by Candace Camp
By this time, all the servants and family members, who had heard the shot and the shouting, had arrived on the scene and were talking and exclaiming. Even the Earl and Jenkins were peering over the banister of the stairs at the hall below.
Benedict took Camilla’s hand and pulled her away down the hall and into the room farthest from the commotion.
“But, Benedict,” Camilla protested, “shouldn’t you stay and clear everything up?”
“Woollery can handle it for the moment. If I’m not mistaken, Jermyn will be here any moment, too. He can take charge. I have something more important to do.”
“What?” Camilla looked up at him with wide eyes.
“This.” He went down on his knees before her.
“Benedict! Whatever are you doing?”
“What your grandfather told me to—begging.”
Camilla stared. “Have you gone mad? Begging for what?”
“Your hand in marriage. You can’t refuse me, Camilla. I cannot live without you. All I think about is you—being with you, hearing you laugh, listening to you talk, making love to you.” He reached out and took her hands. “Please, say yes.”
Camilla hesitated. “There is one thing very important that you haven’t told me,” she said. “Why do you want to marry me?”
“Why?” He stared at her. “I just told you—I can’t bear to be without you. The last few days have been sheer hell.”
“But why, blast it?”
“Because I love you, of course! Why do you think?”
Camilla broke into a smile and threw herself into his arms. They tumbled backward onto the floor.
Finally he lifted his head and smiled down at her. “Is that a yes, Lady Rawdon?”
She smiled and nodded, smoothing her fingers through his coal black hair.
“I thought you did not believe in marriage.”
Camilla raised her eyebrow. “This time I think I’ll make an exception.”
Benedict reached up and turned the lock of the door, then bent to kiss her again.
EPILOGUE
CAMILLA HELD UP her left hand, admiring the gold and ruby ring on the third finger. She turned it this way and that, letting the light bring out the glow in the ruby’s depths. “You know,” she said, amusement tinging her voice, “it turned out nicely that this ring actually was your grandmother’s.”
Benedict, across the room from her, smiled as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a nearby chair. “Mmm. I never said that it wasn’t. ’Twas you who assumed I had stolen it.”
Camilla flashed a grin at him. “You know you gave me every reason to think you a criminal.”
“Not every reason,” he protested mildly, smiling a little to himself as he turned toward the dresser and began to remove the studs from his cuffs.
Camilla watched him, warmth stirring in her abdomen. Tonight, for the first time, she thought, she was watching her legal husband undress.
They had been married that afternoon in a small ceremony at the home of the vicar who, as Benedict had predicted, had willingly married them in secret. Benedict and Jermyn had escorted Harold to London the day after he had been discovered to be the enemy spy in their midst. Then, yesterday, almost a week later, Benedict had returned, this time in his personal carriage, and had whisked Camilla away to the vicarage in Sussex.
Only the vicar’s wife and son had been there as witnesses. As soon as she saw the son, Camilla had understood the debt the vicar owed Benedict. The young man, walking with the aid of a crutch, was missing the lower half of one leg, and he had, just like Lieutenant Woollery, greeted Benedict as “Major,” his eyes lighting up with warmth and admiration. He had been under Benedict’s command in the Peninsular War, one of those young men whom Anthony had told her about Benedict’s bringing back to the safety of their own troops.
Pressed by the vicar and his family, they had stayed for tea after the ceremony, but as soon as they could politely leave, they had returned to their carriage and started on the journey north to Benedict’s estate. When night overtook them, they had stopped at this pleasant, redbrick inn.
Camilla leaned back against the pillows, watching her husband, aware of the growing sense of excitement inside her, enjoying the anticipation of the night ahead.
“You know,” she said conversationally, “I’m not at all sure that Aunt Beryl really believes that you and I are married.” Camilla had had to endure several days of such speculations from her aunt while Benedict was away in London.
“Probably not,” he replied unconcernedly. “It doesn’t really matter. We are married, and we don’t have to prove it to anyone. The vicar won’t tell anyone that it was not legal until today.”
“But everyone in the house heard Harold say that we weren’t married.”
“Yes, and afterwards, you and I both said he was lying and affirmed that we were. Your relatives would all be uncommonly foolish to take a professed traitor’s word over ours. Besides, if your reputation suffers, so does theirs. The only one foolish enough to hurt herself in order to slander you is your aunt Beryl, and I think I can guarantee that she will not tell anyone.”
Camilla’s eyebrows went up. “How?”
“I spoke to her yesterday. She agreed with me that this would not be a good Season for her and her daughters to be in London.”
“I should think not. I imagine even Cousin Bertram will stay in the country, with Harold’s scandal hanging over our heads.”
“There will doubtless be some rumors.”
“Rumors!” Camilla stared. “It will be common knowledge. The man is a traitor.”
“Agreed. But it will not be well-known.” He came across the room and sat down on the bed beside her, gazing seriously into her face. “Harold is to be exiled. He can never live in England or an English possession again. But he will not be tried publically as a traitor.”
“But why?”
He looked at her quizzically. “As I am sure Cousin Bertram would agree, it is not exactly the thing to have a traitor for a cousin-in-law.”
“But, Benedict! He is guilty! He ruined your network. He killed your messengers. And Nat Crowder. He tried to kill Lieutenant Woollery. He tried to kill me—and you and Anthony, too. You cannot let him go free!”
Benedict smiled at her. “You constantly amaze me. You would rather your name suffer such a blot than to let him escape?”
“Yes, of course. He betrayed his country!”
“I agree. He deserves the worst that we could do. But we have to be practical, as well. We cannot prove that Harold killed the other messengers. We have no bodies, no weapon, nothing—and Harold is denying everything. We can’t even prove that it was he who attacked Lieutenant Woollery or who fought with Anthony and me that night. None of us saw his face. All we can say with certainty is that he had injured knuckles the day after I was attacked. He will deny that he had anything to do with the smugglers or with spying. You know Harold. Can’t you see how well he would play the virtuous clergyman in court, drawing all the dignity and piety of his profession about him like a cloak?”
Camilla frowned. She could indeed imagine Harold fooling jurors with his act of being a good clergyman. He had, after all, fooled the townspeople, and even his own family, for years. “I suppose so.”
“Besides, if he were tried for treason, it would also mean exposing Gideon. We would have to tell the public all about our spy network if we accused him of working to destroy it, and that very thing would destroy it completely. Neither Jermyn nor I—nor anyone in the government—wants that. It is too valuable. We lost a few messages, but he did not break our network. It can continue to operate against Bonaparte. And that is far more important than bringing one man to trial.”
“I see.”
“The only charge left to bring against him is his
attempted murder of you. If the government went forward with that, you and your whole family would be dragged through the courts. And your grandfather and I would both bring every scrap of influence we have to bear to prevent you going through that ordeal. ’Tis better by far simply to get rid of the man.” He smiled wryly. “I think that your cousin Harold will find life unpleasant enough, being exiled from England, stripped of his clerical orders and without the influence of his family name. I think that he is going to find out what it is like to truly be without money, after all these years of considering himself penniless.”
“Yes, poor Harold,” Camilla reflected without a trace of pity.
“However, as part of our agreement not to try Harold for treason or murder, or even attempted murder, he has agreed to sign a confession. He told us all, and wrote it down and signed it. So we know exactly how much damage he did to the Gideon network and how we can repair it. Moreover, I told Aunt Beryl that I have such a confession in my possession. I also explained to her that if ever any rumor that you and I were not legally wed should surface anywhere, I would expose her son for the traitor he is. I think the woman knows that she could not show her face again in Society if that happened. She assured me that the thought had never entered her head and would never pass her lips.”
Camilla chuckled. “Now I know what an extraordinary man you are. I thought it was quite wonderful that you were a military hero, that you brought your men back to their lines through all sorts of incredible dangers, and that you captured a traitor. But to have defeated Aunt Beryl—now that takes a man of real courage.”
Benedict let out a laugh, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Saucy wench. What am I to do with you?”
Camilla’s lips softened into a seductive smile, and she languidly raised her arms above her head against the pile of pillows, subtly emphasizing the thrust of her breasts. “Indeed, my Lord Rawdon, I would have thought you had a good idea of what to do with me.”
His eyes flared with light, and he leaned closer, saying in a low voice, “Indeed, my Lady Rawdon, I do. I do.”
His lips met hers, and all thoughts of further banter left Camilla’s head. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and they sank into the pillows.
* * * * *
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ISBN: 9781459241251
Copyright © 1997 by Candace Camp
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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