Impetuous

by Candace Camp

  “No, we’re fine, thank you. We only wanted to know about the book.”

  “Yes, yes, indeed.” The chubby proprietor adjusted his round spectacles and beamed at her encouragingly. “What is it you are looking for?”

  “It is a prayer book that once belonged to Queen Elizabeth. It has been in the Neville family for generations,” Philip told him and proceeded to describe the jeweled cover.

  The book dealer’s eyes started to glow. “My, what a treasure! Oh, indeed, I wish I did have a book like that. Unfortunately, it has never crossed my path. I would remember it. Yes, indeed, I would.” He nodded his head so vigorously that his cheeks wobbled like a baby’s. “Let me see, let me see… Samuel Arrington might have knowledge of such a book. He quite often deals in rare books. Then, of course, there is Cohn and Sons.”

  They left his store a few minutes later with the addresses of three other dealers in old or rare books clutched in Cassandra’s hand. They spent the rest of the day going to the booksellers, all with the same disappointing results. None of them had ever heard of a book such as Philip described. Cassandra felt rather depressed as they returned to Neville House, and it did not lighten her spirits any to sit through another gloomy dinner with Philip. She went to bed feeling that the situation was, indeed, hopeless.

  The following morning she was in the sitting room, waiting to set out to see another round of book dealers, when a footman entered and told her that Sir Philip requested her presence in his study. “A Mr. Staley is with him,” the footman added.

  “Really?” Suddenly Cassandra’s spirits lightened.

  She rushed down the hallway and into Philip’s study. Philip looked up and smiled, and for an instant it was as if the past few days had never happened. A warmth bloomed in Cassandra’s chest, and she smiled back without a second’s hesitation. Something flickered in Philip’s eyes, and the smile dropped away.

  He stood up, saying formally, “Miss Verrere. Staley came to me this morning with some news, and I thought you would like to hear it.”

  “Of course,” Cassandra replied politely, though all the joy had spilled out of her as Philip’s face changed.

  “Go ahead, Staley. Tell us what you found.”

  “There was a ledger book going back twenty years. In it, I found records of selling a number of items for your father. Most of them were described as simply valuables, but a few were more specifically detailed, a certain statue, a Queen Anne table, and so forth. And a jeweled book. It did not give the name, but I remembered that you had said the prayer book you were looking for had jewels on the spine.”

  “Yes. Excellent! But did it say who the buyer was?”

  “A bookseller by the name of Harrington Jones. He deals, I believe, primarily in rare and antique books, and his shop is still in operation.”

  “Staley, you deserve a reward for this. You have saved us fruitless days at bookshops. Now, if you will excuse us, I think we need to find this Mr. Jones. Cassandra?”

  With their shared excitement, the walk over to the bookstore seemed almost like old times. The stiff constraint that had lain between them for the past few days was largely gone, and though they did not talk much, the silence did not feel forced.

  H. Jones, Book Dealer, was tucked into a small corner of an aging brick building, the color of which had faded into a nondescript mellowness over the years. A bell tinkled over the door as they entered the long, narrow room, made darker by towering shelves of books. A clerk bustled forward, smiling in anticipation, recognizing well-heeled customers.

  “May I interest you in a book?”

  “Actually, we are trying to find a book which Mr. Jones purchased some twenty years ago. It was my father who sold it, and I would like to get it back into the family. Would it be possible to talk to Mr. Jones himself? I am Sir Philip Neville.”

  The clerk, after a closer look at Sir Philip, moved him up even higher in his estimation of wealth and influence. The mention of a title clinched it for him. “Of course. I am sure Mr. Jones would be most honored to talk to you. Let me announce you.”

  He led them through the maze of shelves to an office in the rear. Just outside the office, rows of glass-fronted, locked shelves held many old-looking books. The clerk gestured for Philip and Cassandra to wait there while he went into the office. A moment later an old man came out, frowning at them. He was thin and had probably once been tall, but age and a stoop-shouldered posture had shortened him. His hair was thick and white, much like his eyebrows, and the combination of the two gave him a slightly wild look. His dark eyes, however, were sharp and not the least bit wild. There was at the moment a speculative look in them; Cassandra suspected he was trying to figure out how he could make a profit out of the situation.

  “Harrington Jones,” he introduced himself shortly, giving both of them a perfunctory bow, and ushered them into his office.

  That room was even tinier than Mr. Simons’s office had been, and what space there was was entirely covered by books in all states of disrepair. The old man waved a dismissive hand at the stacks. “Junk, most of it. Here, miss, please sit down.”

  He showed her to his chair behind the desk, and he and Philip stood. There was no room to bring in more chairs for his guests.

  “How is it that I may help you, sir?”

  Philip once again explained that he was looking for a book sold twenty years earlier, describing the book in detail. The old man nodded, saying nothing. There was a knowing look on his face that raised Cassandra’s hopes.

  “Of course, there would be a finder’s fee for you if you could help me locate it,” Sir Philip added smoothly.

  A gleam in the book dealer’s eye showed his appreciation of Philip’s perspicacity. “Most generous of you, sir.”

  After a few minutes’ negotiation, they settled on an appropriate fee, and Harrington Jones began to talk. “I remember the book of which you speak quite well.” He gestured toward the stack of ledgers on the table behind his desk. “I keep records, but the best books I usually store up here.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “I don’t recall the initial transaction, but about five years ago the family of the man who bought it brought it to me again. The man had died, and they were liquidating his collection. The Elizabeth prayer book was the gem of the lot. I sold it and one other book to one of my best customers, an avid collector of old and rare books.”

  He paused and glanced at Sir Philip. “I have to warn you, sir, in all honesty, that I do not believe that he will want to sell you the book. He is a very wealthy man. His father made a fortune in manufacturing, and it is said that he has doubled it. He is a true connoisseur.”

  Sir Philip nodded. “I understand. We would very much like to talk to him, however.”

  “His name is Ernest Bigby. I can give you his address, if you would like.”

  “Thank you.”

  They left the shop a few minutes later, having made Mr. Jones a happier man with a healthy finder’s fee.

  “Oh, Philip!” Cassandra exclaimed, barely able to keep from dancing in her excitement. “We’re almost there! I can hardly believe it. But what if he will not sell the book?”

  He smiled down at her, unable to resist the glow of enthusiasm on her face. “Then we shall strive to at least get a look at it. I have found that men who collect things usually can’t help showing them off. If we can look at it, perhaps we can find the map and slip it out—provided that it is still there, of course.”

  Cassandra’s face fell. “Oh. Do you think it will be gone?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you unhappy. But after all these years, and with it passing through two buyers, as well as Mr. Jones’s store twice, it seems unlikely that anything would have gone undetected.”

  “I refuse to think that way. Surely we cannot have traveled all this way and done all this, on
ly to have the map gone forever.”

  “If willing it can make it be there, then I am sure it will be.”

  Cassandra looked up, catching an expression in Philip’s eyes that took her breath away. He glanced away quickly, and when he turned back to her, his face was shuttered once more, all thoughts and feelings locked away. Cassandra was suddenly cold, the excitement of their find draining away from her.

  They returned to Neville House, where Philip sat down and wrote a note to Ernest Bigby, explaining his desire to purchase the Elizabeth prayer book that had once belonged to his family. He sent a footman off with it at once, but after that, there was little to do but wait for Bigby’s reply.

  The next few hours passed in an excruciating fashion. Cassandra sat in the drawing room, trying to concentrate on a piece of needlework, which was hardly her favorite occupation to begin with, while Joanna and Aunt Ardis chattered inanely, and Philip sat, arms crossed, silent as the grave. By the time Joanna gaily suggested a shopping expedition, Cassandra jumped on the idea, feeling that anything would be more enjoyable than sitting there.

  Much to her amazement, however, Sir Philip insisted on accompanying them. Joanna went upstairs to fetch a bonnet, casting a smirk over her shoulder at Cassandra as she went out the door. Cassandra knew that Joanna would interpret Philip’s presence on the trip as a clear indication that he could not live without Joanna’s company. Cassandra sighed. The shopping expedition would be as bad as the rest of the afternoon had been.

  “Why are you going with us?” she snapped at Philip, irritated.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You object to my company? In my own carriage?”

  “We can walk or take a hack,” Cassandra stated. “We do not need your carriage.”

  “Ah, but doubtless you need a man to carry all the packages Miss Moulton will purchase.”

  “We can always take a footman for that.”

  Philip grimaced. “Dislikable as you find my presence, Miss Verrere, I intend to go. If you will remember, someone tried rather successfully to harm you only a few days ago. I am aware that you would prefer to think that I am the villain of this piece, but since I know that I am not, I also know that there is someone out there who may try to hurt you. Therefore, I do not plan to let you leave this house unless I am with you. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” Cassandra threw her needlepoint down and surged to her feet. “I find that I have a headache. I believe that I shan’t go after all. I am going up to my room to lie down.”

  She stalked off to her bedroom, hoping that Sir Philip would not be able to wriggle out of taking Joanna and her mother shopping. It would serve him right for being so utterly odious.

  She threw herself down in the armchair and stared moodily out the window at the small garden below. Her chest was stuffed with hot and conflicting emotions, and she wanted, quite badly, to cry. How could everything have turned out so horribly?

  She almost wished that she had never read Margaret Verrere’s diaries, had never known about the maps to the lost dowry—except, of course, that then she would never have met Sir Philip. And even as miserable as she felt right now, she could not wish for that.

  Cassandra stayed in her room the rest of the day and, claiming sickness, even had a tray brought up to her room at supper and begged off the trip to the opera that the others had planned. She listened to Joanna’s excited voice in the hall as she left her room, no doubt dressed in the most elegant of clothes and looking utterly beautiful. She was sure that Joanna would make the most of this evening alone with Sir Philip. By the end of it, she would be certain that he meant to offer marriage to her. Even knowing how little Philip liked Joanna, the thought of their spending the evening together at the opera made Cassandra’s heart hurt. It should be her with him. She was the one who loved him.

  She began to get ready for bed. But even after she had put on her nightgown, brushed out her hair and crawled into bed, she could not go to sleep. Even after she heard Joanna and Aunt Ardis come upstairs and go into their bedrooms, she lay wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. She could not keep from remembering the way Philip had come into her room late at night a few days before, slipping into her bed and making love to her. She could not stop wishing that he would do so this night.

  Tears gathered in her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She told herself that she was insane, that she could not want to be made love to by a man whom she suspected of trying to harm her.

  It was then that the knowledge came to her in a jolt:

  She did not believe that Philip had tried to harm her.

  Cassandra sat up in bed, startled by her insight. She reminded herself of all the reasons she had to doubt him. They were still there, the logical explanation of who had locked her in the windmill and why. But she saw that while the doubts had been there in her head, she had not really believed them, not deep down inside her. Her heart had always known that he would not harm her. Had she really believed that he might harm her, she would have been afraid to travel to London with him, with only the dubious protection of Aunt Ardis and Joanna. She would have been afraid to go out into London alone with him. She would at least have experienced some trepidation and doubt. However, she had felt not the slightest hesitation in traveling to the city with him or in going about London alone with him. Never for a moment had she felt afraid in his presence. And the reason had been because in her heart and soul, in the very essence of her being, she had known that Philip would not hurt her.

  Cassandra flung off her covers and began to pace the room, amazed by this epiphany. Why had she not realized it before? It was, she thought, because she had become so accustomed to letting her head rule her life. When logical doubts had intervened, she had given them heed, as she always gave her thoughts heed. But the doubts had not in any way changed her feelings for Philip or made her feel uneasy in his presence. Instinctively, she had believed him; it was obvious in her actions.

  She let out a little sob, compounded of relief, regret and a great upsurge of love, and hurried out the door. She almost ran down the hall to the other end, where Philip’s room lay, her bare feet making no noise on the runner. She did not even glance around, not caring whether anyone saw her. At Philip’s door, she did not pause to knock, but pulled it open boldly and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

  He was in the midst of undressing for bed, standing in front of his dresser in only trousers and his dress shirt, opened down the front. He whirled at her entrance and stared at her, dumbfounded.

  Cassandra stared back, suddenly unable to think of anything to say.

  Finally he broke the tableau, starting toward her, frowning in concern. “Cassandra? What’s the matter? Did something happen?”

  She shook her head. “No. Nothing happened.” She paused, then added honestly, “Except inside me.”

  He stopped, looking puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either.” She let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know how to say this. I am so scared that you hate me now, that you won’t accept my— Oh, God. I’m not making any sense, am I?”

  “Not really,” he agreed, not unkindly. “But I do not hate you, Cassandra, whatever you might think. I could not. Ever.”

  Cassandra drew a deep breath. “Thank you.” Tears shone in her eyes. “I—I came to apologize. I know that I was very wrong, and I’m sorry. All those things, those reasons, I realized tonight that they didn’t matter. All that mattered was whether I believed that you had tried to harm me. And I don’t. I see how you could have, why you could have wanted to…but my heart refuses to believe that you did.”

  He gazed at her in some astonishment. “But what made you change your mind?”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I realized that it wasn’t my mind that mattered. Even though I couldn’t decide, up here—” she tapped her temple “—whether you locked me in the windmill,
I realized that it made no difference. What was important was that in my heart, in here, I knew that you had not. It makes sense that it was you who locked me away, but when I look at you, I can’t believe that you would have hurt me.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Oh, Cassandra…” He took a long stride toward her.

  “I’m sorry that I doubted you.”

  He shook his head. “No. I was wrong to expect you to not have doubts. You are far too rational not to see the obvious conclusions. I was merely hurt. I wanted you to have blind faith in me.”

  “I do have faith in you. Complete faith.” She smiled up at him, and he crossed the remaining stretch of floor between them in two quick strides.

  “Cassandra!” He swept her into his arms, and his mouth found hers.

  With a little sigh of pleasure, Cassandra melted in his arms. This was where she had been longing to be, where she belonged. They clung together, kissing fervently. Cassandra’s hands slid beneath the open sides of his shirt, caressing the flat, hard muscles of his chest and stomach. His flesh quivered under her touch, suddenly on fire.

  This time it was she who took the initiative, undressing him, exploring his body with her hands and mouth, backing him up until he tumbled backward onto the bed. Boldly, she straddled him, peeling off her own nightgown and tossing it aside. Philip watched her, his eyes gleaming, struggling to hold back his raging need. She moved slowly, enticing him, tracing intricate patterns across his chest with her tongue, and stroking his thighs and abdomen, moving ever close to the hot, throbbing center of his passion until he was groaning, sure that he would burst if she continued much longer.

  At last she touched his manhood, caressing it and kissing it, playing with him until he was arching up off the bed, his fingers clenched in the bedcovers and his face contorted with the effort of holding back. She positioned herself above him and sank down upon him, taking his shaft deep inside her. Cassandra groaned at the delightful sensation. She moved up and down with steady deliberation, teasing them both with long, tormenting strokes, until finally she could stand it no longer and began to pump harder and faster, the passion in her building and building until at last it exploded, sending them both hurtling into a dark void of utter pleasure.