Too Dangerous to Desire

by Cara Elliott

  “You’ll hear no argument from me. There is just one thing before you ride off.” Sophie moved to stand between Cameron and his horse. “I’ve been thinking it over, and seeing as we are, for better or for worse, partners in this affair, I’ve decided it’s only fair that we pool all our information. So I really must insist that you tell me what clue you are seeking.”

  The demand provoked a frown. “There are certain things you do not need to know.”

  “That,” she said slowly, “is perhaps the most odious, insufferable, condescending remark you have ever made to me.”

  “I’m simply trying to protect you from the sordid details—”

  “Protect me from the sordid details?” Her voice rose of its own accord. “That’s a little like trying to close the barn door after the horses have galloped away. Have you forgotten that I’m already so deeply submerged in this muck that it’s nearly clogging my nostrils?”

  The furrow between his brows deepened.

  Sensing his indecision, Sophie went on, “I want to be more than…a pleasure partner in your bed, Cam. A fleeting dalliance to be tucked away on a shelf whenever it suits your purposes.”

  He shifted his stance, his boots scraping against the rocks.

  “I don’t expect you to recite sentimental poetry or declare your undying love,” she said. “But I do expect you to treat me as an equal.” Her gaze locked with his. “And a comrade-in-adventure. After all, we’ve been through some horrible scrapes together, and I think I deserve that respect. Haven’t I proved my mettle?”

  His lashes lowered, hiding his eyes from scrutiny. Evasive and elusive, Cameron was like a spectral Underworld wraith, a quicksilver shadow, always twisting and turning away from the light.

  For a long, long moment, the morning sounds of the breeze and the birdsong fluttered in cheerful oblivion to the tension between them. Sophie held her breath, waiting, waiting. A look, a gesture might break the one bond between them that truly mattered.

  Yes or no. She was either a true friend or passing fancy.

  A grunt—or perhaps it was a growl—finally rose in his throat. “Here I thought myself the master of manipulation. And yet, your tongue is far more clever than my fingers.” Cameron didn’t appear happy about having to make the admission. “I fear I am making a mistake. But then, my life has been ruled by so many lapses in judgment that I suppose it’s only fitting.”

  “Hardly a vote of confidence, but thank you nonetheless,” murmured Sophie. “Now, seeing as time is of the essence, go ahead and tell me about the clue without further ado.”

  He blew out a harsh breath. “I wish to find out more about the line of succession regarding Wolcott’s title. The present marquess has no brothers—no legitimate brothers—and his only son is but a lad of seven.”

  “How does that relate to Dudley’s blackmail?” she asked.

  “I don’t know that it does,” Cameron admitted. “But there were several letters on Wolcott’s desk from Frederick Morton, which raised some interesting questions. The connection between them appears to be closer than I thought.”

  Wolcott and Morton.

  Was it merely the rustling of the leaves that gave the words a sinister sound?

  Sophie was quick to understand the implications of his words. “If Morton were next in line for the title after Lord Wolcott and any male offspring he might have,” she asked, “then you think that they might conspire to ensure that the boy they know as Cameron Fanning can never step in with proof that he supersedes Morton’s claim.”

  “Wolcott considers me a pollution of his precious lordly blood, and Morton is not the sort of man who would yield the chance of inheriting a title and a fortune with good grace.” The serpent earring in Cameron’s ear seemed to spark as it twisted in the breeze. “They are, by your account, on cordial enough terms that Morton is invited to visit the manor. Just how deep the friendship goes is worth investigating.”

  “Do be careful, Cam.” A platitude, she knew, yet it slipped out before she could think better of it.

  The cynical curl of his mouth grew more pronounced. “I’m always careful, Sunbeam. That does not mean I don’t take risks—rewards are rarely won without them. However, the Hellhounds are known for having a knack of turning the odds in their favor.”

  “Would that you didn’t have to take such a terrible gamble,” Sophie whispered.

  “In a few short weeks, your father will be accused of embezzling from the Church,” he replied bluntly. “A charge that will ruin your family’s reputation and destroy any chance of your sisters making a good marriage. So erring on the side of prudence is not a choice.”

  “I know.” Her throat was dry as the dead leaves underfoot. “I know.”

  Moving around her, Cameron untied his horse’s reins from a low-hanging tree branch. “All of life is a gamble, Sophie. The game calls for sharp wits and canny wiles.” The leather suddenly looped around her waist and drew her close. “And a sweet embrace from Lady Luck.”

  “I hope you don’t kiss Her with such ardor,” she said, a little breathless when finally he released her lips.

  “You need not fear that another might steal my heart. If I had one, it would be yours.” The slivered shadows of the leaves made his expression even more inscrutable than ever.

  Yet another warning, an oblique reminder that danger was not just physical.

  “In other words, a pirate cannot afford to be weighed down with tender sentiment,” she said evenly.

  “Precisely,” said Cameron softly. “You’ve always understood me, Sophie.”

  Better than you think.

  He hooked his boot in the stirrup, and then paused with his hand on the saddle’s pommel. “You’ll see me again soon. But if for some pressing reason you need to contact me, send a letter addressed to Lady Haddan on Grosvenor Square. Writing to another woman will draw no undue attention, and Gryff will make sure I receive any missive.”

  “A prudent suggestion,” she responded. “I won’t pester you unless it’s truly important.”

  He looked about to speak, but then merely touched a hand to his hat brim in silent salute.

  Sophie watched him ride away, waiting until his dark shape was naught but a distant speck among the stones before turning away. She, too, should be hurrying away, but rather than return to the footpath, she slipped back inside the hut and took a seat on the bed.

  Cameron had left his roughspun country clothing folded neatly on shelf above the pillows. Reaching up, Sophie took down the shirt and clasped it to her chest. The linen still held a trace of his cologne, and the rumpling of the fabric released a faint swirl of scent. She drew in a deep, deep breath and held in it her lungs, hoping to quiet her topsy-turvy emotions.

  A big mistake.

  The perfume of their passion lingered in the air, its musk teasing her insides into a slow, spiraling somersault.

  Blinking back tears, Sophie stared down at the faint scuffs left by his boots on the earthen floor. Had she made a big mistake? She had grown accustomed to life without Cameron. It was steady. Solid.

  And now?

  Love was so confusing and conflicting. Sophie touched her fingertips to her lips. It was maddening and mystifying. Shifting slightly, she felt a tiny pinch between her legs. It could hurt. And perhaps it could heal.

  At that, she couldn’t help but let out a wry laugh. “Oh, fie, Cameron Fanning-Daggett-Hellhound. I swear, I should feed your mangy hide to the ravenous little imps of Satan. You make me so angry—but you also make me feel so alive.”

  In the shaded quiet of the hut, the surrounding stone seemed to amplify the tiny thump within her ribcage. Like a bird beating its wings to break free.

  Another sniff of the shirt and Sophie sighed. How was she going to untangle all the conundrums? Villains. Lovers. Duty. Family. She wasn’t sure she could trust her judgment anymore.

  A linnet’s song drifted in through a crack in the windowglass, its trilling notes sweet and clear as opposed to her own mud
dled murmurs.

  “So perhaps I should just trust my heart.”

  Guiding his mount down through the spiky green gorse to the winding country lane, Cameron spurred the big stallion to a canter. “Come, Lucifer,” he murmured after tightening his grip on the reins. “Let us outride any demons who seek to follow.”

  The horse gave a foam-flecked snort and lengthened its stride, hooves kicking up clouds of pale dust. Cameron leaned low in the saddle, urging him to greater speed, hoping the drumming would drown out the voices of his inner devils.

  Cad! Coward! The jeers were too loud to ignore.

  I was selfish, he confessed to himself, squinting against the slap of the wind. Weak. Foolish. Discipline and detachment were the keys to survival. And yet he let every god-benighted lesson he had learned over the past ten years fall to the wayside every time Sophie was near him.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  The drumming hoofbeats seemed to echo his inward oaths.

  The Inner Voices refused to be silenced. Admit it! You are bedeviled—besotted—by love!

  “Bloody hell.” Slowing his lathered stallion to a sedate trot, Cameron straightened in the saddle. “Laugh all you want,” he called out loudly, startling two grouse from a nearby thicket. “Yes, I am in love with Sophie Lawrance! I shouldn’t be, but I am.” Oh, how his fellow Hellhounds would laugh themselves sick to hear him howling at the heavens. “I daresay I shall have to crawl into the Lair with my tail between my legs,” he added in a lower voice. “And Cupid’s arrow protruding from my bum.”

  Cameron winced, thinking of all the barbed teasing he would take. But fair was fair, he conceded. He had taken ruthless delight in nipping at their flanks. He could hardly complain if the teeth were now turned on him.

  Lapsing into a pensive silence, he rode on, his thoughts turning from his friends to Sophie—a much more complex and confusing topic. There was no denying the physical chemistry between them. Like oil ignited by sparks, flames licked up at the first touch. As for her deeper emotions…

  Expelling a harried sigh, he looked up at the scudding clouds playing hide and seek with the sun. Sophie did not wear her heart on her sleeve. Like him, she had taught herself to keep her true feelings well hidden. And yet, and yet—beneath the careful show of logic, a glimmer of her innermost thoughts had shone through.

  A glorious, gleaming flicker of sunshine, which had warmed him to the very core.

  Love. It should be simple. But what kind of life could he offer her? He was a bastard who made a living in the netherworld of clandestine crime, slithering through shadows and secrets. How can I ask her to dwell in such darkness? Sophie was a creature of light and sun. She would deny it, but after a time—a month? a year?—she would start to wither away.

  As if influenced by his own stormy mood, the skies chose to unleash a sudden rainsquall. Throwing up the collar of his coat, Cameron forged on through the lashing drops and whipping winds. It soon stilled to a sullen gray fog and intermittent showers. By the time he reached London, he was wet, cold, and bone tired.

  Mist swirled over the cobblestones, a silvery sea of moon-dappled haze lapping against his mud-spattered boots. He paused on the corner, about to hail a passing hackney to take him across the river, when a sudden change of heart turned his steps southward.

  The mizzled chill grew sharper with every stride through the unlit alleyways. As did the fetid smells of the stews, an acrid reminder that he and Sophie lived in different worlds. He rubbed at his bristled jaw, all at once feeling weary beyond words.

  “Well, well, look what the cat dragged it,” quipped Sara as he entered her private office and flung off his oilskin cape. “Ye look like Hell. Have ye been on one of your little adventures?”

  “You could call it that,” he grunted, massaging at the crick in his neck. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to help myself to the rest of your Scottish whisky. Put the bottle on Haddan’s bill.”

  “It’s in the cabinet. Oh, and before I forget, a package arrived for ye yesterday.” With a flick of her pen, Sara indicated the sideboard by the entrance. “It’s over there.”

  The item was wrapped in plain brown paper and bound with a twist of ordinary twine. Hardly the sort of thing that should strike terror in the heart of a hardbitten adventurer. And yet, Cameron felt a frisson of fear as he picked it up and caught sight of the spidery script.

  It had been a long time—longer than he could remember—since he had received any communication from that person. Along with all the other trappings of his former life, the acquaintance had been left in the dust of the twisting Norfolk roads.

  But apparently the past has once again caught up with me. First Sophie, and now…

  From across the small office, Sara looked up from a stack of ledgers. Suddenly aware that he had stopped dead in his tracks, Cameron angled his eyes to the looking glass and made an exaggerated adjustment to his sodden shirtpoints before taking a seat by the fire, the whisky forgotten.

  The scratch of a pen picked up again as she went back to checking the monthly accounts.

  Taking up the fancy silver letter opener—Connor had gifted Sara his Andalusian dagger as well as The Wolf’s Lair—Cameron cut the twine. Several documents spilled out, the sheets of folded paper dominated by a square of thick white parchment sealed with a blood red wafer. He stared at the crest and felt the color drain from his face.

  Lucifer be damned. For an instant he was tempted to consign it—unopened, unread—to the coals of the fire. The blaze would bring some temporary warmth, perhaps. But the truth would only rise again, phoenix-like from the ashes, to hunt him down.

  Best to get it over with, he decided.

  The wax cracked with an audible snap. His composure proved nearly as brittle—it was only with great effort that he bit back a sound on skimming the first few lines. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. But never in his wildest dreams had he imagined…

  “Daggett, are you unwell?” Sara set aside the columns of numbers, a shadow of concern shading her features. “Good God, I haven’t seen ye looking so pale since the night when that hulking, hairy cove from the East India docks barged in here and threatened to cut off your testicles and fry them in olive oil and paprika.”

  “Oregano,” said Cameron softly, trying to muster a show of his usual sardonic humor. “It was oregano. De Cecci was from Sicily.” But for once, his rapier wit failed to hold its edge.

  She rose and quickly poured a glass of her expensive malt. “Here—drink this. You look dreadful…as if you had seen a ghost.”

  Haunting specters, sinister shadows. He suddenly felt a little ill.

  “Daggett?” She touched his shoulder.

  By God, if only that were true.

  “Ghosts…demons…” He finally looked up. “I take it Gryff has been lending you his collection of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.” His tone had regained a measure of steadiness, but as he reached for the letters his hands betrayed a slight tremor. Tucking them into his coat pocket, he picked up the brandy glass and took a small sip. “Surely you are far too sensible to take those silly, supernatural scenes seriously.”

  “Actually, I find them quite entertaining.”

  “Just as long as you don’t confuse fact with fiction.”

  She raised a brow. “Are ye trying to tell me something?”

  “Never mind—it’s not important.” Cameron set aside his drink. “I must be going.”

  “But ye just got here!”

  “Ah, but you know that I rarely stay in one place for very long,” replied Cameron.

  Sara looked loath to let him slip away. She drew in a sharp breath, only to let it out in a sigh. “Be off with ye, then.” A brusque wave shooed him on his way. “But I hope you know you can always confide in me. We have weathered some rough seas together, and without your help in the first few months of trying te run this business on my own, I should never have managed to keep my head above water. I should like to return the favor.”

  “I…”
Cameron fingered his gold earring, wishing that the tiny serpent might sprout dragon wings and carry him away to the exotic East, far, far from England.

  But then again, that would mean abandoning Sophie and her family to Dudley and Morton’s filthy scheme.

  “I am grateful, Sara. And I shall endeavor to explain things more fully soon. But for now, I must sink or swim on my own.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  You…”

  Sophie nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “…are beginning to worry me,” said Georgiana, carefully closing the study door behind her.

  “I—I don’t see why,” she replied, picking up her feather duster and setting back to work on the bookcases by the hearth.

  “You are not usually forgetful,” said her sister.

  “What have I forgotten?”

  “My point exactly. I was hoping to trim my new bonnet with the red ribbon from Mrs. Turner’s shop, remember?”

  Sophie bit her lip. “Oh, Georgie, I’m sorry. It slipped my mind.”

  “As did a number of other things. Mrs. Hodges asked you pick up some powders at the apothecary, as well as some thread and buttons for Papa’s Sunday coat.”

  “Sorry,” she intoned again.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Pen, but I happened to peek in your basket and it was empty,” went on Georgiana. “That was an awfully long walk to come home empty-handed.”

  Sophie felt a flush of color stain her cheeks. “My mind was woolgathering.”

  “And what,” asked her sister, “was your body doing while your thoughts were off chasing the sheep? Dallying with the wolf?”

  Setting down the duster, Sophie slumped into her father’s desk chair and pressed her palms to her brow. “Yes.” Georgiana was too sharp by half to swallow a lie. And she could be trusted to keep a secret. “Cameron was here for a few days, but nobody must know. Lord Wolcott has a terrible grudge against him. If it ever gets out that he is alive and living in London, the authorities will arrest him and see him hung for theft.”