Defiant Impostor (23 page)

It had been a new and unsettling experience to have so
much money to spend. She couldn't wait to use the hard-milled soap, bath oil,
powder, and perfume she had bought, all of which had the same heady fragrance,
yellow jasmine. She liked it much better than lavender, which only brought her
sad reminders of Camille.

"What's this?" Ertha asked, eyeing the
beribboned package Susanna held in her hands. "Another gift?"

"Yes, from Matthew Grymes. A porcelain music
box."

"My goodness, child, you're surely collecting a
host of lovely things from your admirers, but I think Mr. Spencer has them beat
with that fine racehorse he gave you and that beautiful emerald necklace. You
must be considering him seriously to accept such expensive things from
him."

Susanna jumped as Adam fairly slammed her packages down
on the hall table behind her.

"Forgive me," he said tersely, his eyes a
dark, turbulent hue as he leveled his gaze upon her. "They slipped."

"Th-that's all right," she said, throwing a
nervous smile at Ertha, who was regarding them curiously.

"Could we step into the library, Miss Cary? There
is some business I've been meaning to discuss with you, and now that Mr. and
Miss Grymes have left, I think it's a good time—"

"Can't it wait until later, Mr. Thornton?"
she interrupted, surmising exactly what he wanted to talk about and hoping to
avoid for as long as possible what she imagined would be a disagreeable
discussion. "Perhaps until morning? It's been such a long day."

"No."

She swallowed hard, knowing from his curt answer that
she had lost this battle. Not wanting to make any more of a scene in front of
Ertha, she acquiesced. "Very well, Mr. Thornton. If your business is that
urgent."

"I assure you, it is."

"If you'd like, Miss Camille, I could take your
things upstairs for you," the housekeeper offered, appearing more
confused.

"Thank you, Ertha. There are some toiletries in
that small package" —hopefully not shattered, she thought with vexation,
glancing at Adam— "several pairs of dress gloves in the other one and a
new hat in the large box. Could you see that everything is put away?"

"Of course."

Susanna handed the housekeeper the gift from Matthew,
then she followed Adam into the library.

"Sit down," he ordered, closing the door
firmly.

She obliged him, feeling nervous yet angry that he
would treat her like a disobedient child. He walked to a window and stared
outside for a long moment, as if not readily trusting himself to speak, then he
turned and met her eyes. She had never seen him look more deadly serious, or
more devastatingly handsome.

"I will not tolerate any more of this charade,
Camille. I've kept silent and played along for two weeks now, but that's it. On
Wednesday, I plan to announce our betrothal at the Tates'."

Susanna gaped at him, a strange, trapped feeling rising
inside her chest. She had expected him to be upset, to perhaps express some
reservations about continuing as they had been, but not this! He looked so
resolute, his very stance screaming to her that he had firmly made up his mind,
that she didn't know what she could possibly say to persuade him to wait just a
little while longer.

"Adam, if it was Matthew's gift—" she began
lamely.

"A trinket, Camille! I don't care about that damn
music box or the bumpkin who gave it to you. It's the racehorse and jeweled
necklace that you've so naively accepted which concern me. Don't you realize
the false impression you're giving that bast—" He fell abruptly silent, as
if catching himself, then sighed heavily. "Our deception isn't a game
anymore, my love. You may have derived some innocent pleasure from it and found
it romantic and perhaps even exciting, but these few weeks have been nothing
but torture for me."

Her heart pounding, Susanna watched as he sat down
almost wearily on the arm of a stuffed chair. She sensed truth behind his
words, and felt fresh guilt for the devious chase on which she was leading him.
But she wouldn't be doing so if he hadn't overstepped the bounds of propriety
with her in the first place! It was his own fault that he would soon find
himself so rudely disappointed.

"Adam," she tried again, desperately trying
to think of some way to mollify him. "I never expected that Id be receiving
presents from those gentlemen, and I never intended to keep any of them. They
don't mean anything to me."

"Then you can return them on Wednesday."

When he paused, studying her face, Susanna feared he
might detect her lie. She almost sighed in relief when he continued with quiet
vehemence.

"Your secret glances and furtive smiles, however
beautiful, are not enough for me, Camille. Our rare, stolen moments of
conversation will no longer suffice. I want to court you in public where
everyone can see us; to talk to you openly; to hold your hand, embrace you, and
kiss you as I've been tempted to do countless times. I want
everyone
," he emphasized, his voice
growing harsh, "especially those who've held any hope of having you for
themselves, to know that you belong to me."

Susanna inhaled in surprise as Adam came to her,
pulling her up almost roughly to stand in front of him.

"Tell me that you want this, Camille," he
demanded softly. "Please. Tell me."

Panicking, Susanna could think of nothing to sway him.

What was she going to do? Wednesday was too soon. Adam
would ruin everything . . . her reputation, her chance to wed the proper
husband! Oh, if only she could somehow speak to Dominick, somehow see him
before the races and let him know that she wanted to become his wife. If only
there was some way she could make Adam promise he wouldn't say anything until
after Wednesday, buying her a little more time—

The idea, a feminine, manipulative ploy as old as time,
came to her at the same instant Adam lowered his head to kiss her. Tears sprang
to her eyes as she forced herself to think of the only thing that had made her
weep in years, Camille's death, and she began to cry in earnest, hating herself
for exploiting her painful memories but believing she had no other choice. She
was doing it for Camille's sake, after all.

Adam felt her shoulders trembling an instant before he
tasted a salty, telltale wetness on her lips. Drawing back as if stung, he
regarded her in astonishment.

"Camille. What the devil . . . ?"

"I—I'm sorry, Adam," she sobbed, her eyes
like huge green pools as tears tumbled down her cheeks. "I . . . I don't
know why I'm crying . . ."

Now you've gone and done it, he thought angrily,
thoroughly exasperated with himself. Pushed her too damn hard. Forced his will
on her when he had promised that he never would. As she sank into her chair and
wept harder, burying her face in her hands, his self-disgust mounted.

Why did he have to be so blasted impatient anyway? She
hadn't deliberately done anything to displease him. It wasn't her fault that
his jealousy and frustration were practically eating him alive. He knew she was
playing a harmless virgin's game, harmless but for the bruised male pride her
hapless suitors would be nursing when she announced who she intended to marry.
Why couldn't he allow her to satisfy her girlish fantasies?

"Camille, it's all right," he said, at a
total loss as how best to comfort her. What man wasn't stumped when faced with
a woman's tears? He made a quick search of his pockets and, finding a cambric
handkerchief, went down on one knee beside her.

"Look at me," he bade her gently. When she
lifted her head, he cradled her softly rounded chin in his palm and wiped the
moisture from her flushed face. "Shhh, love," he murmured, attempting
to calm her. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have been so harsh with you, so
impatient. Shhh, there's no need to cry."

"Oh, Adam . . . I'd like to announce our
betrothal, too," she managed shakily, gazing at him so beseechingly that
he felt like kicking himself. "But not . . . at the Tates'."

"Where then, love?" he asked.

"I thought we might have a small engagement party,
not too many people . . . here at Briarwood. At home. Papa would have liked
that." She took the handkerchief from him with trembling fingers and delicately
blew her nose. "Do you think that would be all right?"

Elation momentarily clogging his throat, Adam knew he
could refuse her nothing. He gathered her into his arms and stroked her
honey-colored hair, reveling in its silkiness. Only when she lifted her head
from his shoulder to look at him did he murmur, "Of course, love.
Anything, if it will please you. When would you like to have your party?"

"I—was thinking a week from this Saturday, just so
Ertha and Prue would have enough time to prepare everything." She
hesitated, "Unless you would like it to be sooner . . ."

"Next Saturday will be fine," Adam said,
finding it difficult to believe that they had finally picked a day to announce
their betrothal. He would have to play their charade a little longer, but at
least now there was an end in sight.

He hugged her more tightly, feeling as if he would
never let her go. He hadn't told her yet how much he had come to care for her,
wanting to find that perfect moment, and he quickly decided that now was not the
time. Not when he had just caused her unhappiness; her face was still slightly
damp with tears brought on by his own callousness. No, he would wait until
everything felt right between them.

"Adam . . ."

"Yes, love?"

"Would you mind if we waited a few more days
before telling Ertha or any of the other servants? Say . . . until Friday? I
want to enjoy our secret just a little while longer."

"Whatever you wish."

She seemed to relax fully in his arms then, and he felt
a sweeping relief that he had consoled and pleased her. Curling his forefinger
beneath her chin, he raised her face to him again, entranced anew by the
stunning radiance of her eyes. In that moment he was certain as surely as he
was breathing that if for some reason he could not gain his revenge, he would
be content just to have this captivating woman beside him for the rest of his
life.

With infinite tenderness, he moved his mouth over her
soft lips, exulting in the sweet taste of her, still lightly tinged with salt.
Then he deepened his kiss, swearing in his heart as she parted her lips that he
would do his utmost to never again be the source of her unhappy tears. Never.

Chapter 13

The mantel clock softly chimed the early morning hour
of two across the moonlit room, but it did not awaken Susanna. Held captive by
a vivid nightmare, she moaned and tossed fitfully in the canopied bed, her legs
and arms ensnared by white sheets that in her unconscious mind had become the
huge, grasping hands of a man long dead come back to life.

"No, Papa . . . no," she rasped, her features
contorted with stark terror in the silvery wash of moonlight spilling across
the mattress. She twisted hopelessly as phantom ropes were tightening cruelly
around her wrists and ankles, tying her face-down to a filthy, putrid-smelling
cot. She jerked spasmodically as her threadbare dress was torn from her back,
and she began to whimper afresh.

"Papa . . . Papa, please don't hit me. I'll do
what you want. I'll go to him, Papa . . . I promise. I'll go to him!"

"Ye lyin' bitch!" slurred a gruff phantom
voice. "I'll teach ye t' run away from yer Daniel Guthrie! Ye'll do what I
say and like it well enough, ye 'ear me, chit? Ye'll spread yer legs fer Keefer
Dunn and like it! Ye'll not make a liar out o' me. I sold ye t' 'im, damn ye!
He paid me good 'ard coin fer yer favors!"

Another voice, coarse and loud, came flying at her from
the darkness, and she was suddenly surrounded by crude laughter. She gasped in
fright at the sneering, disembodied, pockmarked face hovering in front of her,
and she felt near to retching when the sour smell of stale ale filled her
nostrils.

"Beat 'er well, Guthrie, but mind ye don't mar 'er
pretty puss. I'll not want 'er in bed if she's no longer fair t' look upon.
Aye, and maybe when yer done wi' her, I'll give 'er a few blows m'self fer good
measure. Do ye 'ear me, girl? I'll teach ye t' run away from Keefer Dunn!"

"No . . . please, God . . . no!"

Susanna screwed her eyes shut and turned her face into
the stinking straw as the menacing shadow of a hand clenching a leather strap
fell across her bare, quaking shoulders. She began to mumble incoherently, her
futile tears nearly choking her. Thrashing in vain, she could only wait in raw
panic for the terrible fall of the lash, wait for the slicing pain . . . the
sting . . . the horror . . .

***

Reclining in bed with the covers drawn to his waist and
his hands folded behind his head, Adam stared out the window at the round
summer moon dangling like a bright orb in the pitch-black sky. Sleep was
evading him again, but thankfully he was not suffering the wretched torments
that had plagued him for the past two weeks. Tonight was blessedly, peacefully
different.

He kept running through his mind the delights of the evening,
savoring them, reliving them; the unexpected understanding he and Camille had
reached in the library, their supper which had been filled with laughter and
gentle teasing, a walk in the garden and then a light-hearted game of billiards
just before bed. Her soft-spoken promise as he escorted her to her chamber
that, although he would be out in the tobacco fields much of the day tomorrow,
they would share supper again in the evening. Alone. Together.

Adam rolled restlessly onto his side. As he recalled the
good-night kiss they had shared outside her door, he felt a familiar stirring,
a burning ache he hoped before long to ease in the lush softness of her body.