His hands lowering to her skirts, he felt her shiver and move against him, and he felt the primal thrill of it rise in his veins. “I . . . I do not want to need you,” she said against his ear.
“I know.” His words were gravelly, his breath hot against hers. He was already unlacing his breeches, insensible to the cold, wrapped as he was in her warmth. “I do not want to need you either.”
He lowered his head and she raised on her toes to meet him halfway, pressing her soft lips to his. “This is good-bye, then,” she said, stating that everything would return to the way it was between them.
“Aye.”
His hands were beneath her cloak and he touched her through the thick fabric of her gown, pushing her backward with the slightest pressure, all thought beyond this moment disappearing from his mind as she slipped her tongue against his.
Then he was lifting her, holding her with the weight of his arm, bending his legs to enter her, her back against the tree. Fighting the staggering impulse to sigh in pleasure, he moved against her, inside her, filling her, forcing her entire weight upward. His mouth closed over hers with self-indulgent temperance he was unused to feeling, and he could not slow the rhythm of movements. Yet her passion equaled his and she held him tightly, her ragged breaths beside his ear, consuming him, until he let satiation claim them both.
Chapter 10
“You are out of practice, Carrick. I have outscored you twice.”
Camden’s expression remained sober behind his leather-and-mesh mask. He sliced the air with his foil. “Are you telling me you are exhausted, Westmont? One more go-round. Supper is not for another hour, my friend.”
“Friend, indeed,” he replied. “What kind of friend am I to kill you twice in one day?”
Camden laughed. “Merciful.”
His riposte drove Camden back and around the floor. Yorktown might have left Camden less agile, but he had not lost his reflexes. At the very least, he had mostly held his own for the last hour, and it was all he could expect against a master like Jacob.
Tempered by a capricious mood since his daughter’s return to Blackthorn, Camden had thrown himself into physical activity. Anything to alleviate the restlessness that seemed to have been driving him these past weeks since his return from Seastone Cottage. Sweat trickled from his brow and he welcomed the cold breeze as he passed an open window. Outside, snow had started falling again. Jacob and his family had arrived last night to celebrate Twelfth Night as he did every year. With the exception of last year, Jacob had been coming to Blackthorn Castle for over a decade.
A man in his midforties, he was a mentor, as well as a longtime friend and business partner, a Loyalist to the core of his being, a magistrate, and a political ally, one of the few who had remained steadfastly at Carrick’s side for most of the past ten years.
“I understand Anna is recovering from her ordeal,” Westmont said.
“She is up and out of bed, wreaking havoc with the servants, who have spoiled her mercilessly.”
“I heard Miss Douglas has visited here twice since Anna’s return,” Sir Jacob said too casually. “Are you sure that is wise?”
Camden missed his timing, parrying too late. Westmont nicked him again in the chest. Fortunately, a protective leather vest covered his white shirt. “Unless your heart is made of stone, Carrick, you are dead a third time.”
Camden slid off the mask. “Aye, Jacob. The match is yours.” He tossed the foil to a footman standing on the floor’s perimeter. But stone his heart was not.
“Your leg has been troubling you?” Westmont asked as Camden limped to the table where the other fencing gear lay.
Camden tugged at the laces on his leather vest and removed it. Sweat dampened his shirt and hair. The footman brought him a ladle filled with ice water from a pitcher, and he drank.
“More so in this weather,” he said over the rim of the ladle, then tipped it back as if it had contained a needed draft of whiskey.
“Count yourself fortunate you have both your life and your limb. You could easily have lost both.”
“Ahh. Ever the optimist to see the bright side of everything.” Camden dabbed his brow with the back of his arm and studied his friend. “Why the interest in Christel Douglas, Jacob?” His tone was cool.
“I do not need to remind you that her uncle was a blockade runner. Many here were loyal to the colonial cause. Just because that conflict has ended does not mean illegal activities have ceased.”
“Her uncle is dead.”
“But your brother is very much alive. He is running with a rough crowd some years now and is still a suspect in the gold theft three years ago that left six of my men dead. Rumor is that Christel Douglas was his contact in the colonies. They are closer than she lets on, Carrick.”
Camden leaned against the table. “As much as my brother and I disagree on certain issues, he did not murder those men, Jacob.”
“How can you be so sure in light of the recent events?”
“Four of them were Scotsmen. One was a friend.”
Westmont dropped his towel on the table beside the water pitcher. “Your judgment has already been thrown into question by many in Parliament, Carrick. You do not want to find yourself defending the wrong sort of people.”
Camden swore. “I am not defending Leighton’s character. But he is no murderer, and Miss Douglas has no connection to him here.”
Westmont raised his hands palms out. “If I did not trust your integrity, I would not be in business with you. To that point, I have been able to arrange for you to meet with a dozen wool merchants next month in Glasgow. Your ship is there being refitted. It will give the investors a chance to view what you have to offer.”
He wanted the shipping contracts. “This could be a boon for Blackthorn. I need this.”
“Have I told you my eldest daughter will be traveling with us?”
Ah, Camden thought. The crux of this conversation emerges. Sir Jacob’s wife had passed some years ago, leaving him with two pretty daughters, the oldest of marriageable age.
“Catherine is twenty and beautiful,” her father said. “She still has all her teeth and she comes with a plump dowry. She would make a suitable Carrick countess.”
“Jaysus, Jacob, you sound like an old horse trader.”
The smile Westmont offered was faintly rueful. “Have pity on me. I will spend my afterlife in purgatory if I do not find suitable husbands for my daughters. Do you know there is a shortage of decent candidates in all Britain? Think of it. Their dowries are the land my family owns. Not many appreciate the value of good Scottish earth.”
Camden knew that Westmont wanted a match between his eldest and a Carrick lord. The marriage made sense, as it would bring a large chunk of pastureland into the Carrick fold, something the estate needed if it was to remain economically viable into the new century. It was the reason why Camden had decided to go to Glasgow next month.
It was not that Camden disliked outright the opportunity for another sort of alliance. Westmont’s daughter was petite and unassuming. Eager to please because it was expected of her.
Yet, strangely, her biddable nature held no interest for him. She might have possessed the necessary background required to make an admirable Carrick bride, but Camden found marrying merely to produce an heir distasteful. Perhaps because he still held to the old-fashioned notion of fidelity and honoring thy vows—honoring vows was what he did best, after all—he could not see himself spending his life with her.
But a part of him knew that he needed to either break free of the invisible chains drowning him or go down with the proverbial ship and accept his life as it was and live within the strictures and duties required of him. Except he had already tried that route and failed.
Perhaps that was why something inside him responded to Christel. She stood outside the circle of society. Even as a young girl, she had been independent and possessed an ability to poke her thumb in the eye of society. Of course, one is freest when no one holds ex
pectations of you. He wondered what life would have been like living if he’d been that free.
“There are more laudable gentlemen than I,” Camden said, “who can appreciate what you are offering. But I am not ready.”
“You are not in a position to sit idly by and leave Blackthorn without an heir. Unless you count Leighton in that category. Saundra has been dead over a year, Carrick—”
“Christ, man. If you value the tenuous ground on which you stan—”
A rap on the door mercifully halted their conversation. Camden’s butler entered, appearing harried. Behind him, Lady Harriet, Christel’s spry grandmother, appeared.
“My lord, Lady Harriet requests an audience—”
“He knows who I am, Smolich,” Lady Harriet said, edging the butler aside with her lethal cane. “You may dispense with formalities. We are all family here.”
Smolich puffed his chest, looking much like an angry penguin, dressed as he was in formal black with a pristine white shirt beneath his jacket. “I asked that she await you in the drawing room, my lord. She refused.”
“The drawing room is much too drafty to await your convenience, Carrick. I would die of lung fever ’ere you ever found the time to grace me with your presence.”
Camden nodded to the butler. “You may go, Smolich. We are well armed enough in here to protect ourselves if the need should arise.”
“Indeed, Carrick!” Lady Harriet snapped, glaring at the butler. “Do not encourage the man’s impertinence.”
With a smug glare at Lady Harriet, the butler turned squarely and strode from the salon, leaving the door open behind him.
Lady Harriet opened her mouth to speak. The sound of water being poured into a cup interrupted her, and her gaze homed in on Sir Jacob standing casually at the table. “ ’Taint the done thing to eavesdrop on a private conversation, Jacob. Shame on you.”
“Aye, my lady,” he deferred with a bow of his head. “I was thinking the very same thing.”
Camden gave Westmont a brief nod. “We can conclude our business later.”
Camden followed Westmont to the door, shutting it behind the provost. Putting Jacob’s conversation to the back of his mind for now, Camden leaned against his palms as he considered his grandmother’s longtime friend, and Christel and Tianna’s grandmother.
Even leaning on a cane, Lady Harriet was a formidable woman, with a shock of henna-dyed hair and diamond-hard eyes that seemed their sharpest only when she looked at him. She wore black bombazine, a monument to her widowhood, as if she thought anyone around her could forget the undying love she bore her husband. More often than not, Camden suspected it was she who needed the reminder. As if moving on with her life was akin to a sin, and that moving forward meant forgetting the past. He could have told her that assertion was wrong.
He walked to the table and took up a cup and the water pitcher, wishing he’d had something stronger to pour. “Lady Harriet,” he said, lifting his cup in salute to her, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?”
“You are an impertinent one, Carrick. I just had tea with your grandmother, and she said that you asked Christel to be Anna’s tutor. Why is she not here, then?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have no control over your granddaughter, my lady.”
“She would rather live at that cottage alone in a state of destitution rather than live here or at Rosecliffe?”
He studied the clear liquid in his cup before taking a draft. “She is not alone. When Heather and Blue McTavish are not there, she has a dog with her. A vicious dog with snarling yellow teeth. He is protective of her. I cannot even go near her without fearing for my life.”
Lady Harriet eyed him over her powdered nose. “Because he does not like you only makes him smart.”
“I cannot agree with you more,” he said, “which is why I did not throw the mutt overboard the first time he curled his lip at me.”
Obviously studying him, Lady Harriet laid both her gloved hands over the polished wooden hook of her cane and held it tightly, despite the fact that one hand was bent and gnarled with rheumatism. “Surely, there is something that can be done for her,” she prodded.
“What is it you expect me to do? I cannot help her if she does not ask, and she will not take charity. If you know her at all, you would know that she would hate me and you for it.”
Lady Harriet’s mouth tightened, the first hint of real emotion he had glimpsed in her. “We have not got along for some time now, Carrick,” she said. “ ’Tis not easy to undo what has been said between us. You have not even attended church since Saundra died.”
“I am not seeking any absolution, my lady,” he said without inflection. “I found my closure months ago.”
“Pah! Emotions are not candles that can be snuffed out at one’s convenience. She is the mother of your child. Do not tell me she did not break your heart. Or that you did not break hers.”
“I doubt you have come in here to lecture me about my heart or lack of soul. I get that from my own grandmother.”
Anna’s voice sounded from the hallway just before the door flung open. “Grams! You have finally come to see me!”
A winded Mrs. Gables appeared behind Anna. Holding a hand to her ribs, she leaned against the door frame, red-faced and huffing from exertion. “My apologies, my lord,” she gasped. “Lady Harriet. The child heard you were here and escaped the nursery.”
Lady Harriet held out her cane to stop Anna from flinging herself forward. “Let me see you. Goodness. I thought you would still be abed.”
Anna held out her pink dress as she demurely curtseyed. “Good afternoon, Grams. I am much better.”
Lady Harriet’s gaze took in the bare feet. “Running about barefoot. I should have known. And after your accident, too. Where are your shoes?”
“Papa said if I do not wish to wear shoes, then I do not have to. Is that not correct, Papa?”
“Truly, Carrick. ’Tis not the done thing for a growing girl, running about like a hoyden.”
Anna flung herself against Lady Harriet. “I know, Grams. But I wanted to see you. I had to see you. It has been ever so many days. Did you bring my surprise?”
Lady Harriet’s arms went around Anna. “Dear me. Of course.” Withdrawing a tin from a pocket within her skirts, she smiled. “I brought your favorite gumdrops.”
“Has she eaten her supper?” Camden asked Mrs. Gables.
“Cook served brisket, Papa. I dislike brisket. Mrs. Gables said I was to eat it anyway so as not to hurt cook’s feelings. But I did not want to.”
“I will see what cook can do about the matter,” Lady Harriet said before Camden could respond. “But first we will return to your rooms for your shoes. You are like ice.”
Camden let them leave together before turning his attention to Mrs. Gables in the doorway. “Last week she wanted nothing but brisket,” the nurse said in apology. “Cook made brisket.”
“If she does not want to eat brisket, I see no reason to force the issue. Have cook make what she wants.”
“In my experience when giving in to children’s demands—”
“She needs to eat,” he said. “Surely, it cannot be too much to feed her something she likes.”
“If you wish, my lord. Be there anything else?”
He came to his feet. “You visited Miss Douglas yesterday,” he said. “Did she accept the blankets and foodstuffs you brought her?”
The color rose in Mrs. Gable’s cheeks. “She told me to take everything to St. Abigal’s, where it was needed. I meant to tell you—”
“Was she angry?”
“I attempted to inform her that you had nothing to do with the donation, but she would not believe me.”
“Hmm. And the horse left in her stable?”
“I believe she just gave up trying to return it, since she had already done so twice before.”
Little steps, he thought with some satisfaction, that he could find even a minute way to make her life a bit e
asier. At the very least, every time she returned the horse, she gave him an opportunity to see her, and her presence lightened Anna’s face.
He stepped through the door into the corridor, then turned on his heel to face the nurse. “I have known you for eight years. I trust your judgment when it comes to my daughter. I did not mean to imply otherwise. If cook made brisket for Anna out of kindness to please my daughter, then Anna should appreciate the gesture.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Camden retired to his private chambers to bathe and change out of his sparring attire. Later that evening, dinner was served promptly at eight. Sir Jacob’s daughters, Lady Harriet and Tia were in attendance, as was his grandmother.
He barely remembered the last occasion at which his entire family had spent time together, except when Saundra had been alive and had been able to get him and his father and brother in the same room together.
It had been her gift to bring cheer to a room full of people, he realized.
He lifted his gaze past the pianoforte to her wedding portrait. It hung in all its golden glory above the marble fireplace, her grace and beauty forever immortalized in a tapestry of oils and canvas.
Lady Harriet’s words scrolled through his mind. “Do not tell me she did not break your heart. Or that you did not break hers.”
Aye, Saundra still haunted him in ways he would have never thought possible. She had ripped his heart from his chest and died with it clutched in her fist.
And had left him with a little girl, one who would soon be waltzing on the cusp of womanhood, that misunderstood age between childhood and motherhood. God forbid that she should experience the latter before finishing the former. Or that he would fail her as he had his wife.
Indeed, there were a hundred reasons why he spent so little time at Blackthorn Castle, why he did not want to be around come spring, when the earth came back to life and the weather warmed and his soul would begin to thaw in places he wanted only to keep frozen.
But there was only one reason why he would stay.
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