by Lauren Royal
“I can count the beats.” He cleared his throat and launched right into the lesson. “We count six for each minuet step, but the first movement is only a plié—”
“A what?” Mary cocked her golden head.
“A plié. Just turn out your feet and bend your knees a little.”
“Like this?” She pliéd until her bottom nearly touched the floor.
Clarice’s heart warmed when she saw him bite back a laugh. “Nay, princess. Just a wee bit. Like this.” He demonstrated. “Now, that’s really naught but a preparation for the step, so we start with the last beat of the previous bar. Six, one, two, three, four, five; six, one, two—”
“I think I feel the headache coming on,” Clarice interrupted, putting a hand to her brow. “This is terribly complicated, isn’t it?”
“You’ll do fine. Follow me. Plié, then step forward with your right foot and rise on your toes. Close in your left foot and lower your heels.” As best they could, Clarice and Mary executed the steps while he watched. “Good. Now the same on the other side.” Counting off, he danced along. “Six, one, two, three, four, five. Smaller steps, Princess Mary. The steps must be tiny to fit in the beats. Six, one, two, three, four, five…”
When he took Mary’s hands to show her how they would dance together, Clarice wanted to scream. Not that she begrudged her daughter the attention, but lud, she’d been waiting all night to touch him. And she felt downright silly dancing alone.
“Six, one, two, three, four, five. La la la, la la la—”
“What are the words?” Mary broke in, stopping midstep.
Cameron blinked. “It doesn’t have words.” He tugged on Mary’s hands to get her dancing again.
“Oh.” She stayed stubbornly still and ruminated on that a moment. “I like songs with words.”
He shrugged. “I know no words to this one, Princess Mary.”
“Then I will sing something else.” And without further ado, she launched into a lovely rendition of “The Twenty-Ninth of May.”
“Let the bells in steeples ring
And music sweetly play
That loyal Tories mayn’t forget
The twenty-ninth of May.”
The charming dimples appeared when Cameron grinned. “You sing beautifully, princess.” And finally, while Mary’s sweet voice trilled the lilting tune, he dropped her hands and took Clarice’s.
Mary made her way to a chair.
“Twelve years was he banish’d
From what was his due
And forced to hide in fields and woods
From Presbyterian crew;
But God did preserve him,
As plainly you do see
The blood-hounds did surround the oak
While he was in the tree.”
Clarice’s feet seemed to glide effortlessly, her body guided by Cam’s warm hands holding hers. Her gaze was locked on his compelling hazel eyes. Her blood pumped much harder than the sedate dance should warrant. Lud, what was happening to her? If her daughter weren’t watching, she feared she’d throw herself into his arms.
His secret smile suggested he just might be reading her mind. When the alarming thought made her falter, his hands tightened on hers, but he made no comment on her clumsiness. “She sings of King Charles’s restoration, aye?”
“P-pardon?” The song was the farthest thing from her mind.
“I’m speaking of Mary.” The dimples winked, telling her he was pleased with her discomposure. “Her song tells of the Restoration, of Charles hiding in the Royal Oak.”
“Oh. Yes.” Somehow, probably owing to Cameron’s skill, her feet kept moving in time to the melody. He must have been fooling when he said he needed practice; he was a fine dancer. “It’s a Cavalier ballad she sings. Cainewood—the whole village—was a Royalist stronghold throughout the Civil War. In support of the marquess, you understand. His family was fiercely Royalist—his parents both died in the Battle of Worcester.”
“Do you remember that?”
“Most certainly.” Then she remembered something else, and her heart dropped to her knees. “You were too young, weren’t you? I’d wager you don’t remember our good king’s beheading. It was no trial to you, was it, that sad period in our history?”
For a moment, lost in his gaze and the dance, she’d forgotten their age difference. But it would be there, wouldn’t it? Always. Different life experiences.
“Nay. I don’t remember,” he admitted, confirming her suspicions. “I was but a bairn, not even one year old. And though London holds rule over Scotland, you must remember we are quite far removed from what happens here.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We haven’t much in common, do we? You’re Scottish, I’m English…”
A profound sense of loss swept through her as her words trailed off.
“So let the bells in steeples ring,
And music sweetly play,
That loyal Tories may…n’t…forget
The…twen…ty…ninth…”
The song trailed off as well. Curled up on the chair, Mary was sound asleep. Their dance ground to a halt. In unison, they both shot her a glance before their eyes met.
“We belong together, Clarice. That’s something we have in common.”
She looked down at her scuffed black slippers. No glass shoe, to be sure. “I hardly belong in a castle, as a lady…I wouldn’t even know how to behave.”
With a finger under her chin, he brought her gaze back to his. “Exactly as you do. You’re the finest woman I’ve ever met.”
Her smile was quick but sad. “And you’re the most charming young man I’ve ever met.”
“Nay, I’m serious.” His eyes searched hers. “You’ve the kindest heart, the sweetest soul. I wouldn’t want you to behave any other way than you do already. And no matter what you say, we have plenty in common.” Cameron spoke in a low, husky voice. “For instance…”
She felt his hand on the small of her back, his eyes burning into hers as slowly, deliberately, he drew her to him. And heaven help her, she went willingly. His lips found hers, and she clung to him for fear her knees would collapse, until all her fears and doubts fled. Or rather, all rational thought fled, driven away by grand, overwhelming feelings. She succumbed completely. But it didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like floating.
When he finally pulled back, she was breathless. Lightheaded.
Halfway in love.
“Now I’ll hear no more talk of what we don’t have in common,” he said, rather breathless himself. “What we do have in common is much more pleasant, don’t you agree?”
She nodded, then shook her head. “But there are other things—”
“Aye?” His hands gripped her shoulders, and he kissed her again, short but sweet. “I will hear of them, then. We will speak of those things tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Today you fed me, tomorrow I’ll feed you.” Another kiss. Clearly he meant it to be short, but she held fast when he would have pulled away, sinking back into him. With just a feeble noise of protest, he succumbed, and for a glorious space of time Clarice was positive there was nothing occupying his mind save for her. The power was heady. When she finally let him go, she smiled a secretive smile of her own.
He grinned in answer, moving away to reclaim his surcoat. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, shrugging into it. “A picnic. I will call for you at noon. And Mary, of course. She may bring her friend Anne if it pleases her.”
Her gaze shot to her daughter. Lud, they’d been kissing, and Mary right in the room! Sensible Clarice had lost her senses.
“Don’t worry,” he said, reading her mind. “She saw nothing.”
On his way to the door, he paused to draw her close and plant one more kiss that left her reeling. He was outside and down her garden path before she could gather her wits. A final sneeze drifted back to her.
Noon. Fifteen hours from now. Fifteen hours until she would have to tell him the one thing that would send hi
m running from her as fast as his legs would carry him.
This had gone much too far already.
ELEVEN
“THERE’S A BONNIE loch near Leslie.” Seated on the blanket he’d brought—which he’d positioned as far from any flowers as possible—Cameron crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the trunk of a tree. “But not nearly as large as this one.”
Clarice smiled, watching Mary play with her friend Anne by the lake’s edge. “We are fortunate the marquess allows us to enjoy his park.”
Indeed, this patch of England was a sylvan scene, blue water lapping softly at green shores. Friendly swans roamed the gently sloped grassy banks, begging crumbs from the picnickers who sat shaded beneath the tall, leafy trees.
Before they’d eaten, the girls had begged dancing lessons from Cameron. Right there in the open, he’d taught them all a branle, the courante, an almain, and the English pavane. “Lady Kendra’s been busy,” he’d told Clarice.
Now, watching her lick the delicious stickiness of roast chicken from her hands made him envy her lucky fingers. She turned to the huge picnic basket he’d brought with him from the castle. “Lud, there’s enough food left to satisfy the entire village.”
He grinned. “I told Cook I needed to feed four ravenous folk.”
Sipping wine from a pewter goblet, she sent him a mock glare over the rim. “Are you telling me you didn’t prepare all this yourself?”
“Nay.” Cameron crossed his long legs. “I suppose you should know I cannot cook. That’s why I require a wife.”
Though he’d said it in jest, he was pleased to see she didn’t flinch at his words. Maybe she was getting used to the idea.
Tomorrow was the ball, and Sunday he’d be leaving for home.
The realization hit with a stab of desperation. He couldn’t leave her here. Whatever bond he’d felt upon meeting her, since then it had grown. He was more than certain of his feelings now.
Aye, he’d known her but a few days. Aye, it was daft. But he’d always been someone who knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was Clarice.
He suddenly reached to pull her to him, to hold her close, to kiss her doubts away, to convince her, once and for all, that she didn’t want to live without him any more than he did without her.
Her goblet fell to the ground and rolled down the mild slope. With her palms flat on his chest, she pushed away and sat straight. “I cannot.” Her words came in a harsh whisper. “I’m feeling too close, and…you’re leaving.”
She shot a glance to where the girls played by the water, oblivious.
“Clarice.” Fingers on her chin, he gently eased her gaze back to his. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but —sincerely, no jesting—I want to take you with me. If you didn’t believe it before, maybe you will now. You have to now, or it will be too late.” He studied her eyes, the gray bright with a sheen of tears. “Do you truly think it matters that you’ve years to your credit I haven’t lived?”
“No,” she whispered, looking resigned. “It’s—”
“You cannot believe you don’t deserve a baronet. For heaven’s sake, all that means is I own some land. And with it comes a title of sorts. But I’m not nobility, and even if I were, I’d still want you.”
“I know.”
Then why did she look like her heart would break? “Would you be so unhappy, then, to leave the place of your birth?”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “That’s not…no.”
“Are you afraid, then, to come away with me unwed? Afraid for your soul? We needn’t live in sin, Clarice, you mustn’t think I’ll rush you into such things. It’s only that I cannot wait here three weeks for banns to be called. Leslie needs me. And the thought of leaving without you…”
“No…that’s not the problem, either. I cannot marry you, Cameron. I cannot. It wouldn’t be fair to you, can you not see that? I’m older than you, and I’ve—”
“I told you, I don’t care about such things!”
“Let me finish—”
“A handfasting, then—”
“A what?” She blinked, clearly confused.
“A handfasting. At home, we don’t have too many clergymen, as you do here. And so it is custom to join hands, and to pledge to each other and God to live as man and wife for a year and a day. At the end of that time, if no child is conceived, the couple can choose to part ways. When next a priest comes to visit, the marriage is confirmed by the kirk. It’s simple, aye?”
“It’s impossible,” she whispered.
He didn’t understand. “Why would you think so? It’s the perfect solution. A time-honored ritual sanctioned by the clergy, one that allows us to wed before leaving Cainewood.” When she only shook her head, he gritted his teeth in frustration. “What is your objection, if I may ask? I know you like me—no, more than that. And I won’t hear otherwise.”
“Whenever my husband…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, then faded away entirely.
“Aye?”
“I cannot be a true wife to any man,” she blurted all of a sudden. “I was married seven years. Long years. Yet I never once enjoyed sharing a bed with my husband.” Her face blazed red, but she held Cameron’s gaze. “He said I was…frigid. I hate that word. But it fits. When it comes to intimacy, I feel…nothing. Nothing but pain and revulsion and fear.”
Cameron drew a deep breath and let it out. Such suffering she had endured…he couldn’t imagine it, but he sent up a quick prayer that he could somehow help ease it, nonetheless. “That was with him,” he said carefully, taking her hands. She didn’t pull away. “You don’t feel revulsion and fear when I kiss you.”
“That’s different. I had never been kissed before—” His mouth gaped open, and she held up a hand. “Not really. Not the way you kiss me. It was new to me, and yes, wonderful. But I know what the rest is like. I don’t know how other women stand it. I know only that, for me, it can never be something I welcome.”
He knew she was wrong. But he also knew that no words would convince her of that. “It’s sorry I am for you, Clarice. That must have made your marriage even more difficult.”
“It did. Will always said that a night in my bed was akin to…” She didn’t have to say the word. “And truth be told, what he did was not all that different from what that other man attempted this summer.” A single tear overflowed and traced a path down her cheek. “Will never let me forget, for one minute since I married him at fifteen, what a failure I was as a wife.”
“Clarice…” How short her childhood had been. No wonder she seemed mature beyond her years.
“That’s why I was so thrilled to be given Mary.” Her gaze strayed to where her daughter chased Anne along the shore, their giggles floating to them on the breeze. “To have a child, at last, and without having to remarry. I…I don’t know if I can go through that again.”
A strangled sound escaped his throat.
She looked back to him, her features etched with both pain and determination. “You’re young, Cameron. You have love in your heart, and land and a title to bequeath to children of your body. You shouldn’t have to force yourself on your wife to get them.”
How many times had he pictured those bairns she spoke of running around his castle, growing, working with him side by side? He wanted her for their mother. “Would you be willing to try, Clarice?”
She shrugged. “I tried a thousand times, with all my heart. I always hoped that if I tried, he wouldn’t hit me.” More tears ran down her cheeks, and he reached to brush them away, feeling a stab of hurt when she ducked away. “It never worked, and—though I might try again—it never will. Other women speak of joy, of a special bonding. I won’t deprive you of that, not even to secure my own happiness. I’m not that selfish. You deserve better.”
He knew she was wrong—she was warm, not cold, and, with patience and kindness, the right man could overcome the emotional scars of mistreatment.
She was wrong.
But what if he w
ere wrong, instead? What if she knew of what she spoke, and he only ended up hurting her?
Could he live with that?
She rose to her knees, reaching for the goblet that had rolled away, tossing everything back in the basket. “I want you to leave, Sir Cameron.”
“What?” Would she cut out his heart?
“I want you to leave.” She shoved the basket into his hands, then tossed the blanket over it. “Now. Just leave me alone, like you should have in the first place.”
He stared at her for a long moment, until she scrambled to her feet and turned her back.
He slowly stood.
“I love you,” he said.
Her shoulders remained stiff, unyielding. The words vibrated across the chasm that stretched between them.
A chasm it seemed he couldn’t leap. But he would find a way.
TWELVE
FOR THE FIRST time in close to a week, Clarice felt she’d done a full day’s work. She’d made more strawberry tarts and delivered them to Gisela at the cookshop. Her fingers were stained red from picking berries for tomorrow’s batch. She’d finished one crewelwork throw and started another, both of which would bring a tidy sum. The house was swept, the linens washed.
Her heart was empty.
She’d known all along that Cameron wouldn’t have her; what red-blooded male would? She’d been foolish to allow herself to get close. But though she’d said from the start that she and Mary were better off on their own—and truly meant it as well—the thought of never seeing him again left her feeling like there was a gaping hole in her middle.
Yet surely she would get over that. It was all for the better. She was terrified at what the marriage bed would bring, and having escaped that once, she’d be mad to go back. She might have lived a fairytale for a week, but she wasn’t meant to live in a castle forever.
She was setting supper on the table when the rattle of carriage wheels began parading up the road. One after the other, the local gentry were making their way to the castle for the marquess’s wedding celebration ball.
Mary ran to fling open the door. “Look, Mama! Oh, look at the beautiful coaches! Look, that one has four white horses! And I can see inside. That lady’s hair has jewels stuck in it!”