by Arnette Lamb
He sat on the floor. She sat beside him and poured the milk. The instant Cameron put the cat down, it raced to the saucer and began to drink.
“You bathed the cat.”
“She stank of fish. I couldn’t keep her here smelling like that.”
She’d always taken responsibility for her pets.
“Have you news for me?” she asked.
“I thought you might be worried or frightened about the voyage.”
Any reservations she had about returning to Scotland paled beside the knowledge that she’d welcomed him into her bedroom. But it was too late for regrets. She’d let him stay for a few minutes, then she’d ask him to leave. “What should I be worried about?” The fear she’d keep to herself, for it mingled with the loneliness.
He handed her a mug and drank deeply from his own. “We’ll be at sea for weeks, and there’s little privacy.”
Life in bondage had prepared her for that. “I’ll be fine.”
“Unlike your sister Mary, you’ve never suffered from seasickness. In case you were wondering.”
A woman with little memory should have considered the aspects of a long voyage. “I hadn’t thought of that.” To cover the mistake, she drank the sweetened juice.
“No?” He scratched the kitten behind the ears. “What have you been thinking of?”
Of how dear he is to me, she wanted to say. Of how precious was every moment spent in his company. Hope for the future kept her silent about her feelings for him, but she couldn’t resist scooting closer. “I was wondering what you and Papa talked about—on your walk?”
As if he were merely tossing out words, he said, “The voyages, the port of Boston . . . the mundane.”
Following his lead, she kept her tone light. “He was certainly insistent about you going on to London. Were you bothered by that?”
“Was I bothered?” He shook his head. “Nay.”
Niceties forgotten, she huffed and sent him a look rife with tried patience. “Liar.”
Light from the single candle illuminated only half of his face, but his gaze was steady, probing. “Because he wants to keep you away from me. He wants to rule your life.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Then why is he going to Boston and sending me to Glasgow with you?”
The vulnerability of the words clashed with the intimacy glowing in his eyes. His interested gaze wandered over her hair, which was only a little longer than his.
Her pulse raced and her thoughts drifted to the romantic.
They were both beset with a passion neither could hope to deny.
He couldn’t resist touching her; she couldn’t deny him.
The cat meowed, breaking the spell. Virginia added more milk to the saucer. “We were discussing my father.”
Cameron reached for her. “Let’s not.”
She leaned back. “Let’s do.”
He dropped his hand. A slight hesitation preceded a shrug. The end of his tartan, a rectangle of cloth wrapped and belted at his waist, slipped from his shoulder. “You said you wanted to go to Glasgow rather than to Tain.”
He danced around the question, but she was determined to have an answer. “If he’s so determined to rule my life, why give in to my wishes?”
“He’s no ogre, and if you recall, he told me to go straight to London.”
“Do you have important business matters there?”
“Didn’t I mention that my father sits in the Commons?”
If he could be obtuse, she could be coy. “Oh? Have they changed the session dates?”
“How would you know if they had?”
She prayed for patience. “Remember the Virginia Gazette?”
“Of course.” On a self-deprecating laugh, he patted her hand. “Forgive me.”
His winning ways had probably gained him absolution for much greater blunders. She’d drop the matter of his business interests in London for now, but a long voyage awaited, and she’d have plenty of time to question him. She chose a more immediate subject. “I wondered how I should dress aboard ship.”
Quietly, his attention on the kitten, he said, “Did you?”
He sounded so very interested, and it pleased her greatly. She could wait and ask Agnes in the morning, but Cameron was here and he obviously wanted to chat. She touched his tartan-covered knee. “Yes. Will I be comfortable in my fancy dresses?”
His gaze slid to her hand. “You have always been at ease with me, no matter the circumstances.” Her palm grew damp and her hand trembled, but she could not take it away. “But to answer your question about what to wear, you will be more comfortable in modest clothing, or if you’re game, you could wear seaman’s breeches.”
She’d shamed Agnes and her family at the table with bad behavior; Virginia had no intention of doing it again. “What will Agnes wear?”
“Lottie created a feminine version of seaman’s pants.” He wiggled his brows. “Very revolutionary.”
“Sounds perfect for me. I know all about revolutions.”
He chuckled. “Aye, you do.”
Like a new bridge spanning a river of time, the companionable moment soothed and inspired her to say, “But Agnes is much smaller than I am. I shan’t be able to wear her revolutionary wardrobe.”
“I’ll find you something comfortable.”
Her recently acquired independence asserted itself. “I have money.”
He looked up and gave her a bland smile. “Money from your mother?”
She moved her hand. “From my wages.”
“You won’t need to spend it on seaman’s breeches. I keep an assortment of garments in the purser’s closet. You’ll need your sewing kit.”
He went back to stroking the kitten. As she had on many occasions since his arrival, Virginia watched him but felt detached from the scene, as if she were dreaming that she and Cameron Cunningham sat crosslegged on the floor discussing everyday things.
Again, he looked up. “That’s an interesting smile.”
She flushed, feeling like a window peeper who’d been discovered.
“Give me your hands.” When she did, he curled his fingers into hers. “Promise me something, Virginia.”
At the gentleness in his tone, she grew wary. “I don’t think we should—”
“Just hear me out.” He squeezed her hands and haltingly said, “If you are ever afraid, swear that you’ll call out for me.”
Her throat grew thick with love for him, and words wouldn’t come.
“I’ll be there to help you.” Leaning close, he pressed his cheek to hers. His breath was warm against her ear, and he smelled of an exotic spice she couldn’t name. “If bad memories or frightening times from your past come back to you, promise you’ll tell me. We’ll face them together.”
A sob broke through. He embraced her, lifted her, and set her on his lap. Without the cumbersome corset and heavy dress, she felt the heat and strength of him through the cotton nightgown.
“You don’t yet realize,” he went on, “how completely you can trust me. Sharing all things . . . pain, joy, pride at a job well done, was ever our way.”
This man was her Cam, and nothing would do but to feel his lips on hers again. At the first touch of his mouth on hers, her head spun and she grew breathless. Yet she couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t quench the thirst of a decade spent without him.
She couldn’t tell him the truth, not in words, but her body couldn’t lie. Comfort came with that understanding, and she deepened the kiss, the way he’d taught her, the way they had always planned. Hadn’t he said that she talked too much? Yes, and if she could not say what was in her heart, she could show him.
Her decision pleased him, for he growled low in his belly, and the sound vibrated against her, setting off a hollow ache deep inside. Her hands shaped his head, then brushed his ears and his cheeks. The slight stubble she found there tickled her palms. Inspired, she threaded her fingers through his hair. The ribbon tie at his nape slip
ped free, sending his hair cascading to his shoulders.
With an insistence and power that promised an end to her yearning, he brought her to the edge of a swoon. He trailed kisses over her cheek, down her neck and lower. How had her gown become unbuttoned? When his warm breath touched her breast and his lips closed over her nipple, she didn’t care how he’d gotten there; she only prayed that he would not stop. At his gentle suckling, she couldn’t hold back a moan.
He moved to her other breast and lavished it, suckling, licking, and priming her for what she did not know.
Contentment settled like a blanket over her, but with the happiness came a new need, a yearning to crawl inside his heart and curl up for a lifetime. She felt real desire, not the breathless, romantic urgings of her youth, but the deep, sensual longing of a woman for her man.
The drag of his palm against her inner thigh felt heavenly, and her knees trembled, but when he touched her intimately, she froze. Old horrors rose to meet her. She squeezed her legs together to force him out. “No. Don’t touch me there.”
He withdrew his hand, and his mouth left her breast. Tenderly, he cradled her against his chest and rocked her. “I’m sorry, Virginia.”
He’d gotten it wrong. The fault lay with her and the degradation she’d endured. If unburdening herself would better their circumstances, she’d trip on the words to tell him. Only Merriweather had known the extent of Virginia’s suffering, and it had taken almost two years for the pity to leave his eyes. But no civil man, least of all a lover, could countenance the perversions of her life at Poplar Knoll.
Still, she owed him some gentling words. “I’m to blame, not you.”
“Has someone hurt you? A man?”
He thought the greatest harm to a woman must come from the male of the species. He was wrong. Women could be heartless to their own kind; Virginia had learned that lesson firsthand. At a time when men ruled the world, women should help each other; they should be mentoring sisters, doting aunts, and loving mothers, not twisted villains eager to mete out the cruelest blows. Shared vulnerability of the weaker sex should be a catalyst for trust and honor, not a license to hurt and betray. But there it was.
“Don’t be afraid, Virginia. Tell me about it.”
“It’s vague. I’m not sure.” Nor did she want to think about past betrayals.
“You probably don’t recall this, but years ago, while we were riding, my horse pitched me into a bramble patch. You pulled thorns from my bottom for hours. I never once worried that you’d tell anyone how often I yelped in pain.”
She had cried along with him that day. He’d stripped off his breeches, giving her her first look at a naked male. Her youth and the crisis they faced had given great innocence to the event. But there was nothing innocent about the way his hands roamed over her.
“You were always my true heart,” he whispered.
At the betrothal ceremony, as he’d slipped the ring onto her finger, he’d teasingly said, “No more swooning over other beaus. You are my true heart, and I’m the man for you. The only man.”
Not until his arrival in Virginia had she received her first kiss, for the peck on the cheek he’d given her years ago hardly counted. She hadn’t imagined passion, certainly not the churning ache that spread to her loins and melted her resolve.
“What pleasantry occupies you?” he asked.
“I was thinking that resolve is much overrated, no?”
His eyes gleamed with happiness. “Especially ’tween you and I. And that frown on your brow must go.” He kissed her there, then studied his handiwork. “That’s better.”
In the next kiss, he made chaste work of what had gone before. She felt caught up, drawn out, by his loving. The strength of his embrace and the absolute serenity he inspired made her want to shout out loud, but other more physical needs beckoned.
Following his lead, she let her hands roam his chest and arms, and when her fingers again slipped into his hair, he eased her back onto the hearth rug. With a slight jerk, he untied his neckcloth. The ends of the silk trailed over her. “Unbutton my shirt.”
Captured by his dreamy gaze, she lifted her arms and slipped the pearl buttons free.
“Touch me.”
A mat of downy hair fanned his chest and cushioned the pads of her fingers. But beneath the softness lay muscles taut from the strain of holding himself above her.
“Come here,” she heard herself say.
He lay full upon her, their loins nestled. Against her leg, she felt his desire, insistent and boldly male. As she lay beneath him, a decade of failed hopes and tarnished dreams vanished like the stars at dawn.
A volley of sensations exploded in her mind, and when her hands circled his neck and discovered the drumbeat of his pulse, the rhythmic pounding found an echo in her woman’s core. He tilted his head to the side, opened his mouth on hers, and sought entry. She let him in, and the gentle stabbing of his tongue matched perfectly the thrusting motion of his hips.
Desire rang in her ears and thrummed in her belly. Her hands curled into fists.
“Ouch!”
She’d pulled the hair on his chest. At the dreamy look in his eyes, she said, “Have I hurt you?”
His smile was shy, knowing, and he lifted his brows. “Yes, and I know just the treatment. Come with me.”
He got to his feet and held out his hand. She let him pull her up.
“Close your eyes.”
She did. Then he was kissing her again, only his lips touching her. He seemed so restrained, so in control, while she teetered on the edge of something fine. Eager to discover it, she slid her tongue against his and kissed a groan from him.
She heard the rustle of clothing, the slip-slide of his leather belt, and as his tongue twined with hers in a daring, sensual dance, she swayed. Seeking balance, she reached for him, and her hands met warm, naked skin. Rather than shock, the discovery inspired her, and she traced the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. Cool air touched her knees, her thighs, and he broke the kiss long enough to pull off her gown. Then he enveloped her, their bodies touching from lips to toes and a hundred more interesting places in between.
The hair on his chest tantalized her nipples, and the length of his desire rested hot and heavy on her belly. She felt damp and empty for him, but he knew that, for he sent his hands roaming her back and lower, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer. When he undulated against her, she went languid inside.
He scooped her up and with an ease that contrasted sharply with her own sense of urgency, he strolled to the bed.
“Turn back the covers.”
Lowering her, he waited until she’d moved the blanket, then he laid her down and followed, his loins finding hers. “Spread your legs.”
Images of the doctor and the cold marble table came to mind. She cringed and said the word she’d been forbidden to utter at Poplar Knoll. “No.”
“No? I thought you wanted me.”
The burr in his voice had a soothing effect, but the memories were too much a part of her. “I won’t be forced.”
“Forced? It’s me, Cameron.”
He kissed her again and murmured lovers’ phrases in Scottish. Hearing the romantic endearments in the language of her youth banished all thoughts except those of him.
“Open for me.”
Had he asked, she would have stood on her head, so desperate was she to have him. Then he was pushing inside her, pressing her into the feather mattress, and she wanted to cry for the sheer joy of it. But he was moving too slowly, so she lifted her hips to hurry their joining.
A searing pain stopped her.
He pulled back. “Easy, love.”
Virginia held her breath, and the pain ebbed. “What’s wrong?”
“ ’Tis your maidenhead.”
She’d been so caught up in the passion, so desperate for his loving, she’d forgotten about her innocence. That in itself should have been the first step toward healing old wounds. Hoping it was so, she wh
ispered, “Please don’t stop, Cam. I want to be rid of it.” Truer words had never passed her lips.
“Very well.” Clutching her hips to hold her still, he pushed forward, and before she could draw breath, he broke through that barrier. Even muffled against his shoulder, her groan of discomfort sounded very loud.
“ ’Twill pass, love, and never come again. I swear it on my soul.”
Filled with him, she held on tight and waited. In the interim, he kissed her deeply, rekindling her desire until she was again breathless with yearning. He moved again, and from that moment on, he took her on a blissful ride to a destination so glorious she went weak with the joy of it. An instant later, her passion burst in a series of tiny explosions.
In the aftermath, she learned the true meaning of euphoria, a satisfaction that permeated even the darkest corners of her soul. But when Cameron tensed above her, then joined them fully one last time, she felt his release, felt him touch her womb, heard him moan in pleasure. Or was it exhaustion? His chest heaved and his breath rasped against her ear.
“Are you all right?”
She’d never be the same, and for that gift, she turned and kissed his cheek. “Yes, I’m—divine.”
He chuckled, rolled to his back, and drew her to his chest. Still breathing raggedly, he hugged her tight. “Good, for I almost botched it.”
“Why would you say that?”
He didn’t want to answer; she could feel his hesitation, but now was not the time for lies. “The truth, Cam. Tell me the truth.”
As if the words were dragged from him, he said, “You said you wouldn’t be forced. I thought you had been raped. I was wrong.”
A reasonable deduction from a man who’d thought she’d been raped but then breached her maidenhead. “No.” Comparing what had been done to her to the passion they’d just shared was like matching pigs to patriots.
“Curse me,” he hissed. “I should have known better.”
Completely puzzled, she strained to look up at him. “Known better than what?”
With a self-mocking laugh, he pulled her back. “To discuss rape at a moment like this.”
“My hunch is you were glad I wasn’t taken against my will.”
“That would be foolish, for you were taken against your will. Never would you have run away from Scotland or me.”