A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  Studying herself in the mirror with her accustomed detachment, she was satisfied with the overall result. Allowing her disguise to slip for a second, Kirstin smiled gleefully, executing a little twirl which sent her skirts and the tasselled belt whirling out. She had designed the gown herself, and as ever the discreet Madame LeClerc had brought her drawings to life with flair and French chic. It was a preposterous purchase, justified by a vague notion of wearing it to the opera, which had never been fulfilled nor was ever likely to be, but she was glad of it now. The sophisticated yet alluring woman in the mirror was utterly unlike the Kirstin Blair of six years ago.

  Doubt assailed her once more. Her contrariness confused her. Her dress was provocative, but she had no wish to provoke, and certainly no intention of this dinner ending as the last one with Cameron had.

  Her ruthless honesty forced her to admit that this was not entirely true. At a very base level she still desired him in a way that she’d never wanted any other man. Was the solution to indulge that passion? Was that why she had dressed herself thus? To tempt him to make love to her in the hope that it would be a failure, in the hope that she would discover her memory at fault?

  With a frustrated growl, Kirstin turned away from the mirror. It was a ridiculous idea, and utterly illogical. Of course she wasn’t thinking such a thing. Nor did she care, not one whit, whether Cameron found her attractive or not. She wanted to make a good impression—yes, she would admit that much, it was a reasonable enough ambition. She was wearing this gown because it flattered her, because she loved it, and because she wasn’t likely to get an opportunity to wear it again soon, and there was nothing more to it than that.

  * * *

  ‘I have no idea what type of food you prefer,’ Cameron said apologetically as he held Kirstin’s chair out for her. ‘I think I might have ordered far too much.’

  ‘Provided you did not order porridge and bannocks, in tribute to our joint heritage, I am not particularly fussy.’

  He laughed, pouring her a glass of red wine, having dismissed the servants. ‘I was raised on gruel rather than porridge, and it never came with a bannock as far as I remember. May I carve you some of this guinea fowl?’

  ‘Please.’ Kirstin took a cautious sip of the wine before giving a little nod of satisfaction.

  ‘I am pleased to see that my taste in wine meets with your approval.’

  ‘Knowledge you must have acquired later in life, if your origins are as humble as you imply.’

  ‘I fared no better nor any worse than everyone else in my situation.’

  Kirstin helped herself to some artichokes. Her hand hovered over the dish of peas, but she decided against them with a wrinkle of her nose and instead took some of the parsley buttered carrots.

  ‘I forgot to ask, what age is Mrs Ferguson?’

  Cameron wasn’t at all fooled by her casual manner. He spooned some of the disregarded peas onto his plate beside the pigeon to buy himself some time. He could tell her he didn’t know, which was true—he had no idea at all of Louise’s exact age—but that would only encourage Kirstin to probe further, and her probing into his past was not his notion of getting to know one another.

  He cut into his pigeon, which he noted with satisfaction was cooked through. He didn’t care for bloody meat, though he knew in some eyes it made him a culinary heathen, when in fact it signalled the pauper he had been, for whom meat had been a rare treat, boiled for hours to provide stock for soup, providing another meal. Some might call it thrift, for him it had kept belly from backbone.

  He lifted his glass again, and found Kirstin’s eyes upon him. ‘You wish to know whether my half-sister is older or younger than I?’

  ‘Older, is what I would hazard. If Philippa is seventeen, unless Mrs Ferguson was also a child bride...’

  ‘You have guessed correctly.’

  Kirstin studied him for a moment longer, making it clear that his brusque tone was noted, before forgiving the peas their wrongdoings and taking a spoonful. ‘You don’t wish to talk about your family.’

  It was a statement, not a question, and she was right, which irked him. ‘Why don’t you tell me about yours instead?’

  ‘There is little of any note to talk about,’ she answered, with a little downturned smile. ‘I never knew my mother, who died when I was very young. I have no siblings, older or younger, known or unknown to me. Until I left Edinburgh I lived a singularly unexciting and somewhat secluded life.’

  ‘Though there must have been someone, surely, an aunt, perhaps, who had a hand in raising you?’

  ‘No—at least I suppose there must have been a nurse when I was an infant, but I have no memory of any other females save the servants. It was always just Papa and myself.’

  Which explained a great deal, Cameron thought. ‘So you never missed your mother?’

  ‘One does not miss what one did not have.’

  No, but it didn’t stop you imagining what you were missing, and idealising it too. ‘You were lucky,’ he said, ‘to have a father willing to take on the rearing of you on his own.’

  ‘He was my father. He loved me.’

  ‘The one does not follow automatically from the other. Not every man considers a bairn a blessing.’

  She flinched at that. ‘What about you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve never wanted a wife, never mind weans. The life I lead is not one that lends itself to fatherhood, and I’ve no desire to change that life.’

  ‘Would you have to change it so completely?’

  ‘Aye, I reckon.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Your father and I would be in accord on this, if nothing else. If you go to the trouble of bringing a child into the world, then you’ve a duty to do the very best you can to take care of it. In my mind, that means being there, not disappearing off abroad for six months or a year at a time in search of new commodities and trade deals.’

  Cameron picked up his wine glass, swirled the contents thoughtfully, then set it down again untouched. ‘That’s my life, Kirstin, and I love it. If I had to give it up I’d come to resent it, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘So you’ve no interest in having children?’

  ‘I’ve no room for them, and no desire to make room,’ he said vehemently, ‘but, judging from that fierce frown you’re casting in my direction, I assume you think differently.’

  She started, looked momentarily confused, then made a conscious effort to smooth her brow. ‘I find your honesty refreshing on a subject so many people equivocate about.’

  ‘Maybe so, but that’s not all you were thinking. Do you want children?’

  She smiled, the Sphinx-like smile that she used, he now realised, when she had no intention of revealing a single one of her thoughts.

  ‘I am not married and, like you, have no desire to change my single state.’

  He threw back the remnants of his wine, choosing to accept the non sequitur at face value. ‘It’s a strange profession you’ve chosen, if such it can be called, though I remember you said, didn’t you, that you were set on an unconventional life? It seems you’ve achieved that, all right. Has it proved, unlike your Edinburgh days, to be exciting?’

  Kirstin, clearly as happy as he to change the subject, laughed. ‘It could not be more different.’ She poured herself another glass of wine, pushing the decanter across the table to him, twirling the crystal glass between her fingers. ‘Is your life exciting? Trading in—? I don’t even know what you trade in, save wine.’

  ‘Spices, perfumes, precious stones, mined gold, tin and copper. Coconut. Coffee. Cocoa. Whatever there’s a market for. The more exotic the better—I enjoy the challenge of being ahead of the pack in what I can supply. Although I’ve had my share of disasters. A Greek wine flavoured with resin called retsina, which I quite liked, did not go down well with the wine merchants I trade with. And my experiment with a dried spice made from the chilli pl
ant was not very well received either—one of the men who sampled it claimed he could taste nothing else for a month.’

  ‘I am hazarding a guess that you found this chilli spice rather tasty,’ Kirstin said.

  ‘Aye, I did, which is just as well, for I’ve enough of the stuff in my warehouse in Glasgow to season my food for the rest of my life and then some.’

  ‘Did you lose a great deal of money over it?’

  Cameron shrugged. ‘Where’s the fun in playing safe? I make far more than I lose.’

  ‘Your ships must travel across the globe to trade in such exotic goods.’

  ‘And I with them. Persia, Algiers, St Petersburg, Naples, Constantinople, Damascus.’ Cameron grinned. ‘The more exotic and the more dangerous the better, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not the type to sit in his office at the Trades Hall waiting around to see what goods are unloaded.’ He laughed. ‘I’d die of boredom. So, to answer your original question, my life is quite exciting. I enjoy the fact that I am my own man.’

  ‘You are fortunate that you can be.’

  ‘I’ve worked bloody hard, Kirstin, to get where I am.’

  ‘Then that is something else we have in common.’

  He studied her under the guise of taking a sip of wine. ‘I reckon we’ve more in common than you think. Variety must be the spice of life in the work you do for The Procurer.’

  She smiled at that. ‘Very true, and it is one of the things I enjoy most—expecting the unexpected.’

  ‘For me it is the thrill of the chase, closing a deal that everyone else thought impossible. Which, now I come to think of it, is what your employer claims to do, doesn’t she? Make the impossible possible?’

  ‘It is a well-founded claim.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. You’ve no need to get so prickly.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  He raised an eyebrow at this. She was forced to smile. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was enough to make him catch his breath. He’d been trying very hard not to stare at her, at the smooth, beguiling expanse of cleavage revealed by her gown, at the way the filmy fabric clung to her, the way the colour complemented the crimson of her lush lips.

  She had painted them with carmine. It was a shocking thing for any lady to do here in England, though he’d seen it used to some effect in other countries. It made her seem exotic. He wondered if it was a foible of hers, or whether she’d done it for some other reason. She had made it so clear she didn’t want to be reminded of that night, yet what else was he to think of now that he had allowed himself to look? Now that she was looking back at him and the air between them seemed to crackle with the memory?

  The urge to touch his own lips to hers was almost irresistible, but he could not risk losing her. Cameron pushed back his chair and rang the bell to summon a servant to clear the table. ‘We still have to make plans for tomorrow.’

  Kirstin got to her feet and went to the window, pushing back the curtains, leaning on the ledge to gaze out. The little tassels on the belt of her gown flicked provocatively against the curve of her bottom. For a woman so slim, he remembered she had a delightfully round bottom.

  Cameron groaned inwardly. Don’t think of her bottom!

  ‘When I was waiting for you to arrive,’ he said, ‘I pictured Mrs Collins as a vicar’s widow.’ He tried to conjure her again, that smart, middle-aged relic of the church with faded hair. Comely. A bit wrinkled.

  Kirstin turned around. Beautiful. Smooth. Her hair black as night. And her mouth curved into that cool, mocking smile that was so very deceptive, because her kisses weren’t at all cool. ‘Were you disappointed?’

  ‘You were certainly not what I was expecting.’ He told her what he had expected, describing the imaginary Mrs Collins in detail, in an attempt to distract himself.

  It didn’t work. His description amused her. And intrigued her. Her eyes sparkled. Her lips curved into a half-smile. ‘It’s an excellent solution.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A cover story for tomorrow, our visit to the Spaniard’s Inn. The Reverend Mr Collins travelling from Scotland with his wife en route to a new life in America, stopping off in the metropolis to stay with—with...’

  ‘The Archbishop of Canterbury?’

  Kirstin burst into a peal of laughter. ‘I was imagining the reverend as a man of the High Kirk.’

  ‘A wee bit too strict and zealous even for the archbishop, you mean? A fire and brimstone man, is he, who disapproves of singing so much as a psalm?’

  ‘And who thinks that dancing is a sin only second to fornication.’

  ‘Oh, no, dancing is much worse, for it is done in public.’

  Kirstin’s lip curled. ‘It would be funny were it not true. Though they are a dying breed, there are still a fair few of those hypocrites preaching, determined that we shall all be punished and go to hell for our sins, determined that no good can ever come of what they see as an evil world, full of temptation.’

  There was an edge to her words that took him aback, though it also struck a chord. ‘I must confess I gave up on the church at an early age, thanks to one such man.’

  ‘Yes? I wonder if I was more or less fortunate for it to have taken more than a quarter of a century for my illusions to be shattered,’ Kirstin said. ‘My father’s faith was of a gentle sort, but I found, in the end, that even the gentler sort will not forgive a sin which is unrepented.’

  He could ask, though she would not answer, what this sin was. He had the impression that she had entrusted him with something momentous, that her doing so was some sort of challenge. It was the way she was looking at him, defying him to question her, and yet—and yet there was something else. She had surprised herself.

  ‘I don’t think our Reverend Collins is such a man,’ Cameron said gently. ‘I think our Reverend Collins is a kind man who does not judge, who inspires his congregation rather than terrifies them.’

  He was rewarded with a tremulous smile. ‘And Mrs Collins,’ Kirstin asked, ‘is she a little church mouse, or...?’

  ‘Oh, no, Euphemia is—’

  ‘Euphemia! Oh, Cameron, surely not?’

  He grinned. ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘Euphemia...’ She considered this, biting her lip. ‘Actually, I think it is perfect. She is not a church mouse, no, not at all, but a rather formidable woman, I think.’

  ‘With a heart of gold, surely?’

  She chuckled. ‘And a light touch with a sponge cake. Though I beg you not to put that to the test, for I am one of those women who can burn a boiled egg.’

  ‘Which explains your slenderness.’

  ‘And my appetite, when faced with a repast such as you have provided tonight. For which I should have thanked you before now.’

  ‘I merely ordered it. I didn’t cook it.’

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Yes, believe it or not, I can. I learnt through necessity, in my early days aboard ship.’

  ‘You were a ship’s cook?’

  Cameron chuckled. ‘I was a cabin boy.’

  ‘From cabin boy to one of the country’s leading merchants?’

  ‘I would not say that, exactly.’

  ‘Because you are modest. If you were not one of the country’s leading merchants, you could not afford my fees.’

  ‘The Procurer pays you well, then?’

  To his surprise, Kirstin looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no shame in it. A man—and even a woman, in my radical opinion—should be proud to be able to make their way in the world by their own ingenuity, and you, I reckon, are particularly ingenious.’

  ‘I will happily admit to that. I’d even go so far as to admit that we have that in common too. I am proud of having made my own way, just as you are, though I have not reached the heady heights of success you have attained.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m a man. It’s much harder for a woman to excel.’

  ‘Though very unusual for any man to recognise that fact.’

  ‘That sounds like The Procurer talking.’

  ‘We speak, on the whole, with one voice.’ Kirstin smiled at him. ‘And you and I have spoken enough for tonight, I think. It’s getting late.’

  ‘It is.’ Though he didn’t want her to go, didn’t want to lose this cocoon which they’d somehow wrapped themselves in, of confidences and understanding. He was a man who neither needed nor sought company, but Kirstin’s company was different.

  ‘So it is settled, then. Tomorrow we will travel to the Spaniard’s Inn as the Reverend Collins and his wife, Euphemia.’

  ‘It is settled.’

  Their eyes held. The air seemed to tense. He took a step towards her. His arm reached for her of its own accord. Her hand grabbed his wrist, halting him in mid-air, and he heard the sharp intake of her breath.

  ‘Cameron.’

  He had no idea what she meant. A warning? An invitation? He could not breathe. She lifted his hand to her mouth, touched his knuckles with her lips.

  There was a sharp rap on the door. They sprang apart as the servant he had summoned arrived with a tray and Kirstin, looking utterly appalled, turned and fled in a flutter of red, leaving him staring down at his hand and the crimson imprint of her kiss.

  Chapter Four

  Kirstin slammed the door of her suite shut and turned the key before rushing towards her bedchamber, turning the key in that door too, and leaning against it, as if she were trying to keep a demon at bay, which in a way she was.

  Her heart was beating wildly. Her cheeks were flushed, not only with shame but with shameful desire. Dear heavens, she couldn’t believe what had happened and, even more mortifying, she couldn’t believe that she was standing here wishing that it had not stopped there.