by Liz Carlyle
That was what most disturbed him. He had no sense of control where Helene was concerned. She was the last woman on earth he would have chosen to love. And yet, Cam was beginning to acknowledge the painful and perplexing lesson that a decade of solitude had taught him: a man did not always get to choose. Without Helene, he simply was not whole. It was a plain truth which he knew, but could not fully understand.
Dear heaven, he needed time! Time to sort this dreadful mess into some semblance of order. Somewhere in the distance, a door thumped shut. A servant strode down the corridor jingling a set of keys. The bell at St. Michael’s tolled half past the hour. Cam barely heard these things, so lost was he in his own need and fear and hope.
Yet Helene seemed oblivious to his confusion. Impassively, she gazed at him, flipping open a leather ledger that sat upon the desk. The flashing white pages brought him back into the present. “What may I tell you about our lesson plans before you go, my lord?”
The spell severed, Cam abruptly strode toward the door, pushing it shut. “Helene,” he said urgently, spinning about to face her, “I believe ... that is to say, my dear, I think we must talk.”
And there, the words seemed to utterly fail him. Blindly, he stared at Helene. Her gaze neither warmed nor altered. Uncertainly, Cam stepped closer, one hand going to his temple. “Look here, Helene—are you quite all right? You seem... rather different.”
“I am perfectly well, my lord,” she answered, brushing by him to stand behind the desk. The scent of her hair teased at his nostrils as she passed.
Cam set one hand at his hip, ran the other through his already disheveled hair, and let his eyes narrow appraisingly. “See here, Helene—this feels suspiciously like a cut. Not an hour past, we were the best of friends again. And now ... now ... “
“Do you know, Cam,” she said hesitantly, “I am not at all sure that we ought to be friends.” Her voice was soft, with nothing but a hint of bittersweet emotion in it. “I am your employee now.”
From his position beside Helene’s desk, Cam circled around toward her. “My employee?” he echoed hollowly. He stared down into her face. Helene’s expression was still smooth and impassive, but in her wide-set, expressive eyes ... oh, yes. He saw it. In the bottomless depths of those dark blue pools, there was deep, inimitable grief.
Lord, that was something he had not expected to see. And something he was ill-prepared to deal with. He scrubbed a hand slowly down his face, but nothing altered. Helene was not angry, though he could have dealt with that, Cam suddenly realized. Yes, it was one thing to be shot down by eyes that flashed, cold and brittle, but quite another to see those same lovely orbs flat with an inscrutable despondency.
Suddenly, Cam could no longer bear the thought of being torn from her just now. Nor could he bear her pain and distance. There was too much unresolved between them, and in his own mind. Cam reached out one hand to her, and Helene turned her face away. Still, something more powerful than logic drew his eyes to her mouth, his body to hers. She hurt. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her.
But it was suddenly obvious that Helene wanted no comfort from him. She resisted wordlessly as Cam roughly gathered her into his embrace, bent on a course of action he could no longer deny. Knowing full well that he would regret his behavior, Cam ignored Helene’s struggle and bent his head to take her mouth with his. Dimly, he reasoned that he could kiss away not just the sadness, but this strange, new coldness as well.
Cam had ached for another taste of Helene from the moment she had strode out of his study that long-ago night, leaving him alone and desperate on the floor. He admitted it now, as his lips raked roughly over hers. Ah, so soft, so sweet, she was. How well he remembered.
In his arms, Helene still clawed at his shirtfront, twisting one fist in his cravat in protest. But beneath his mouth, she had opened easily to him, giving him access to her warm, wet recesses in what felt like a bittersweet caress.
Helene’s kiss was everything he had remembered, and more; the taste made even sweeter by her reluctance. Yet she made no move to slip away as Cam slid his hand into the fine, loose hair at her nape and pulled her head back to better plunder her with his mouth.
Beneath him, Helene moaned and rose up to press herself urgently against him, the motion dragging down the fabric of her gown to hint at the swell of full breasts beneath. Her right hand slid from his shirtfront to skim over his hip bone and down into the small of his back, drawing his hips into hers. She kissed him back with a heated, almost heartbreaking, urgency.
The knowledge that she still desired him rushed into Cam’s loins like molten fire. He took her deeply, possessively, with a boldness that laid claim to her in the most intimate way a man could claim a woman as his own. All thought of comforting her fled his mind as Cam felt his erection strain rock-hard against his breeches.
He was doomed. He might as well accept it. Vaguely, he could focus on nothing but the fact that he must get Helene out of the schoolroom. Into his bedchamber. Out of her clothes. And make her his.
The fact that he was on his way to a crisis escaped him. Cam swept a hand down her spine and over the perfect curves of her hips, drawing her up against him even as he deepened this kiss to something so carnal he feared he might come before he could ease himself inside her.
And he was going to ease himself inside her this time, he thought, as he slid a fistful of heavy velvet up her hip. Nothing on this earth could sway him—
The knock at the door dashed over Helene like ice-water.
She drew taut, but Cam’s arm swept stubbornly upward, stilling her motions again. Desperately, she jerked backward, and this time her panic must have registered, for Cam ripped his mouth from hers, allowing her to catch a fleeting glimpse of Crane, his valet, discreetly backing out of the schoolroom.
Cam saw him, too, sharply sucking in his breath. “Damn it, Crane! What now?” he roared, setting Helene roughly away from him.
The elderly man froze at the sound of Cam’s voice. With a careful little cough, Crane turned back again, the doorknob still clutched in his hand. “Your trunks, my lord. And the medicine and food? All have been loaded into your coach. Young Mr. Rutledge awaits us below, at your convenience.” And then, the impassive valet pulled shut the door without another word.
Cam turned to face Helene, his face a mixture of dismay, anger, and thwarted lust. She should have pushed him away, slapped him hard across his insolent mouth, when he pulled her against him and kissed her again, this time hard and swift. But to her utter shame, she did not even try.
“Forget about Crane,” Cam said into her hair, his voice as rough as gravel, his arms binding her to his chest. “I swear he is the soul of discretion.”
Helene opened her mouth to speak, but Cam simply kissed her again, taking away her breath, then placing his finger over her lips. “I must go, Helene. I shall return, God willing, in two weeks’ time. And then, you may rail at me with impunity. But we will sort this muddle out. I promise you.”
Helene shook her head, and felt a tear of humiliation threaten to spill from her eye. “There is nothing to sort out, Cam. My position is unchanged. I shan’t be your mistress, no matter how much I may desire you.”
Cam regarded her in silence for a long moment. “Dear heaven, I begin to believe I’ve made a near shambles of things, Helene,” he finally answered. “Indeed, I would to God I did not have to leave you just now. But I must.”
Rather insolently, he kissed her for the third time, then strode toward the hallway, his heavy riding boots ringing on the schoolroom floor. He jerked to a halt when he reached the door. “In two weeks, Helene,” he said, rounding on her again, the hems of his greatcoat swirling about his boots. “If matters in Devon cannot be resolved, I shall leave Bentley there, and I shall return to Chalcote. I swear it.”
And then he, too, was gone, leaving Helene burning with shame and anger, two fingers pressed hard against her swollen lips.
12
Miss de Severs di
scovers the Storm and the Strife
Hard and relentless, a wicked rain rolled in late that night, racing across the Bristol Channel and up the Severn, drenching England from Peterborough to Penzance. Caught in the center of the unseasonable storm, the Cotswolds took the brunt of Mother Nature’s caprice, with lowland streams bursting from their banks shortly after midnight.
Unable to sleep, Helene pulled back the heavy damask draperies of her bedchamber window just as the clock on the upper landing struck three. She peered into the black night, knowing beyond a doubt that Cam’s southwesterly route had taken him into the teeth of the storm. Fretfully, she balled her hand into a fist and rubbed at the glass, to no avail. The night was as heavy and as black as the mood which had haunted her all evening. In the window, there was nothing to see, save the watery reflection of her own stark face.
Behind her, the stump of a candle she had lit upon arising sputtered and died a natural death, steeping the room in a darkness thick with the smell of melting wax. But soon, even that faint scent was gone. No light, no sound, nor any movement stirred the oppressive silence of Chalcote. Helene felt utterly swallowed up by the dearth of sensations. Never had she felt so alone, so bereft. And never had she felt so ashamed.
With the storm’s next gasp, Helene pressed her fingertips to the cold glass, just to have something else to feel. She tried not to worry about Cam’s whereabouts. She had no business concerning herself with him at all. But surely, he’d had the foresight to put up at an inn somewhere along the way to Devonshire? On horseback, despite their sweeping greatcoats, both he and Bentley would be soaked to the skin.
Moreover, there was the coachman, the footman, and old Crane to consider. Their carriage, laden with Mrs. Naffles’s herbs, elixirs, and foodstuffs, might well be mired to the axles by now. Helene let her hand slip slowly from the damp glass, turning back toward her empty bed, angry with herself. She had permitted Cam Rutledge to rob her of yet another night’s sleep, much as he had robbed her of her heart, her pride—and yes, her very soul, it so often seemed.
Dejected, she let her arms drop to her sides. The only sound now was the occasional torrent of rain as it shifted and whirled, changing directions to whip and spatter wildly against her window. And then, Helene heard it ...
A soft, keening, almost inaudible wail. But her ears attuned to it instinctively, as they always did. The sound of a child in distress had always brought her senses to full alert. Was there any sound more heart-rending than the unmistakable cry of a child who was afraid of the dark? Or a child caught in the throes of a nightmare ...?
Whipping her dressing gown around her nightgown, Helene dashed into the passageway, through the schoolroom, and to the door which connected with Ariane’s. There was no mistaking the soft whimpering as Helene pushed open the door and crossed to Ariane’s bed. Had it not been for her aimless thrashing, the girl would have been lost in the tangle of bedsheets.
Clearly, she had suffered the effects of an upsetting evening, and had been tossing and turning for quite some time. And was it any wonder? First, her father’s unexpected departure, and now this violent storm. Suddenly, the girl’s hand fisted in the covers as she writhed toward Helene.
“No,” Ariane whimpered softly, one foot flying out to kick repeatedly against the wall. “No, no! Don’t leave me!” She gave another keening wail, her words caught on a sob. “No, I shan’t tell ... I shan’t! I shan’t,” she whispered pitifully. “Don’t leave me!”
The little girl’s words were fraught with pain. And, Helene finally realized, they were absolutely, unerringly flawless in pronunciation. One hand pressed to her mouth in shock, Helene dropped to a crouch beside the small bed, uncertain what she ought to do. Almost in unison, the other two doors leading into Ariane’s room flew open. In one, Martha stood, holding a sputtering candle aloft. And from the main hallway, Catherine entered wearing an old flannel nightgown which might once have fit, but was now far too snug.
As Ariane tossed uneasily on the bed, Catherine sized up the situation. “A nightmare, is it?” she whispered, leaning anxiously over the bed.
“Very sorry, Lady Catherine,” murmured Martha groggily. “I just this moment heard the poor wee thing! A thumping up against the wall something ter’ble, she was.” The maid drew near, lifting her candlestick higher to dispel the shadows from the bed.
Almost at once, Ariane woke, blinking owlishly against the light. She sat up, surveyed the three anxious faces peering over her bed, then with a heart-wrenching gasp, bolted into Helene’s arms, very nearly sending them both toppling backward. From behind, Catherine caught Helene with a steadying arm.
“There, there,” murmured Helene, lifting the child up from the bed and carrying her to a nearby chair. “You’ve just had a nightmare. Yes, just a bad dream,” she repeated, settling Ariane in her lap as she patted the child rhythmically on the back. “It is all perfectly fine, Ariane. Perfectly fine. Just a storm. A little rain and racket, but nothing to fret over.”
Helene continued to murmur, and without another sound, the child nestled closer. Indeed, it seemed almost as if she had never fully awakened. Helene looked at Martha, and with a tilt of her head, she bade the maid to hand her a blanket from the bed, then swathed it about the child’s slender form. Across the room, Catherine busied herself by straightening the tousled bedcovers, while the maid lit another brace of candles to better illuminate the room.
“Martha,” said Catherine after several quiet moments had passed. “Would you be good enough to go down to the kitchen and heat some milk? I fancy that is just what is needed here.”
As the girl dashed off to do as she was bid, Catherine snapped the last of the wrinkles from Ariane’s coverlet, then turned to face Helene, her expression one of grave concern.
“Catherine,” Helene whispered over Ariane’s head, “I rather think the child’s asleep. Perhaps the milk is unnecessary?”
Cam’s sister studied her rather too closely. “Oh, the milk is for us, Helene,” she answered in a soft, knowing voice. “I daresay you’ve slept no better than have I tonight, else you’d not be awake now.”
If Catherine was envious that her niece had hurled herself into Helene’s embrace, she gave no indication. Instead, she smoothly flung back the sheets as Helene rose from her chair to lay the child upon the neatly remade bed. Gently, Catherine drew the heavy covers up. Tucking a thumb in her mouth, Ariane rolled onto one side and snuggled deep into the mattress, her cornsilk tresses fanning across the pillow. The two women stood, quietly looking at the child for a time.
Helene was still unable to fully assimilate what had occurred just before Catherine and Martha had entered Ariane’s room. But one thing was clear. Ariane had spoken! It was a blessing beyond Helene’s prayers, and yet, she hesitated to tell anyone—even Catherine.
Why? Helene was not certain, but it was almost as if she were keeping a confidence, a secret Ariane held close to her heart. For reasons Helene did not fully understand, it seemed exceedingly wrong to announce to the world that a child once thought mute was capable of speech, without knowing the reason for her long-held silence.
Many unanswered questions still lingered. Was Ariane able to speak only when subconscious? Helene did not doubt that such a thing was possible. Or had Ariane deliberately hidden her abilities? And if so, why?
“There is no resemblance at all, is there?” Catherine’s innocent comment brought Helene dimly back into the present.
“Mille pardon ... ?” Helene answered absently. Then, her head snapped up to look at Cam’s sister, but Catherine was strolling toward the schoolroom.
Abruptly, Helene followed her through the door. Catherine settled herself into a chair at the big worktable, and began to scratch her thumbnail absently over some ragged initials, carved deep into the ancient surface by some long-dead Camden ancestor. Helene could sense that something troubled her.
“Let us have our milk in here, shall we?” Catherine murmured, as Helene took the chair opposite.
But almost at once, Catherine leapt up again, and began to drift aimlessly through the vast room. “Such old memories,” she whispered, picking over a disorderly collection of sea shells. Helene made no answer, and Catherine turned away from the shells and crossed the room to straighten a picture that needed no attention, and then skimmed her long, capable fingers over a shelf of worn textbooks.
Unexpectedly, she wheeled to face Helene at the worktable. “Forgive me. I ought not to have said that,” she stated, her expression inscrutable.
Helene looked up at her in confusion. “Old memories, Catherine?” She laughed lightly. “Oh, I rather fear we all have those.”
Catherine cut her off with a shake of her head. “That is not what I meant,” she said urgently, returning to the table. Abruptly, she leaned forward, splaying her hands across the rough tabletop. “Please—I beg you, Helene. Never repeat my words to Cam. I would never wish to hurt him.”
“You refer to your comment about Ariane?” asked Helene.
Mutely, Cam’s sister nodded and sank back into her chair.
“Of course I shan’t,” said Helene softly, bending across the table to lay one hand over Catherine’s. She gave it a reassuring squeeze. “And what does it signify, Catherine? You are right; the child does not look like her father. But your brother has eyes, and to be sure, he has noticed it long before now. Ariane just simply resembles her mother, that is all.”
“No,” said Cam’s sister grimly. “She does not. The hair, perhaps ... but even that is not quite the same. I love her, Helene, but often Ariane seems like some sort of a ... a fairy creature.”
“A fairy creature?” repeated Helene. “My dear, what are you trying to say?” But at that very moment, Martha returned from the kitchens and there was no more talk of Ariane.
Pensively, Helene sipped at her milk, considering Catherine’s words. It was almost as if something worried Cam’s sister. As if there were something she was rather desperate to discuss, and uncertain as to whom she might trust.