This Perfect Kiss (17 page)

“There has never been anything physical between us. Perhaps he only wanted me to know what had occurred between the two of you.”

“He is dangerous, Christel—”

She put her finger to his lips. “So are you, my lord.”

“Where was Anna found?” he asked.

“There is a partial cave on the beach,” she said. “Leighton followed the sound of Dog barking and found her.”

“Anna ran from me,” he said. “She could have died. And it would have been my fault.” He closed his eyes, weighing more than his words. “After being an outsider in my daughter's life for so long, there must be a better way to go about knowing her.”

“Anna is fortunate to have you for her father.”

“Do you think so? She might argue that point when I get her back to Blackthorn Castle and throttle her. I can sail a ship across seas, stand at the helm in the face of a full broadside, but I have scant knowledge of little girls and pet hounds. Of how to be the kind of father mine could never be. More than a stranger to his children. 'Tis something Leighton seems to have mastered in my absence . . .” His voice faded, as if he recognized where this conversation was leading. “I have spent years letting others monopolize her heart to the exclusion of my own. I am precariously perched between my desire to protect and shield her and the need to allow her the freedom to be a child without the burden of my problems.”

“You do not have to explain yourself to me.”

“I do. God help me, but I do. You do not know me. I am not a nice person. I have seen and done things that will send me to hell a thousand times over. Anna is the one truly innocent person in all of this. You asked why Saundra went into the tower the night she jumped. I cannot tell you her heart, but I can tell you mine. We had argued. I had told her I was leaving her and taking Anna. If I could change that night, do it over again . . . now Anna will forever pay the price of her parents' sins.”

He proceeded to step past her. Desperate to touch him, Christel wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. She only wanted to do the right thing and protect him. “Do not go.”

For most of her life, it had been easier to run from the frailties of her heart than to confront her own vulnerability, but there was something fragile about a man of the world who suddenly did not seem so worldly in all things. A man who loved his daughter and wanted to know his child better, who had been betrayed by his wife and brother and—if Christel really wanted to list all the evil culprits in his life—who had also been betrayed by the Crown he had served so loyally for so many years.

He was a man who'd used every situation to his own advantage, a strategist who'd played life like a game of chess or one of his naval sorties but who had suddenly found the new territory he was now sailing unnavigable.

In a week or a month, he would be back to his old self, fighting his current battles in a state of reckless surrender. He would leave Blackthorn, return to London, and resume his life where he had left off.

“Camden has a duty to
the people of Ayrshire, his daughter, his family and to himself to make this estate whole again,”
the dowager had said
. “He
owes it to the legacy left to him by his father and his father before him. He owes it to his daughter's future to marry again and to make his life here. He needs to find purpose again.”

But most of all, he owed it to himself to find the place where he belonged. Even if it was not here.

“Christ . . . do not do this, Christel.”

She touched her fingertip to his lips, then fanned her fingers over his cheek, as if by virtue of her will she could pull the tension from him.

For several heartbeats, they remained in each other's gazes, no longer caught by the past but by something less adversarial and more intimate. On impulse, she gently pressed her lips to his and kissed him.

She felt his hesitation and knew a flash of uncertainty just before he pulled away. Her stomach kicked in warning as he raked her face with eyes that burned all over her. At first, he made no effort to embrace the contact between them, as if caution bid him to test the waters to regain his bearings and understand the direction of hers. Impossible, since she did not understand herself. This was not about Saundra. It wasn't about loneliness or the past or even the future.

Whether with animosity or something else—she couldn't tell—his callused hand slid beneath her hair to splay her head. His loose hair cloaked her face as he crushed his mouth against hers.

Then she was reaching for him as he thrust his fingers through her hair, his lips prowling through her senses, taking more and more of her response the same way he conquered his foes, one battle at a time.

He groaned and shifted his body, holding her wedged between him and the door. She clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his rigid flesh.

His palms followed the arch of her back. Then he gripped her bottom, lifting her off the floor until she was pressed flush against his body, and like a wanton, she raised her legs and wrapped them around his hips. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat to his sensual assault. He turned with her in his arms, her knees pressed against his hips and on the edge of the bed with her still straddling him. Her urgency matching his, she moved her hips against him. He was being too rough and fierce, but she didn't care. It mattered little that tomorrow would come, and the storm would be gone, the sky would be blue. Now there was only the sound of the wind.

“Look at me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt suffocated with yearning. “I do not want this to be a dream.”

He made a sound like a laugh. Cradling her face between his palms, he stared into her eyes from beneath heavy eyelids. “I have never been accused of being a woman's dream.”

All ten of her fingers traced the shape of his face. “Then you have not known the right woman, my lord.”

Their breath mingled with whispered words. “Lord . . . Christel.” He stroked her hair and brushed his lips against hers. “Where did you learn to sing the way you do?” he asked softly.

“My mother used to sing to me as a child.”

“Your voice is like your name. Beautiful.”

Her body shuddered with desire. His words pulled at her heart. He cradled her, whispered her name, then kissed her with a hunger that she knew now was not hers alone.

It was a kiss as she had never experienced. He sipped her lips. He indulged himself in her mouth, as if taking pleasure in the taste of her. He took her down to the mattress, the weight of him offset by the angle in which he lay, the steady suck of his mouth like a pulse against her heart. He took her mouth again and again and again, engaging all of her senses, focusing her desire, ravishing her without quarter. In giving, he was taking. Mutual consent. Need. Her fingers caught in his hair and her mouth found the rapid pulse at his throat.

Her breasts seemed to swell. She whimpered in frustration when he cupped her in his palm. He lifted his head only briefly while his hand tore at the laces on her bodice and drew the neckline of her gown off one shoulder and then the other. Cool air touched her breasts a moment before his lips replaced his hand. She arched, wanting him to take more, and he plundered her with his mouth, drawing her nipple between his teeth and lips, then giving his attention to the other. A groan vibrated deep within his chest. Stubble teased her tender flesh, arousing wondrous sensations.

She had wanted this for so long. Turning her head, she opened her eyes and absorbed the night. A wedge of light lay on the floor in front of the partially opened door. They were moving shadows on the bed, alive in the darkness, their breathing hot rasps. She relished his touch even as a part of her listened to the wind and the faraway sound of a shutter banging against the house.

His body lifted slightly as he raised her skirts and shift. He laid his palm above one garter and slid the stocking down, then moved his hand up the back of her naked thigh to the curve of her bottom, warm, possessive. He slid his hand across her hip and gently urged her legs apart, his palm lingering on that most intimate part of her. She was panting now in anxiety. His mouth returned to swallow the small sounds she made, and at the same time, he cupped her mons and slipped one finger inside her. When he inserted a second, her body contracted.

She could not see all of his face in the shadows. Her fingers curled in his shirt till the starchiness of the fabric surrounded her senses like the wind and the sound of their breathing. Citrus mingled with the redolence of hot, male sensuality and a musky scent she vaguely recognized as hers. A soft groan tore from him as he straightened and rose up on one knee. He still wore his boots. Neither of them was undressed, and she did not care.

His hands fell to his waist and she heard him tear at his breeches. He did not give his own clothing the same care as he had hers. His ragged breath, husky with want, whispered over her as he leaned his knee on the bed, bent and lifted her bottom with one hand.

Words were not needed. Only urgency defined as much by the absence of dialogue as the presence of desire. She bit back a sob of pleasure as he entered her. His lips found the curve of her neck. She relished the sensitivity of her skin. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, wanting all of the hot, pulsing length of him.

Bracing his palms on the bed, he moved against her, his powerful body rocking slowly at first, as if savoring the sweet ecstasy like one savored the rare taste of rich chocolate.

Then they were moving together. Their palms touched and she laced her fingers with his. Her breathing fragmented, an incoherent moan lost between their lips. There were no other sounds outside herself. She heard only her own body, the roar of the blood in her ears, the sound of her breath against his cheek. Glad for the darkness that kept him from seeing her face, she turned her head and kissed him and then he was kissing her deeply, catching her trembling cries until she was drowning in his arms.

Release consumed her, wrenching a cry from her throat. He left no part of her body or mind untouched, branding her senses, even as he pulled out and spilled himself beside her.

He lay in her arms with only the sound of their heartbeats between them. Now she knew what it was like to lie in his arms.

H
e awoke to daylight in her bed. He lay on his stomach, blankets entangled around his hips, one arm flung to the side, the other hanging slightly off the bed. He still wore his clothes, minus his boots. Twisting around, he looked outside. The wind still blew, but only an occasional gust tweaked the old bones of the cottage. Frowning, he rose and padded to the door to look into the hallway. Heather was coming up the stairs with a pitcher of water in her hands.

“My lord.” She dipped. “I was just bringing this to you.”

He started down the hallway to Anna's chamber. “Miss Christel has been sitting with her, my lord. They ate breakfast. The child be sleepin' comfortably.”

“You should have awakened me.”

“Miss Christel told us no' to. Most stern aboot it, too. Said you needed your rest. Doctor White was here earlier and said Lady Anna can travel. Miss Christel said to tell ye that she sent him back to summon your carriage so that the two of ye can join yer family for the Christ's Mass celebration tomorrow.”

This was not a conversation he expected to have the morning after he made love to a woman. It sounded to him as if Christel was sending him home by way of her servant. Suddenly amused, Camden plowed his fingers through his hair. “Where
is
Miss Christel?”

“She be up on the hill overlooking the cottage. Her mam is buried there near the oak, my lord.”

“You may put the water on the dresser,” he said as he continued down the hall and edged open the door to Anna's chambers.

The curtains were opened slightly. Anna slept soundlessly, the sleep of health and not one influenced by opium. He eased the door shut and returned to Christel's room to wash and straighten his clothing.

Standing at the window as he laced his shirt and shoved the tail end into his breeches, he espied the oak on the hill some distance away.

A knock on the door signaled Heather's return with his other clothing, including his cloak and hat. If she suspected that Christel had been in here with him last night, her expression gave nothing away.

As he waited for her to lay his belongings on the bed, he could not help but notice a patch on the girl's threadbare sleeve. His glance took in Christel's room, the faded lace pillows and counterpane on the bed. Everything, from the wardrobe to the washstand, needed refinishing. He had noticed the same throughout the cottage, from the moth-eaten winged chairs to the wooden floors that needed a new coat of varnish.

“Heather?” He startled the girl as she started to scurry from the room like a mouse in the sights of a cat. “How is Miss Christel surviving here?”

Folding her hands, she lowered her eyes. “Miss Christel's uncle took care of the business. Ye would have to be talkin' to her—”

“I am talking to you, Heather. Captain Douglas has been dead nearly a year. Who has been paying the upkeep? Did Captain Douglas have a trust that a solicitor manages?”

“Aye, he did until the funds run out. It be Lord Leighton what has taken care of us, my lord. Takin' care of the cottage, that is.”

“Leighton? In exchange for what?”

Bewilderment touched her gaze. “On account that he and Captain Douglas were friends, my lord.”

“Does Miss Christel know?”

“Aye, my lord.”

When he said no more, she dipped and shut the door.

He finished dressing and, after checking on Anna, left the cottage. He walked out of the yard, past the barn and paddock. His leg began to ache halfway up the snowy incline, and his boots had no traction in the snow. He stopped to catch his breath, at once hating his clumsiness.