by Cara Elliott
She didn’t move. “It’s not a fair fight if you won’t defend yourself.”
“Lesson Number Three—never, ever fight fair.”
“You are, without question, the most awful, aggravating man in all of Christendom.” Sophie kicked at the ground, sending a spray of pebbles ricocheting against the rocks. “I should pound your thick skull to smithereens. But I can’t quite bring myself to do it.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Oh, don’t try to sweeten the truth. I’m a fool.” The scattered pings had dissipated her flush of fury into something far more nebulous. Anger was easy to understand. This—this hot and cold surge of emotion—was horribly confusing. “A dim-witted, addlepated fool to have thought this could ever work.”
Turning on her heel, so he wouldn’t see the quivering of her lips, Sophie hitched up her skirts. “So go ahead—disappear! And never come back. It’s for the best. I’ve precious little time to come up with a plan to defeat Dudley and his friend Morton—and defeat him I will! So I can’t afford any distractions.”
Which way, which way? She couldn’t see through the sting of salt, but all that mattered was getting away from this cursed spot. Slipping, sliding on the stone shards, she scrambled around the granite outcropping. There was no sound of steps behind her.
Damn those beautiful sea-green eyes. Damn that terrible, taunting mouth.
“The wretch,” she muttered, head down, gaze glued to the uneven ground. A hard kick sent more pebbles skittering in all directions. No wonder men were so fond of fisticuffs. There was something supremely satisfying about hitting something, even if it was only a tiny inanimate object.
“The rapscallion, the—”
“Reptile,” finished Cameron, as she collided headlong into his chest.
He must be a djinn, or a puff of smoke. Surely no flesh-and-blood creature could slither so swiftly, so stealthily.
“I was going to say ‘rogue.’” Her voice was a bit muffled by folds of soft linen. For someone who had slept rough, he smelled surprisingly nice. Earthy. Masculine. Wood and leather spiced with a hint of bay rum. “Why are you here, and not on your horse?”
“You forgot this.” Cameron held up her basket. “You may need to crush a few more toes on the way home.”
Sophie bit back a reluctant laugh. “Be grateful I didn’t crush your skull.”
“Yes, and I’m exceedingly grateful that you didn’t angle it at a far more sensitive part of my anatomy.”
“I considered it.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
“You ought to count your blessings.” She grasped the basket’s handle. “I had better return its contents to the rightful owner.”
“Purloined property?” His grip tightened on the woven willow. “What risks have you been running?”
“Never mind. I was going to ask your advice, but seeing as you are so hellfire anxious to head back to London, I’ll handle it on my own.”
“Oh, very neatly done, Sophie.” He leaned in closer. “You are getting awfully good at the art of manipulation.”
“I’m learning.”
A wry chuckle, low and a little rumbled, set off a strange thumping inside her ribcage. His jaw was peppered with an intriguing texture of short, dark bristles. The perfect image of a pirate—slightly wild, slightly menacing.
Alluring as sin.
“I’m not sure whether to laugh or gnash my teeth over the fact that you are such a gifted student. The trouble is, a little knowledge can be more dangerous than none at all,” murmured Cameron. “So you had best come along with me. I can’t in good conscience leave you in the middle of a lesson.”
“You don’t have a conscience,” pointed out Sophie. “Or so you said.”
“On rare occasions, it rears its ugly head.”
Wind-tangled hair, sun-bronzed skin, a dark-edged smile…beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
“W-what do you have in mind?” she asked, finding her throat had gone dry as dust.
“Hard to say. First of all, let’s see what you have wrapped in that dainty little napkin.”
After setting the basket on the table inside the hut, Sophie carefully peeled back the folds of calico. “It’s a lock.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Cameron rubbed at his chin. Would that the female mind’s intricate intertwining maze of gears and tumblers were as easy to comprehend. “What’s not nearly as clear is why you have it, and what you intend to do with it.”
Her eyes darkened several shades—never a good sign with Sophie. Squalls rarely stirred her steady demeanor. When clouds rolled in, they usually presaged a full-blown storm.
“I should think those answers are obvious,” she replied. Edging forward in her chair, she braced her palms on the rough-hewn wood. “It’s a puzzle lock, like the ones guarding Wolcott Manor, and I borrowed it from Neddy Wadsworth.”
“Borrowed?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she replied.
“Ah.”
“I want to learn how to open it. And since you showed some skill in the subject last night, I thought you would be the best person to teach me.”
“No,” he said flatly.
“Fine.” She smoothed the napkin back in place.
Damnation, there was a new depth to her resolve that he couldn’t quite fathom. She was the same Sophie, and yet different. Shaped by forces he knew naught of.
“Would you care to elaborate on that?” he asked.
“No.”
Their eyes locked with an almost audible click. For someone new at the game of opening impregnable defensive mechanisms, she was proving awfully skilled at choosing all the right little levers to push.
“Click,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders in reluctant surrender. “You appear to have a God-given natural talent for manipulation. You’ve turned the right key this time. But only because if I left you to your own devices, you might get yourself in deep trouble.”
The shadows softened, allowing a glimmer of light to brighten her gaze. Sunbeam. A spun-sugar flicker of gold, dancing like a dragonfly through the air. How was it that something so delicate could penetrate his Hellhound hide and fill his chest with warmth?
It was a question that he didn’t care to face at that moment. Damnation, I should have slipped away when I had the chance. For a lone predator, cold logic and icy cynicism were essential for survival. The longer he stayed near Sophie, the more dangerous it became. For both of them.
“Thank you, Cam,” replied Sophie. “If I am to defend myself, I need to know how to attack an opponent’s weakness.”
Ominous as that sounded, he decided to let it pass. “A wise strategy, in theory. However, if I am to help you put it into practice, I need to know a little more about what you have in mind.”
The wariness was back in her eyes. “There may come a time when I want to have a look around somewhere that is under lock and key.”
“Look, I applaud your spirit. But listen to reason—”
“Damn you, Cameron Daggett. Has it ever occurred to you that I am sick of being reasonable?” Her voice was perilously close to a shout, ragged and raw with emotion. “For most of my adult life, I have worn Reason like a corset, its unyielding stays and constricting laces pinching so tight that at times I could barely breathe.”
He watched her chest rise and fall.
“And yet,” she continued, “an ailing father and two high-spirited sisters depended on me to be sensible. Sensible! And so, every time a crisis loomed, I erred on the side of prudence.” She expelled a sharp sigh. “While look at you—you were never afraid to meet adversity head on, and haven’t altered a whit.”
“Good God, Sophie, don’t hold me up as a shining example of how to deal with trouble. I am hardly a patterncard of wisdom when it comes to making the right decisions in life.”
“But it seems to me that one is more apt to regret the things one hasn’t done,” she said. “Rather than the other way around.”
“Does
it? Right and wrong is never black and white. We can’t always control the consequences of our actions.” Cameron turned back her cuff and gently traced a tiny scar cutting across the top of her wrist. “You have only to look here. I thought it a great lark to sneak into Squire Stoneleigh’s orchard and steal his prized apples. I was ready to suffer any consequences, but when I tripped and his mastiff came at my throat, it was you who fended him off.”
Sophie freed her hand and hastily hid it under the fringes of her shawl. “You cannot deny that there is risk in doing nothing as well. I—I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel I need…” She rose abruptly and began pacing the perimeter of narrow space. “…action.”
Watching the willowy grace of her body in motion, Cameron found himself distracted by the sway of her slim hips and the subtle rise and fall of her perfectly shaped breasts.
Lust pooled in his belly and spiraled to his privy parts. So much for the resolve to respond to her arguments with reason.
It took a moment of iron-willed resolve to bring his rebellious body back under control.
“My mind has been tied in such terrible knots these last few months,” she went on. “I’ve been so confused, and unable to think clearly…And then, your first mad midnight kiss seemed to tug a strand loose. And…” In a frothing of skirts Sophie spun around. “And I’m not making any sense, am I?” She made a face. “I’m babbling.”
“I like the sound of your voice,” he murmured.
Sophie stopped, and all at once it was very quiet in the hut.
“I like the tilt of your chin, and the way you bite your lower lip when you are puzzling out a problem.”
Her lashes flicked up slowly, uncertainly.
“Sit down, Sunbeam. Life is a terrible tangle of spiders and serpents, and I, of all people, can give little guidance on how to untwine them.” He tapped a finger to the lock. “However, I can be of help in solving the secrets of this particular puzzle.”
She hesitated before resuming her spot in the facing chair.
“If I so choose.” Cameron held up a hand to cut off the protest he saw about to fly from her lips. “Against my better judgment, I shall. But in return you will have to promise me one thing. Before you put your new skills into action, you will have to tell me what you are planning.”
“Will you share your plans with me?” countered Sophie. “It seems only fair.”
“Hmmm.”
She frowned. “Which means?”
“Which means that I am thinking.”
“While you do so, I have another question. What were you looking for in Lord Wolcott’s study?”
Truth or lies?
“I was looking for any correspondence between Wolcott and Dudley or Morton,” he replied, choosing for the moment to answer honestly. “It’s important to understand the connection between them.” He steepled his fingers. “Much as I dislike Wolcott, I find it hard to see why he would involve himself in petty blackmail. He has no need of money, and why would he care about an old church mistake made by your father?’
“I—I don’t know.” Sophie shifted her eyes, just enough to catch his attention.
Truth or lies?
“I think,” said Cameron slowly, “that you are not telling me everything about Lord Dudley and the threat that he and his friend Morton are holding over you.”
“W-what makes you say that?”
“The fact that I’ve spent most of my life dealing with cutthroat criminals and conniving cheats. Sensing the slightest whisper of a false note is key to surviving in the stews.”
“I see that I have much to learn about the underworld of intrigue,” said Sophie softly.
A growl formed deep in his throat.
“It’s true, I haven’t given you all the details. But I didn’t want to draw you any deeper into my affairs, Cam,” she went on in a rush. “Good Lord, if I had thought Wolcott was involved in this sordid scheme, I never would have let you become involved in the first place. If not for me, you wouldn’t have come back here to Terrington, and put yourself in danger.”
“I have a nose for trouble,” he quipped. “A whiff of danger is perfume to my nostrils.”
Her expression grew even more pinched. “What Dudley wants from me isn’t important. If I get the wretched document back from him, he has to leave my family alone.”
“You underestimate evil. If a man like Dudley wants something badly enough, he won’t stop, Sophie. He’ll simply find another weakness, another target. Georgiana or Penelope, perhaps.”
All the color leached from her face.
Taking ruthless advantage of her fear, he pressed on. “So you had best trust me to be the judge of what is important.”
“Trust,” repeated Sophie. “You keep sending me conflicting messages. One moment you ask me to have faith in you and then in the next breath you warn me not to believe a thing you say. Which Cameron should I listen to?”
A good question. “That depends on how much you are willing to risk, Sunbeam,” he said softly.
Curling her fingers in strings of her bonnet, she slowly untied the bow beneath her chin. “Very well—I might as well throw caution to the wind.” A flick sent the chipstraw headcovering fluttering to the earthen floor. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Chapter Eleven
Sophie loosened a few hairpins, allowing a twist of curls to fall free. “I think better without all these cursed constrictions.”
“Far be it from me to object,” murmured Cameron.
Was he amused? It was impossible to tell what emotions were hiding behind the half-mocking specter of a smile.
“Now that you’ve shed those strictures, why not untighten your tongue as well? I want to know what you’ve been holding back.”
She made a face. “You ought to bare a few things, too.”
“Strip away all of our secrets?” He waggled a brow. “We’ll discuss that later. First, tell me about Dudley.”
A gust rattled the window casement and a hiss of air slipped in through a crack in the glass.
Trust, trust, it taunted.
“As I told you before, he and Morton are looking for some sort of church document. They think my father might know something about it.”
“So you’ve said. Go on.”
“I’ve also told you Papa’s memory is so foggy that even if the paper ever existed—which I think is doubtful—he couldn’t tell them about it.” Sophie watched the dust motes dancing in the air, rather than meet Cameron’s gaze. “I’ve finally convinced them that his mind is not all there. However, they refuse to believe that I know nothing about it.”
“What makes them think you would have any knowledge about it?”
She hesitated.
“Sophie?”
“Because of you,” she admitted. “They seem to know that we were friends growing up.”
His expression remained inscrutable. Like the Sphinx, a half man, half beast carved out of solid stone.
“What sort of document?” pressed Cameron.
“They didn’t say, but along with some probing inquiries about you and your background, their questions concerned church marriage records. I pretended to have no clue as to what they were talking about.”
“Ah.”
The small sound could have meant anything. Silence followed, but with every nerve in her body on edge, she could almost hear the gears spinning inside his head.
“Cam…” They had only spoken of the subject once, when Lord Wolcott’s refusal to pay for a London doctor to treat Cameron’s mother had left him feeling utterly helpless. Furious at Fate’s cruelty, he had confided a family secret…
“This certainly casts a different light on things, Sunbeam,” he mused. “There was a letter mentioning Morton in Wolcott’s desk, but the implication seemed meaningless until now.” He didn’t explain. “Given what you’ve just told me, it’s even more imperative that I return to London and begin making some inquiries.”
“You think the proof
of your mother’s marriage to Wolcott’s father, the old marquess, actually exists?” she whispered.
“To her dying day, she insisted that she was, in fact, his wife,” he replied. “But my half brother claims there was no such record in my father’s papers, making me naught but a bastard by-blow. I’ve always suspected that he destroyed the proof to protect his precious pedigree from mongrel blood.”
Sophie knew that the old marquess’s first wife, the mother of the present Lord Wolcott, was a highborn lady. While Cameron’s mother was an obscure governess who had met his father on sea voyage returning from Italy, where he had sought a warmer winter clime for his ailing health.
“What puzzles me,” she said slowly, “is how my father’s name has come to be involved in this. He could not possible have performed the ceremony, as it took place abroad.”
“There are a great many mysteries,” replied Cameron tersely. “None of which we will solve right now.” He picked up the lock and turned it over in his hands. “The thing about puzzle locks is, they may look horridly complicated, but as soon as one understands where the few key levers are located, they open quite easily.”
“Show me.” The words slipped out of their own accord.
Cameron didn’t react for a moment. He sat very still, the dark fringe of his lashes accentuating the black, brooding shadows beneath his eyes. “Mistakes can be costly. A slip sometimes triggers a hidden danger. I once encountered an Italian lock that spit a burning acid if the wrong tumbler moved. And then, there are clever Swiss models that set off a warning within the house, so the owner is waiting to welcome you with a brace of pistols.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” answered Sophie.
“Are you?”
A question? No, a challenge.
She made a show of dusting her hands, feeling a tingling in her flesh as her palms touched together. “I’m ready to go mano a mano, Cameron. In the past, I could hold my own against you in any game we played.” Almost every game, that is. “So let the tumblers fall where they may.”
