by Cara Elliott
A new wave of salty drops splashed on her cheeks.
“Now, please say yes, Sophie. Or do I have to sail off with you to some deserted Pirate island and hold you captive until you relent?”
“Oh, please, no more sea journeys. So much as a deserted island sounds alluring, I had better say yes,” she murmured. Yes. Yes. Yes.
“A very wise decision,” said Cameron. “Confinement in a haunted Italian villa, with a mad monk as your jailer, was next on my list of threats.”
“Georgie and Pen will probably never forgive me for passing up such an adventure.”
“I’ll make it up to them by buying every horrid novel the shelves of Hatchards.” His smile turned a trifle more tentative. “You aren’t teasing me, are you, Sunbeam? Your answer truly is yes?”
“Yes,” said Sophie. “The truth is, I’ve loved you ever since you rescued my pet hedgehog from the jaws of Squire Mather’s mastiff.”
“Ouch.” He grimaced. “I still have those scars on my knuckles.”
“Which only goes to show that despite your assertions to the contrary, you have always been noble at heart.”
“You give me far too much credit.” Another kiss. “But I shall try not to disappoint you.”
“Never, Cam.” She brushed a lock of damp, curling hair from his brow. “Never.”
For the next little interlude, the only sound in the room was the flutter of birdsong outside the window and the drip, drip, drip of water from Sophie’s still-wet body.
“Much as I love the feel of your naked limbs pressed to mine,” Cameron murmured after tracing the arch of her throat with a kiss, “you are shivering—and we are late. We really must dress.” He handed her a fresh towel. “It would be very remiss of us to keep them all waiting at our own wedding. But rest assured that we will resume this delightful tête-à-tête when we return.”
Our own wedding. Sophie floated through the rest of her ablutions in a silvery fog.
“Ready?” called Cameron, smoothing the knot of his red and white striped neckerchief. Somehow, despite the limited choices offered by a small village, he had managed to add a touch of his usual outrageous style.
Sophie took his proffered hand and smiled. “I won’t wait for you to ask twice.”
“Wait here for a moment.” Ignoring Sophie’s bemused look, Cameron veered off the footpath and rounded a patch of prickly gorse.
“I thought you were worried about being late,” she called.
“This will just take a tic.” Returning to where she was standing, he bowed low and with a flourish presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers. “Every bride ought to have a posy, right?”
“Oh, they are beautiful!” she exclaimed.
His breath caught in his throat as she held the unruly blooms up to the light and smiled. The pale pink climbing roses matched the color of her cheeks, and the cornflowers were the same shade of blue as her sapphirine eyes.
“Their beauty wilts in comparison to your natural splendor, Sophie,” he murmured.
A dappling of sun heightened the rosy blush stealing across her face. “Perhaps you should take up writing poetry as well as tales of dangerous adventures.”
“I wouldn’t want to steal Gryff’s thunder—he is the lyrical, literary Hellhound.” He pursed his lips as they resumed walking. “Hmmm, Connor has become a goat farmer…I suppose that I, too, shall have to choose some respectable profession to occupy my time. Which is a pity. I rather enjoy my covert activities.”
He had said it in jest, but Sophie’s expression turned pensive. “And you are very good at what you do. Perhaps there is a way to put your prodigious talents to work for a Higher Good.”
“Higher Good? You haven’t seen my private art collection yet,” he quipped. “Before you say a word, I am not going to return any of the items.”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Cameron could almost see the mental gears spinning inside her head. He loved that she found cerebral conundrums an intriguing challenge.
“I was thinking,” she said slowly, “that the Crown might find your services useful.”
“You mean…work hand in glove with the government?” The idea was interesting, and one that had never occurred to him.
“Given your military background—at least, I am assuming you were not just jesting about your prowess with a cavalry saber—it seems a logical connection.”
“I have a feeling,” mused Cameron, “that we are going to have some very fascinating adventures ahead of us.”
“Now that I’ve mastered locks, I would like to learn how to scale a manor wall.”
“We will discuss it…” Looking up, he saw the small stone church just ahead, nestled among a stand of towering oak trees. “But enough talk of clandestine activities. It’s not exactly the sort of discussion a lady wants on her wedding day.”
“As you pointed out, we are not a conventional couple,” said Sophie.
“Amen to that.”
Stepping off the footpath, they started to hurry across a freshly mown swath of grass. “The curate looks to be waiting by the door,” she said in some concern. “I hope we aren’t too tardy.”
Cameron took her hand and as he quickened his pace, he turned his head and winked. “Better late than never, Sunbeam.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Man and wife. The words of the curate were still ringing in her ears, the official paper was peeking out of Cameron’s coat pocket, and yet, it all still felt a little unreal. Perhaps, thought Sophie ruefully, because she wasn’t quite sure of her new name. There was now not a shadow of a doubt that Cameron was a legitimate Rowland. However, the legalities had yet to be confirmed. Cameron had hesitated just a fraction before signing the certificate.
His scrawl had been hard to decipher…
“What moniker am I to give when asked who I am?” she murmured as they strolled back to the inn.
“Lady Wolcott,” he answered decisively.
“Oh, but I feel like an imposter.”
“You are not,” assured Cameron. “And besides, the tavern girls would be horribly disappointed if they can’t curtsey and say ‘milady.’ I have been regaling them with the perils you have passed through before Love conquered all, and they wish to share in the celebration.”
“I shudder to think of what you have told them.”
He grinned. “I may have embellished things a bit, but you have to admit, the truth is quite a yarn in itself.”
“Perhaps even more suspenseful than Lady Avery’s Awful Secret.” Sophie hugged his arm a little tighter, savoring his closeness. “Though I must say, I have just realized that both stories have a key element in common.”
“Which is?”
“They both have a dashing storybook hero,” replied Sophie with a grin.
“How can you be sure? You’ve not heard the end of Georgiana’s book,” said Cameron.
“We all know it must end with a Happily Ever After, so there has to be a hero.” She allowed a mischievous pause. “Even though we both know a heroine is perfectly capable of saving herself, it’s nice to see a knight in shining armor riding to the rescue.”
He gave a martyred sigh. “Why is it that ladies find a suit of steel attractive? It makes a man look…chunky. And it creaks worse than the Prince Regent’s corset.”
“Very well, you may continue to wear Pirate garb,” said Sophie. “After all, a helm would hide your earring.” She held up her hand, feeling a flutter of joy on seeing the flash of gold and pearl clasped between her fingers. “And it was that glint of precious metal which first caught my eye when you found me in the dark alley.”
“And here I thought it was my scintillating wit and flashy smile that captured your fancy.”
“Those, too,” conceded Sophie. “In fact, I adore most everything about you, Cam.” She eyed his shirtpoints. “Save for that garish neckerchief.”
“You don’t like it? The alternative was a ghastly shade of puce. And white seemed far
too ordinary a choice.” His lazy grin sent slow, spiraling shivers through her body. “However, I am more than willing to take it off.”
As he opened the door to the inn and led the way up the stairs, Sophie heard titters of laughter, followed by the hurried swish of skirts turning the corner of the hallway. But before she could voice any question, Cameron swept her up into his arms and shouldered open the door to their room.
Sophie blinked, and found herself bereft of speech. They had been talking about fanciful stories. But this—this was a fairytale! Dozens of honey-colored candles blazed merrily in every corner of the room, their undulating flames bathing the pine paneling in a golden glow. A trail of pale pink rose petals led from the threshold to the bed, where two cut-glass goblets were filled with sparkling champagne.
“I see that the girls took my request for a romantic setting to heart,” he observed, setting her down.
“It’s…” Sophie eyed the sprigs of fresh-cut heather and holly decorating the windowsill. “It’s the most beautiful setting I’ve ever seen. I feel like a princess.”
“Let us hope that when you kiss me I don’t turn into a frog.”
“We will just have to take that risk,” she said, throwing her arms around him and pressing her lips to his.
His croaking quickly dissolved into soft laughter. And then into no sound at all. Touching, teasing, tasting—that was all the language they needed. His hands and his tongue were doing delightfully naughty things to her body.
“Come, let’s not wrinkle your new gown.” The ties loosened, the tiny buttons slipped free of the fabric. “I’ve convinced the shopkeeper to give me these garments on credit, but I don’t wish to press my luck.”
“Indeed, not. We mustn’t…” Sophie wriggled out of the muslin. “…take advantage of his kindness.” She unknotted Cameron’s neckerchief and undid the fastening of his shirt.
He managed to hang the clothing neatly over the single chair in the room as he spun her around to the bed.
“Sláinte.” He handed her one of the goblets. “That is a traditional Gaelic toast, which roughly translates as ‘may your cup bubble over with happiness, now and always.’”
“Sláinte,” repeated Sophie. Was it possible to be any happier? She wondered, savoring the effervescence of the wine as it danced down her tongue.
Her answer came a moment later.
Smiling, Cameron took a long swallow of his drink, and then with his mouth still sweet with the pale gold liquid, he lowered his head and possessed her chemise-clad nipple.
Oh. A wave of dizzying pleasure washed over her. Oh, oh, oh.
The friction of the cotton and the coolness of the champagne ignited a tingling fire. “Is it,” she gasped, “too terribly wicked and wanton to want you to keep kissing me like that in the middle of the day?”
“Oh, trust me, Sunbeam, there are far more wicked and wanton things for us to do together.” Her body tumbled back against the down pillows and his warm, muscled weight kissed up against her flesh. “Like this.”
A flare of fire ignited at the apex of her legs.
“And this.”
Heat sizzled down the insides of her thighs.
“Or we could try…”
Sophie squeezed back a cry of delight as his fingers traced a spiraling trail of sparks as they delved down to her innermost desire. “Don’t. Stop.”
“Your wish is my command. For be it day or be it night, I can now, in good conscience, make mad, passionate love to my wife.”
Dusk was turning the moors a hazy purple when Cameron woke from a blissful sleep. Carefully slipping out from under Sophie’s outflung arm, he turned on his back and found himself smiling as he watched the flitting shadows play across the whitewashed plaster ceiling.
He smiled—at nothing and everything at the same time.
The faraway trilling of a nightingale, the lazy flutter of the drapery in the breeze, the faint laughter from the taproom below—at this moment, mused Cameron, the world seemed in perfect harmony with his mood of profound peace.
Oatcakes drizzled in wildflower honey. He would order up something sweet for Sophie to nibble on when she awoke. For himself, port and Stilton. Perhaps some pears and walnuts—
A clattering in the stableyard suddenly intruded on his lazy reveries. Other travelers arriving in this out-of-the-way coastal village? “Of all the cursed luck,” he muttered, not overly happy at having their private interlude interrupted by strangers. “But mayhap they are simply seeking directions.” he added hopefully.
Heaving a reluctant sigh, Cameron rose and went to the window for a cursory peek.
“Damnation. How the devil…” His mouth pinched, hovering somewhere between a grin and a grimace as he watched the occupants of a large traveling coach climb down to the rutted ground. “I was hoping that my message would reach them quickly, but the Royal mail coach must be using winged unicorns on their Southern routes.”
“Did you say something?” Sophie, looking wonderfully rumpled, lifted her head from the pillow.
“Yes.” Cameron turned. “You had better put on some clothes.”
She sat up in alarm.
“We are about to have visitors,” he added, reaching for his shirt.
“Dear God, don’t tell me that Morton and Dudley survived—”
“No, no.” He pulled a wry grimace. “It’s not any enemy.” A quick toss landed Sophie’s gown in her lap. “You had best hurry.”
Without further ado, Cameron tugged on his trousers and with another rueful oath began looking for his boots. The words, however, turned into a chuckle.
Friends and family—I am used to living as naught but a solitary specter but I now must step out of the shadows. In the past, the idea had been unthinkable. But now…
Thump, thump.
His warning had come none too soon, for a fist began hammering on the door.
Seeing Sophie spear her last hairpin into place, Cameron unlatched the lock and let it swing open.
“I’ll have you know that we’ve been searching over half of England for you,” announced Gryff. “However I will refrain from ringing a peal over your head as we are deucedly glad to find the two of you alive.” He tipped his hat to Sophie. “Especially you, Miss Lawrance.”
“Sophie!” cried Georgiana, Hermione, and Edward in unison.
Nudging Connor, Gryff discreetly moved to block the view into the bedchamber from Sophie’s family. “You know, Cam,” he said under his breath, “if I might make a suggestion, you really ought to do the right thing—”
“Save your breath. Things are not quite as scandalous as they look,” interrupted Cameron with a grin. In a louder voice he added, “How lovely to see you all. Had we known you were coming, we would have delayed the wedding ceremony. But be that as it may, allow me to present my wife, Lady Wolcott—the soon-to-be Lady Wolcott, that is.”
Hermione and her husband exchanged looks of mingled elation and relief.
Georgiana was a bit more vocal in expressing her feelings. “Huzzah! It’s about time you came to your senses, Cam.”
Sophie ducked her head to hide her blushes.
“Excellent, excellent,” said Gryff. “We must celebrate! I’ll order up a few bottles of champagne from the cellar, along with a repast from the kitchen and a private parlor, so we may have a jolly little wedding supper.”
“I did have other plans for the evening…” drawled Cameron.
Sophie’s color deepened to beet red.
“But since you are all here,” he went on, “a celebration is a splendid suggestion.”
They all trooped downstairs, and in short order, wine and laughter were flowing with equal exuberance.
Sophie sat at the head of the table, blinking back tears as she soaked in the surrounding good cheer.
Cameron leaned in to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “Happy?” he asked.
“Beyond words.”
“I have just one complaint to voice,” announced Georgiana loudly
, having just finished her second glass of champagne. “I am disappointed that Anthony missed all the excitement and didn’t get to display what a dashing hero he is.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” called Cameron. “I have a feeling the poor fellow will have plenty of harrowing adventures of his own.”
Much merriment greeted the quip, and after a fleeting scowl, Georgiana allowed a reluctant grin. “Am I that terrible?”
“Some things are too dangerous to desire,” answered Sophie as she slanted a look at her husband. “But if you throw caution to the wind and dare to do so, the reward is well worth the risk.”
Ha—I told you so, mouthed her sister.
And you were oh-so right, thought Sophie.
After a whispered exchange with Connor, Gryff rose and raised his glass. “Allow me to make a belated wedding toast.”
She saw Cameron was regarding his friends with a look of guarded bemusement. They were, she suspected, too gentlemanly to say something truly evil. But a little barbed teasing was to be expected.
Catching her glance, he responded with a little shrug. “Ah, well,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear, “if you wield a verbal sword, you must expect that once in a while the blade will swing around and stick you in the arse.”
“Quiet,” chided Connor.
“My apologies,” murmured Cameron. “Do go on.”
“To friends. To family,” called Gryff.
Glasses clinked.
“To Hellhounds…” There was a pause as he inclined a courtly bow to Sophie. “And, most especially, to the lovely ladies who have brought out their better nature.”
Georgiana let out a fluttery sigh as Hermione dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes.
“I confess I never thought to see the elusive Cameron Daggett tamed by love,” continued Gryff. “Of the three of us, he is perhaps, the most hardbitten cynic. But luckily for him, an intrepid young lady was more than a match for his snaps and snarls.”
“She is, without doubt, brave and resourceful,” murmured Connor. “But there is a slight question as to her judgment in men.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” said Cameron. “I shall reserve my retorts until the next time I meet with Lady K.”
