“Did you t-tear all of my garments?” she stammered, spying the ruined stays on the floor, and looking down at her ripped shift and casaquin.
Camdyn looked away, suddenly bashful. “It were the only way to get ye right again, lass. Ye’ll need new ribbon for yer… undergarment an’ all.” He took his dirk out of his boot. “I had to cut ‘em.”
“How did you know what was wrong with me? I wanted to tell you, but I had no breath to speak.” Her green eyes peered up at him with that same, sweet shyness.
He smiled. “I had a fine Sassenach lady tell me once, that all yer lot faint all over the place because of them laced things ye wear under yer clothes.”
“An English lady?” She frowned, as if she did not quite understand the word he had used.
He nodded. “Aye, English. Sassenach is what we call ye.”
“You knew someone like me, once?” She canted her head on the white silk cushion, bringing the blanket down to her neck. A glimpse of bare shoulder reminded Camdyn of what hid beneath that woolen shroud, and his heart thudded harder in his chest.
He turned his head to one side. “Aye, and I loved her like she were me own sister. Still do, though I haven’ae seen her in an age.” He let his eyes drift across the vividly colored liquids that Victoria kept on her endless shelves. “I think about ‘em often, but I cannae go back.”
“Why ever not?” she asked.
He shrugged. “That’ll be a tale for another day. For now, ye need yer soup and some rest. I’ll go and have a word with Genevieve; tell her ye will nae be seein’ nay more sicklin’ people today.”
“But I must!” He heard her sit up and bit the inside of his cheek so he would not steal a look.
“Nay, lass. It is nae happenin’. I know I dinnae have much say in this house, since it’s yers, but I will nae have it. Ye’re sick, and ye’re the one what needs takin’ care of, so that’s what I’m goin’ to do,” he replied firmly. “And if ye’ve a problem with that, ye can face Genevieve yerself.”
Victoria shrank back under the blanket. “Very well.”
“Will I fetch that robe thing that ye wear, on me way?” He swallowed uncomfortably, wishing they had met in a different place, at a different time, so he could lie against her on the chaise and feel her body respond to his touch. So he could kiss her, and caress her, and plunge into her silky heat at her insistence.
But I cannae do that, any more than I can go home.
She might not have been bad for an Englishwoman, but she was still an Englishwoman. And to lay with her would have been like trampling on the memory of all the men who fell at Culloden, and Falkirk, and all the battles before.
Victoria nodded. “Yes, thank you. I think Genevieve might take leave of her senses if she were to see me in such a state, having been coaxed back to life in a Scotsman’s arms.”
He turned and saw a mischievous glint in her emerald eyes. “Then I’ll be on me way. Don’t move ‘til I get back.” He drew himself away from her, the feel of her body seared into his skin. If he did not remove himself from her presence now, he feared that his desire to kiss her would get the better of him.
See, that was the trouble—forbidden fruit always tasted the sweetest.
Chapter 11
The next few days passed with a new air of awkward tension between Victoria and Camdyn, though he made no attempt to avoid her. A fact that she appreciated, though she still did not know what to make of his rescue. On the one hand, it shamed her to think she had been bare-breasted in front of him. On the other, she felt grateful that he had freed her from her stays. If he had not, she did not know what might have happened. Unconsciousness at best, asphyxiation at worst.
On the fourth day since his quick thinking, Victoria found herself walking alone in the gardens, thinking of that encounter. It being a Sunday, she did not have any patients to tend to, so she used the day as it was intended. To rest.
In truth, that terrifying afternoon had not been far from her mind, either in waking or in sleep. She feared it showed on her weary face, for she had taken to jolting awake throughout the night, after reliving that experience. Sometimes, it ended the same way. Sometimes, it did not end well. Sometimes, it ended… in a way that she did not dare to admit aloud, even to herself.
How did he know to encourage me to breathe in synchronicity with him?
He had mentioned knowing an English lady who had taught him about the restriction of stays, but he had not elaborated. By keeping the details to himself, it had inspired a bizarre sense of envy in her. True, he had also said he loved this mysterious woman like a sister, but she worried that he had only said that to spare her.
Although, why would he care what I thought? He has no reason to spare me, for he does not know that I think of him often. Moreover, he has had his life and his loves, as I have had mine… well, as I have had my marriage.
Now and again, throughout her union with her husband, she had looked at him across the drawing room, or the dining table, or at his sleeping face across a pillow on the rare occasions they coupled, and thought that she might love him. But the feeling usually faded as swiftly as it had come, especially when he used to turn his back on her and tell her she could go back to her own bedchamber.
“Would it have been any different if I had not married him?” she asked the foraging blackbirds and the winter-stark apple trees, as she headed for the orangery at the end of the garden. The day was sunny, despite a biting chill, and she knew the glass of the building would trap the heat.
The wind whistled its sad reply: No… you would only have been sold to another bidder.
For marriage in the world of England’s high society was little more than a cattle market. There was no room for love, unless a woman was exceptionally fortunate. It was all about costs and prices, and how to get the most in return.
And my empty womb would make me worthless, were I to put myself upon that marriage market again. Though my wealth might be tempting enough for some.
She supposed she could take a sliver of comfort from the fact that her husband had left everything to her when he died, so she could continue to live in luxury, and ensure her mother and sister were supported back in Dorset. But it also made her a target.
“I just want to go home,” she murmured, as she pulled open the screeching door of the orangery and stepped inside. A warm embrace enveloped her, as though the air itself felt sorry for her predicament.
And yet, part of the sentiment was untrue. Since Camdyn had appeared out of nowhere, she had not thought of home as often, and though they were currently a little tense around each other, she still found herself looking forward to seeing him in her personal study each morning. She had even allowed him to help with some of her healing treatments, particularly where a bone needed setting, or a shoulder needed to be wrenched back into place after dislocation.
“I do hope you are not watching me from the heavens, Edward.” She sat down on one of the wooden benches that followed the hexagonal shape of the windowed interior, and gazed up at the blue, near cloudless sky. “I imagine there would be thunder and lightning if you were.”
Her eye was drawn to a figure, making his way down the garden with a tray balanced on one hand. The very man she could not stop thinking about. He wore the same earthen-colored kilt and a loose cotton shirt that she had given him, the laces slightly undone at the collar.
There you are… My most dangerous patient yet.
Indeed, that had only become clearer after she had almost ceased to breathe because of him. Since then, she had insisted that Genevieve pull her stays less tight, lest it happen again.
She waited nervously as he approached, her heart pattering frantically in her chest, while her stomach churned with unruly butterflies. She wished she could inspire her body to be unaffected by him, but it had been so long since a man had held her in any fashion, and longer still since she had been undressed by one. As such, she lacked any control whatsoever over what her body decided to do.
&nbs
p; “Good afternoon to ye, lass,” Camdyn said brightly, setting the tray down on a central table of smooth silver birch. “Genevieve thought ye might be thirsty, so I brought us some tea. Cannae say I like the stuff, but it’s cold out and it’s good to warm yer cockles.”
Victoria nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
“Am I intrudin’ on ye?” He did not sit, as though he was not sure if he ought to.
Do I send him away or do I let him stay?
Her foolish heart said one thing, her stubborn mind said another. In the end, her heart won out.
“No, not at all. Please, sit and join me.” She eyed the tray. “After all, you went to the effort of bringing two teacups.”
He lowered himself onto the bench, a polite distance away. “Actually, I’ve a bit of an ulterior motive for comin’ out here.”
She gulped. “You do?”
“Aye, I just wanted to make sure we were… all right, after the other day. No hard feelins, and that sort of thing,” he replied quietly. “I ken ye were in a vulnerable situation, and I hope ye dinnae think less of me for doin’ what I did.”
His honesty surprised her. “Of course not,” she blurted out. “I would have been in a far worse situation if you had not acted so quickly. I have acted similarly with ladies who could not breathe for the same reason. The only difference is, you are a man, and I am a woman.”
“Aye, I’d noticed that.” He chuckled, sending a flush of warmth up her neck.
“I do not think there is anything to be ashamed of where human bodies are concerned,” she insisted, though it was not entirely true for herself. “Beneath our attire, all women have the same anatomy, just as all men do. Once upon a time, we would have wandered the land as naked as babes, and no one would have flinched. Our bodies have not changed. It is society and propriety that has.”
Camdyn raised an eyebrow. “Careful now. Ye’re almost soundin’ like a Scot.”
“Perhaps I am beginning to feel like a Scot. I have been here for so long, it should not be so surprising that the land has left its mark on me,” she replied defiantly.
He nodded vaguely. “Aye, I suppose nae.”
They sat in stilted silence for a few moments, before Victoria could not endure it any longer. Leaning across to the table, she poured out two cups of tea and handed one to Camdyn. He sniffed it as though it were poison, before taking a hesitant sip.
“I should’ve brought out some whisky instead,” he lamented. “Nothin’ warms ye so quick as a dram of that.”
Victoria rose from the bench without a word and went to a small cabinet at the back of the orangery. Crouching low, she took out a dusty bottle of Speyside malt that her husband had stowed here for when he and his fellow supporters of George II had sought amusement outside. She blew away the cobwebs and removed the stopper, tipping a small amount into her teacup before offering the bottle to Camdyn.
He took it and dropped some into his own teacup. Gingerly, he sipped it, and a pleased smile stretched across his deeply bowed lips. “Ach, that’s better. I might find meself a tea drinker after all.”
“Do not tell Genevieve. She is not devout, but she does like to abide by the rules of the Sabbath,” Victoria warned.
“What about ye?”
She shrugged. “I feel somewhat rebellious today. It has been a lengthy week, and I imagine I have earned this after brushing so close to death.”
“If ye got a dram every time ye brushed with death, I’d be downin’ bottles of the stuff.” He cracked another smile, but there was sadness in his eyes. A haunted expression, that Victoria knew must carry the weight of so many battlefields and ghosts of dead men behind it.
“You must have lost many friends,” she said tentatively. Warfare had always been a forbidden topic of conversation with Edward, her husband, who had not thought it suitable for a woman’s ears. Then again, he had not thought healing to be a suitable practice for a woman’s hands, either, but she had done it in secret anyway. Only after his death had she begun to treat patients without fear of him finding out.
Camdyn cradled his teacup between his hands, dwarfing it. “Aye.”
“Do you have anyone waiting for you at home?” She switched the subject slightly, sensing his reluctance to answer the first question. “I would be more than willing to allow you to write a letter to your loved ones, or I could write one for you, if you do not know how.”
He snorted. “I ken how to write, lass. I used to be a secretary back home. Did it for years, for Laird Young and then his wife, Bernadine. Kept the castle runnin’ as it ought.” He took a deep sip of his tea. “Did it right up ‘til I left to join the cause ten years ago. Spent a decade as a secretary, a decade as a warrior.”
“You were a secretary?” She could not hide her shock. He certainly did not look like any secretary she had ever seen, though she only had her husband’s for reference. Terrence March had been a weaselly, stuffy creature with a drawling voice that could send even the most wayward child to sleep, and a very high opinion of himself. As soon as Edward had died, he had taken his leave of the house, saying he would not denigrate himself by serving a mere Countess.
He nodded, his lips curving up in a half-smile. “Ye might want to put some of that oil from yer study down yer ears.”
“I did not expect it, that is all,” she protested. “I have only had bad experiences with secretaries.”
His eyes met hers. “Am I the exception?”
“I am yet to decide,” she replied, her tone more flirtatious than she had intended. As such, she did not wish to linger too long with her words in the air. “And who are these people—Laird Young and Bernadine?”
“Good people. Laird Donnan Young gave me an opportunity when I were a scrap of a boy, and he gave me a second chance when I dinnae deserve one.” He returned his gaze to his tea, and added another drop of whisky.
Victoria frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“I were helpin’ smugglers get malt into the country. Well, I say I were helpin’—they had me by me nether regions, so I couldn’ae refuse.” His expression darkened at the memory. “They held me family captive and said they wouldnae free ‘em ‘til I’d done enough smugglin’ to satisfy. I dinnae tell Laird Young about it, but he caught me, malt in hand, more or less. He got it all out of me, then mounted a counterattack.”
Victoria gasped. “What happened?”
“Him and his men snagged the smugglers, but they were only the grunts. When the leader found out—this nasty fella by the name of Marcus Payne—he came to the castle to try and stab Lady Bernadine with his dirk. She were with child an’ all.” His knee jigged up and down, as if he were nervous. “Anyway, to cut a long story short, I figured out what he were tryin’ to do and smashed his face into the sucklin’ pig. He got carted away to the dungeons, but he ruined the pig. It were a juicy-lookin’ one an’ all.”
Victoria did not know whether to laugh or feel aghast. “You saved Lady Bernadine?”
“Aye, and I got a bit of coin out of it, too. There were a bounty on Marcus’ head, and I got it for wreckin’ the sucklin’ pig.” He shrugged. “It kept me family in grain and meat for a time, and I put what I’d saved into the rebellion, but coin runs out. Always does.”
Victoria felt a small stab of guilt, for she had yet to run out of the fortune that Edward had left her. “Do you have much in the way of family?”
“It’s me blessin’ and me curse to be surrounded by women,” he replied, relaxing a touch. “Got me a ma, a nan, three sisters, and more aunts and uncles than ye can shake a stick at. Those what are still livin’, anyway. A few joined the cause, like me, and… I dinnae ken what happened to ‘em. I might never ken.”
“Is that not all the more reason to write to them?” Victoria urged. Though she had no children of her own, she knew she would have been out of her mind with worry if she had a brother, a son, or a father out there fighting, and heard no word of how he was.
He shook his head. “I cannae go back, la
ss. I told ‘em I’d come back victorious. I cannae go back a failure, with a warrant on me back.”
“Perhaps when animosities have subsided?” She held back the subtle flicker of relief that had ignited in her breast. Not knowing when he might leave had been a matter of unpleasant anticipation for her, but now that he had confessed that he would not be returning home, she allowed hope to bloom that he might stay.
Camdyn’s eyes narrowed. “They will nae subside, lass. That Hanover usurper will nae rest ‘til he’s got all of us Jacobites in the ground. Otherwise, he’ll live in fear of another uprisin’, and kings dinnae like to feel afraid.”
“I suppose I have more faith in the negotiations of men than I ought to,” Victoria confessed. “I decided, a long time ago, that I would not allow the politics of lords and kings and generals to affect me, but perhaps that has made me naïve.”
Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 9