Highland Awakening (13 page)

A few nights later, Cam, Stirling, and Ross had Pinfield duty together. Pinfield and his daughter, Lady Emilia, had been invited to Vauxhall Gardens by Lord Merrington and his wife, longtime family friends. Merrington had ten children ranging in age from five to twenty-five, and it seemed all of them were in attendance this evening, swarming about the Knights' charge and his daughter so they could hardly see Pinfield half the time.

The Knights had sent three men tonight since Vauxhall was dimly lit and had a variety of paths and niches perfect for trysting—or more nefarious activities—and with three men, one of them could be patrolling the gardens while the others stayed close to Pinfield.

Cam was growing more and more disillusioned with this job. The men Pinfield believed were after him had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. No one dangerous had ever approached Pinfield, and the Knights' attempts to track down the traitors had resulted in nothing but dead ends.

They were wasting time dealing with this pompous, snobbish waste of air when they could be finding and stopping the real enemies of the Crown. Or they could be using the time to find Fraser's killer. They'd made no progress on the case, and Cam was growing restless and irritable. He had a feeling that the other Knights were on the verge of giving up, too. The murderer had seemingly disappeared into thin air without a trace.

Cam could find him, if he was just given the opportunity to investigate more deeply. But no, he had to spend his days and nights watching Pinfield and his gluttony instead.

Now Pinfield, Lady Emilia, and Merrington and his family had just sat down to eat in one of the dinner boxes, and Ross sighed. “I'll check the footpaths,” he said as serving lasses began to pass Vauxhall's famous thinly sliced ham to the diners. “If I stay I might be stealing that ham from Pinfield's plate.”

“You should.” Stirling gazed over at Pinfield, seemingly impassive. Only a trained observer could see the dislike he held in his eyes for the man. “He's getting so fat we'll soon be rolling him from event to event.”

“You could use it more than he could, that's for certain,” Cam told Ross, who must weigh a good five stone less than Pinfield.

Shaking his head so hard his mass of red curls bounced, Ross left on his patrol of the footpaths while Cam and Stirling kept an eye on the pavilion.

Cam hated being in the presence of Lady Emilia and Pinfield at the same time. Emilia looked to be in her late teens or early twenties, and she was a bonny lass but so browbeaten by her father, her shoulders seemed to bow from the weight of it.

When Pinfield glanced at Emilia with a sneer, Cam had to turn away.

He was done with this. Let the damn traitors have at Pinfield. It would be no loss to Cam, and England would be better off without the bastard, as far as he was concerned.

Stirling leaned over to speak to him above the din of music and people chattering. “Who was the woman you had in the house last week?”

Cam cocked a brow at his friend. “You spying on me, man?”

“Come, now. If I'd no inkling of what was going on under my nose at my own house, I wouldn't be making a very good Highland Knight, now, would I?”

“I suppose not.”

“So who was it?”

“It wouldn't be kind to the lady if I blabbed her name about town,” Cam said.

“True. But we're brothers, aye? It's no' like I'm going to be running the information straight to the
Times.
”

“I didna think you'd go that far.”

“So was it a one-time assignation or will she be returning to the house? If you'll be bringing her back, perhaps you should be warning the rest of the lads, so we dinna accidentally shoot her on the spot. And you'd best warn Mackenzie's and the major's wives. If they saw a lass slipping into your bedchamber they'd probably interrogate you for days on end.”

Well, that was probably true. “I dinna think she'll be returning. Unless—” He broke off all of a sudden.

Now it was Stirling's turn to cock a brow. “Unless?”

Cam pushed out a breath. “Well…I'm thinking I'll be marrying her. Soon.”

Stirling's other brow popped up. “What?”

“Aye.” Cam crossed his arms over his chest, glanced at Pinfield, who was still berating his daughter, then let his gaze scan the perimeter.

Stirling grasped his shoulder. “You're
marrying
this lass?”

“I think so.”

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about marrying Esme since he'd left her at her brother's house five nights ago. In fact, he'd gone so far as visiting the jeweler's and procuring a wedding ring of scrolled gold, inset with tiny diamonds. Buying it had brought out all sorts of emotions Cam had not known he'd been capable of feeling. Anxiety and worry. Would she like it? Would she accept it?

Was she, at this moment, growing his child in her belly?

He needed to marry her. But as the days progressed, he was starting to realize that not only did he need to marry her, he
wanted
to marry her.

Esme was a beautiful, fascinating woman. Being with her brought him a peace he'd never known. The thoughts he had of waking up beside her every morning felt so
right.

He wanted Esme. He'd pushed all thoughts aside of not being good enough for her. Marrying her was the right thing for him to do. It was what he wanted.

He'd worry about all the rest of it later.

“McLeod?”

Jerked from his thoughts, Cam turned to Stirling. “What?”

“Well, if you're going to be marrying the lass, shouldn't we ken who she is?”

“She hasna agreed to marry me.” Not yet. He was still working out how to change her mind. He didn't want to wait a month or two to see if she was with child. What if she wasn't?

He no longer felt the need to marry her because there might be a child. The worry over a pregnancy was simply the catalyst that had opened the door for him to see what he really wanted.

“For God's sake, man. Just tell me if I know her.”

“I'm not sure. She's Sam Hawkins's sister.”

Stirling's mouth gaped. “Lady Esme?”

Oh, hell. Stirling knew her. “Aye,” he said on a sigh.

“I heard her engagement to Henry Whitworth fell through.” Stirling narrowed his eyes at Cam. “Dinna tell me that was because of you.”

Cam looked away, shrugging.

“Holy hell,” Stirling mused. “Are you certain you wish to be involved with the House of Trent? You dinna like being in the public eye, and that family has always been in the center of it.”

“Aye, I ken. But not by their choice.”

“Doesn't change the fact, though.”

“I suppose not.”

“Lady Esme Hawkins, eh?” Stirling mused. “She's a bonny lass. And she seems pleasant enough, if a little sheltered.”

Cam smiled. “Sheltered, eh? How do you know her?”

“I met her at a ball a few years ago. She had just come out in society, but she didna seem at all comfortable to be out. The rumor was that she was rushed into it, but if they'd waited till she was ready, she'd have been in her forties before she came out.”

“Hmm,” Cam said. “Aye, I suppose she's sheltered in some ways, and she doesna like crowds.”

“Not surprising, after what happened at that ball.”

“What happened?”

“Poor wee thing caused quite a spectacle.”

“How?” Cam demanded.

“Well, 'twas nothing to me. But the English
ton
is full of harpies and rumormongers.”

“You don't have to tell me that.”

“Aye, well, Lady Esme fell. That's all it was. She tripped over her hem. Such things happen from time to time. But she was the sister of the Duke of Trent, it was in the middle of the ballroom, in the middle of a dance, and her dress ripped apart at the seams. Two men and three other unfortunate ladies stumbled over her, and they created quite a heap of silk and satin and flailing limbs on the dance floor.”

Cam winced. “Jesus.”

“Aye,” Stirling mused. “Exactly who I invoked as I watched it happen. I kent what they'd do to her.”

“And did they?”

“Oh, aye. I heard she was rushed back to the duke's country seat in disgrace, and the scene was the subject of gossip in London for weeks.”

Cam ground his teeth. If he heard anyone speak of or to Esme in any condescending manner, they wouldn't
have
teeth. “She's more worldly-wise than you'd guess, Stirling, you may trust me on that.”

Worldly enough to explore the underbelly of London at night. The night he'd snuck into her room, she'd told him about how she'd gone to gaming hells and whorehouses and had even once slipped into a gentlemen's club. And she wrote romantic fiction. That fact alone probably made her the least sheltered of any society miss in London. Of course, he would tell Stirling none of that.

Stirling cocked his head, studying Cam's expression. “You're fond of her, aren't you?”

“Aye, I am.” Cam's voice was gruff. The orchestra started playing a Scotch reel, and immediately dozens of people rose to dance, abandoning their half-eaten bowls of fresh strawberries with clotted cream.

Merrington's eldest son whispered in Lady Emilia's ear, and she nodded, taking his hand. As the two walked by, Emilia cast a shy smile in Stirling's direction, then immediately looked away.

“I think she fancies you,” Cam chuckled, watching Stirling gaze after the lass. “Mayhap you'll be next to marry.”

“God,” Stirling groaned. “Can you imagine it? She's a sweet, bonny lass, but Pinfield as a father-in-law?” He shuddered as they watched Pinfield saunter by with one of Merrington's slender, angular daughters on his arm, the pair looking rather like Jack Sprat and his wife.

“You take the north side,” Stirling said in Cam's ear. “I'll be watching the south.”

“Aye,” Cam agreed, and moved to one end of the dance while Stirling went to the other. Cam clasped his hands behind his back and watched the reel, wondering if Esme liked to dance…because he'd love to dance with her. He'd have to trade her off with other men in a reel like this one. The more intimate setting of a waltz—that would be ideal. He could hold her, lead her through the moves, feel the soft press of her curves against his body…

A sharp scream from behind him snapped him out of his reverie.

He spun around, as did several of the other people standing nearby. The sound seemed to have come from the footpath to his left, and he couldn't see anything, as the path veered straight off into a thick copse of trees, and the lighting was intermittent and dim.

He glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Stirling. On the opposite side of the dancers, he'd be too far away to have heard the scream, most likely.

Then, a woman shouted, “Help! Please, help!” and Cam set off running toward the noise, pushing past the milling people.

He turned the bend in the path. Up ahead, he could see a small group of ladies bent over something off to the side. Not knowing what kind of danger might be lurking about, he slipped his pistol from his coat but held it against his leg, hidden by a pleat in his kilt so he didn't frighten the women as he approached. He could hear the footsteps of several more people behind him hurrying to help.

The ladies parted for him, a quick glance at their faces revealing them to be pale with horror and shock.

Cam looked down at what their skirts had been hiding from view.

Ross lay on the ground, his limbs akimbo, bathing in a pool of blood. Cam sank down to his friend's side and put his hand on the man's shoulder. “Ross?”

Ross's head rolled toward Cam. His eyes were closed, his face glowing pale in the dim light. He was either unconscious…or dead.

A scream welled in Cam's throat.
No. No, no, no.

He pressed his ear to Ross's chest, and then he heard it. The faintest heartbeat, the tiniest rasp of a breath. He rose, his cheek sticking briefly to the blood welling on Ross's coat, pressed his hand to the open wound on Ross's chest, and roared for a doctor.

Another Highland Knight had been attacked. And Cam would be damned if he was going to let this one die.

Two nights later, Esme was sound asleep when a movement in her bed awakened her.

“Cam?” She started to roll over to face him, but he wrapped his arm around her, holding her in place.

“Aye, 'tis me.” He pressed his front to her back, moving her braid aside to pepper kisses over her neck.

She sighed and snuggled against him, feeling drowsy and comfortable and content.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I've been busy.”

“With Lord Pinfield?”

He sighed. “Aye.” They lay in silence for a moment, then he added, “I've been counting the moments until I could be with you again, Esme.”

“Me, too,” she admitted, “but I didn't know how high the count would go.”

“We dinna have to live in anticipation,” he murmured. “We could be together every night, if…”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She still wasn't ready for any talk of something permanent with Cam. She'd promised herself she'd be more prepared, more honest with herself the next time she dove into a commitment. And her feelings about Cam were so tangled she didn't know how to begin to unravel them.

Time was what she needed. Time with Cam to learn more about him, and without him to learn more about herself.

“What have you been doing while I've been away?” he said.

She hummed. “The duchess has gone into confinement, so I have taken over many of her duties, which are simple for her, because she is lovely and charming, but wretched for me.”

He squeezed her tighter and shuddered behind her. “They'd be wretched for me as well. You're a strong woman.”

She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Or weak, depending on how you choose to look at it. But something good did happen.”

“What's that?”

“I finished my book yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“I did,” she said proudly. Every time she finished a book, she felt an inordinate amount of pride in her accomplishment—which she could never share with anyone. Until now.

Cam turned her in his arms so they were facing each other. “Well done,” he said softly, his blue eyes sparkling. He kissed her on the tip of her nose, and she smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Now then, there's another book for me to be reading. I canna wait until it is in print.”

She froze, tension tightening every muscle in her body. “Wait…are you…Are you saying you've read my books?”

“Aye,” he said, smiling, “of course.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because they're an important part of your life. So they're an important part of mine as well.”

“Did you…?” She bit her lip, too afraid to finish the question. What if he had hated her stories and thought her a fool for writing them?

“I did,” he said. She looked up at him in confusion, and he nodded. “You're asking if I liked them?”

She winced, and he laughed. “I liked them, aye. I loved them. Each and every word reminded me of you. They were sweet and brave and romantic. I loved them almost as much as I—” He broke off all of a sudden.

“As much as you what?”

“Never mind. The important thing is that there will be another one. I canna wait. When will it be published?”

“It'll be several months yet. It's only a first draft. I need to revise and edit it and then it will need to be printed. The whole process takes quite a long time.”

“I'll await my copy with bated breath.”

“Don't bate your breath too much,” she teased. She gave him a wicked, suggestive look. “You'll be needing to keep your strength.”

He smiled, and it was then that she noticed the darkness in his expression, the lines of strain at the edges of his eyes. “I'll keep up my strength,” he said. “Dinna worry about that.”

“Cam?”

“Aye?”

“Has…something happened?”

“What makes you say that?”

She touched his forehead between his brows. “There's a groove that appears just here when something's bothering you.”

He closed his eyes, sighing.

“What is it?”

“Another Knight was attacked, night before last.”

“Oh…no,” she breathed. “Is he…Was he murdered?” She waited, holding her breath.
Please, please, let him be all right…

“He's alive. Barely.”

“Oh, Cam. I'm so sorry. Who was it?”

“Sir Ewan Ross. He was an officer of the Gordon Highlanders, knighted by the Regent for valor in battle. I've known him since he was an ensign. He is a good man. My brother. One of my best friends.”

“Will he be all right?” she asked through the tightness in her throat.

“I dinna ken. Maybe.” He gazed at her hopelessly. “He was stabbed in the chest, near his lung. It's a terrible wound and he lost almost all his blood. He's suffering.” Cam swallowed. “He's suffering and there's naught I can do for him.”

She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to his chest. “There is something you can do,” she said. “Find who did it and make him pay.”

“Aye,” Cam said roughly. “That's what I intend to do. But Ross didna see his attacker, so he canna give us any sort of description. It happened in Vauxhall Gardens. The man came from behind, and it was dark. A group of ladies was walking along the footpath, and they came upon the scene before the killer could finish the job. They didna see the man's face at all—they can only tell us he was of average height and wearing a dark cloak, and when they screamed, he stumbled into the bushes and disappeared.”

“He stumbled? Did Sir Ewan injure him somehow?”

“We dinna ken. Ross doesna recall injuring him, but it's possible. He's feverish, and his memories of the incident are muddled.”

She held on to him tighter. “You'll find him. I'm sure of it.”

“Aye. I wilna rest until I do.” Cam was silent for a moment, then said, “We're no longer to be outside alone. We're to stay in pairs when we're out and about in London, or anywhere else. But I…” He gazed hard at her, as if he wanted to dive inside and take up residence in her soul. “I needed to see you. You calm my spirit, Esme. You soften all my hard edges. I need—” He cut himself off abruptly.

She touched the lines of strain at the edge of his eye, then smoothed her fingers down the side of his whisker-roughened face. He was so handsome. Such a bewildering, fascinating mix of hard and soft, imperviousness and vulnerability. She loved that he felt she could soften his hard edges. Loved that he'd come to her for comfort tonight.

She kissed him softly, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world to share this intimate touch. He'd already removed his jacket, stockings, shoes, and kilt, and was only wearing his long linen shirt. She tugged it up and ran her hand along the back of his thigh as she kissed him but stopped abruptly when her hand touched a lump of flesh just below his hip, an area of his body she hadn't yet seen or explored. “What's this?”

He pressed her hand over it, and she could feel the raised lines of flesh.

“Injury from Waterloo. A bullet skimmed me. 'Twas nothing. Not enough for the surgeons to pay any attention. The major's wife wrapped it and I hardly noticed it a bit as it healed. It left a bit of a scar, though.”

“A bit?” she asked in astonishment. “It feels like it cut through half your body.”

“Aye, well. Many men suffered far worse,” he said.

“You were lucky,” she said, thinking of all the soldiers killed at Waterloo, all the men who'd returned maimed. Cam didn't even have a limp—just this ragged mass of flesh to remember the battle by. “I'm so glad you were one of the lucky ones.”

He nuzzled the shell of her ear, nibbling kisses all around it, and her eyes sank shut in pleasure.

“You're fond of me,” he murmured. “Admit it.”

“I'd hardly let you into my bed if I wasn't fond of you,” she said archly.

“You like how I make you feel. I give you pleasure.”

“I think that's obvious.” She moved her braid aside, revealing more skin on the side of her neck for him to kiss.

“Aye, but I like to hear you say it,” he said, peppering kisses down her neck. He drew back and untied the ribbon at the top of her nightgown, pulling one side away and kissing the side of her breast.

“I'm fond of you, Cam.” She pushed her hands in his hair, loving the feel of its softness against her fingers. “I don't like how you make me feel—I love it.”

“Good.” He raised his head so their eyes met. “I was gentle with you last time, Esme. It was your first time, and I didna wish to hurt you any more than I had to. But I want you to know—I'm not a gentle lover.”

“What kind of a lover are you?” she asked him, anticipation of his answer already making her heart pound a quick staccato.

“The kind who takes his pleasure ruthlessly.”

She shuddered, and a wicked smile curled his lips. “Do you like the sound of that?” he asked.

“I do,” she admitted, struggling against the shyness threatening to overtake her. “I want that. I want you to be ruthless. I want you to take your pleasure from me.”

“Why?” His eyes were narrowed, deep blue in the dimness of the room, lit only by the residue of a shadowy moon outside.

She thought about that for a moment. “Because…I think I'll take pleasure from it as well.”

He nodded in approval. “Good. I like to be rough. I like to be hard. But it is better for me when my partner wants it as well.”

She nodded shakily.

“You're a gentle lady, Esme. But I've read your books. They made me think that we just might possess similar carnal desires.”

Her breath caught. “I…think we might.”

“If anything I do hurts you or goes too far, you tell me, aye?”

She nodded.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good lass.” He pulled all the way back from her. “Will you give me what I need tonight?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I need…to forget.” And though his words and his voice were hard, there was a plea in his eyes.

“Tell me how to help.”

“Aye. Take off your night rail.”

She did, and as she pulled the muslin gown over her head, he removed his shirt. She stayed on her knees, waiting for his next instruction, and he lay on his back on the bed. “Come here, lass. Straddle my face.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her breaths shaky, she did as he'd instructed. “Brace yourself on the bed frame,” he said. When she'd done so, he grasped her thighs and brought her sex toward his face. She gasped loudly when the lips of her sex touched his mouth. His tongue flicked out, licking her most intimate area, and she closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her upper body on the wooden headboard.

He feasted on her—that was the only way to describe it. He licked and sucked, and these were no tentative motions. His tongue speared her, and his suction over her sensitive bud was so intense she saw stars. A deep shudder began in her core and spread upward through her chest and down her legs. He must have felt it, but he didn't relent. His fingers dug almost painfully into the tops of her thighs.

She began moving against him, over him, and he redoubled his efforts until she nearly sobbed with every breath. Lust spiraled in her, tightening from her core out to her limbs, wrapping all her muscles, her entire body, in its tight bonds.

She couldn't do this. It was too much. She began a low chant. “No, no, no…” Her muscles grew tighter and tighter.

And then, every strand that had tightened around her snapped all at once. Pleasure rushed through her with such force, she jerked with it like a rag doll. She cried out, frightened for a split second that she would literally fall apart, but then she understood she wouldn't. She couldn't, because Cam was holding her, licking her, sucking her through the excruciating, brilliant pulses of ecstasy.

When the throbbing slowed, she realized Cam had slid out from under her and now knelt behind her. “I need to fuck you now,” he said. Pressing her forehead against the headboard, she whimpered at the harsh language. The wetness of her arousal trickled down the inside of her thigh.

“I can't hold back tonight, Esme,” he said gruffly. “It's going to be hard.”

“Yes, Cam. Please.”

His hand snaked around her body and his fingers pressed hard on her center, nearly sending her leaping off the bed. She made a sound of pain…or pleasure. She wasn't sure which.

“Too much?”

“Yes. No!” she corrected. “Too much, but also not enough,” she gasped. “I need more. I need you.”

He made a low, very Scottish sound of approval. His hardness rubbed through the crack of her buttocks as he pressed his body against hers, pelvis to bottom, stomach to back. He adjusted himself so that his tip pressed against her opening, then grasped her waist with both hands and thrust inside.

They released a harsh breath as one. She didn't have time to catch hers, because he was moving in long strokes, reaching her deepest parts, his body warm against her back. His thrusts were so hard, she had to brace herself with her hands on the headboard so she didn't slam her head into it every time he surged deep.

“God,” he bit out. “You feel so good, Esme. So tight and hot wrapped around my cock.”

Oh…my. She shuddered, and her sex contracted at his words. She realized with a shock that she liked his crass words—no,
loved
them. They made her hotter and wetter and brought her a notch closer to her peak.

“I love fucking you,” he said in her ear. “I love this. I could fuck you for the rest of my life and die a happy man.”

Another shudder. Another notch higher.

One of his hands moved from her hip to her neck. He wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing gently. If he wanted, he could squeeze the life right out of her. She was in his hands, but she trusted him. He wouldn't hurt her, only bring her pleasure.