Scandalous

by Candace Camp

  John himself scared her—the sensations he could arouse in her, the power he could exercise over her when he chose, the way she melted at his touch. It made her feel weak, not in control of herself—and yet it was the most delightful thing she had ever experienced. When he kissed her, she wanted it to go on and on; she wanted more. She trembled, afraid, yet dizzy with excitement, eager and unknowing.

  He pulled back first, drawing a long breath. “We cannot do this, not here.”

  Priscilla shook her head, agreeing with him, but she had to fight to keep her arms from going around his neck.

  “God, I want you!” His voice throbbed with tamped-down desire. “But it is not safe. Who knows whether those two might be around?”

  Priscilla nodded, struggling to control her thudding heart and rapidly pumping lungs. His hand came up and curved around her cheek; his thumb softly traced her lips. Priscilla’s eyelids fluttered closed, and she drew a breath of such eager, innocent passion that it shook his control. He wanted nothing more than to pull her back to him, to kiss and caress her until those breathy little pants and hungry moans were tumbling from her lips.

  He wished very much that they were somewhere else, somewhere safe and secure, where he could take his time, could kiss and caress and tease. He wanted to peel her clothes from her and gaze upon the creamy flesh beneath. He wanted to see her breasts, to touch them, to learn the exact tint of her nipples, to turn them into hard, pebbled points. Just thinking about it made him hot and hard. But he also knew that he would be a fool to expose her to the dangerous possibility that his attackers might return to this place and find them. Worse than a fool.

  With a sigh, he forced himself to stand up, pulling her with him. “We have to go.” His voice was hoarse and short from the effort it took to restrain his passions.

  They started back through the woods, with Priscilla, more familiar with the area, leading the way. John, walking along behind her, found his eyes drawn more to the movement of her hips beneath her dress than to their surroundings. He drew his eyes away from her time and again, forcing himself to be more alert to who or what might be in the woods around them, but his mind stubbornly returned to the thought of what she would look like naked. It was a difficult journey home.

  Things did not improve much when they got there, for they walked in to find Priscilla’s father and Miss Pennybaker taking tea with three men. Priscilla groaned under her breath when she saw them in the drawing room.

  “Priscilla!” Miss Pennybaker cried, jumping to her feet. Her thin face was flushed and smiling. “Look who has come to tea.”

  “Hello, Reverend. Dr. Hightower.” Priscilla greeted her father’s two cronies, older men who regularly visited her father to discuss learned matters. But today there was a gray-haired gentleman with them, a large man with an upright carriage and piercing gray eyes whom Priscilla did not know.

  “And this is General Hazelton,” Miss Pennybaker went on enthusiastically. “He is a friend of the doctor’s.”

  The general rose, as did the other men.

  “I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Hamilton. I have been hearing wonderful things about you,” the general said, turning to look at Miss Pennybaker, who blushed and glanced down modestly. “Miss Pennybaker has been telling me how accomplished you are. I am sure that is no small praise, for Miss Pennybaker is a woman of rare intelligence and taste.”

  Priscilla’s eyes widened at that statement, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. Miss P. was a kind and well-meaning woman, and Priscilla was quite fond of her. But she would never have thought of describing the older woman’s taste and intelligence in such glowing terms.

  “Stop, please,” Miss Pennybaker said coyly, letting loose a girlish giggle. “You will turn my head.”

  Miss Pennybaker and General Hazelton smiled at each other for a long moment, while everyone else looked on in varying degrees of amazement. Then the general turned back to Priscilla. Automatically Priscilla held out her hand to him, forgetting that she had not been able to wipe off all the grime and that her fingernails were still black with dirt. Seeing her hand as she held it out, however, she let out a little yelp at the sight of it and snatched it back, clasping it with her other hand behind her back.

  “I’m sorry. I am afraid I’m not in fit shape to receive company right now. I was…ah, mm…working in the, ah, garden, you see. I must wash up.”

  She backed away hastily, and the general, giving her an odd glance, turned toward John, extending his hand to him and saying, “Terence Hazelton, Her Majesty’s army, retired.”

  “John Wolfe,” John answered, holding out his own hand, which was in much the same condition as Priscilla’s. “I was helping Miss Hamilton.”

  “I see.” The general’s steely gaze went from one of them to the other; he was obviously forming his own opinion about the situation. Priscilla was furious to feel herself blushing, just as if she had done something wrong. Which she hadn’t, she reminded herself. They had done nothing but kiss, and surely that was not a sin.

  “Mr. Wolfe is a member of the family,” Miss Pennybaker went on, to fill the awkward moment.

  “Really?” Dr. Hightower turned toward Priscilla’s father in surprise.

  “Not immediate family,” Florian corrected quickly. “A distant cousin from the United States.”

  “Ah,” the vicar commented, understanding dawning on his face. Being from America explained all sorts of peculiar behavior, in his estimation. “I see.”

  “The United States, eh?” the general commented, beginning to smile. “I visited there once.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Baltimore,” he explained further. “Are you familiar with it?”

  “No, I am afraid I don’t live there,” John returned quickly.

  “Where are you from, then?” the doctor asked curiously. “I have been trying to place the accent. I’m usually good at that sort of thing, you see. Definitely American, but I think not from the South.”

  “No. I am not Southern.” John strove to think of someplace he could remember anything about.

  “I thought not.” Dr. Hightower looked pleased with himself. “Let me think…. No, don’t tell me, I’ll get it in a minute. No swallowing your Rs, so that lets Boston out.” He closed his eyes in thought. “My guess would be New York or its environs.”

  “Quite right.” John smiled, desperately hoping that the man would not start asking questions about the city. He couldn’t think of anything he knew about the place.

  The doctor beamed. “Told you I could guess it. Of course, I’m much better with British dialects. I can pinpoint a British speaker to within ten miles of where he was born.”

  “Remarkable,” John responded lamely. “If you will excuse me, I must change.”

  “Of course, of course.” The vicar smiled at him benignly. “We don’t mean to interfere with you young people.”

  John left quickly for his room off the kitchen, and Priscilla seized the opportunity to start for the stairs. However, the vicar’s fond voice caught her before she could get out of the room. “A finely setup young man, Priscilla,” he commented cheerfully.

  Priscilla turned back to him, pressing her lips together in irritation. Her father’s friends were both kind and intelligent men, always trying to help people. But they had for some reason taken it upon themselves to be Priscilla’s private cupids, and over the years they had tried to matchmake for her with a number of young men. They were not picky; any man of approximately the right age and with a decent family and sufficient intelligence was quickly maneuvered into meeting Priscilla. Priscilla had tried scores of times to get them to stop their well-meaning but misguided efforts, but she had finally given up and simply saw the young men that they proffered, then kindly, but firmly, sent them on their way.

  “Yes, Reverend, he is. He is also related to me.”

  “Distantly, my dear, distantly. It means his family is good, which is something one can never be sure of with Americans, you know.”r />
  Priscilla sighed. “I suspect it was probably a more scandalous branch of the family that emigrated to the United States. Besides, I think it is a poor decision to marry within one’s family, even when it’s legal. I mean, look at the Hapsburgs.”

  “My dear, I wasn’t suggesting that you marry the young man,” the vicar protested. “I was merely saying that he is probably an agreeable companion for you. Of course, if something more were to develop…I wouldn’t think you would need to worry about weak minds and Hapsburg chins. After all, that royal family intermarried far more often and more closely.”

  “True,” the doctor agreed. “How many generations ago did his family emigrate?” When Priscilla merely gazed at him blankly, he turned toward her father. “Florian?”

  “What? Heavens, it must have been a hundred years ago or so. I am not really sure of the relation. I think my grandfather was cousin to his great-grandfather, or something of that sort.”

  “You mean you haven’t discussed his genealogy?” the general asked, looking disapproving. “How do you know he is really your relative? He could be taking advantage of your hospitality, you know. There’s a sort of rascally look about his eyes, if you ask me.”

  “Well, no one did,” Florian responded, looking disgruntled. “I didn’t outline his family tree with him. Americans are not in the habit of that sort of thing. Not a bad way to be. A man’s brains and abilities are more important than his family, don’t you think?”

  The general snorted and asked if he was a damned egalitarian, and the vicar jumped in to soothe the suddenly troubled waters of the conversation. Priscilla seized the opportunity to slip out of the room unnoticed and run up the stairs. Quickly she scrubbed the dirt off her hands and changed into a clean dress, then brushed out her hair and pinned it back into its usual tidy roll. She paused for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. She had never been a woman who spent much time in front of mirrors, having always felt that there were more interesting things to do. She knew that she was not bad-looking, was even considered pretty by many men. Her figure was good, and her complexion was a creamy white. Her features were regular, and her gray eyes were large and dark-lashed. But her attractiveness, or lack of it, had never been her major concern. She had known that she was too smart and outspoken for most men, too poor for many others, and not breathtakingly beautiful enough to overcome such disadvantages. Suitors, she had found, were usually more trouble than they were worth in the long run.

  But today she found herself lingering in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. Was her dress too plain? There was no decoration on it at all, not even a ribbon or ruffle. Was her coiffure too severe? It would flatter her more if her chestnut hair were fuller around her face. She wore it this way only because it took more time to do anything else to it.

  Her hands went to her hair, starting to pull out the pins and start all over again, but she stopped herself. This was ridiculous. So what if she did not look as attractive as she might in front of John Wolfe? After all, there was no reason she should. She was not trying to get him to fall in love with her. It did not matter that he had kissed her passionately; he had no serious intentions toward her, no real feeling. He was obviously a very passionate man. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of his lips on hers, his arms around her. Anyway, she reminded herself, he had kissed her that way with her looking no better than she did now. She couldn’t keep a little smile from curving her lips.

  Then she shook herself sternly and started toward her door. She wanted to see if John had found anything after a further search of the traveling bag. She was not going to waste time primping.

  Downstairs, she found him sitting at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea in front of him, as well as a plate of tea cakes. He was talking with Mrs. Smithson while she bustled about, washing dishes and stirring various things in pots on the stove.

  He stood up when Priscilla came quietly into the kitchen. She had managed to slip down the stairs and along the hall without being noticed by any of the people in the drawing room. Thank God the general had a loud voice.

  She stopped, staring at John in his new clothes. If he had looked good before in Lord Chalcomb’s old-fashioned, ill-fitting garments, he looked doubly handsome now. The soft white shirt and brown trousers were perfectly fitted to his tall, wide-shouldered frame; there was none of the comical aspect that her brother’s too-small garments or Lord Chalcomb’s hopelessly out-of-date ones had given to him. He looked powerful and imposing.

  For a moment Priscilla was tongue-tied, struck by his handsomeness. Then she cleared her throat and said, “I can see that the case was yours. Those clothes were obviously tailored just for you.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Not that it does us much good. I practically took that bag apart, and I could find nothing that even hinted at who I am. The only thing the thieves left behind were a pair of cuff links, but they were plain, not even an initial on them. I may be dressed more comfortably, but I still know nothing about myself.”

  “That’s not true,” Priscilla said stoutly, crossing the kitchen to sit down at the table with him. “We know one thing—you must be a man of some substance. Those clothes are personally tailored and made of expensive materials. You must be well-to-do to dress like that.”

  “A well-off American,” he said, encapsulating his knowledge about himself. “I could be thousands of people.”

  “A well-off American traveling through this part of England,” Priscilla reminded him. “There must be some reason for your being here. Someone who is expecting you farther down the road. They will begin to search, surely, when you do not show up.”

  “That is provided that I really am expected by someone.” He frowned. “I think my best chance is to find those men.”

  “The ones who kidnapped you?” Priscilla’s voice vaulted upward. “But why? We’ve spent all this time trying to avoid them.”

  “I had no desire to be bushwhacked by them,” he corrected her. “I want to meet them again, but on my terms. I want to be the one on the offensive. I shall have the element of surprise, not they.”

  “But there are two of them! Even if you do surprise them, you are still likely to get hurt.”

  “I will separate them if I can. Besides, I am almost back to full strength now. If I am prepared for them, they will not be able to take me down again.”

  “Just what do you suggest doing?”

  “Going to town. I shall walk around and ask questions. See if I can catch sight of one of them. Or if anyone else has seen them.”

  “What good will it do you if you do find them?”

  He smiled thinly. “I will persuade them to tell me who hired them. Once we find that out, I shall have a much better idea of who I am.”

  Priscilla scowled. His words made sense, but she did not like the idea of his exposing himself to danger that way. He might think, with his masculine pride, that he could take care of any number of men, but Priscilla was not so sanguine. These were wicked men, and they might have other cronies.

  “You’re right,” she said finally. “That is our best option. We shall go to town.”

  “We?” he repeated. “I think not. I am going alone.”

  Priscilla sighed. He was the most stubborn man. “And how are you going to know where to go or who to ask in a strange town? Why, you don’t even know how to get there.”

  He grimaced, crossing his arms across his chest and looking stubborn. “I am hunting for two rogues, Priscilla. I can hardly take a lady along with me.”

  “You need help, and I should think it would not matter if it came from a woman or a man.”

  “I refuse to expose you to danger. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  “It isn’t difficult to understand. I simply refuse to accept your decision. I intend to help you.”

  “Why are you so stubborn?” He glared at her.

  She glared back. “Why are you?”

  He ground his teeth noisily, and Pr
iscilla thought for a moment that he might explode into shouting. But he contented himself with bringing his fist down with a loud thud on the table and saying, “Damn! It’s a wonder no one has ever strangled you before now. All right; come with me.”

  If the truth be known, he really wasn’t as furious with her as he made out to be, as he knew he should be. He enjoyed her company; he liked to hear her laugh, to hear her quick, intelligent comments, to look over at her as they walked along. It had been fun having her with him today, and even though he knew he was probably a scoundrel to let her endanger herself this way, he actually looked forward to having her accompany him.

  “I don’t suppose that it would stop you, even if I said you could not come,” he said wryly.

  Priscilla smiled. “That’s true.”

  She could see Mrs. Smithson, over at the stove, shaking her head despairingly as she stirred one of the pots. Priscilla knew quite well what she was thinking—and would say, given the first opportunity:

  “Why are you so terrible independent-acting? You’ll never get yourself a husband that way, Miss Priscilla.”

  Her retort, always, was that she neither needed nor wanted a husband. But she found herself looking now at the man sitting at the table with her and wondering if that was still true. What if the husband was a man like John Wolfe? What if there was an aura of mystery and danger that clung to him? What if there was a wonderful zest to arguing with him—and the man didn’t hold a grudge forever because you’d won? What if his kisses stirred her as John’s did, and his merest touch made her tremble?

  She was shocked at the course her thoughts were taking. She was not interested in marrying John Wolfe. There was no reason to change her vow not to marry just because this man had a charm and looks that other men had not. It was ridiculous even to be thinking about the subject. She was certain that he would not have any interest in marrying her, either. What he was interested in was an altogether different thing. Of course, she realized, if she was to be honest with herself, she was interested in that other thing, also. It was desire that drew her to John, not love or a yearning for marriage. Why, she barely knew the man. All it could be was pure animalistic passion. She was a freethinking woman, and she was willing to admit that women felt desire, too, without necessarily feeling any love or willingness to marry. It was a position she had argued many times. However, she had never really thought about such a thing happening to her.