This Perfect Kiss (18 page)

He looked up at the blue sky. He could hear breakers crashing against the shoreline as he continued up the hill, grabbing onto a scrub bush for leverage before finally reaching the spreading oak tree on top. He looked around at a crumbling crofter's cottage nearly buried beneath a century of dead wooden vines and weeds. Christel stood on the other side of the cottage near the rock ledge overlooking the beach. She was staring out at the seagulls.

The banshee winds coming off the sea whipped her hair and cloak. She clutched it tightly beneath her chin. For centuries, such a vision had crowned the bowsprit of great ships.

He moved forward. Upon hearing his clumsy step, she turned suddenly. Sunshine had warmed the color of her hair to soft butter.

“My lord.”

If he had thought today would bring shame or embarrassment to her, he'd been wrong. Her mouth lifted into a smile, and he felt something like a low current of electricity go through his veins, similar to what one felt standing on the deck of a ship in a storm. He had not felt its power in some time. To feel it now was almost like learning to walk again.

Aware of the atypical bent of his mood, he concentrated on reaching her side without slipping. But she quickly joined him beneath the naked limbs of the oak.

“I thought you would sleep longer,” she said.

“The room was cold.”

“I see.” Again, that brilliant smile. “I thought it circumspect to let Heather find me sleeping in Anna's room this morning when everyone awakened,” she said.

“Aye . . .” He tucked a slip of soft hair behind her ear. “We would not want to be plagued by gossip.”

A distant church bell rang for the morning service and he looked past her. “Heather said your mother is buried up here.”

She pointed to a granite marker twenty feet away. A portion around the headstone had been cleared. “ 'Tis fitting Papa buried her here.” She looked toward the whitecapped sea. “Especially since he died somewhere out there. I do not feel she is here alone.”

All his life, he had never truly understood death, except that it treated all men equally without regard to religion or class.

His fingertip slid down to her chin, urging her face up. They stood, cloaked in shadows of a passing cloud, serenaded by gusts of wind. He had forgotten to put on his gloves, and his flesh was exposed to the elements. He felt chafed, inside and out, not only by the events of the last few days but also by those of the last few years.

“I need to say something,” he said.

“If 'tis an apology about last night, then I assure you the only thing you will be apologizing for one minute from now is the apology itself. I would think that last night is the sort of thing that should be normal for you,” she said with a casualness he did not reciprocate.

“Define normal.”

“You have mistresses—”

“Had. Singular. Not plural. Not you.”

“I am not your mistress. Or lover. What happened last night was truly wonderful,
truly
remarkable, but 'twas a onetime occurrence.”

He tipped her chin, trapping her in his gaze. There was nothing tranquil about him as he lifted one finger to her cheek. “Ask me to stay through spring or summer.”

She pressed her lips to his chin. “Nay.”

He lowered his hand, niggled by an annoyance he could not place.

“I like you,” she said. “Very much. I always have. 'Tis true, you have your faults. You do not get along well with people or dogs. You tend to flee the difficulties in your life rather than conquer them.” She folded her arms. “And you have sometimes shown a great deal of arrogance when it comes to your view of events. But you are a wonderful father, kind to horses, and you are an excellent sea captain.”

His lips quirked. “If that is a compliment, I have suffered kinder at my own admiralty board.”

Her lips softened. “Does
liking
a person not count for a start?”

“To what end? A long, enduring friendship?”

“Aye,” she said quietly. “What else can there be between us? You are lord of Blackthorn Castle. I . . . I am me.”

As he started to reply, she held up her finger to stop him. “You can have no true interest in me beyond the physical and you need not pretend there is more between us. Despite the fact that Lady Harriet is my grandmother, you and I will never visit the same circle of friends. I am not your peer or of your class or even a friend to your friends' friends. You will wed someone who is suitable to your rank because your title expects it of you, and I will never submit to being the mistress of a married man.”

Camden stared at her. His initial impulse was to argue, especially since he had no plans to marry anyone anytime soon. But her passion-filled eyes intrigued him, and he enjoyed watching her even if she absolutely believed in her heart everything she spouted—a telling point that enabled him to consider her sentiment with remarkable patience and curiosity. He had not seen her sparked with fervor as she was now.

“Last night we needed each other,” she continued, barely pausing for breath. “I admit I took advantage of the situation, but regardless, neither of us can continue with the nonsensical notion that we should do this again.”

“So 'tis best to end it now.”

“Aye!” She seemed impressed that he got it. “Which brings me to my point. If I asked you to stay, I would only be forcing you to confront a choice too soon and you will either come to regret the decision or your answer will be no. Either choice is a detriment to me. If you stay, I do not want it to be because of your friendship to me. Therefore, I will never ask and you will never have to tell me nay. I shall leave your future to fate.”

He worked at keeping his expression unchanged. Despite her oratory on the virtues and vices of his character and relationship to her and on allowing fate to shape her life, she did not like it when she was not in control.
Too bad, my sweet
. Sometimes in battle, the only offense was an attack-and-run strategy that left the enemy confused.

“The same fate that put your uncle's ship in the bay outside Yorktown and you in the field hospital when he brought me in that day? That sent you the letter that brought you back to Scotland? The same fate that kept me in London just long enough for you to find me? Fate brought Anna to Seastone Cottage and put me alone with you last night. Seems to me fate has shadowed us for years and that last night was more an act of fate than your belief that I am so feeble that I succumbed to you out of weakness.”

Her gaze was now watchful as his own assessment lingered, and he could see she was suddenly wondering what he saw beneath the surface. Past her barely combed hair pinned atop her head and sprouting short unruly curls flirting with the wind. Past yesterday's brown woolen dress, one that she had not yet altered from wherever she had procured the thing, for it was much too tight across her bosoms. Tighter now as she found herself short of air, as if wanting to breathe deeply.

He pinned her between the tree and his arms, his mouth curved into an unholy smile. “Fortunately for you, I have to return to Blackthorn Castle,” he said.

“I know. 'Tis the beginning of Christmastide and Anna needs her family. I sent for your coach.”

“You can join me.”

She made an exasperated sound. “I am spending Christmas with Blue and Heather's family. They have already invited me.”

He took a moment to assess the statement. Despite what she thought of him, he did understand the social impediment she faced. What she did not understand was that none of that mattered to him. But her grandmother would be in Prestwick, where she'd spent most of her time these past years at the orphanage she sponsored. Blackthorn Castle would not be free of guests, some who might not welcome her.

He lifted his gaze and hers followed to the mistletoe hanging from the branches above their heads. “Tomorrow is Christmas,” he said.

“My lord . . .”

“Camden,” he said against her lips. “My name is Camden.”

He bent his head and kissed her, her lips still so unfamiliar yet so completely intimate, so flagrantly carnal they left his limbs weak. With the light weight of his thumb, he rolled her lip down, suckling lightly, and the sensation of her washed over him, unhampered by self-censure.

Then there was nothing but Camden St. Giles kissing her, slipping his tongue between her teeth and feeding her groan with one of his own. He plundered just as he had last night and she let him, allowing his caged emotions unfettered rein—if only for now, for this minute.

Time would have spun away if not for the intrusive sound of an approaching coach, still some distance away, but close enough to bring reality back into play to remind him where they were. With reluctance, he lifted his head. But this time he could read much more than his own desire reflected in her eyes. There was yearning there, the unfurling of passions awakened. He could feel the beat of her in his blood. He was already hard and, inwardly groaning, he found he wanted more of what she had given him last night.

His hands lowering to her skirts, he felt her shiver and move against him, and he felt the primal thrill of it rise in his veins. “I . . . I do not want to need you,” she said against his ear.

“I know.” His words were gravelly, his breath hot against hers. He was already unlacing his breeches, insensible to the cold, wrapped as he was in her warmth. “I do not want to need you either.”

He lowered his head and she raised on her toes to meet him halfway, pressing her soft lips to his. “This is good-bye, then,” she said, stating that everything would return to the way it was between them.

“Aye.”

His hands were beneath her cloak and he touched her through the thick fabric of her gown, pushing her backward with the slightest pressure, all thought beyond this moment disappearing from his mind as she slipped her tongue against his.

Then he was lifting her, holding her with the weight of his arm, bending his legs to enter her, her back against the tree. Fighting the staggering impulse to sigh in pleasure, he moved against her, inside her, filling her, forcing her entire weight upward. His mouth closed over hers with self-indulgent temperance he was unused to feeling, and he could not slow the rhythm of movements. Yet her passion equaled his and she held him tightly, her ragged breaths beside his ear, consuming him, until he let satiation claim them both.

Chapter 10

“Y
ou are out of practice, Carrick. I have outscored you twice.”

Camden's expression remained sober behind his leather-and-mesh mask. He sliced the air with his foil. “Are you telling me you are exhausted, Westmont? One more go-round. Supper is not for another hour, my friend.”

“Friend, indeed,” he replied. “What kind of friend am I to kill you twice in one day?”

Camden laughed. “Merciful.”

His riposte drove Camden back and around the floor. Yorktown might have left Camden less agile, but he had not lost his reflexes. At the very least, he had mostly held his own for the last hour, and it was all he could expect against a master like Jacob.

Tempered by a capricious mood since his daughter's return to Blackthorn, Camden had thrown himself into physical activity. Anything to alleviate the restlessness that seemed to have been driving him these past weeks since his return from Seastone Cottage. Sweat trickled from his brow and he welcomed the cold breeze as he passed an open window. Outside, snow had started falling again. Jacob and his family had arrived last night to celebrate Twelfth Night as he did every year. With the exception of last year, Jacob had been coming to Blackthorn Castle for over a decade.

A man in his midforties, he was a mentor, as well as a longtime friend and business partner, a Loyalist to the core of his being, a magistrate, and a political ally, one of the few who had remained steadfastly at Carrick's side for most of the past ten years.

“I understand Anna is recovering from her ordeal,” Westmont said.

“She is up and out of bed, wreaking havoc with the servants, who have spoiled her mercilessly.”

“I heard Miss Douglas has visited here twice since Anna's return,” Sir Jacob said too casually. “Are you sure that is wise?”

Camden missed his timing, parrying too late. Westmont nicked him again in the chest. Fortunately, a protective leather vest covered his white shirt. “Unless your heart is made of stone, Carrick, you are dead a third time.”

Camden slid off the mask. “Aye, Jacob. The match is yours.” He tossed the foil to a footman standing on the floor's perimeter.
But stone his heart was not.

“Your leg has been troubling you?” Westmont asked as Camden limped to the table where the other fencing gear lay.

Camden tugged at the laces on his leather vest and removed it. Sweat dampened his shirt and hair. The footman brought him a ladle filled with ice water from a pitcher, and he drank.

“More so in this weather,” he said over the rim of the ladle, then tipped it back as if it had contained a needed draft of whiskey.

“Count yourself fortunate you have both your life and your limb. You could easily have lost both.”

“Ahh. Ever the optimist to see the bright side of everything.” Camden dabbed his brow with the back of his arm and studied his friend. “Why the interest in Christel Douglas, Jacob?” His tone was cool.

“I do not need to remind you that her uncle was a blockade runner. Many here were loyal to the colonial cause. Just because that conflict has ended does not mean illegal activities have ceased.”

“Her uncle is dead.”

“But your brother is very much alive. He is running with a rough crowd some years now and is still a suspect in the gold theft three years ago that left six of my men dead. Rumor is that Christel Douglas was his contact in the colonies. They are closer than she lets on, Carrick.”

Camden leaned against the table. “As much as my brother and I disagree on certain issues, he did not murder those men, Jacob.”

“How can you be so sure in light of the recent events?”

“Four of them were Scotsmen. One was a friend.”

Westmont dropped his towel on the table beside the water pitcher. “Your judgment has already been thrown into question by many in Parliament, Carrick. You do not want to find yourself defending the wrong sort of people.”

Camden swore. “I am not defending Leighton's character. But he is no murderer, and Miss Douglas has no connection to him here.”

Westmont raised his hands palms out. “If I did not trust your integrity, I would not be in business with you. To that point, I have been able to arrange for you to meet with a dozen wool merchants next month in Glasgow. Your ship is there being refitted. It will give the investors a chance to view what you have to offer.”

He wanted the shipping contracts. “This could be a boon for Blackthorn. I need this.”

“Have I told you my eldest daughter will be traveling with us?”

Ah
, Camden thought.
The crux of this conversation emerges.
Sir Jacob's wife had passed some years ago, leaving him with two pretty daughters, the oldest of marriageable age.

“Catherine is twenty and beautiful,” her father said. “She still has all her teeth and she comes with a plump dowry. She would make a suitable Carrick countess.”

“Jaysus, Jacob, you sound like an old horse trader.”

The smile Westmont offered was faintly rueful. “Have pity on me. I will spend my afterlife in purgatory if I do not find suitable husbands for my daughters. Do you know there is a shortage of decent candidates in all Britain? Think of it. Their dowries are the land my family owns. Not many appreciate the value of good Scottish earth.”

Camden knew that Westmont wanted a match between his eldest and a Carrick lord. The marriage made sense, as it would bring a large chunk of pastureland into the Carrick fold, something the estate needed if it was to remain economically viable into the new century. It was the reason why Camden had decided to go to Glasgow next month.

It was not that Camden disliked outright the opportunity for another sort of alliance. Westmont's daughter was petite and unassuming. Eager to please because it was expected of her.

Yet, strangely, her biddable nature held no interest for him. She might have possessed the necessary background required to make an admirable Carrick bride, but Camden found marrying merely to produce an heir distasteful. Perhaps because he still held to the old-fashioned notion of fidelity and honoring thy vows—honoring vows was what he did best, after all—he could not see himself spending his life with her.

But a part of him knew that he needed to either break free of the invisible chains drowning him or go down with the proverbial ship and accept his life as it was and live within the strictures and duties required of him. Except he had already tried that route and failed.

Perhaps that was why something inside him responded to Christel. She stood outside the circle of society. Even as a young girl, she had been independent and possessed an ability to poke her thumb in the eye of society. Of course, one is freest when no one holds expectations of you. He wondered what life would have been like living if he'd been
that
free.

“There are more laudable gentlemen than I,” Camden said, “who can appreciate what you are offering. But I am not ready.”

“You are not in a position to sit idly by and leave Blackthorn without an heir. Unless you count Leighton in that category. Saundra has been dead over a year, Carrick—”

“Christ
, man. If you value the tenuous ground on which you stan—”

A rap on the door mercifully halted their conversation. Camden's butler entered, appearing harried. Behind him, Lady Harriet, Christel's spry grandmother, appeared.

“My lord, Lady Harriet requests an audience—”

“He knows who I am, Smolich,” Lady Harriet said, edging the butler aside with her lethal cane. “You may dispense with formalities. We are all family here.”

Smolich puffed his chest, looking much like an angry penguin, dressed as he was in formal black with a pristine white shirt beneath his jacket. “I asked that she await you in the drawing room, my lord. She refused.”

“The drawing room is much too drafty to await your convenience, Carrick. I would die of lung fever 'ere you ever found the time to grace me with your presence.”

Camden nodded to the butler. “You may go, Smolich. We are well armed enough in here to protect ourselves if the need should arise.”

“Indeed, Carrick!” Lady Harriet snapped, glaring at the butler. “Do not encourage the man's impertinence.”

With a smug glare at Lady Harriet, the butler turned squarely and strode from the salon, leaving the door open behind him.

Lady Harriet opened her mouth to speak. The sound of water being poured into a cup interrupted her, and her gaze homed in on Sir Jacob standing casually at the table. “ 'Taint the done thing to eavesdrop on a private conversation, Jacob. Shame on you.”

“Aye, my lady,” he deferred with a bow of his head. “I was thinking the very same thing.”

Camden gave Westmont a brief nod. “We can conclude our business later.”

Camden followed Westmont to the door, shutting it behind the provost. Putting Jacob's conversation to the back of his mind for now, Camden leaned against his palms as he considered his grandmother's longtime friend, and Christel and Tianna's grandmother.

Even leaning on a cane, Lady Harriet was a formidable woman, with a shock of henna-dyed hair and diamond-hard eyes that seemed their sharpest only when she looked at him. She wore black bombazine, a monument to her widowhood, as if she thought anyone around her could forget the undying love she bore her husband. More often than not, Camden suspected it was she who needed the reminder. As if moving on with her life was akin to a sin, and that moving forward meant forgetting the past. He could have told her that assertion was wrong.

He walked to the table and took up a cup and the water pitcher, wishing he'd had something stronger to pour. “Lady Harriet,” he said, lifting his cup in salute to her, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?”

“You are an impertinent one, Carrick. I just had tea with your grandmother, and she said that you asked Christel to be Anna's tutor. Why is she not here, then?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have no control over your granddaughter, my lady.”

“She would rather live at that cottage alone in a state of destitution rather than live here or at Rosecliffe?”

He studied the clear liquid in his cup before taking a draft. “She is not alone. When Heather and Blue McTavish are not there, she has a dog with her. A vicious dog with snarling yellow teeth. He is protective of her.
I
cannot even go near her without fearing for my life.”

Lady Harriet eyed him over her powdered nose. “Because he does not like you only makes him smart.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” he said, “which is why I did not throw the mutt overboard the first time he curled his lip at me.”

Obviously studying him, Lady Harriet laid both her gloved hands over the polished wooden hook of her cane and held it tightly, despite the fact that one hand was bent and gnarled with rheumatism. “Surely, there is something that can be done for her,” she prodded.

“What is it you expect me to do? I cannot help her if she does not ask, and she will not take charity. If you know her at all, you would know that she would hate me and you for it.”

Lady Harriet's mouth tightened, the first hint of real emotion he had glimpsed in her. “We have not got along for some time now, Carrick,” she said. “ 'Tis not easy to undo what has been said between us. You have not even attended church since Saundra died.”

“I am not seeking any absolution, my lady,” he said without inflection. “I found my closure months ago.”

“Pah! Emotions are not candles that can be snuffed out at one's convenience. She is the mother of your child. Do not tell me she did not break your heart. Or that you did not break hers.”

“I doubt you have come in here to lecture me about my heart or lack of soul. I get that from my own grandmother.”

Anna's voice sounded from the hallway just before the door flung open. “Grams! You have finally come to see me!”

A winded Mrs. Gables appeared behind Anna. Holding a hand to her ribs, she leaned against the door frame, red-faced and huffing from exertion. “My apologies, my lord,” she gasped. “Lady Harriet. The child heard you were here and escaped the nursery.”

Lady Harriet held out her cane to stop Anna from flinging herself forward. “Let me see you. Goodness. I thought you would still be abed.”

Anna held out her pink dress as she demurely curtseyed. “Good afternoon, Grams. I am much better.”

Lady Harriet's gaze took in the bare feet. “Running about barefoot. I should have known. And after your accident, too. Where are your shoes?”

“Papa said if I do not wish to wear shoes, then I do not have to. Is that not correct, Papa?”

“Truly, Carrick. 'Tis not the done thing for a growing girl, running about like a hoyden.”

Anna flung herself against Lady Harriet. “I know, Grams. But I wanted to see you. I
had
to see you. It has been ever so many days. Did you bring my surprise?”

Lady Harriet's arms went around Anna. “Dear me. Of course.” Withdrawing a tin from a pocket within her skirts, she smiled. “I brought your favorite gumdrops.”

“Has she eaten her supper?” Camden asked Mrs. Gables.

“Cook served brisket, Papa. I dislike brisket. Mrs. Gables said I was to eat it anyway so as not to hurt cook's feelings. But I did not want to.”

“I will see what cook can do about the matter,” Lady Harriet said before Camden could respond. “But first we will return to your rooms for your shoes. You are like ice.”

Camden let them leave together before turning his attention to Mrs. Gables in the doorway. “Last week she wanted nothing but brisket,” the nurse said in apology. “Cook made brisket.”

“If she does not want to eat brisket, I see no reason to force the issue. Have cook make what she wants.”

“In my experience when giving in to children's demands—”