Honey Pot

by Mira Stables

Out it all came. How the idea had come to him when she had tended him so devotedly in his genuine weakness. How, in truth, he had not greatly cared whether he lived or died—which won him a disapproving frown—and how he had deliberately gone without food to hinder his recovery. He had at least the grace to look shamefaced when he came to the carefully staged scene in which he had announced the provisions of his will.

  He studied her expression anxiously. She looked startled—shocked—but not wholly disgusted. A little encouraged he went on more confidently, “It worked, too, though I certainly didn’t expect you to fly into such a tantrum. And though I am ashamed of myself now, I cannot be wholly sorry that I did it, nor promise that I would not behave just as badly again if a similar need arose. I did not know that I could sink to such depths of duplicity. But neither did I know that I could need anyone as badly as I needed you to complete my life. Do you think that you can find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  She tried very hard to look suitably severe, a difficult task with happiness running riot in her veins. “It was a dreadful thing to do,” she told him sternly. And then, swiftly, “And you must never, never, tell anyone else. Poor Phoebe! Imagine her distress if you confessed to such a trick. As for me—I have no choice, have I? For better, for worse, you recall. And to speak truth,” she smiled up at him, “I’m very glad you did it. We should not else be married, should we? And think what a shocking waste of time that would mean.” And Mrs Cameron looked demurely up at her husband in a most inviting way.

  “That, my girl,” he told her, “is downright provocation. If it were not for your looking so wan and sickly as you have done this week past, I might take you up on it. And what, may I enquire, is the reason for your sickly looks? Never tell me you were pining away from love of me?”

  “I should tell you no such thing, even if it were true,” she said indignantly. “You are quite sufficiently conceited as it is.” But her eyes told a different tale and she went on slowly, “I suppose I had better confess that you are not the only one with a guilty secret. Though mine is perfectly respectable. And like yours it has a happy ending.” And she told him of Jai’s illness and of how she and Heaton had nursed her back to convalescence.

  As the tale progressed he gathered her back into his arms, punctuating her words with light kisses on hair and brow and cheek, revelling in the sense of possession but his eyes very tender. “Perfectly respectable, indeed,” he agreed quietly. “But no more secrets, love, however respectable, and no more playing tricks with your health. You are much too precious.”

  “Well! Of all the infamous things to say! You to talk of playing tricks with one’s health!”

  Since this reproach was perfectly legitimate Mr Cameron could think of only one way of silencing it. This method he adopted with enthusiasm. No more was heard from his wife for quite some time, and when she did speak it was on a different head.

  “You didn’t mean those horrid things you said about leaving me behind when you went to Scotland?”

  He grinned. “First you must be carefully nursed and restored to your usual good health,” he told her solemnly. “Milk possets and early bed times. Especially early bed times,” he added thoughtfully, so that she blushed. “Then we shall see about taking you to Scotland. There’s no great haste. We shall have time for a honeymoon before Joanna’s wedding.”

  “And shall I like that?” she enquired with innocent interest.

  “You must try to do so,” said her much teased spouse solemnly. “It will be difficult for you, I am aware. You will be obliged to put up with a great deal of my society and to accept at frequent intervals such tokens of my esteem as I bestowed upon you just now. However, in view of the fortitude with which you accepted those same tokens I by no means despair of a happy outcome. You may even find yourself actually deriving some small enjoyment from the exercise. I have heard that this is perfectly possible if one is sufficiently practised in the art.”

  She was staring at him in amazement. He had always been so serious, so restrained, his humour dry rather than playful. She had not dreamed him capable of such nonsensical speech. But her heart rejoiced at the realisation that the future would be seasoned with laughter and teasing.

  He went on, in the same pontifical vein, “Practice, of course, must be commenced during the early days of the honeymoon and repeated as often as may be convenient. And the present time and place,” he reverted suddenly to his normal manner, “seem to me to be excessively convenient. So come here, Mrs Cameron and let us endeavour.”

  And Mrs Cameron, that meekly obedient wife, shaking with laughter, obligingly did as she was bid.

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