He groaned and shifted his body, holding her wedged between him and the door. She clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his rigid flesh.
His palms followed the arch of her back. Then he gripped her bottom, lifting her off the floor until she was pressed flush against his body, and like a wanton, she raised her legs and wrapped them around his hips. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat to his sensual assault. He turned with her in his arms, her knees pressed against his hips and on the edge of the bed with her still straddling him. Her urgency matching his, she moved her hips against him. He was being too rough and fierce, but she didn’t care. It mattered little that tomorrow would come, and the storm would be gone, the sky would be blue. Now there was only the sound of the wind.
“Look at me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt suffocated with yearning. “I do not want this to be a dream.”
He made a sound like a laugh. Cradling her face between his palms, he stared into her eyes from beneath heavy eyelids. “I have never been accused of being a woman’s dream.”
All ten of her fingers traced the shape of his face. “Then you have not known the right woman, my lord.”
Their breath mingled with whispered words. “Lord . . . Christel.” He stroked her hair and brushed his lips against hers. “Where did you learn to sing the way you do?” he asked softly.
“My mother used to sing to me as a child.”
“Your voice is like your name. Beautiful.”
Her body shuddered with desire. His words pulled at her heart. He cradled her, whispered her name, then kissed her with a hunger that she knew now was not hers alone.
It was a kiss as she had never experienced. He sipped her lips. He indulged himself in her mouth, as if taking pleasure in the taste of her. He took her down to the mattress, the weight of him offset by the angle in which he lay, the steady suck of his mouth like a pulse against her heart. He took her mouth again and again and again, engaging all of her senses, focusing her desire, ravishing her without quarter. In giving, he was taking. Mutual consent. Need. Her fingers caught in his hair and her mouth found the rapid pulse at his throat.
Her breasts seemed to swell. She whimpered in frustration when he cupped her in his palm. He lifted his head only briefly while his hand tore at the laces on her bodice and drew the neckline of her gown off one shoulder and then the other. Cool air touched her breasts a moment before his lips replaced his hand. She arched, wanting him to take more, and he plundered her with his mouth, drawing her nipple between his teeth and lips, then giving his attention to the other. A groan vibrated deep within his chest. Stubble teased her tender flesh, arousing wondrous sensations.
She had wanted this for so long. Turning her head, she opened her eyes and absorbed the night. A wedge of light lay on the floor in front of the partially opened door. They were moving shadows on the bed, alive in the darkness, their breathing hot rasps. She relished his touch even as a part of her listened to the wind and the faraway sound of a shutter banging against the house.
His body lifted slightly as he raised her skirts and shift. He laid his palm above one garter and slid the stocking down, then moved his hand up the back of her naked thigh to the curve of her bottom, warm, possessive. He slid his hand across her hip and gently urged her legs apart, his palm lingering on that most intimate part of her. She was panting now in anxiety. His mouth returned to swallow the small sounds she made, and at the same time, he cupped her mons and slipped one finger inside her. When he inserted a second, her body contracted.
She could not see all of his face in the shadows. Her fingers curled in his shirt till the starchiness of the fabric surrounded her senses like the wind and the sound of their breathing. Citrus mingled with the redolence of hot, male sensuality and a musky scent she vaguely recognized as hers. A soft groan tore from him as he straightened and rose up on one knee. He still wore his boots. Neither of them was undressed, and she did not care.
His hands fell to his waist and she heard him tear at his breeches. He did not give his own clothing the same care as he had hers. His ragged breath, husky with want, whispered over her as he leaned his knee on the bed, bent and lifted her bottom with one hand.
Words were not needed. Only urgency defined as much by the absence of dialogue as the presence of desire. She bit back a sob of pleasure as he entered her. His lips found the curve of her neck. She relished the sensitivity of her skin. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, wanting all of the hot, pulsing length of him.
Bracing his palms on the bed, he moved against her, his powerful body rocking slowly at first, as if savoring the sweet ecstasy like one savored the rare taste of rich chocolate.
Then they were moving together. Their palms touched and she laced her fingers with his. Her breathing fragmented, an incoherent moan lost between their lips. There were no other sounds outside herself. She heard only her own body, the roar of the blood in her ears, the sound of her breath against his cheek. Glad for the darkness that kept him from seeing her face, she turned her head and kissed him and then he was kissing her deeply, catching her trembling cries until she was drowning in his arms.
Release consumed her, wrenching a cry from her throat. He left no part of her body or mind untouched, branding her senses, even as he pulled out and spilled himself beside her.
He lay in her arms with only the sound of their heartbeats between them. Now she knew what it was like to lie in his arms.
He awoke to daylight in her bed. He lay on his stomach, blankets entangled around his hips, one arm flung to the side, the other hanging slightly off the bed. He still wore his clothes, minus his boots. Twisting around, he looked outside. The wind still blew, but only an occasional gust tweaked the old bones of the cottage. Frowning, he rose and padded to the door to look into the hallway. Heather was coming up the stairs with a pitcher of water in her hands.
“My lord.” She dipped. “I was just bringing this to you.”
He started down the hallway to Anna’s chamber. “Miss Christel has been sitting with her, my lord. They ate breakfast. The child be sleepin’ comfortably.”
“You should have awakened me.”
“Miss Christel told us no’ to. Most stern aboot it, too. Said you needed your rest. Doctor White was here earlier and said Lady Anna can travel. Miss Christel said to tell ye that she sent him back to summon your carriage so that the two of ye can join yer family for the Christ’s Mass celebration tomorrow.”
This was not a conversation he expected to have the morning after he made love to a woman. It sounded to him as if Christel was sending him home by way of her servant. Suddenly amused, Camden plowed his fingers through his hair. “Where is Miss Christel?”
“She be up on the hill overlooking the cottage. Her mam is buried there near the oak, my lord.”
“You may put the water on the dresser,” he said as he continued down the hall and edged open the door to Anna’s chambers.
The curtains were opened slightly. Anna slept soundlessly, the sleep of health and not one influenced by opium. He eased the door shut and returned to Christel’s room to wash and straighten his clothing.
Standing at the window as he laced his shirt and shoved the tail end into his breeches, he espied the oak on the hill some distance away.
A knock on the door signaled Heather’s return with his other clothing, including his cloak and hat. If she suspected that Christel had been in here with him last night, her expression gave nothing away.
As he waited for her to lay his belongings on the bed, he could not help but notice a patch on the girl’s threadbare sleeve. His glance took in Christel’s room, the faded lace pillows and counterpane on the bed. Everything, from the wardrobe to the washstand, needed refinishing. He had noticed the same throughout the cottage, from the moth-eaten winged chairs to the wooden floors that needed a new coat of varnish.
“Heather?” He startled the girl as she started to scurry from the room like a
mouse in the sights of a cat. “How is Miss Christel surviving here?”
Folding her hands, she lowered her eyes. “Miss Christel’s uncle took care of the business. Ye would have to be talkin’ to her—”
“I am talking to you, Heather. Captain Douglas has been dead nearly a year. Who has been paying the upkeep? Did Captain Douglas have a trust that a solicitor manages?”
“Aye, he did until the funds run out. It be Lord Leighton what has taken care of us, my lord. Takin’ care of the cottage, that is.”
“Leighton? In exchange for what?”
Bewilderment touched her gaze. “On account that he and Captain Douglas were friends, my lord.”
“Does Miss Christel know?”
“Aye, my lord.”
When he said no more, she dipped and shut the door.
He finished dressing and, after checking on Anna, left the cottage. He walked out of the yard, past the barn and paddock. His leg began to ache halfway up the snowy incline, and his boots had no traction in the snow. He stopped to catch his breath, at once hating his clumsiness.
He looked up at the blue sky. He could hear breakers crashing against the shoreline as he continued up the hill, grabbing onto a scrub bush for leverage before finally reaching the spreading oak tree on top. He looked around at a crumbling crofter’s cottage nearly buried beneath a century of dead wooden vines and weeds. Christel stood on the other side of the cottage near the rock ledge overlooking the beach. She was staring out at the seagulls.
The banshee winds coming off the sea whipped her hair and cloak. She clutched it tightly beneath her chin. For centuries, such a vision had crowned the bowsprit of great ships.
He moved forward. Upon hearing his clumsy step, she turned suddenly. Sunshine had warmed the color of her hair to soft butter.
“My lord.”
If he had thought today would bring shame or embarrassment to her, he’d been wrong. Her mouth lifted into a smile, and he felt something like a low current of electricity go through his veins, similar to what one felt standing on the deck of a ship in a storm. He had not felt its power in some time. To feel it now was almost like learning to walk again.
Aware of the atypical bent of his mood, he concentrated on reaching her side without slipping. But she quickly joined him beneath the naked limbs of the oak.
“I thought you would sleep longer,” she said.
“The room was cold.”
“I see.” Again, that brilliant smile. “I thought it circumspect to let Heather find me sleeping in Anna’s room this morning when everyone awakened,” she said.
“Aye . . .” He tucked a slip of soft hair behind her ear. “We would not want to be plagued by gossip.”
A distant church bell rang for the morning service and he looked past her. “Heather said your mother is buried up here.”
She pointed to a granite marker twenty feet away. A portion around the headstone had been cleared. “ ’Tis fitting Papa buried her here.” She looked toward the whitecapped sea. “Especially since he died somewhere out there. I do not feel she is here alone.”
All his life, he had never truly understood death, except that it treated all men equally without regard to religion or class.
His fingertip slid down to her chin, urging her face up. They stood, cloaked in shadows of a passing cloud, serenaded by gusts of wind. He had forgotten to put on his gloves, and his flesh was exposed to the elements. He felt chafed, inside and out, not only by the events of the last few days but also by those of the last few years.
“I need to say something,” he said.
“If ’tis an apology about last night, then I assure you the only thing you will be apologizing for one minute from now is the apology itself. I would think that last night is the sort of thing that should be normal for you,” she said with a casualness he did not reciprocate.
“Define normal.”
“You have mistresses—”
“Had. Singular. Not plural. Not you.”
“I am not your mistress. Or lover. What happened last night was truly wonderful, truly remarkable, but ’twas a onetime occurrence.”
He tipped her chin, trapping her in his gaze. There was nothing tranquil about him as he lifted one finger to her cheek. “Ask me to stay through spring or summer.”
She pressed her lips to his chin. “Nay.”
He lowered his hand, niggled by an annoyance he could not place.
“I like you,” she said. “Very much. I always have. ’Tis true, you have your faults. You do not get along well with people or dogs. You tend to flee the difficulties in your life rather than conquer them.” She folded her arms. “And you have sometimes shown a great deal of arrogance when it comes to your view of events. But you are a wonderful father, kind to horses, and you are an excellent sea captain.”
His lips quirked. “If that is a compliment, I have suffered kinder at my own admiralty board.”
Her lips softened. “Does liking a person not count for a start?”
“To what end? A long, enduring friendship?”
“Aye,” she said quietly. “What else can there be between us? You are lord of Blackthorn Castle. I . . . I am me.”
As he started to reply, she held up her finger to stop him. “You can have no true interest in me beyond the physical and you need not pretend there is more between us. Despite the fact that Lady Harriet is my grandmother, you and I will never visit the same circle of friends. I am not your peer or of your class or even a friend to your friends’ friends. You will wed someone who is suitable to your rank because your title expects it of you, and I will never submit to being the mistress of a married man.”
Camden stared at her. His initial impulse was to argue, especially since he had no plans to marry anyone anytime soon. But her passion-filled eyes intrigued him, and he enjoyed watching her even if she absolutely believed in her heart everything she spouted—a telling point that enabled him to consider her sentiment with remarkable patience and curiosity. He had not seen her sparked with fervor as she was now.
“Last night we needed each other,” she continued, barely pausing for breath. “I admit I took advantage of the situation, but regardless, neither of us can continue with the nonsensical notion that we should do this again.”
“So ’tis best to end it now.”
“Aye!” She seemed impressed that he got it. “Which brings me to my point. If I asked you to stay, I would only be forcing you to confront a choice too soon and you will either come to regret the decision or your answer will be no. Either choice is a detriment to me. If you stay, I do not want it to be because of your friendship to me. Therefore, I will never ask and you will never have to tell me nay. I shall leave your future to fate.”
He worked at keeping his expression unchanged. Despite her oratory on the virtues and vices of his character and relationship to her and on allowing fate to shape her life, she did not like it when she was not in control. Too bad, my sweet. Sometimes in battle, the only offense was an attack-and-run strategy that left the enemy confused.
“The same fate that put your uncle’s ship in the bay outside Yorktown and you in the field hospital when he brought me in that day? That sent you the letter that brought you back to Scotland? The same fate that kept me in London just long enough for you to find me? Fate brought Anna to Seastone Cottage and put me alone with you last night. Seems to me fate has shadowed us for years and that last night was more an act of fate than your belief that I am so feeble that I succumbed to you out of weakness.”
Her gaze was now watchful as his own assessment lingered, and he could see she was suddenly wondering what he saw beneath the surface. Past her barely combed hair pinned atop her head and sprouting short unruly curls flirting with the wind. Past yesterday’s brown woolen dress, one that she had not yet altered from wherever she had procured the thing, for it was much too tight across her bosoms. Tighter now as she found herself short of air, as if wanting to breathe deeply.
He pinned her betwee
n the tree and his arms, his mouth curved into an unholy smile. “Fortunately for you, I have to return to Blackthorn Castle,” he said.
“I know. ’Tis the beginning of Christmastide and Anna needs her family. I sent for your coach.”
“You can join me.”
She made an exasperated sound. “I am spending Christmas with Blue and Heather’s family. They have already invited me.”
He took a moment to assess the statement. Despite what she thought of him, he did understand the social impediment she faced. What she did not understand was that none of that mattered to him. But her grandmother would be in Prestwick, where she’d spent most of her time these past years at the orphanage she sponsored. Blackthorn Castle would not be free of guests, some who might not welcome her.
He lifted his gaze and hers followed to the mistletoe hanging from the branches above their heads. “Tomorrow is Christmas,” he said.
“My lord . . .”
“Camden,” he said against her lips. “My name is Camden.”
He bent his head and kissed her, her lips still so unfamiliar yet so completely intimate, so flagrantly carnal they left his limbs weak. With the light weight of his thumb, he rolled her lip down, suckling lightly, and the sensation of her washed over him, unhampered by self-censure.
Then there was nothing but Camden St. Giles kissing her, slipping his tongue between her teeth and feeding her groan with one of his own. He plundered just as he had last night and she let him, allowing his caged emotions unfettered rein—if only for now, for this minute.
Time would have spun away if not for the intrusive sound of an approaching coach, still some distance away, but close enough to bring reality back into play to remind him where they were. With reluctance, he lifted his head. But this time he could read much more than his own desire reflected in her eyes. There was yearning there, the unfurling of passions awakened. He could feel the beat of her in his blood. He was already hard and, inwardly groaning, he found he wanted more of what she had given him last night.
This Perfect Kiss Page 16