She awoke with a jerk. Her lamps were burning low, so she knew that morning was almost with them. Arising, she heard a soft oath in the hallway. Was someone coming her way?
She slipped out of bed and found Lord Cameron’s sword upon the floor where she had left it the previous night. Footsteps were coming to her cabin. She leaped back into bed, carefully bringing the razor-sharp weapon along with her. Her heart thundered.
Her door was cast quietly open. For the longest time she lay there, barely daring to breathe. She opened her eyes a bare slit, allowing her lashes still to shield them. She feigned sleep, but looked to the doorway.
It was Lord Cameron. His white wig neatly queued, his shoulders broad upon his tall frame. He watched her in silence.
As she waited, he entered, closing the door. He came her way. The cover had slipped from her shoulders. She nearly screamed when he moved his hand to pull it more fully upon her. She could not help her eyes from flying open and falling upon his with grave alarm.
“There is nothing, madame. I apologize for disturbing you,” he said softly, his words a breath of air in the night.
“You’ve no right in here!” she murmured nervously. He did not touch her, he just stood over her, and inwardly she came alive with hot, cascading shivers.
“I’ve every right in here, but we won’t dispute that tonight. We’ll come home soon enough.”
“My home is Williamsburg.”
“Milady, your home is a beautiful place upon the peninsula. Sweat and tears and blood went into the founding of it, and I do not take kindly to your insults.”
“I’ve not insulted—”
“But you have. Good night.”
She was not about to let him turn away. She sat up, drawing his sword from her covers with a blue flame rising in her eyes. She was quick and expert, bringing the tip of his own sword against his throat before he began to realize her intent.
“Skye—”
“No! No!” she admonished, holding the blade at his throat while she came up upon her knees and faced him. She dug slightly, forcing him to raise his head. It was her turn to smile. “Sir, I have had it with beginning and ending these conversations. Shall we go back to the beginning? You have no right here. You and my father played some trick and you think then that I am married. Well, I dispute that fact, so you do have no right here! Now, sir, you have rescued me from the grip of not one pirate, but two. However, sir, I find you little better than either of them! You fought today with the same sizzle of conquest in your eyes, and you are every bit as arrogant and disdaining of social custom as your cousin! I did not set out to make your life miserable, sir—you stumbled into my life!”
“I beg to differ. Your father—”
“My father!” She prodded the sword closer to his throat, forcing him to cease speaking. “My father! What is this about my father? Are you not a man, sir? Have you not heard the word ‘no’?”
She pressed against his throat. He did not seem to care. His eyes grew narrower by the second and they seemed to blaze like the North Star. “Madame, there is nothing that I do not do by my will, and by my will alone. But I honor my father, and so I chose to honor his vows. If you have a disagreement about our present relationship, feel free to bring it up to your father, but know this! By the law you are my wife. By temperament I am afraid that your very hostility has made me bound and determined to keep what is mine. You are at my mercy, madame, and you’d best remember it!”
Skye laughed with sheer delight. She had him at the disadvantage;he was the one with the blade of honed steel against his throat, and he still thought to threaten her.
“I should slice and dice you!” she whispered.
“Yes, you should. And immediately,” he said calmly. “Umm. I daresay that your best move would be to do murder this very second, because otherwise you will live to rue this moment with all of your heart.”
“I don’t think so. I think that you will leave my cabin this very second.”
“Not without my sword.”
“That will be difficult. I hold your sword.”
“No, you do not.”
Maybe he knew that she could not really murder him; maybe she had not been threatening enough, or maybe she had been so thrilled with her own moment of triumph that she had fallen prey to his speed and daring. He simply took the blade with both his hands and thrust it from him before snatching the hilt from her. And he did it with such speed and reckless bravado that the blade lay against her breast before she could so much as blink.
He smiled pleasantly. “I hold my sword, milady, as you see.”
Skye sank down upon her haunches, keeping a very wary eye upon him. His smile remained. So did the blade. He very calmly drew it through the laces of her gown. Its honed edge slit the delicate ties soundlessly and effortlessly, and her gown spilled opened. His eyes fell upon her in the lamplight, but gave no clue to his thoughts. She could not have known if he desired her, or despised all that he saw. He moved the material away from her breast with practiced ease—the razor-edged blade did not so much as scratch her flesh. To her dismay, her body responded in an alarming fashion. Her breasts swelled, her nipples peaked and hardened. Her breath rasped too quickly and he surely saw the rise in her pulse as it beat against her veins. She saw his eyes then, and the satanic mischief in them. “Bastard!” she hissed to him, and shoved the sword away. With deep throaty laughter he allowed it to fall.
She clutched her bodice together. “This was a good gown!” she snapped to him.
“Since it is my duty to see you fed and clothed, I shall replace it, madame. May I say that it shall be well worth the cost.”
“You may not!”
“Poor rogue who captured you, milady! So this is why the Hawk let you go without demanding a single farthing!” Chuckling softly, he turned. Had she been blessed with any good sense whatsoever, she would have let him go.
Good sense seemed to be the least of her virtues at the moment. Skye vaulted from the bed to slam against his back with both fists flying. “You are not amusing, and you are not my husband, and I absolutely insist that you—”
She broke off, for he had whirled around, and he held her very tightly in his arms. The sword had fallen to the ground, where he ignored it. He didn’t speak for several seconds; she had gone dead still, for she sensed in his hold, in the heat of his body against hers, that now, more than ever, she had gone too far. He held her in a grip of steel, he held her without moving, barely breathing. Then at last he whispered very softly, “Unless you wish me to prove you my wife in every way this very night, this very moment, press me no further!”
She did not. She allowed her head to fall back and she watched him with a certain awe, trembling and trying not to do so. Her bodice gaped open and she felt the tremendous burning pressure of his body heat against her breasts. She could feel his hips, flush to her thighs.
She wanted to die. Shame and humiliation rushed into her, bringing a rose red flush to her cheeks. She did not want both men; she hadn’t wanted either man, but the one had taught her about passion and the sweet dark secrets of desire, and now this stranger with the same silver touch seemed to be beckoning her anew. She could not allow it; she could not bear this of herself.
“Please! I am sorry, let me go!” she said.
He breathed out in a rasp, slowly releasing her. His fingers brushed her bare flesh as he brought the straying folds of her torn bodice together.
Then he turned again, and Skye was only too grateful to let him go. Alone at last, she sank back to her bunk, curved her legs taut to her stomach, and shivered anew. What in God’s name was she going to do? She could not marry him; she could not be touched by him.…
She might well be carrying a rogue’s child, she reminded herself.
And with that thought she leaped up once more, and drank down several swallows of the deadly potent rum.
In his own cabin Petroc Cameron—captain of the Lady Elena and once master of his own destiny—sat and im
bibed more than a few swallows of rum.
He sat at his desk and slammed down the bottle and swore with a startling velocity, then tossed back his head and drank even more deeply.
Damn Spotswood! Damn Blackbeard and Logan and Vane and every pirate who had ever sailed the Atlantic and Caribbean. “And most of all,” he muttered aloud, “damn the Silver Hawk! Damn him to a hundred thousand different hells!”
He fell silent then and leaned his head back against his chair. The rum began to work its easing magic, pulling the pain and the tension, the ache and the desire, slowly from his constricted muscles, ligaments, and extremities. He closed his eyes, but he could not close his mind from the memories of her, nor could he cease to breathe in her scent, to imagine the silky softness of her flesh beneath his fingers, beneath his lips.
He could not forget her hair, spilling like sun rays over her breasts, wild and free and tempting him to touch. He could not forget her vows, or how like the Caribbean waters her eyes were, blue green, fascinating with their depths, their ever-changing color.…
He could not forget her form, and more than anything in the world, he wanted to drag her back into this cabin and feel her beneath him on his bunk that very night. Let the world be damned! Let any man come and blow them straight out of the water, he would sink and die happily, having her in his arms.…
She was his wife. He had the right.
The right …
But he had destroyed it all himself. In a surge of passion he had condemned himself to this hell, and so he would burn within it. He had no other choice.
He touched his clean-shaven cheeks and the nick where a blade had caught him that afternoon in the skirmish with pirates. He grimaced, duly noting that a bit closer and the blade might well have ended his days. His fingers ran down to his throat, where he could still feel the point of his sword. It was a mistake. He could see her face all over again, the fire in her eyes, the sweet triumph. She was always proud, he thought. She did not know how to surrender, no, she simply did not surrender, not even when she was bested. Even when he had wrested his throat away, even when he had slit the delicate ties to her gown, her eyes had battled him still. And surrender had lain within his own heart, for he had wanted with all of his heart to reach out and touch, to feel the fullness of her breast within his palm.
He swallowed more rum, groaning aloud. Had he any sense, he would keep away from her. He would bring her to Cameron Hall, deposit her there, see to business, and strike out again as soon as possible. Had he any sense. Sense did not always remain with him. One sight of her and he was challenged back to battle again. He could not leave well enough alone, he had to keep testing her.
He wanted the truth from her.
No, he wanted her. He wanted her with all the fire and flame within him, and he found it increasingly hard to endure the hell of his own creation. He could not seize her; he could not drag her here. He shouldn’t have kissed her; he shouldn’t have touched her. He should not be sitting here now, thinking of her. Of her hair brushing his naked flesh, of her eyes, liquid with passion, of her hips, moving beneath him. He should not. The hell was his, and his alone.
He would burn.…
With his bottle of rum, he thought wryly, and with his dreams.
During the next day it seemed that Lord Cameron quite purposely avoided her.
Davey was out and about again, and only slightly subdued as he served her. She was glad to have him and Bessie and Tara with her as she watched the ever-present shoreline.
The next day he did speak to her. He came to her where she stood by the railing, looking out. “North Carolina, madame. We near Virginia, and soon the Chesapeake Bay and the James River.” He paused, and she felt his eyes falling over the length of her. “And Cameron Hall,” he added.
“How nice. I shall see my father quickly, I imagine.”
“I imagine that he will be at the house. I saw Spotswood before I sailed. He knew that your ship had been seized, and that I was to claim you from the Hawk. I am sure that he has had your father come to my home.”
“We shall settle things quickly enough,” she murmured.
“Perhaps,” he said simply. He pointed to the shoreline. “Inlets and islands,” he murmured. “Spotswood finds the government of North Carolina to be sorry indeed. But then he commands a fine militia himself. And he is a military man, you know.”
She lifted her chin. “I know the lieutenant governor, Lord Cameron. I grew up not far from his new mansion.”
“You haven’t seen it yet, complete.”
“No.”
“It’s a fine manor. His balls are famous.” He smiled recklessly, widening his eyes like a rogue. “Be a good girl, and I shall take you to one.”
“Behave, sir, and I shall see that you are still able to walk to reach one!”
He laughed softly. “Lady, you threaten so swiftly and so fiercely, when it is like a sparrow against a hawk!”
She looked away quickly at the word “hawk.” Roc grated his own teeth, looking to the shore. “Madame,” he said bluntly, “you will never best me. Cease to try, and we shall get along, I am sure. Truly, my every desire is to see to your comfort.”
“My comfort—upon your bed!” she spat out, then flushed furiously, and looked about for someplace to escape him. She could not believe that she had said the words! He was laughing at her again, but his brow was arched and there was a cynical note to the sound. He came close to her.
“Tell me, my love, what do you know of such things?”
“Nothing!” she cried, and pushed away from the rail. She looked to the shore. “Father—er—Father says that Alexander is very suspicious of Governor Eden. He says that his government is not just poor, but perhaps corrupt. That he lets pirates seek safe havens in his waters—for a price.”
“Many men have a price.”
“Tell me—do you?” she demanded quickly.
He shook his head very slowly. “No, milady. I have my faults. I suppose you would say that arrogance is among them, no doubt.”
“And a certain lack of humility?” she suggested sweetly.
“Maybe. But I cannot be bought. Not for any price. Remember that, milady. If you ever seek to—negotiate.”
He turned away. She was left alone at the rail, shivering despite the balmy warmth of the day.
When she awoke the next morning, they were sailing the Chesapeake Bay. She quickly dressed and ate, and came top-side, and by then they were coming down the James. There was tremendous energy and motion on board as seaman trimmed and drew in sails.
“Oh, how lovely, milady! Don’t ye think so!”
She turned about. Arm in arm, Bessie and Tara were staring at the shoreline. There eyes were rapt, and Skye realized that this was a dream for them. They had left behind poverty and cramped spaces in the Old World, and they were looking to the New. She smiled, for they stood arm and arm, and in awe. Skye smiled at the two of them. “It is something indeed,” she said agreeably.
She glanced to the helm. Lord Cameron himself was at the wheel, navigating the river. He did not look so much the seaman as the aristocrat. He was extremely proper in his queued wig, elegant brocade frockcoat, blue satin breeches, fawn hose, and silver buckled shoes. A dark velvet ribbon tied his queue while he wore an eagle-plumed three-cornered hat. Skye was not close to him, but yet she could sense the tension and energy about him. He stood so straight; he rode the ship so well. He looked to the land.
Then she felt him turn to her, as if by instinct. He stepped briefly from the wheel to bow to her.
Skye looked quickly back to the shoreline.
Not much later the order came down that a cannon should be fired.
Lord Cameron had come home.
Skye saw the house first. It was impossible to miss, for it sat high atop a hill. Built of brick, it was both elegant and imposing. Tall pillars seemed to reach to the heavens, and the whole of the building was surrounded by a broad, sweeping porch. There were outbuildings all around i
t, making it appear more like a small village than a residence. The house seemed massive, and perhaps even more so because of the bounty of land that surrounded it. The hill commanded the area with majestic deep green grasses rolling down from it all of the way to the river and the docks. On either side Cameron Hall was surrounded by trees. Far beyond, she could see the fields.
“My great-great-grandparents claimed it from wilderness.”
Startled, she swung around. The captain had left his helm to come by her side. “Jamie Cameron came as a lad first, sometimes exploring with John Smith. In 1621 he came over with his bride. There was a wooden palisade then, and his first home was built of wood. They were attacked by the Indians during the massacre at Easter in 1622. Jassy was kidnapped by the Indians.”
Skye smiled, looking his way. “Sir, I am well aware that we have pushed the Indians far inland. Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Never, my love.”
“I assume that your relative was rescued?”
“Of course. We Camerons love to rescue damsels in distress.” He pointed upward to the house. “You can see the main hall, there. That was the first section built. King James died, and Charles the First came to the throne. Then came the English Civil War. Eion Cameron went home to fight as a Cavalier. He died there battling Cromwell’s men. Some of our English holdings were lost, England was under the ‘Protectorate,’ and even our holdings in Virginia were in jeopardy. But then Cromwell died and good Charles the Second was invited to return to take up his crown. Eion’s son went and retrieved his body and his property. Eion is buried upon our slopes. His son, another Jamie, added on the east wing.” His grin deepened and he leaned toward her. “James the Second came to the throne upon his brother’s death, and Jemmy, Duke of Monmouth, Charles’s favorite bastard child, tried to take the throne, damning his uncle as a papist. Alas! Jemmy went to the block, and it’s quite possible that his uncle did not blink an eye. Still, he was rumored to be handsome and gallant, and he had many supporters. Many of them came here, to Cameron Hall. There are secret passages within the walls, and tunnels run away to the sea.”
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