Free Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) by Shirl Henke

through hers, pulling her down alongside him. “Laugh at me, will you, wench?”
           Beth started to sputter, but the humor of their situation got the better of her and she joined his rumbling bass chuckle. Then, suddenly, the amusement faded as they stared into each other's eyes. With his index finger he painted a yellow line from the tip of her nose around her lips, then down the column of her neck to the swell of her breasts.
           “Mmm, I've never used mud for this...works as good as oil, I'd wager...” he murmured as he continued caressing her with his fingertips.
           Beth closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the tingling sensations his clever fingers aroused, but the bleating of goats and the chiding voices of the farm women and their customers quickly broke the spell. “You're covered with milk and mud,” she said, realizing at once how idiotically obvious that was.
           “And you?” he countered with a grin.
           “Thanks to you. I was helping you and look what you did.”
           “You were laughing at me and look what I did.” He got gingerly to his feet and pulled her up after him, ignoring the titters and smirks of the locals, who mouthed the word amore frequently as they watched the young foreign couple with amusement.
           “We'd best wash this stuff off before we draw flies—or worse yet, harden like statuary. I have a large tub at my apartments,” he offered.
           “I have a better idea. Our day's outing isn't over yet,” she replied. After sending Jacomo home with her morning's shopping, Beth took Derrick's hand and said, “Come with me.”
           “I plan to,” he murmured under his breath.
           She tried to ignore the frisson of heat deep in her belly as they walked back into the maze of narrow streets. At length they emerged near the waterfront again, in the district where fishermen made their homes. The smell of sulfur wafted on the warm morning air, blending with the ripe odors of the bay. A large plaza opened out on the quay, with a series of fountains spilling from one to another down the hill. Water gushed from the largest one at the top, giving off a smell that suggested it would be brown as sewage but was clear as crystal.
           “What is that stink?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
           “Tis the mineral waters. They come from underground springs. People travel from all over Europe to partake of them, drink them and bathe in them for good health.”
           “Drink and bathe in it? It reeks of rotten eggs...of sulfur.”
           “Come, don't be such an Englishman,” she said, pulling him down the hill to the largest of the series of circular stone tanks holding the overflow of water from the fountain at the top of the hill.
           “You make that sound as if all Englishmen are imbeciles.”
           She shrugged as she sat on the low lip of the fountain and swung her legs over into the water. “Sometimes you are. Take the matter of the war you foisted on my coun-try.”
           “I foisted nothing on your country. I'm a pacifist at heart.”
           She gave him a measuring look. “Odd, but I find that difficult to believe. You look quite the warrior when you're angry,” she said.
           “I'm a lover, not a warrior,” he replied, watching in fascination as she submerged herself beneath the lapping water. Her unbound hair floated on top, a deep ruby curtain. All around them men and women sat in the water, unconcerned with their drenched clothing. Children, wearing none, splashed and squealed in delight. But Derrick was oblivious to everyone else when Beth stood up. Her thin cotton skirt and blouse clung almost translucently to her body. “God, you're magnificent,” he whispered hoarsely.
           “Plunge in, Derrick,” she invited.
           “I intend to, m'dear, I intend to,” he murmured. He stepped into