Page 11 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

The heavy clouds could no longer contain their burden, and a moment later the first raindrop fell, and then another and another. The copse quivered with their soft vibrations, shrinking into a world of its own, containing only the two of them.

“Who are you?” she asked again, her voice dropping to the thinnest of whispers. A raindrop rolled down her cheek, tracing the shape of her face and ending at the corner of her parted lips. Pink lips, soft and inviting. What would it be like to hold a sunbeam in his arms? She was not his, and even less of his world, but he had to know. “What do you want from—”

She didn’t finish. He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him, and pressed his lips against hers. She was only stiff fora moment before she melted against him. His grasp was light enough that if she had wanted to pull away she could have. She did not pull away. She was warm, so warm. The perpetual chill of his blood when he was on land receded, a hunger he didn’t realize he possessed filled and sated.

They were so close to the canal; one good step back and he could have finally brought her down into the water and appeased his mother. But despite having her in his arms, he stayed rooted where he was. She was so trusting, so soft and yielding, her hands pressed lightly against his chest as if she were as helpless as he to stop. His body responded in a way that reminded him he was truly a man here on land. He could enjoy this kiss for now, enjoy the sensation of something good and pure. There would be time to fulfill his duty later.

But as the kiss deepened and she sighed against his lips, a little voice inside of him told him that he was only making it one hundredfold more difficult for himself.

In the time it took for a raindrop to fall, she had gone from angry, to scared, to helplessly enamored. This kiss bore little resemblance to Hendrik’s awkward gesture the day before. This kiss ran down her body like the trill in a bird’s song. It threw open windows, letting in golden light and illuminating every inch of her body. It made her want to hold him in her arms and never let go.

“I—I have to go,” Maurits said, drawing back. The air where he had been was cold and she felt off-balance, as if part of her had been ripped away.

His russet hair was tousled from the rain, his sea-green eyes clouding. But as much as he looked like a man transported, there was an urgency to his tone.

“Of course,” she said stiffly. She knew that she had sinned, had done something wicked and foolish that could only jeopardize her future, yet she couldn’t bring herself to feel the leastbit of remorse. For a few moments, she had known what it was to feel her heart race from something besides fear.

He turned to leave but hesitated, drawing close to her again. “You are careful never to go too close to the water, aren’t you?”

Until then, she had always been safe, heeding Helma’s and her parents’ warnings to stay far from the water’s edge. She nodded, but didn’t ask how he knew that. The drowsiness from the previous day had returned, rendering her senses fuzzy and dulled.

“Good. And Clara,” he added, cupping her face in his hands. “Take care. Not just near the water, but everywhere. I know you like to linger in the kitchen, but you mustn’t. Be wary of anyone who approaches you from the water. There’s...” He broke off, as if battling with himself for what to say. Cursing under his breath, he took a step back and ran his hand through his hair. “Just, take care. Please.”

Graceful as a cat, he hopped into the boat, giving her one last lingering glance filled with something like concern. Her cheeks cooled, and absently she brushed at her face, only to find a sheen of moisture where his hands had touched her. As she watched him push off in his boat and disappear around the bend in the canal, her senses gradually cleared and an uncomfortable realization spread over her: she was no closer to knowing who Maurits de Vis was than she had been before the kiss.

Chapter Eight

Clara sat lost in thought as Helma helped her out of her wet clothes. How delicious it was; clandestine meetings by the shady canal, out of sight from everyone but the birds and silver undersides of the leaves. And in less than two months she would be married, and there would be no risk of anyone being the wiser for her small foray into the world of love before marriage. So what if Maurits was not who he said he was? So what if she did not know if she would ever see him again? It was the excitement, the freedom, that mattered.

“I wouldn’t think getting soaked through to the bone would be cause for grinning,” Helma said as she rubbed a cloth over Clara’s wet hair.

“You have no imagination then,” Clara said lightly, coming out of her thoughts.

There was a knock at the door, and a moment later Lysbeth’s little freckled face appeared.

“Pardon, mistress, but something has come for you.”

Clara frowned, then darted a worried glance at Helma. Had Maurits sent her another orange? Then another, worse thought flickered through her mind: What if her parents had seen her with him? Before Clara could ask Lysbeth what it was, the maid disappeared, and then Piet the gardener and one of his men were coming in, bearing a wooden ship nearly as large as a casket between them.

Helma murmured in surprise, and Clara leapt up from her seat, the wet clothes all but forgotten. The ship was cannily carved, with everything from full sails to a row of cannons peeking out of the port side, and in the deck was tucked a note. “Well, what does it say?” Helma asked.

Clara unrolled it and read aloud. “?‘Your claim that the canal running through Wierenslot originated near my home was too tempting a proposition not to investigate. However, I feared a paper ship would not weather the journey, so I hope you will forgive a wooden substitute.’?”Blood rose to Clara’s face, and she had to force herself to voice the rest of the intimate words. “?‘I count the days until we are joined as man and wife, and I do not have to rely on such fancies to convey to you my deepest regards. With love and affection, Hendrik.’?”

When she looked up, Helma had wet eyes and Piet was shifting his weight, looking exceedingly uncomfortable. “Well, if that isn’t just the most romantic gesture I’ve ever seen,” Helma said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her shawl.

Goodness; Hendrik might have been a dreadful conversationalist, but he certainly had a way with the written word. Clara bent to inspect the ship replica again. Did he carve it himself? He must have been a very clever man. Perhaps her marriage might not be solely a means of escape, but an enjoyable enterprise in and of itself.

But when she lay in bed that night, waiting to drift off to sleep, it wasn’t Hendrik and his elaborate wooden ship of which she thought, but of the kiss she shared with Maurits, his lithe body flush against her own.

As it turned out, Hendrik did not have to rely on carved wooden ships to communicate with Clara.

The next day after breakfast, Theodor summoned Clara to his study. It was hard to walk through the echoing stone house and not glance out the windows to see if a magpie was waitingfor her with a fish in its beak, or if she could catch a glimpse of dark red hair. As Clara pushed open the heavy door, her heart beat in her throat. Why was he calling for her? Her father never sought her out. He must have discovered her assignation with Maurits and was informing her that the engagement was off. Her mother might beat her, but facing her father instilled more fear in Clara; he wielded the power to send her far away, or to give her over to the church.

“Yes, Papa?” she asked as she stood before his desk.

Her father gave her the briefest of glances before returning to his work. “Oh, Clara,” he said absently. “The merchant’s guild is hosting a banquet dinner, and Mr. Edema is going to be there. I would like for you to attend with me. It will be a good opportunity for you to be introduced as Mr. Edema’s betrothed, and I know how eager you are to please your new husband.”

A hiss of relief escaped Clara’s lips. Was that all? “Gladly, Papa,” she said. A dinner at the merchant’s guild was not exactly the most exciting prospect, but it was far better than being found out, and would provide a welcome distraction from her churning thoughts.

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