reasons for leaving London, and the possibilities that her nearness could present.
Despite knowing he was foolish to think she’d even care—she had ended their night together by walking away without looking back, as promised—here he was. After lying abed for hours trying to sleep, he’d found himself too restless, his thoughts overrun by Cassandra. Even when he closed his eyes and began drifting off, memories of her tormented him—her scent and taste, the tight clench of her around him, the wide-eyed shock that had transformed her face the moment she’d reached climax.
Not that his thoughts were entirely comprised of erotic memories. There had been her admission that no one had touched her since Bertram, the haunted look in her eyes as she’d given him that secret, the words seeming to come out against her will. Had she repeated the experience again with someone else? Had she chosen other men the way she’d chosen him, tying them up, hurting them, fucking them into oblivion?
He’d gritted his teeth, his mind rebelling at the notion, even as he realized how ridiculous it was to be jealous. Especially considering he’d tried to capture the intensity of their coupling with whores before giving up entirely. His failure meant that no one else could please him the way she had.
But, she had made him no promises, given him no indication she’d wanted anything more than his cock for that one night.
Yet, here he was, walking toward her new home just for a glimpse, for any sign that she was here, close enough to … to what? What would he do once he found her again? Tell her she’d ruined him for other women, beg her for more?
He’d had no clear motive when hurriedly dressing and tiptoeing through the house, praying he wasn’t heard, slipping out a servant’s entrance to make his way across the estate grounds. He only knew he couldn’t deny the pull of something inside him toward that dower house, toward her.
Reaching the place where the woods opened into a little glen with a pond at its center, he paused, a flash of movement catching his eye. The swish of a white nightgown drew his eye, a brilliant splash against the dark of night.
It was her, he realized as he ducked behind a tree, peering out from behind it to watch her. She’d come to the water in only the thin garment, seeming not to feel the cold. Her hair hung in a riotous mess of curls down her back, her skin glowing pale in the light of the moon. She moved toward the pond like a ghost, her feet barely touching the ground as if she floated instead of walked. Looking like something out of a dream, she paused on the bank, arms raised high over her head as if trying to reach Heaven. From this distance, he could not make out all her features, but he imagined she had closed her eyes. She’d be serene, her bared arms broken out in goose bumps as the air caressed her skin with icy fingers.
She held his rapt attention as she began to move again, that ethereal grace carrying her into the pond. He shivered against the cold, imagining that the water must sting like the devil with nothing more than the protection of a flimsy scrap of cotton. Yet, she showed no sign of discomfort, walking toward the center of the pond, the white gown beginning to pool around her legs in an undulating cloud.
His mouth fell open, his grip tightening around the trunk of the tree as he realized she did not seem inclined to stop. He knew this pond, had swum in it many summers with Daphne and Bertram. A few more steps, and she would drop off into the deep center with nowhere to plant her feet. Seeming oblivious to this, she kept going, the water now up to her belly, lapping under her breasts.
A vise clenched his throat as he lumbered out of his hiding place right before she fell out of sight, the tips of her fingers the last bit of her he saw. He held his breath, waiting for her to reappear on the surface with a splash and a gasp. She wouldn’t have walked into the pond without being able to swim … would she?
His heart pounded against his ribs, seeming desperate to leap free of his chest. His held breath made his lungs burn while he counted the seconds. Five, then ten, and twenty. Panic overwhelmed him when thirty seconds passed without so much as a splash on the surface, the water like a dark sheet of ice.
“Cassandra!” he bellowed, bursting through the trees and stripping off his greatcoat as he dashed to the water’s edge.
He gave no thought to how cold the water would be as he tossed the garment aside and went splashing into the pond. Her ankle must be caught in the reeds that grew along the bottom, or her body convulsing and jerking as she drowned, lungs filling with water. There was no time to take off his shirt or his boots, no time to think of anything but her as he dove, fumbling about in the dark for a limb, a lock of hair, any part of her he could latch onto. Even with his eyes open, he could see nothing in the dark water, not a flash of the nightgown or a flailing limb. There seemed to be nothing except darkness and silence, leading him to wonder if he’d imagined it.
He went back up for a breath, swiping water out of his eyes and gazing about to ensure she hadn’t resurfaced on her own. No sign of her, so he plunged again.
He wasn’t mad, and he hadn’t been seeing things. She was here— she had to be.
