by Cara Elliott
For a moment, he found himself thinking back to a time when they had shared their laughter, their hopes, their dreams, their kisses…their hearts.
Or maybe I am just flattering myself to think that her heart was ever mine.
They had been young. Too young—she had been sixteen and he had been just a year older—and he had been far too naïve. At that age, he had foolishly believed that love could conquer all…
A raucous laugh rang out from the nearby shadows, snapping him back to the present. There was still time to slink away. He was good at leaving no telltale tracks, no sign that he was anything more than a black-on-black shape flitting through the darkness.
Uncertainty warred within him, making him feel weak, vulnerable. The fleeting reminder of his former self was uncomfortable—he wasn’t much given to introspection. He had toiled damnably hard to live only in the present, trusting in only his own cleverness and his own mordant sense of humor for survival.
“And that won’t change,” he vowed softly. “It’s only a momentary meeting.” Two ships on two vastly different courses, passing briefly in the night.
Sophie’s group paused at the entrance to the Dark Walk, an unlit pathway notorious as a trysting place for illicit lovers. After a short discussion, Edward gave in to Georgiana’s pleas to venture just a few steps into its inky shadows. He offered her his arm and extended the other to Sophie, who edged back and insisted that her aunt take precedence.
“I’m not nearly as curious as Georgie. I’ve no need to venture into the unknown,” she announced. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Hermione hesitated. “All alone?”
“Good heavens, it’s nearly bright as day, and there are plenty of people close by.” Sophie shooed them away. “I’m perfectly safe.”
A breeze from the river shimmied through the overhanging leaves, and the low rustling seemed to spark the red-gold flames to swaying in a slow, sinuous dance.
Twining her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, Sophie moved closer to the bushes, as if entranced by the shimmering patterns of light cast by the fire.
“That, my dear,” intoned Cameron through his teeth, “is exactly the wrong thing to say when a predator is lurking nearby, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.”
“Ssssssss.”
Surely it was only her over-stimulated imagination that was turning the whisper of the wind into the flutter of her name. Sophie stepped back but then froze as it came again, this time a little louder.
“Sssssssophie.”
She peered left and right along the line of bushes. “Who’s there?”
No answer, save for a faint chattering among the long-leaved rhododendrons.
“Be you demon or djinn, I refuse to be played for a fool.” Drawing a deep breath, Sophie parted the greenery and pushed deeper into the thicket, determined to find the teasing, taunting voice. Perhaps it was the wine fueling her recklessness, but she was suddenly sick of being cautious, sick of being timid.
A hand gloved in black leather caught her wrist. “Brave girl.”
Somehow she managed to swallow a scream.
“Brave,” repeated the voice, “but foolish, despite your assertions to the contrary. I could be a mad murderer.” His long, lithe limbs unfolding in a whisper of expensive wool, the Pirate—yes, it was her Pirate—rose from a crouch. “Or worse.”
Sophie’s first flare of fear died away as she recognized him—his touch, his scent, and something she couldn’t quite put a name to. “What could be worse than death?” she asked, trying to match his note of cool cynicism.
“Ah, well, there are some who value their virtue above all things,” he answered.
A lick of fire—or was it ice?—teased down her spine. “Is my virtue in mortal danger?”
His deep-throated chuckle stirred the leaves. “That depends.”
“Are your answers always so cryptic?” she countered.
“I thought it was quite obvious what I meant. You were supposed to ask ‘On what?’”
“Very well.” She drew in another steadying breath. “On what?”
“On a number of things.”
“Oh, fie! You are mocking me, sir, and I don’t find it amusing.” Sophie tried to pull away, but his grip kept her captured. “Let me go, you…you cutthroat pirate.”
Releasing her wrist, he swept off his hat and inclined an ironic bow. “I prefer ‘corsair.’ It has a more elegant ring, don’t you think?” The breeze ruffled his long hair and as he straightened, a few silky strands tangled around the gold ornament dangling from his earlobe.
It was, she saw, a tiny sword.
“And by the by,” he added. “Allow me to point out that your lovely neck is quite unharmed.”
Her freed hand flew to her throat, and once again he laughed.
She narrowed her eyes as a flicker of the faraway torchiere passed over his face, confirming her first impression of unremitting black. Hair, mask, coat—even his upswept shirtpoints were made of midnight silk. However, the wink of light also caught a spot of color.
Bond Street—the flash of pink beneath a gentleman’s dark coat.
“You,” she said tightly, pointing at his carelessly knotted cravat. “You have been following me, and I demand to know why.”
“Have I?” He took a half-step closer and suddenly the chill night air felt very warm. “Who knows, perhaps you have a legion of devoted swains dogging your steps.”
“D-don’t be absurd,” stammered Sophie. “I’m a nobody. A simple country spinster with no connections, no money, and no beauty. I’m hardly the sort of woman to attract any attention.”
“And yet I know your name, and all about your background, Miss Sophie Lawrance of Terrington, a small town on the Norfolk coast.”
She swallowed hard.
“Does that frighten you?”
No, it intrigues me, though I can’t explain why.
The Pirate seemed to take her silence as an invitation to come even closer. “No,” he murmured, “I’ve noticed that for all your quiet ways, you don’t frighten easily.” His hands set on her shoulders and slowly drew inwards, until his thumbs were lightly touching the hollow of her throat.
Sophie felt her pulse skitter and kick up a notch. Her flesh began to throb against the butter-soft leather. “I could scream,” she whispered.
“True. But I don’t think you will.” His mocking mouth was now but a hairsbreadth from hers. “I think you’re hoping I’ll kiss you again.”
“Th-that’s absurd.”
“Why else wander down the Dark Walk, if not to indulge in your wildest desires?”
“I…” Sophie couldn’t bring herself to go on. Lies and longings—both were sinfully wrong.
The Pirate seemed to read her thoughts. “Confused? Life rarely offers black-and-white answers, Sophie. It’s mostly a muddle of shapeless grays. Only you can decide what form you want them to take.”
“Why are you following me?” she asked again.
“Call it curiosity. It’s clear you are involved in some very dangerous dealings, and as someone who is intimately acquainted with skullduggery, I can’t help but wonder why. Lord Dudley is not a good choice of friends.”
“Good God, he is not a friend,” she croaked.
His hands moved up to frame her face. “Perhaps you need one.”
Need. Her whole body was suddenly all aquiver. “Oh, I wish…I wish—”
A kiss feathered over her lips, lightly at first, but the sweet friction sparked a fierce flare of heat inside her. All sense—all sanity—seemed to go up in smoke.
Moaning against his mouth, Sophie clutched at his strong, sloping shoulders and let her body melt against his. Beneath the finespun layers of cloth, she could feel the chiseled contours of his muscles.
A rumbled laugh turned to a feral groan in the Pirate’s throat as their tongues touched and twined. Through the slitted eyeholes of his mask she saw a flash of green-gold fire.
Dear God. Dear
God. She felt herself drowning in the swirling depths. Desperately in need of something solid to cling to, she hitched her hips, forcing his legs apart. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him down, down.
Without breaking their kiss, the Pirate spun her around, and suddenly his warm weight had her pinned against the trunk of a tree. Liquid heat spiraled to her core as the hard ridge of his arousal thrust against her belly.
Oh, this is wicked, thought Sophie, even as she opened herself to his lush embrace. Wicked. How to explain the heady sweetness of his mouth, the mad surrender to primal lust? It must be a potent Pirate spell, a Corsair’s concoction made of fire-kissed rum and demon desires.
The real Sophie Lawrance would never give in to temptation…
So I must be somebody else.
“Sophie…Sunbeam.” The words were barely more than a sigh, yet they hit her with all the force of a physical slap. Only one person in the world had ever called her by such a pet name. A boy on the brink of manhood, bristling with uncontrollable passions.
Dear God, it couldn’t be…Her head began to reel and her throat was suddenly dry as dust. She stared in mute shock for a long, dizzying moment before managing to make a sound.
“Cameron?”
“Ah, at last you’ve puzzled it out. I was beginning to think you had quite forgotten I ever existed.”
“N-never,” whispered Sophie.
He leaned back and regarded her in solemn silence.
Reaching up, she slowly untied the mask and let it fall away.
“Never say never.” Cameron paused. “The truth is, the person you knew has changed beyond recognition.”
“Never,” she repeated. “I never forgot you. Even though we parted with harsh words that long-ago night. Even though you disappeared with nary a word of good-bye.”
“I was angry, Sophie.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I know. I hurt you.” And you hurt me.
He turned, and in the dappling of moonlight his sculptured features appeared cold and unyielding as polished marble.
Sophie pressed a palm to his cheek, needing to feel his warmth again. “I’m sorry.”
His mouth quirked to a sardonic smile. “Don’t be. It was all for the best. The blaze of youthful passion burned too hot. We would have destroyed each other.”
As if echoing his words, a deep bang reverberated through the trees and a rocket shot skyward, painting the black velvet heavens with a luminous burst of color.
The sound reminded her that she dare not tarry here any longer. “Oh, Lord, I must be going.” Sophie began tugging her disheveled clothing into place. “My uncle and aunt will be frantic with worry.”
“Wait.” Cameron took a small chamois pouch from his pocket. “You asked why I was following you—the reason is this.” He unknotted the strings. “Give me your hand.”
She hesitated and then did as he asked. “Cam—” Her breath caught in her throat as he gave a small shake and her heirloom pearl earrings dropped onto her palm.
Bang. The sky filled with a shower of brilliant green sparks. Feeling dazed, Sophie carefully closed her fingers around the jewels. A myriad of questions were exploding in her head.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Go now, before they send out a search party.” He stepped back and turned up his collar.
“Please, you can’t simply disappear!” she cried. “I must see you again. There are too many unanswered questions.”
A tiny muscle twitched on his jaw. “Very well. Meet me in Green Park tomorrow afternoon.” He described the location. “At three.”
She looked down at her fisted hand. “At three,” she repeated. But when she looked up he was already gone.
“Oh, Cameron,” she whispered, blinking back tears as she stared at the shifting shadows. Another bang rent the air, finally rousing her to action. Carefully tucking her treasure away, she pushed her way through the tangled branches and stumbled back to the main pathway.
“My dear Sophie! Thank God you are safe!” cried Edward. “We were so worried!”
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I wandered off the path, and lost my way.”
Hermione clucked in sympathy. “It’s my fault. I should have warned you that the maze of twisting pathways can be confusing. Many people become disoriented.”
“No harm done,” murmured Sophie, evading Georgiana’s gimlet gaze. “Come, let us forget the matter, and not let it spoil our enjoyment of the fireworks.”
“This way,” said her uncle, offering his arm. “We shall have a better view from the South Promenade.”
Bang, bang, bang. Sophie wasn’t sure whether the thumping noise was the pyrotechnics overhead or her own pounding heart. Pasting on a dutiful smile, she looked up at the heavens and added her voice to the chorus of oohs and ahhs. But in truth, all she saw was the image etched in her mind’s eye. A lean, chiseled face. Harder, the features far more defined than she remembered. Cameron had left Terrington a rebellious adolescent.
And now?
There were so many questions. If only some answers would start coming to light. Beginning with how Cameron had come to have possession of her pearls.
More unsettled by the encounter with Sophie than he cared to admit, Cameron made his way to The Wolf’s Lair, rather than return to his own solitary abode. Sara’s friendly chatter—not to speak of her aged brandy—would be a welcome balm for the spirit.
In truth, he was badly in need of a drink.
Her company was undemanding, her private office a refuge, a place where his nerves could unwind. Quickening his steps he traversed the murky alleyway and slipped in through the back entrance.
“Well, well, well, we were wondering if you would turn up.”
Cameron froze for an instant on hearing the Earl of Killingworth’s low rumble, then casually tossed his hat on the sideboard. “What are you doing back in Town, Connor?” he asked. “Don’t tell me that you are bored with life as a goat farmer. With a partner like Lady K, I’d have thought that pastoral pleasures would not lose their allure.”
His friend—who was the former owner of the Lair—let out a bark of laughter. “Indeed not. I am quite content with my wife and my wool on the hoof, but one must occasionally attend to business in the city.”
“Lady K’s weaving business is going great guns,” piped up a second voice from the shadows. A spark of flint and steel lit the lamp on the curio cabinet, illuminating the Marquess of Haddan’s face.
Connor and Gryff? Hell and damnation. Cameron gave an inward wince. He was in no mood for meeting the two other Hellhounds. They, of all people, were the ones most likely to sense his fragile state of mind.
And they, of all people, were the ones he did not wish to see him so stripped of his defenses. So vulnerable.
“The ton is snapping up their woven Kashmir shawls faster than she and Connor can produce them,” went on Gryff. Alexa Hendrie, a very clever young lady, had proved to be the perfect mate for the Irish Wolfhound, and together they were thriving in both love and business. “So he needs to purchase more looms.” A cough. “As well as a few sundries to update the nursery at Linsley Close.”
“Congratulations, Connor,” muttered Cameron, pouring himself a large brandy. “And what, pray tell, brings you to Town?” he snapped at Gryff. “Last thing I heard, you were happily digging in the dirt of your country estate.” Gryff was an expert on landscape design, and had just begun putting theory into practice at his ancestral estate.
“The gardens are blooming beautifully,” said Gryff with a satisfied smile. He, too, had recently taken a bride. “However, our publisher needed me to check over a few last minute corrections on my essays before the book goes to press.” His new wife Eliza was a remarkably talented botanical artist and together they had created a beautiful compendium on the classic estate gardens of England.
That married life appeared to agree so well with his friends only exacerbated Cameron’s ugly mood. Raising his glass,
he allowed a faint sneer to curl on his mouth. “Here’s to hoping that my dear comrades-in-hellraising don’t turn into total stick-in-the-muds.”
Arching a brow, Connor glanced at Gryff. “Is it my imagination, or does it seem to you that the Sleuth Hound has a thorn stuck in his paw?”
“I’d say it’s lodged in a different portion of his anatomy,” drawled Gryff. The lamplight played over his impish grin. “What’s the trouble, Cam? Don’t tell us your nose for trouble has landed you in the briars.”
“Arse—both of you,” he growled into his brandy. “Where the devil is Sara? I came here seeking entertaining conversation, and what do I find? That my fellow Hellhounds have become woefully domesticated. Weaving shawls, writing garden books…” He gave a mock shudder. “Good God, I suppose the next time I see you, you’ll be wearing skirts.”
The swish of ruched satin filled the sudden silence as Sara swept into the room. “What’s all the barking about?” she asked, frowning at Cameron. “Ain’t ye glad te see yer old friends?”
He responded with a very indelicate word.
“He’s in a snarly mood,” murmured Gryff. “Haven’t a clue why.”
Connor, whose temper was easily triggered, looked up, a quicksilver spark in his gray eyes. “Neither do I, but if he insults my manhood—or my wife—again, he’ll be fishing his teeth out of his gullet.”
“Come to think of it, he’s been acting awfully odd ever since that veiled lady came here seeking an audience with Lord Dudley.”
Much as he liked Sara, at that moment Cameron could have wrung her neck.
Gryff straightened from his slouch. “What lady?”
“Hmm, let me see…Leighton, Lightbourne…Lawrance. Aye, that was it. Miss Lawrance.”
“And who, pray tell, is the mysterious Miss Lawrance?” Gryff’s question was directed at him.
“Why ask me?” glowered Cameron. “Sara is the one who seems to know all the sordid details.”
Without waiting for further invitation, Sara chimed in, “Well, I wish I could tell ye more, but the whole thing was all very havey-cavey. The young lady came in, claiming it was a matter of grave importance that she speak with Lord Dudley.”
