by Lauren Royal
But twenty-four! Lud, she was eight years his senior!
And a widow with a child.
"I appreciate your attentions," she repeated, omitting the Sir this time. "It's quite flattering under the circumstances—"
"And what circumstances might those be?"
She averted her gaze, but the yellow buttercups that dotted the riverbank looked entirely too cheerful. "I'm nearly a decade older than you."
"A slight exaggeration," he said. "And you've lived your entire life here in Cainewood. I reckon I've seen more of the world."
"What does that have to do with—"
"I assure you, Clarice, the difference in our ages doesn't matter."
For the first time, she sensed an impatience in him that should have frightened her, given her background. But for some odd reason, it didn't. Or not much.
She drew herself up. "How about my feelings, sir? Do they matter?"
"Of course your feelings matter." Leaning near, he captured her gaze with his. "But maybe you'll find that I can change them."
He was close, so close. Too close. She couldn't breathe. With a straight face, this man—this baronet—was flirting with her.
It was insane.
And even more insane, part of her wished he was serious.
Her heart fluttered as it hadn't since her all-too-short youth. Evidently the fairytale hadn't ended yet. But it would, and then she would fall back to Earth, hurt again by a man.
Because that was what men did to women.
Somehow, she managed to find air. "You cannot just wish my feelings different—"
He silenced her with a kiss that stole her breath again, along with her words. A sweet brush of his mouth that weakened her knees with its tenderness. When he pulled back, she stared at him, silent.
His eyes darkened with concern. "Is something amiss?"
"Your lips are soft," she murmured. She'd never known a man's lips could be soft. Her husband's sure hadn't been.
Cameron's gentle smile warmed her. "So are yours."
"But—"
"Hush." His mouth touched hers again, more insistent this time. His arms slid around to pull her close, and she scooted along the bench until her body was pressed tightly to his. On their own, it seemed, her hands crept up and stole around his neck, meshing themselves in the silky-softness of his shoulder-length hair.
She was lost in a whirl of sensation. As his lips moved over hers, she abandoned herself to the feeling. So strange, so thrilling, so wondrous…
So improper.
She pulled away, glancing about, relieved to find they'd drifted far enough downstream that no one else was in sight. "I—"
"Hush," he said again, grabbing her back to him and pressing his forehead against hers.
She stared into his eyes, so very close to hers, sensing in their depths an earnestness and an honesty she'd never before seen in any man. But it was only because he was so young. He hadn't experienced the way life could bruise and batter, not just the body but also the spirit.
"You liked that," he said, his tone leaving no space for her to argue. "So why are you trying to escape?"
"I'm not." She tried to shake her head, but only succeeded in rubbing noses. Lud, even that felt good. "I just…I only…well, you surprised me, is all."
"I want to take you home with me, Clarice Bradford. I told you so yesterday."
"You were jesting," she breathed, trying not to hope he hadn't been.
His lips grazed hers again, and she closed her eyes, then released a little whimper when he deprived her of their warm caress.
A low laugh escaped his throat. "Aye, you like it. And I'm not so sure I was jesting."
Before she could react to that, his mouth met hers once more, with a fiery possession that sent the blood racing through her veins. When his lips coaxed hers apart, she was helpless to resist. His tongue swept inside, hot and emphatic, yet still gentle in his way. She paused in shock and then tentatively reached her own to touch it, reveling in the new sensations.
It seemed a long time before he pulled back. As she fought to catch her breath and regain her senses, he caressed her cheek with the backs of his long fingers. "You're an innocent," he murmured, his hazel eyes growing murky. "But you cannot be. You have a daughter, a lovely bright daughter such as I've never seen."
"I didn't give birth to Mary," she admitted softly. "She was brought to me an orphan, a year ago, by Lord Cainewood. But I'm not innocent. I was married fourteen years. And…" She looked down, her gaze settling on the bottom of the old boat.
He touched her hand. "And you were nearly raped, is that what you wanted to tell me? You needn't say the words. I've learned from Caithren what happened—your sorry tale that brought her new husband out for justice and into her arms. Lord Cainewood blames himself, as I understand it."
"It wasn't his fault, though I reckon he may feel responsible. The man was out to hurt him and mistakenly thought he could do it through me. He thought"—she pushed at one of the oars with the toe of her shoe, then looked up at him—"he thought I was Lord Cainewood's mistress."
He rubbed a thumb under her chin. "You're certainly pretty enough."
She wasn't used to compliments—not from the men in her life. The truth was, she didn't know how to respond to them. So she didn't. "The man would have finished the job he'd started, except for what happened to Mary."
"Which was?"
"She was in his way. So he slammed her against a wall. When she lay there, still as death, he took off, afraid he'd killed her."
"Which he almost did, from what I've been told."
She nodded gravely. "She didn't awaken for weeks. But she's better now."
"Thank God for that."
"I do," she said in a whisper. "Every day." From the look in her eyes, Cameron didn't doubt it. "But the truth is that now I'm healed I don't think of my own ordeal overmuch…it was nothing that hadn't happened to me before."
He'd known it somehow, but he wanted to hear it from her lips. "Before?"
"Within my marriage."
He was silent for a long moment before he reached two fingers to lift her chin. "It's sorry I am for you, Clarice. I'm sorry you were hurt, this last time and the times before. And I'm sorry because…I don't understand. As a man, I don't think I'll ever understand."
"You understand very well," she said, wonder in her voice.
Cameron moved away, giving her the space he sensed she needed. "Tell me about your marriage."
"I was fifteen." She focused down at her hands clasped in her lap. "My folks had other mouths to feed. Will needed a wife, children. He was getting on in years—forty-five, he was—and he wanted to breed a family to support him in his dotage."
"Your parents married you off to a man thrice your age?"
She looked up, her eyes flashing with challenge. "Is that so different from what you're asking?"
He gazed at her unblinkingly. "Aye. It is."
For a moment, that challenge persisted. He admired her for that spirit. He'd never wanted a pliable woman.
At length a long sigh escaped her lips. "It's the done thing. I was a good daughter. I offered no argument." She shrugged. "I spent my childhood working my hands to the bone in their home. I thought marriage would be easier."
"But it wasn't."
"Not with Will. All I wanted was a family of my own, a family I could do better with, children I could cherish. But…"
"What?" He leaned to touch her clasped hands. "Tell me."
"Will couldn't give me that." Her voice broke, and she paused for a breath. "He betrayed our vows with other women, and he never gave them children, either."
A beat of silence stretched between them. And then, "Marriage doesn't have to be like that, Clarice. Painful and empty and childless." Rushing on, he took her hands in his and squeezed. "It wouldn't be like that with me."
"Marriage! You're jesting again." But he looked uncertain, surprised by his own words, and Clarice was afraid he mightn't be jesti
ng, after all. "Even were I to take you seriously, and our age difference aside, sir, the fact remains that Mary and I are better off alone. In all my life, I've never been happier than I am now…and I don't mean to change my circumstances."
Without a word, he trailed one finger alongside her face, and her cheeks heated even as she tightened her jaw.
And her resolve. "No matter what my body tells me, my head knows what's best."
He held her hands between his. "You speak of your body and your head. But what does your heart tell you, Clarice?"
Birds twittered in the background while she searched his face, a face smooth and unlined, unmarred by the countless frowns and endless anger that had so characterized the only man she had lived with as a wife.
He'd asked what her heart told her, but she didn't trust it now. "My heart is not at issue here. I—I cannot marry you, Cameron. You're…you're a baronet, for God's sake!" She struggled until he let loose her hands. "I cannot marry a baronet."
A new protest. Cameron wondered if it was progress or a step back. "Whyever not? You sound like the little sister."
"Who?"
"The little sister, from the story of Nippit Fit and Clippit Fit. She knew her feet were small enough they might fit the shoe, but she couldn't imagine herself as the wife of a prince. Do you remember? She thought people would make fun of her and say she wasn't fit to be a princess."
Clarice remained mute.
"Don't sell yourself short, love. You're fit to be a queen. It's sorry I am that I can only make you a mere Lady."
The boat rocked violently when she stood. "This is not a fairytale, and I'm not the little sister. These big feet won't fit into any glass shoes. I'm tall, not dainty. Too tall—"
"You're not too tall for me." He stood as well, to demonstrate, and the boat swung even more. She swayed wildly. Alarmed, he grabbed for her, but she leapt away.
And flailed backward, headfirst into the river.
CHAPTER SIX
Cameron dove in after Clarice, clasping her close when she came up sputtering.
"Lud!" She laughed, a sound of pure delight that shocked him out of his wits. He'd expected her to be furious. "You're turning my life upside down, Cameron Leslie. Literally."
The water was frigid, and her teeth were already chattering, her lips turning a decided shade of blue. There was only one thing to do.
Kiss the warmth right back into them.
He dragged her against himself, treading water while he pressed his mouth to hers. He was shocked a second time when she cooperated fully. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her legs around his waist. He was certain he'd never felt anything as glorious as this willowy, wet woman fused to him, her every curve melding against his body as though they'd been made for each other.
They kissed long and deep, until he realized they were slowly drifting downstream—and the boat was drifting faster. "Hell."
"Wh-what?" Her voice sounded drugged and dreamy.
With a heartfelt groan, he kissed her again, thrilling when her tongue entered his mouth of her own volition.
He could kiss her forever, except he had a feeling it would swiftly lead to other things. Not to mention they would soon be down the river without a boat. He wouldn't mind walking back, but he would mind paying for a rickety boat he wouldn't even hold in his possession. Leslie Castle was bonnie, but the estate itself was cash poor.
"Hell," he repeated, pulling back.
"What is it, Cam?"
Cam. He had to reward her for that with another kiss.
"Hell," he said again a couple of minutes later.
"Do you always curse so much?"
"Only when my boat is floating away."
"Lud!" She looked around wildly. And then, "I cannot swim!"
She hung on to his back as he struck out for the boat. Not too long afterward, he hauled himself aboard and pulled her in after him. She sprawled on the bench, laughing. Until she looked down at her wet gown plastered against her front.
With a gasp, she crossed her arms over full, round breasts with rosy peaks that had shown through the transparent pale yellow fabric. "Tell me you didn't see that."
"I didn't see that." But he had. Her breasts were beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. Not only the way she looked, but her beautiful soul. And the beautiful way she felt in his arms.
She shivered. "I…I don't know what came over me."
"It was the cold," he said, offering her an out. "And the wet."
But they both knew that something had changed in the water.
"Yes, it must have been," she said. Her hair had come undone and hung in long, wet tendrils down her back. He wanted to wrap his hands in it. Her arms were still crossed over her chest. "I'm sorry," she added.
"For what?"
"For making you get wet. Ruining your clothes and boots. I hope…" She froze, and her face went white—whiter than the cold could possibly warrant. "Please don't be vexed with me."
"Why would I be vexed with you, Clarice?"
She looked like she expected him to be angry, and the truth was, that expectation in itself raised his ire. He wanted to kill the man who had taught her to be so wary.
Lucky for him, the bastard was already dead.
"You didn't do it on purpose," he said. "And truth be told, I would happily ruin my boots to hold you again." He moved closer. "May I kiss you again, Clarice?"
She bit her lip, for all the world looking like she didn't believe him.
He wouldn't push her, not now when she looked so cold and miserable. Moving to the other bench, he sighed and picked up the oars. With strokes made powerful by frustration, the boat was soon slicing through the water toward the docks.
"Tell me, Clarice," he asked presently, "if you cannot swim, why weren't you frightened when you fell?"
Her words were long in coming, and when they finally did, it was with a kind of wonder, as though she surprised herself with her answer. "I knew you would come after me," she said simply.
Progress, he decided. It would have to do for now.
"I'm thinking . . ." The horse in the stall before him flicked its tail, and Cameron forced his mind back to the discussion. "I'm thinking if I cross our Highland ponies with some of this stock, then—"
"Why're you hanging around here, Cam?" Caithren grinned and took her cousin's hand, pulling him out of Cainewood's stables. "It's obvious your head is somewhere else."
"I wanted to study English breeding methods." He followed her along the path back to the castle. "And the estate manager's theories pertaining to crops—why, there are all sorts of newfangled ideas that bear exploring, as long as I've taken the time to remain here in England until—"
"Cam." Caithren paused on the trodden grass that led through a meadow sprinkled with yellow buttercups, her smile all too knowing. "You don't want to talk about crops."
"Nay?" Cameron sneezed, then rubbed a finger under his nose. "Do you know, then, who around here might be considered the expert on sheep—"
"You're not wanting to talk about sheep, either."
He remained mute, cocking one sandy brow.
"You've been distracted all afternoon," she declared. He never had been able to hide much from Cait. "Would you rather be somewhere else?"
"Nay. Nay, of course not." He almost reached to tug one of her plaits—an old gesture of affection between them—before remembering she now wore her hair loose to please her husband. He crossed his arms instead. "How is married life treating you, Cait?"
"So far I like it." She turned and started ambling over the drawbridge, her long, straight hair fluttering in her wake. "Very much," she called back, laughter in her voice.
Behind her, his boots sounded loud on the timeworn wood. "I'm going to miss you." They'd been there for each other, always. "I can hardly imagine returning to Leslie alone."
"You need someone to share it with." Exactly what he'd been thinking, but he could all but hear the wheels turning in her head. And they weren't ru
nning the same direction his did. "There is always Lady Nessa."
"She wouldn't have me when I was plain Cameron Leslie—"
"But now you're the laird, Cam." Caithren stopped beneath the barbican and turned to him.
"Exactly." He blinked at her in the shadows. "Whatever feelings I had for Nessa died when she laughed at my proposal. She is sleekit, but cold underneath, aye? I won't be going back to her now."
His gaze drifted up to the massive portcullis overhead. The iron-banded gate would kill him instantly should it fall. Indeed, he would prefer such a fate to life with Lady Nessa.
"And the village lasses?" She grinned and started walking again, backward this time, avidly watching his face. "I can think of more than a couple who are anything but cold. You've shared a tumble or two with some of them, aye?"
He should have seen something like that coming. He reached for her shoulders and spun her to face away. "I won't be saying." There were some things he didn't share, not even with Caithren. "But there's none of them I can picture spending my life with, regardless." He followed her into the quadrangle and up the winding stairs of the old keep, all the while picturing spending his life with a certain woman who waited in a small white cottage. "I want somebody like Clarice—I mean, Mrs. Bradford."
His statement seemed to vibrate through the ancient stones, and his cousin's feet faltered on the steps. "You mean you want Clarice herself, don't you?" He could hear the smile in her voice as she climbed. "Don't trouble yourself to argue—I saw you two together at my wedding. Does it not bother you that she's been married before?"
"If I were thinking of having her, nay, it wouldn't bother me." They passed beneath an archway and onto a long stretch of wall walk that circumnavigated much of the castle. "She didn't have an easy time of that marriage, Cait. Not that I'm planning to take her home with me, you understand, but it's the truth I've found myself wondering if maybe I could make her happy. And Mary. She's a precious lass, and she's had a hard life."
It was quiet up on the wall, and the view stretched for miles, lush and green. "You shouldn't marry someone to right past wrongs," Cait said softly. "Or even to make her happy. You should marry for your own reasons. If marriage is what you're implying you want, you need selfish reasons, if I may say so."