Every Whispered Word (19 page)

He desperately hoped that was true. Given his complete lack of experience with virgins until that moment, he wasn't entirely sure.

Camelia buried her face against his neck, taking comfort in the warm shield of his body over hers, the tender kisses he was now raining upon her forehead and cheeks and lips, the gentle movement of him as he slowly began to stir within her. She focused on the warm marble of his back as she ran her hands over him, learning the masculine structure of his shoulders and ribs and spine, then slipped her palms lower, until she was caressing the muscled hills of his buttocks. Desire awakened within her once more, slowly at first, then faster, melting away her fear as her body sighed and stretched and rose to meet him. Simon kissed her deeply as he pulsed within her, gently, languidly, filling her and emptying her. His hand drifted down to where they were joined and began to stroke her, rousing her until she was once again restless and burning with need. She started to pulse with him, matching his rhythm, and then she tightened her hold on him and moved faster, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her with every aching thrust.

He was losing his mind. He had to be, because in that moment Simon could think of nothing except the unbearable torment of wanting Camelia. He wanted to stay like that forever, joined to her, bound to her, lost to her. Some piece of him was gone, he understood that now, whether stolen by her or given willingly he wasn't sure. All he knew was that nothing mattered except that moment, and the glory of her embracing him, the scent of sun-kissed meadows and exotic fruit surrounding him, the ancient drumming of Africa and Camelia's heart singing to him. She was not his, and the realization filled him with loss. Again and again he thrust into her, trying to bind her to him, trying to make her see that she belonged with him, however illogical and impossible that was. He needed more time, he realized, struggling to slow himself. He needed to make this fire burning between them last, so that she would understand. But there was no time, for Camelia was pulsing against him now, whispering frantic little pleas as she urged him to go faster, and faster yet. He fought to leash his desire, but it was like trying to stop a wave from crashing against a rocky shore. Camelia raised herself up to him suddenly and kissed him fervently, her silky hot body gripping him tight. He cried out, a cry of ecstasy and despair, and pushed himself deep into her. He held her fast and kissed her hard as he surrendered to her, feeling as if he were dying, and somehow not giving a damn.

Camelia lay in silence beneath Simon, feeling the powerful drumming of his heart against hers. She closed her eyes and thought of the African sun pouring over them, warm and clean and soothing. In that moment she was no longer cold, as she so often had been since coming to London. She sighed and held Simon closer, listening to the rapid gust of his breathing.

Nothing had prepared her for what had just happened between them.

She had long ago decided she would never marry, and therefore the concept of intimacy between a man and a woman had remained just that to her—merely a concept. She had been introduced to the specifics of the act years earlier when she and her father had come upon two lions mating. Although her father had been embarrassed, he had answered her questions with his typical, no-nonsense forthrightness. After all, he was an educated man of science, and he saw little benefit in keeping his daughter ignorant about a matter that she, in theory, might some day need to know about. After that Camelia took greater interest in the banter of the native women who occasionally accompanied their husbands to Pumulani. From them she was able to discern that the act itself was not altogether unpleasant—which was certainly her impression after watching the two lions—but that its purpose was chiefly for procreation. Since Camelia could not envision herself ever wanting marriage and children, she had dismissed the subject altogether.

Now she realized that there was much she had not been told.

Her body gradually cooled, and with it fear began to prickle along her spine. Was it possible a child might have been started after what had just occurred between her and Simon? She had no room in her life for a child. She needed to be free to excavate her site, which meant long, hot days spent working in the middle of virtually nowhere. A child would make her body swell as it grew inside her. And after it was born it would need her, and its need would take over her life. She couldn't afford that. She had to be free to fulfill her promise to her father, a promise which she knew could take months or even years to realize.

She pushed Simon away and leapt suddenly from the sofa, scooping up her nightgown from the floor.

“I must go,” she said, hastily drawing the lacy froth over her head. She snatched up the quilt and wrapped it tightly around herself, trying to fortify the barrier she now wanted between them.

Simon regarded her in confusion, trying to think of something to say. What the hell could he tell her? That he was sorry? That he regretted touching her? That even though what had just happened between them had been the most magnificent thing he had ever known, that he was somehow remorseful it had happened?

To say such a thing would only cast a shadow over it, and her, and he refused to do that.

“Camelia,” he began quietly, rising from the sofa.

“I'm sorry,” Camelia interrupted, backing away from his impossibly handsome, distractingly naked form. Dear God, what had she done? She had potentially ruined her relationship with the only man who had offered to help her with her dig. In truth he hadn't exactly offered, but it scarcely mattered at that point. She desperately needed his help, and if he now refused and sent her away, she would never find the tomb before her money ran out.

“I didn't mean for that to happen, but it did, and I'm afraid there is nothing we can do to undo it, although I'm sure if such a thing were possible, we both certainly would,” she blurted out, apologetic.

Simon stared at her incredulously. He had no idea what to say in response to that.

“The best thing for us to do in this situation is just acknowledge that it was a mistake, a moment of, say, total, utter madness,” Camelia continued, anxious to mitigate the damage she had done. “I realize you are probably not given to such moments, but Zareb says that every now and then the stars align in such a way that people do things they would never otherwise do, and although I am not a great believer in myth and superstition, perhaps we could agree that in this particular case that is what most likely happened. The stars aligned in some peculiar way, causing us to do what we did. But it will certainly never happen again, I can promise you that.”

She desperately wished he would say something, almost as much as she wished he would put his trousers on.

“You have no need to worry about me,” she added fervently, struggling to keep her gaze focused on his face. “I can assure you that in the future I will have absolutely no problem exercising an appropriate amount of control over myself where you are concerned.” She regarded him earnestly, wondering if she had managed to convince him.

Simon was completely out of his depth, he realized, feeling bemused and in truth, just a little bit insulted. Whatever reaction he might have expected from her, it was certainly not that she would bounce up off the sofa and start rattling on about Zareb and the stars and appropriate amounts of control, as if she believed she had just bloody well ravished him against his will.

“I'm impressed by your apparent resolve, Camelia,” he muttered dryly, picking up his trousers from the floor. “But I suppose that is what has always separated you from other women—your extraordinary determination.”

“Then you won't make me leave?”

He regarded her in surprise.

She was clutching the ends of her faded quilt so tightly her knuckles had been bleached white. Only then did he understand. Camelia was terrified that after what had just happened between them, Simon might decide to send her away. He didn't think she had anywhere else to go in London—except, of course, to Wickham. He supposed there was some comfort to be found in the fact that she actually preferred to stay with him, despite the fact that doing so was going to mean the stars would have to be realigned.

“Of course I won't make you leave,” he informed her flatly. “Whatever would make you think such a thing?”

She regarded him uncertainly. “And you'll still build the steam pump, and come with me to Africa and train my men to run it?”

He stepped into his trousers and fastened them. He felt a bit less vulnerable now that he was at least partly covered. “Yes.”

Relief poured over her, permitting her to ease her death grip on her quilt.

“Well, then, that's fine, then,” she said. “I guess I'll leave you to continue with your work.” She opened the door. “Good night.”

Simon watched as she slipped quietly into the hall and shut the door behind her.

And then he went over to his desk and poured himself a generous drink, absolutely certain that he would not be able to get any more work done that night.

W
here's the fire, lad?” Oliver demanded, scowling as he threw the door open.

Elliott regarded him in confusion. “What fire?”

“The one that has ye bangin' on the door like we're all about to be burnt to a crisp if we dinna make haste,” Oliver returned acidly.

“I'm here to see Mr. Kent,” Elliott informed him, deciding to ignore the old man's sarcasm. “You may tell him Lord Wickham wishes to speak with him.”

“He canna be disturbed,” Oliver replied, unimpressed. “The lad is workin' on one o' his inventions, and he doesna like to be bothered when he's hard at it.”

“It is a matter of great importance,” Elliott insisted.

Oliver regarded him skeptically. “Ye'll have to do better than that.”

“It concerns the whereabouts of Lady Camelia Marshall,” Elliott elaborated, bewildered by the fact that he was justifying his presence to a servant. This one was even more cantankerous than Zareb. At least the old African made some effort to feign a modicum of deference in Elliott's presence. “I'm sure if you tell him that, he will be willing to speak to me.”

Oliver scratched his head, considering. “If ye're wonderin' about Lady Camelia's whereabouts, why dinna ye just ask the lass herself? Seems to me that's simpler than botherin' the lad with it.”

“Because I don't know where she is,” Elliott explained, struggling for patience. “Now if you'll kindly let Mr. Kent know that I am here—”

“Come back here, ye cheeky wee beggar,”
railed a furious voice from the floor above,
“or I'll be turnin' yer scraggy hide into a hat!”

Oscar bounded down the stairs with a voluminous pair of women's red flannel drawers billowing gaily behind him. He took one look at Elliott standing at the front door and screeched, whether with pleasure or irritation Elliott could not be sure. The fleeing monkey bolted toward him and climbed up onto his shoulder, draping the drawers across Elliott's head like a brilliant scarlet flag.

“I'll be grindin' ye into haggis!” Eunice threatened fiercely, huffing as she made her way down the stairs, “but first I'll be strippin' yer scabbit fur from yer bones an' usin' ye to polish my boots, ye rotten wee—sweet Saint Columba!” Pure embarrassment turned her wrinkled face nearly as red as her drawers as she saw Elliott standing there wearing them on his head.

“Forgive me, madam.” Summoning as much dignity as he could muster, Elliott wrenched the drawers off his head. “I believe these are yours.”

“They're nae mine,” Eunice protested, hastily stuffing the baggy red banner into the pocket of her apron. “I was just gettin' ready to do some wash for one of the ladies down the street when that wicked beastie ran in and nicked them.” She glowered at Oscar.

“What lady?” asked Oliver, frowning.

“Is Lady Camelia here?” managed Elliott, now trying to disengage Oscar, who was clinging desperately to his shoulder.

“
A lady.
” Eunice shot Oliver a warning look. “Ye dinna know her, Ollie.”

“I didna know ye was takin' in wash, Eunice,” Oliver reflected, still confused. “Why would ye be doin' a thing like that, when there's so much to be done around here, what with the lass an' all her wild beasties runnin' about?”

“Is Lady Camelia Marshall here?” repeated Elliott, still wrestling with Oscar, who had evidently decided in that moment Elliott posed a safer perch than anywhere else.

“Elliott!” Camelia appeared from the door leading to the kitchen, with Harriet perched on her shoulder. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

Elliott stared at her, confounded by her simple day dress and the fact that she was emerging from what he presumed was the kitchen wearing her ridiculous bird upon her shoulder.

“I went to see you at your house, but the curtains were drawn and Zareb didn't answer the door,” he explained. “The first time I went I simply assumed you had gone out, but today I happened to come upon your postman, who said he had been unable to deliver your mail to you all week. Naturally I became worried that something might have happened to you. Since I last saw you leaving the Archaeological Society Ball last week with Kent, I thought he might know something, so I came here.” Having finally detached Oscar from his shoulder, he set the mischievous monkey firmly on the floor. “Am I to understand that you are actually staying here, Camelia?” His tone was mild, but it was clear the possibility did not please him.

“It's only for a short while,” Camelia assured him. “I'm afraid we had a few problems at my father's house, and Simon—Mr. Kent—very kindly offered to let us all stay here. So here we are.”

Elliott raised a brow. “What sort of problems?”

“Just a few minor things that made staying at the house rather difficult,” Camelia replied dismissively. She did not want Elliott to know her home had been broken into and that she had been threatened. If Elliott thought she was in any kind of danger, he would insist upon looking after her, and she did not want that. “Nothing to worry about.”

“The lass's roof was leakin' somethin' fierce,” Oliver supplied, trying to help her. “Like a great sieve, it was—ye could have washed yer tatties beneath it.”

Elliott regarded him skeptically. “It hasn't rained in over two weeks.”

“Aye, which means we're in for a fair soaker,” Oliver retaliated gamely. “Canna leave the poor lass to fight that on her own.”

“Camelia, what is this really all about?”

“I told you, I'm having a few problems at the house,” Camelia insisted. “Once they have been taken care of, Zareb and I will be returning—”

“Help!”
shrieked a voice from the kitchen.
“He's after me!”

“Good God, someone is being attacked!” Elliott threw down his hat and raced toward the kitchen door.

“Tisha, have you seen Rupert?” called Zareb from the landing above them.

Camelia bit her lip. “I think he's in the kitchen with Doreen. Lord Wickham is going to see.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Wickham,” called Zareb pleasantly. “If you find Rupert, would you be kind enough to bring him back upstairs?”

Elliott stopped cold. “Are you referring to that snake?”

“Help!”
Doreen burst through the kitchen door, her white hair poking out wildly from beneath her linen cap, wielding a heavy black frying pan. “He nearly bit me, he did!” she ranted furiously. “An' if he ever comes out from behind that stove, I'm goin' to crown him with this pan and fry him up for supper!”

“Oh, Doreen, I'm so sorry,” Camelia apologized. “I was sure I had closed my door securely this time.”

“You did, Tisha,” Zareb assured her. “I checked it myself.”

Oscar swung himself up onto the banister and snickered.

“Really, Oscar, that was very naughty of you,” scolded Camelia. “You know Doreen and Eunice don't like Rupert slithering about the house—it makes them nervous.”

“I'm nae goin' back into that kitchen 'til someone collects that slippery beastie an' locks him up proper,” Doreen swore adamantly. “I've had quite enough of him poppin' out o' cupboards an' pots an' frightenin' me to death!”

“Rupert likes the kitchen because it is the warmest place in the house,” Camelia explained, apologetic. “I'm afraid he isn't accustomed to the cool dampness of London—he is much more accustomed to the warmth of Africa.”

“If he doesna stop scarin' me out o' my wits, I'll be showin' him the warmth o' the hereafter,” Doreen threatened sourly. “Now I'll thank ye, sir, to fetch him out o' my kitchen.” She regarded Elliott expectantly.

Elliott retreated a few steps from the kitchen doorway. “Actually, I think Zareb will have better luck enticing him to come out than I.”

“What the devil is going on here?” Simon scowled as he flung open the doors to the dining room. “I can't get any work done with all this yelling and shrieking—oh, hello, Wickhop. What brings you here?”

“It's Wickham,” Elliott reminded him tautly. “And I came here to find out if you knew the whereabouts of Lady Camelia.”

“She's right over there.” Simon inclined his head toward Camelia. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Elliott was concerned when he realized Zareb and I were not at our house,” Camelia hastily explained, trying hard to appear as if everything between her and Simon was absolutely normal.

In the week that had passed since their extraordinary night of passion, Camelia had done her utmost to avoid Simon. This had actually proven remarkably easy, given that Simon had spent every day and night locked in the dining room, which he had set up as his new laboratory. Eunice and Doreen took trays of food and drink to him at regular intervals, and sometimes Oliver could be heard adamantly telling him enough was enough, and it was time for him to go to bed. Camelia didn't believe Simon ever actually heeded Oliver's advice, because no matter what hour of the day or night, the dining room doors were closed and Simon could be heard hammering and banging and muttering to himself within. If he slept, then it was only for an hour or two at a time, and he must have been lying on either the table or the floor.

Concern filtered through her as she took in his hopelessly disheveled appearance. Dark crescents had formed below his eyes, and his skin was pale and drawn from too many days spent without the benefit of sunshine, fresh air, or proper physical exercise. The silky hair she had passionately threaded her fingers through was now a wild tangle of red, and a week's worth of auburn growth shadowed the handsome lines of his jaw, giving him a faintly dangerous, almost savage look.

“So we were just explaining to him that I am staying here for a few days while we make arrangements for the repair of the roof,” she finished, her tone artificially bright.

Simon frowned in bewilderment. “The roof?”

“Aye, the one that leaks like a sieve,” Oliver quickly explained. “I was tellin' his lordship here that we're in for a grand storm, an' that's why Lady Camelia here is stayin' with us.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps we could have a moment alone, Camelia,” Elliott suggested, frustrated by the fact that everyone seemed to think he was a total idiot. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

“What?” Although she could appreciate Elliott's desire to speak with her privately, the memory of his kiss in the garden made her reticent to be alone with him. She was not particularly eager to revisit the subject of marriage.

“It is regarding your site, Camelia,” Elliott elaborated. “I really think we should speak about this somewhere else.”

Camelia glanced questioningly at Zareb.

“The dark wind continues, Tisha.” Zareb's expression was sober. “We cannot fight that which we cannot see.”

Camelia nodded, trying to suppress the dread blooming in her chest. “Let's go upstairs into the drawing room, Elliott. We can speak about it there.”

“I'll bring ye some tea,” Doreen offered.

“I will go with you, Doreen.” Zareb's colorful robes rustled grandly around him as he moved down the staircase. “I will see that Rupert comes out from his hiding place so he does not frighten you.”

“Why, thank ye, Mr. Zareb.” Doreen smiled at him. “Ye're most kind.”

“Perhaps you would also take Harriet with you, Zareb,” said Camelia, handing the bird over to him.

“Do you want me to join you, Camelia?” asked Simon.

He stared at her intently. A ripple of fear had clouded her gaze when Zareb spoke of the dark wind. Simon could see she was afraid of whatever Wickham was about to tell her. However awkward their relationship may have become in the last week, Simon wanted her to know that he was still there to give her his support if she needed it.

Camelia looked at Simon in surprise. His blue eyes bored into her, stripping away the protective layers she had worked so hard all week to cultivate. A surge of heat shot through her, warming her blood and causing her skin to tingle with the memory of his touch.

“No, thank you,” she managed. “I'm fine.”

That was a blatant lie, of course. She wasn't fine at all. She was shaken by the effect Simon had on her, even though he was only looking at her. And more, she was afraid of whatever Elliott was about to tell her. But she didn't want Simon to know of her fear. She needed him to think what everybody else thought: that she was strong and able and utterly determined. If she demonstrated the least hint of weakness, then he might reconsider their agreement and stop building his pump. Without the pump, the site would remain flooded.

And unless she cleared it soon and found the tomb her father had been absolutely convinced lay buried there, her last remaining investors would withdraw their support, leaving her with a crush of debt and a barren piece of land she couldn't afford to excavate on her own.