This Perfect Kiss (26 page)

“I know.”

“Where is Blue now?”

She pressed her cheek in the loose cloth of his neatly folded cravat. “If all went as planned, he is in your surgery at Blackthorn Castle, waiting for me.”

J
ust after midnight, Christel found Camden standing in front of the tall window in the library. The curtains were open, but a thick mist outside pressed against the glass. A fire burned in the hearth. He had removed his dark jacket since leaving the surgery. Firelight favored the pale gray breeches and the silver threads in his waistcoat. His inordinate self-possession made her cautious as she stepped into the room.

“I wanted to thank you for allowing Heather and her family to stay,” she said to his rigid back. “I cleaned the wound. I think I found all the cloth caught inside. I stitched it. Doctor White should find my efforts passable.”

She stood just over the threshold. He still had not turned. She could envision him on the deck of his warship right before he blew his enemies out of the water, wearing the same captain's façade he wore now.

“Where is Leighton?” he asked.

“I was told he left almost as soon as he settled the family. Probably to spare a confrontation with you.”

“I doubt it.”

A spurt of anger grabbed hold and she choked it back. She would have preferred rage to this calm, cold man standing at the window looking out across a world blanketed in mist and darkness.

“What am I to do with you, Christel?”

She caught his gaze in the window and realized then he was looking at her reflection in the glass. “Do you want me to leave Blackthorn Castle?” she asked.

For a moment, he said nothing. “I want you to go back to the surgery.” He tipped the goblet and finished the drink as he turned. “Tend to Blue. See that the Ferguson children are warm and fed. I will talk to you tomorrow when I have found out what chargers on which Reginald Ferguson and Blue are being accused.”

Her head throbbed at the effort to stay stone-faced. “You are not . . . you will not turn their families over to Westmont?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I will not be turning women and children over to the provost to be judged like criminals and indentured for crimes that are not their doing. I may be cold-blooded, but even I have my limits.”

She pulled the shawl closer around her shoulders. “I do not think you cold-blooded.”

“Forgive me, Christel, but at the moment, I am not interested in what you think.”

He had a right to his anger, she told herself. She'd violated his trust and burdened him with the task of protecting people wanted by the Crown. Even aristocrats were not immune to the laws of the land. She had put his honor on the table to be sliced and diced for public consumption should he ever be found out, but in the end, he must see that he was doing the right thing in protecting these lives.

“I understand your anger—”

“Oh, aye! You are the expert on my character. Anger does not equate to what I feel.”

“You detest liars.”

“I detest deception.”

“And people who would use you for their own ends.”

“You know these things and yet you still chose to involve Blackthorn Castle in a conspiracy with my brother.”

“What if it had been Anna in that house when they'd set it afire? Would you not have defended your family and your property?”

“Anna would not have been in that house because I would never have involved her in my criminal activity. Do you want to know what they found in the hidey-holes beneath the Fergusons' house besides brandy?” he said in a voice that challenged. “They found rifles. The same brand that were hidden away in my ship, which Lieutenant Ross from the
Glory Rose
would have found had he decided to search that day he stopped us. Along with a cask of illegal brandy. Do you want to know what would have happened? The government would have had every right to confiscate or burn my ship and take me into custody. Sedition hangs people.”

“Then why are you not handing them all over to the authorities and cleaning your hands of the matter? Why are you allowing them to remain here?”

He crossed the room and stopped in front of her. The light from a single taper lit the dark walnut corridor behind her, yet it was enough to see his face. “You cannot guess the answer to that?”

She blinked, and he seemed to welcome the uncertainty in her eyes. “I am doing it for you, Christel.”

Chapter 15

T
he next morning Christel learned from Doctor White the details and circumstances behind Reginald Ferguson's release.

“Four men were slated to be hanged with Ferguson,” he told her, “and no' a single deposition for a one of them and no evidence to be found.”

She learned that last night, after she had spoken to Camden in the library, he had gone to the bailiff in Ayr. Rousing him from bed, Camden had demanded to see the depositions from Ferguson's tribunal. When none had been found, his lordship had told the turnkey to bring Ferguson from his cell. After spending a half hour talking with Ferguson, Camden had ordered Ferguson and three others released, then he'd gone to see the provost himself.

Nothing was said of what Sir Jacob Westmont and his lordship had discussed behind closed doors.

Later, Christel listened as Doctor White spoke to Heather, instructing her how to care for Blue. Christel learned that Camden would be sending the family to Carlisle to an old bosun mate of his in need of drovers and weavers for his farm.

Christel remained with the family, but by dawn the next morning, she walked with them to Blackthorn Cove, where a jolly boat was moored to take them all to the
Anna.
With a heavy heart, she bade Heather and Blue good-bye. She remained on the beach until the
Anna
's masts faded in the sunrise.

Christel returned alone to her room. Wrapping herself in a blanket for warmth, she sat on her bed, exhausted and embattled. Knees drawn up to her chin, she tried to come to terms with her heart.

She did not feel any older or wiser a person than she had been at seventeen, when Camden had been her Prince Charming.

She could love him 'til the cows came home and it would make no difference in a culture that held to such staunch elitist segregation formed by mores and faith and, yes, honor.

Logic and prudence told her that every thought and fear she felt was true. But logic did not work against solitude. Logic didn't renew the body's spirit or nourish the soul, or take away the yearning to mother a little girl.

Logic certainly did not keep her from worrying about him.

Who
had ever championed him? Or protected him?

Camden had not sought her out, so after breakfast and a change of clothes she went in search of him.

She found him in the ballroom practicing his fencing. No draperies marred the wall where a long row of glass doors looked out onto the terrace. He stood alone in the room, framed by the advent of a new day, no footmen on guard, the ever-present Smolich nowhere to be seen. Foil in momentary riposte, he paused, lunged and retreated, crossing his back leg over the other, only to turn and begin the master's wheel again, the hushed silence broken by the sound of his breath. By the sweat on his brow, he looked to have been at it for some time. He stumbled, and swore, resting one palm on his thigh. Then he picked up the pace again with the clear resolve to finish the master's wheel.

His movements might have lacked perfect physical grace, but he did not lack strength or perseverance as he pushed himself to exhaustion. Then the exercise was suddenly over and he walked to a table, tossing down the weapon as if he could have rid himself of all life's discomforts with such ease. He drank from a pitcher, lowering it from his mouth when he spied her. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve of his billowy white shirt and set the pitcher back on the table.

“You are quite skilled with the blade, my lord.”

Thick dark hair fell over his brow. His dark lashes added to the stark effect of his silver-blue eyes as she approached. “I endeavor to do my best,” he said.

He smelled salty from exercise, and hot, dispelling the chill surrounding them. And she felt that familiar spark inside her grow and grow and grow until she grabbed onto it with every ounce of her being. If she could not fight for him and for herself then what was worth fighting for in this life?

“I wanted to thank you for what you did for Heather's family. I do not know how you did it or why, but I am truly grateful.”

“I did not do it for your gratitude, Christel.”

“I know, but I am grateful all the same. No one else could have accomplished what you did.”

Christel lifted a long-bladed foil from among the half dozen laid out on the table and tested its weight for balance. She stood in momentary riposte, foil extended, and slashed the air. She peered at him from over the protected tip.

“I am not sure what I accomplished.”

“You found a place for them to go. I know 'tis none of my affair to ask—”

“But when has that ever stopped you.” Despite the humor in his eyes, Christel suspected that his mood was serious beneath his words.

“What happened when you went to see Sir Jacob?”

“Westmont is proficient at mopping up before the game is over,” he said after a moment. “ 'Tis well-known Scottish justice to hang a man first and then try him.”

She whispered, “Sir Jacob will not arrest you?”

“Nay, he will not arrest me. But neither will he forgive me for interfering.”

Nothing was ever that black and white. He and Sir Jacob were friends.

“What about Leighton?”

“My brother is fighting on the wrong side. I intend to destroy the lucrative smuggling trade,” he said. “I intend to take my place here as earl and lord of Blackthorn Castle. To wed and have many sons, and I will not have them trading in black market brandy or whiskey.”

“Then why did you save Reginald Ferguson and protect Blue?”

“Because if a man is to hang, then let it be through a just process, not a tribunal more corrupt than those it condemns to die.”

She suspected Camden could be every bit as ruthless as she was when it came to protecting those he loved. But he'd had no connection to Blue or Ferguson. He could have walked away.

“Are you up for a game of skill and sport, my lord?”

He raised a brow. She smiled. “You have your limp. I have my skirts. I figure that will make us even.”

He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Is that right?”

Again, she smiled in reply and began tucking the hem of her skirt into her waistband, leaving her legs visible just below her garters at her knees. His tall calf-hugging boots gave him the advantage of another inch of height atop his own six feet, so tucking her skirt in merely evened the odds.

He slid the protective leather vest over his head and settled the mesh mask around her face. She did the same and tightened the leather ties at her waist. He took up his foil.

“What are we playing for?” he asked.

“If I win, you will sit down and talk to your brother about everything—and I do mean everything. If you choose to continue to hate each other, then the loss belongs to you both, but hate should be based on truth.”

“And if you lose?”

“Then 'twill be a first.”

He barely deflected her attack. Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed. Clearly, he hadn't considered that she might actually have been equal in skill to him.

He tapped the blade to his forehead. “No doubt there is much we can learn from each other about swordplay.”

“On your guard, Carrick.”

He parried with a single swift blow that sent a fiery jolt up her arm. Behind his mask, he grinned. “Is it your intent to let me win so easily?”

She waggled the foil tip in front of her nose. “Arrogance is one of your less-appreciated attributes, my lord.”

“Camden,” he said, his blade tapping hers. “My name is Camden Augustus James St. Giles.”

He stepped forward and took up the position. She took up hers and their blades crossed, her eyes on his through the mesh.

She had never heard his full Christian name. “Augustus?”

He grinned. “My grandfather had a fondness for Roman history. He named me after the first emperor of Rome.”

“I see.”

She liked knowing his full name. The
click-click
of foils marked the beginning of the contest.

She drove him back two steps, then three before the fight was on. Their clicking foils eclipsed the sound of their breathing as they crossed the floor, making bold use of the space. Her steps close to the ground, she moved like an acrobat, all limber grace as her uncle used to tell her. She parried his riposte slashing her blade up against his. He stepped aside as she swiveled with the foil extended ready to impale him through the heart. They were both breathing hard when they stepped back from the first round with no points scored.

Like cats, they walked a slow circle around the other, flexing their claws, studying the other for weaknesses. “Where did you learn to fight?” he asked, clearly impressed.

“My uncle was a pirate, a coastal raider who survived not only the Spanish but also the Dutch and English.”

Camden swished his foil with two cutting strokes to the air. “Your uncle was a thief who stole from others what he did not earn for himself.”

Violence surged from deep inside her. “What do you know about what it takes to survive in the real world? You live in a castle.”

“I know that it takes more courage than sense to remain honorable to your principles. I expect from others no less than what I expect from myself.”

“Perhaps that is your problem. How does anyone live up to your standards?”

“I could ask the same of you?” His foil glided across her blade until they were hilt to hilt. “What are we fighting for?” he asked, their fists touching. “Your honor or mine,
a leannan
?”

What had begun as a fencing match quickly degenerated into a sword fight. Christel ducked beneath his blade.

“Not bad, my lord. But you still will not win.”

He laughed. “I do not have to win to beat you. I only have to stop you from gaining a point.”

She was too lost in her own reaction to take measure of his. She could not look away. She mustered her skill, keeping her movements close and quick. But she worried that she had lost her rhythm, that her emotions had been let loose from their cage and ran amok in her head. Her ribs ached. Her lungs burned. She crossed-over with her foil and might have scored a victorious point had he not skillfully countered the move like the blade master he was. When they broke apart for the third time, her lungs heaved with the exertion. She removed her mask, as did he. Neither had yet to strike a point.

The restraint she'd sensed in him until now had been replaced by something far more dangerous. “Enough games, Christel.”

Her chest tightened. But before she could question his fury, he stepped against her. His heat infused her. His fingers pressed into the thick waves of her hair, closing possessively on her nape.

“Let me inside you, Christel.”

Then his mouth covered hers.

She had no thought but the shameless taste of him in her mouth. No want but the feel of his arms around her. Her splayed fingers curled then climbed around his neck to entangle in his hair. Then with a groan that resonated against her chest, he was pressing her onto the table with a possessive urgency as powerful as her own.

There was no tender melding of lips as he tore away her protective vest and his hand went boldly to her breast, the curve of her waist, her bottom. No gentle wooing of her soul as he plumbed the depths of her mouth. Something inside her rebelled.

She knew some part of him was asking for more than her surrender. This was not about lust or desire but yielding to what lay between them. Everything inside told her to break the kiss. Spoke to her even as she started to fragment.

Like a flooding eddy, blood lapped through her veins feeding the fire in her loins. Another deep groan joined his.

All the while, she gripped the foil as he gripped his, and it occurred to her they had merely moved their duel closer to the other. The kiss turned hotter.

With one arm, he lifted her against the table and stepped between her legs, following her down to the table and catching the palm holding the foil against the polished wood at her back. He edged one hand beneath her skirt. His want explicit as he reached between her legs and parted her, sliding his finger inside her. She felt something primal claw at him as he inserted another and pushed inside her.

“What is it you want, Christel?”

She wanted never to be responsible for another person's pain again. She wanted to live free. She wanted him forever.

“You,” she whispered. “I want you.”

His warm mouth moved downward until it closed over the turgid hardness of her nipple. A shiver passed over her and his lips became a brand on her heart.

She was liquid. “Open your eyes.” The words feathered across her face. “Look at me.”

He pulled back and looked down at her, moving his palm between her thighs to nudge her legs apart. Then he was a part of her and held himself hard against her womb.

Before she caught her breath, he began to move as if driven. He made love to her with his body, his lips, his tongue, and the softly whispered word that was her name.

Dragging her head back, he trailed his mouth over her jaw, down the smooth column of her throat as if to taste her lifeblood. She melded against him as his lips suckled the pulse beating wildly at her throat. He had undone the laces of her gown. Her breasts strained her chemise that had at once become an erotic and sensual barrier to her skin. Her wild pulse tattooed against his lips.

Her breathing quickened. Her grip on the hilt of her foil slackened.

His mouth, his warm breath and tongue followed the rhythm of his body, and through heated lips, he whispered, “Say my name.”

The pressure built within her. “Caesar Augustus,” she rasped.

She thought she felt his smile against her lips. “God, I should not have told you.”

He gripped her hip hard in his palm, and loosing himself in his own climax, swore like a true Scotsman, the heat of him pouring hot inside her, before he collapsed on his elbows, weak as she.