Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  He drew back, bones locking, muscles clenching, as a measure of sanity entered his mind. “You’ve got to go back,” he told her, and the words sounded as harsh as they felt. But she didn’t move, and he felt the rampant beating of her heart, the ragged draw of her breath.

  She touched his face. “The mask,” she whispered. “Please…you are not a beast to me.”

  He was lost, and he knew it. Chivalry was gone, and consequence meant nothing. He ripped the mask from his face, tossing it heedlessly to the floor. He kissed her again, and the true drowning began.

  Her fingers moved tenderly over his face, seeking what she couldn’t see. They were a caress over the length of the scar, a whisper of movement, and then they were tangled in his hair, drawing him to her.

  He kissed her lips, her throat, the valley of her breasts. Tenderness fell to a growing passion as his hands caressed, his mouth and tongue teased. Urgency was like an explosive in his head, yet he forced the anguish, alive in the seeking, his kisses still reigning above the fabric, following the length of her, liquid fires touching against her abdomen, trailing to her hips, down to her thighs. She began to writhe, her touch light upon his hair, his shoulders. Then she began to move. Arching, sounds slipped from her lips, urging him on as the pounding of his heart pulsed through him like a wicked drumbeat.

  His fingers moved to the hem of her gown, slipped beneath it and found naked flesh. He teased and sought and plundered. She tore at his shoulders, and her hands slipped beneath the open robe he’d worn until it was tangled around them like the gossamer sheet of her gown. He needed to touch her with all of his length, to press his lips, teeth and tongue to the softness of her bare skin and beyond. A cacophony clamored in his blood, as he brushed thighs and hips and abdomen anew, teasing in circles around the very crux of her sex, then delving a breath into the heart of her need and desire and giving free reign. She arched in a fierce motion, whispers tumbling from her lips. The hunger in him had grown to a deafening chorus, and when he heard the soft cry that tore from her lips, he rose above her at last, desperately leashing the fierceness of his hunger, parting her thighs, sinking into her….

  He knew, in that distant corner of his mind, that there were seconds when he might have withdrawn, ordered her away. But then she touched him in the darkness, played her fingers over his face again, threaded them into his hair and drew him back to her, hungrily reaching for his kiss. They had both lost all reason. He drew her limbs about him.

  As she began to move, the thunder of his blood beat to a frenzy and filled his limbs, drove his muscles, rippled through his flesh. Her fingers dug into his back with a startling strength and her lips found his again and again. Then the explosion of his climax tore through him with a vengeance, ripping through blood, flesh and muscle, tearing through the heart and mind. He gripped her to him, falling to her side, arms cradling her against him as tremors shook them both, as the fires fell to ash and the rasp of breath slowly eased.

  She was silent, head against his chest, and though sanity made a brutal return, she didn’t pull away from him. He marveled anew at the scent and feel of her, and the way she remained against him.

  “Sweet Jesu, Camille,” he said then, smoothing the wild tangle of her hair. “God, I am sorry. Not sorry, exactly, what man could be? But—”

  “Don’t talk!” she begged.

  “I’ve worked hard to gain a reputation as a beast, but it’s not my desire to—”

  She came against him violently, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk!” she repeated.

  “Camille, I’m the Earl of Carlyle, and I don’t make a habit of—”

  “I have always made my own choices!” she said fiercely.

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Please, stop.”

  “If you were afraid—”

  “Good God, it had nothing to do with fear. I made this choice! I am neither inebriated nor a fool,” she told him.

  He thought that she was close to tears now…when it was over. And it wasn’t what he had done, it was what he was saying.

  Baffled, yet unable to really rue his actions, he said softly, “Shh!” He reached out, cradling her to him again. “You are truly unique,” he whispered, and knew that his words were true. She had done far more than invade his senses. Then he added, “I will always see that you are cared for.”

  Ah, he was wrong again. She bolted up against him, chin high. And in the dim light, she was more exotically beautiful than ever, for the shadows accented the length of her throat, the slim line of her torso and the fullness of her breasts, splayed with the wild tangle of the curls and waves of her long rich hair.

  “I will never need be taken care of!” she assured him. “I can take care of myself!”

  “Camille…!” He was tempted to laugh—she was such a bristling little beauty—but he knew that would drive her away from him completely. He managed no more than a smile in the darkness and reached out for her once again, drawing her down to him despite the fierce protest she began. “We all need to be taken care of, now and then,” he told her tenderly, and when she would have protested, he kissed her again. She strained against him for only a moment, and then all the wonders of discovery seemed to burst upon them again.

  Yet she drew away, murmuring, “I should return to my own room.”

  “No,” he told her. “Lass, the damage is done.”

  Again, he had uttered the wrong words. “Damage! I am not damaged!”

  He pulled her back. “No. You are perfection,” he whispered, and he knew that her protests and anger had not been for him but for herself. And he knew that she had truly chosen to be with him, despite logic, reason—and her own birth.

  And he was humbled.

  “You are sheer perfection,” he told her again, and began slowly, with the utmost tenderness, to make love to her, striving to seduce and cherish. Sensual, exquisite, she gave as sweetly as she received. Perhaps she had been right all along. They shouldn’t talk. For when they came together, the natural beauty of being a man and a woman in one another’s arms seemed to demand no explanation.

  Later, as she lay against him, nestled, he whispered again, “You are truly perfection, Camille.”

  She whispered back, “And you, My Lord, are no beast.”

  In the morning, as faint whispers of light began to ease the darkness of the room, he rose carefully and found his mask.

  The night was gone, and day could be far too brutal.

  CAMILLE MADE HER OWN CHOICES, but that didn t mean she didn’t make mistakes. Yet, when she awoke, the memory of the night still vibrantly clear, she knew that she had done what she wanted. And she understood her mother as she never had before.

  The first emotion she had ever felt for Brian Stirling had been anger. But in seconds, she had been awakened and aroused. He was like no man she had ever met. And ever since, he had created more turmoil within her, whether he evoked tenderness or fury. The brush of his fingers had elicited a fire in her flesh, while the sound of his voice had entered into her mind. And finally, the tempest he created had made its way into her heart. All the sound logic and wisdom she had embraced for a lifetime had deserted her, and she had begun to fall in love with the man.

  Even as she lay in the light, she tried to deny the possibility of such an emotion. Yet she was certain that nothing less would have allowed her to throw such caution to the wind. She had brought about what had happened. She had wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She had wanted him. And now…Dear God, she was her mother’s child.

  Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes for the woman who had loved her so dearly and with such devotion until the harsh realities of life had swept away dreams, health and, finally, her last grip upon life itself.

  Tristan had then been there for Camille. But if she were to have one, who would be there for her child?

  She rose swiftly, finding her nightgown and fleeing back behind the picture. In this room, the great portrait was of Ram
eses II, and she had to grip it by the right side to force the hidden door to give.

  She was shaking when she bathed, at war with herself, trying to convince herself that one night’s abandonment to the heart and senses did not necessarily create a new life.

  In the mirror above the sink, her face was ashen and grave. Yet, she had made her choice. She would not take that night back, whatever the future might hold. It would be a long day, and a very long evening. She would have to face him again, the man with whom she had fallen in love, whom she knew too well and didn’t know at all.

  Just then she remembered one thing. He had taken off his mask…for her. Though the light had been dim, she knew that he had been living a lie. He wasn’t a beast at all.

  “HERE IT IS!” Evelyn said. “There’s a small mention of the shooting of a criminal, page seven of the Daily Telegraph. The staff journalist seems to be taking a few liberties with his reporting!” She looked across the table at Brian. Only then did her words register in his mind, he was feeling so distracted that morning. “Brian!” she said firmly, demanding his attention. “I found mention of the dead man in the paper!”

  “Sorry. Let me see it, please.” He took the paper from her, found the small column and read aloud. “Violent death in Whitechapel. Thief is shot down in square. No witnesses found.”

  The notation went on to say that the detective in charge was certain the man had been shot by a fellow miscreant. The reporter’s words implied that those who lived by such means died by such means. At least the writer had changed the old quote a bit.

  He should return to the pub, he thought, but he was loath to do so. If he ever needed to be at the museum, it was today. Had there really been someone in the storage area, following Camille? Were they trying to frighten her? Or worse?

  Good God, Camille had thought that it was Evelyn. And Evelyn, it seemed, thought that Camille was losing her mind, or up to something that she shouldn’t be. He had been the suspicious one at first. But now he knew that Camille was as honorable and honest as it was possible to be.

  A niggling thought gave him pause. Did he know it? Or was he now so entranced by the woman that he was falling into place, exactly as planned? He forced the thought from his mind.

  He had lived in suspicion for so long that he didn’t know how to trust in anyone. But he was suddenly frightened as he had never been before, afraid of what he had done. Afraid for her.

  He didn’t dare risk following up on the events at the pub, or searching out more information on the dead man. He would have to tell Tristan and Ralph that they weren’t to go snooping that afternoon; he didn’t dare risk their lives, either. He had to be at the museum.

  He rose abruptly. “Evelyn, ask Shelby to see to it that Miss Montgomery leaves the museum by four at the absolute latest. We have to be dressed and back by eight-thirty.”

  “Brian, what are you—” Evelyn began, but he was already treading quickly, wanting to be at the museum before Camille arrived.

  A new sense of urgency had seized him. Before, his efforts hadn’t taken him anywhere. But then she had come into his life.

  THAT DAY, THANKFULLY, was so busy that Camille had little time to think. Exhibits were being moved, caterers arrived to set up in the Egyptian hall and guards prowled everywhere. Whereas no one had been around yesterday, today, everyone was in attendance. Even Lord Wimbly was working, eager that the seating for the evening be arranged perfectly, which meant that those who would supply the best donations to future expeditions and the upkeep of the museum itself had to be in prime positions.

  Aubrey was directing most of the painstaking menial labor, barking at the poor old fellow who seemed big enough to manage what was needed, but who was so stooped and gray, it seemed a crime to work him so hard. Aubrey’s temperament was not the best, and he only showed signs of tolerance when Lord Wimbly was about.

  At one point, there was a major argument over the cobra.

  “It’s got to be out of sight for the evening,” Sir John insisted.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, John!” Lord Wimbly protested. “We’re leaving up the display on Cleopatra. Her legend is part of what so intrigues people regarding Egypt. The terrarium is perfectly safe!”

  “The snake needs to go,” Sir John insisted.

  “I believe that I am the man to make that decision,” Lord Wimbly said.

  “Lord Stirling will be in attendance this evening.”

  Everyone, it seemed, stopped and stared at Camille, who, at that point, had been rescuing an ancient canopic jar.

  Sir John turned back to Lord Wimbly. “Does he need such a reminder of the past?” he inquired quietly.

  Lord Wimbly looked at Aubrey. “All right. The cobra should be moved into the offices,” he said brusquely, determined not to let it appear to anyone that he was not the man directing all their efforts.

  “The cobra must be moved!” Aubrey muttered, then gritted his teeth, as if remembering that Lord Wimbly could end his employment at will. “There’s been a lot left to the last minute, but I’ll get to it.”

  “I can move the terrarium,” Alex said. “Old Arboc can give me a hand.”

  Outside help had been brought in for the day, but those in the department were determined to deal with their precious artifacts themselves. At one point, Camille was sent to the office to find a roster on Sir John’s desk; she was startled to find him there, his hands folded prayer fashion below his chin, his eyes appearing distant.

  “Sir John?” she asked quietly. “Are you all right?”

  He started. “Ah, Camille.”

  She was surprised by the assessing look he gave. He saw her on a daily basis, but it was as if he expected to see something new in her.

  “Dear Camille. Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine.”

  “You seem very worried.”

  “Do I? I guess that I keep reliving the past, now that Lord Stirling has entered our lives again.”

  “Are you starting to think that…”

  “That someone might have murdered his parents?” He shook his head. “No…no. It’s just too heinous a thought. Why in God’s name would anyone have wanted to harm the Stirlings? They did nothing but give to the museum.”

  “Right. They gave to the museum,” Camille murmured.

  “What do you mean?” Sir John asked sharply.

  “Some of the artifacts found are priceless. Priceless objects are tempting to thieves. Some thieves would murder for gain.”

  “Artifacts are catalogued, Camille. No one can just make them disappear.”

  “They haven’t been catalogued if they haven’t actually been found within the boxes shipped here from Egypt.”

  “My dear, why kill someone for something that hasn’t even been discovered?”

  “Because it’s known to be somewhere.” She hesitated. “Sir John, I found a reference to a piece I haven’t seen listed anywhere. A golden cobra. And I think that it was studded with precious jewels. Sir, just a piece, even taken apart, would be worth…well, it would be priceless.”

  He shook his head. “There is no golden cobra.”

  “I believe there was.”

  They were interrupted when Hunter came striding into the room. “Camille, what’s taking you so long? Lord Wimbly is becoming a bear out there, and you don’t want to get on the old fellow’s bad side, do you? Or…do you not care anymore?” he asked.

  He sounded bitter and hurt as he looked at her, but she was still tempted to slap him. He and Alex were both behaving as if their friendship allowed them such affronts.

  “Hunter!” Sir John said, appalled for her.

  “Sorry, Camille,” Hunter said, but he didn’t mean it. “She is abiding at the beast’s castle!” he reminded Sir John.

  “Take the list. Bring it in to Lord Wimbly.” He rose, shoving the list at Hunter, who could only scowl as he left them.

  “I believe he was really quite enraptured with you, my dear,” Sir John murmured. “Come!”

  “Come?�
� she said. “Where? Sir John, we need to be in the hall—”

  “To the storeroom.”

  “Sir John, I took your keys and looked in the storeroom, reading the contents of all the cartons yesterday.”

  He frowned. “You took my keys?”

  “I’m sorry. You had left them, and I had found the reference….”

  He started out, his keys in his hand. She followed, certain that they would be stopped when they went through the hall. But they didn’t go through the hall. She found out then that there was indeed another way down to the storerooms as Sir John led her past a few doors and through a maintenance room. She was lost for a moment as they traveled the back halls, but then they descended a staircase and arrived at the door.

  “Sir John,” she said quickly, breathlessly. “Someone followed me down here yesterday. The lights went out while I was in here. Whether you want to believe it or not, something is definitely going on that isn’t right at all.”

  He glared at her, pushing the door open. She followed him in. He was like a man obsessed suddenly, going from carton to carton. He thrashed carelessly through packing, shaking his head all the while. “I would know!” he said.

  Once again, Camille was startled by a noise. The old fellow, Arboc, came around one of the great shipping cartons, clearing his throat as if he had just arrived. “They be want-in’ ye up the stairs, Sir John,” he said.

  Sir John seemed to regain some sense of sanity. “Yes, of course! Let’s go, Camille. Tomorrow…we’re open tomorrow. Yes, I’ll come in then.”

  As if barely aware that Camille had followed him there, he headed for the door. The old man shuffled before them. They returned upstairs, where things now seemed to be coming to a place of order. Lord Wimbly had left, needing to take time with his personal barber and valet before the event began.