by Liz Carlyle
Helene’s climax came upon her fast, and he held her close, never flagging in his pace as she thrust hard against him. Softly, she cried out, clinging to him so sweetly that Cam felt the tears of love and guilt spring unbidden to his eyes as she crested, and called out his name from far, far away. So near, so powerful ... the pleasure rolled through his belly, then rose up to pull him under its rich, churning depths.
Long moments later, Cam dragged himself from atop her and rolled to one side of Helene’s bed and lay limply across her sheets. Now sated, he should have been drowsy, but he was far from it. His mind began to taunt him. Helene. Dear heaven, for all her elegant sophistication, her feminine wiles—she had yet been a virgin?
But there was no mistaking what he had done. What she had been. All these years. Wasted years, they suddenly seemed. The significance did not escape him. And now, he had taken something precious from her. And in the ugliest, most brutish of ways, too. Deeply ashamed, he shifted to one side to stare at Helene.
She lay perfectly still, her eyes shut. Slowly, he drew one hand down his face, but the reality did not change. Helene was still there. Beside him, he felt her tremble.
“Are you sorry?” She spoke without opening her eyes.
“My God, Helene,” he whispered, evading her question. “What have we—what have I done?” Cam levered up higher, and looked down at her. Had he harbored any doubt at all, the damning evidence was smeared faintly across her thigh.
“What have we done?” she echoed softly. “Only what we set out to do, long ago.”
“Helene,” his voice was pleading. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?” Her voice was husky with passion, but her eyes were narrow and knowing.
“I—yes,” he answered, hoping he spoke the truth. “Of course. Why did you not tell me?”
She rolled into him then, and suddenly he could see the unshed tears pooling in those cool, blue eyes. “Do you know, Cam, I think I did,” she softly protested. “I told you everything, a very long time ago. I love you. I shall love you until I die. I will wait for you. There will be no one else for me but you. Did you remember none of that?”
Cam could only stare at her, and Helene continued. “No. Of course you do not,” she answered dully, her head falling back onto her pillow. “You have gone on with your life. If I did not... choose the same path, that was my decision.”
“Oh, Helene!” he softly cried, rolling into her, and dragging her fine-boned body against him. “Just tell me. Do you—can you—still feel love for me?”
“Do not speak to me of love, Cam,” she said quietly. “It is not necessary. Not all virgins are innocent. We both know that.”
Cam rolled onto his back and dragged one arm over his face. “Damn it,” he whispered hollowly. “I am going to pay for this mistake in the worst sort of way, am I not? And rightly so.”
When she did not respond, he continued. “I came to believe, Helene, that you willingly abandoned me. That you surrendered our dreams in favor of something or someone else. I convinced myself you must have done so, else you would have returned to me. We’ve wasted too much time. And now, I have ruined you. We cannot delay our marriage.”
“Ruined me?” Helene gave a short, bitter laugh as she stared into the canopy above. “Women of my uncertain background do not get ruined, Cam. Nor do they get a wedding ring in recompense for their naiveté. I thought your father explained that long ago.”
“My father can rot in hell,” he answered, pulling her still closer into his embrace. “We shall be married, and it will be soon. And not because of what we have done.”
“Then why?” she asked suspiciously. “Only yesterday, your attentions were fixed elsewhere.”
“My attentions have been fixed on nothing but you since the moment you arrived and made my marriage to anyone else impossible,” he insisted, lightly touching his mouth to hers again. “And I rode like a fiend all the way home from Devon to tell you so. Because no matter how far away you go, no matter what you do, I have never stopped loving you.” He kissed her again, and drew her closer still.
“Oh, Cam—! I think I shall never fully understand you,” she insisted, but she snuggled into his embrace. He was winning her, perhaps. But he was almost afraid to hope.
Cam sighed into her hair. “Look here, Helene. I deeply regret some of my assumptions. But I’ll not lie and say I regret the outcome. I know we have much to sort out. I tried to say as much.”
Helene stared up at him, unblinking. Cam’s mouth curved a little bitterly. “Yes, Helene. Apart of you is justifiably angry. Can you trust me to make it right? Can you set aside your wrath, just for tonight? We are both so wounded, so emotionally raw. For just a few hours, can we pretend that we are lovers, alone in the world, with no trouble between us? As it used to be?”
Helene did not know what to do. And so for once, she simply did as she wished. She tucked herself into the crook of Cam’s shoulder, inhaled his warm, familiar scent, and listened as the comforting sound of his breathing deepened into sleep.
Oh, she knew that Cam had wronged her. But with his words, not his actions. The physical act of lovemaking had been as much her fault as his. Helene knew a dozen ways to discourage an amorous suitor, and had used none of them tonight.
Instead, she had remained in her bed, half enthralled, half indignant, and in truth, only a little frightened. As always, she relished an argument with Cam. She almost enjoyed undermining his resolve, and driving him to distraction. Theirs had always been a volatile, passionate relationship. In that, at least, nothing had changed.
For a long while, she lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds of the night.
“Helene—?” she heard Cam murmur into his pillow. He sounded half asleep.
“Yes?” She slid closer to his face.
“Your mouth,” he whispered, the words slow and thick with sleep. “Your mouth is so sinfully beautiful. The way you touch me ... it’s extraordinary. So innocently ... wicked.”
There was no misunderstanding what he referred to, and Helene grew warm at the thought of how wantonly she had behaved. Like a whore. Only whores usually did that, Maman had said. But she had wanted desperately to torment Cam, and Helene was reminded yet again that life with her mother had exposed her to things that a respectable woman would know nothing about.
She recalled with deep humiliation the time she and Cam had discovered Randolph’s collection of lewd drawings, left open in the drawing room after a night of revelry. At the age of fourteen, Helene had rarely paused to remember that there were some things young ladies did not discuss, and so she had boldly asked her mother about one drawing in particular.
In her usual halfhearted way, Maman had scolded her for meddling, then laughingly explained that what Helene had seen was something gentlemen liked—but ladies never did. “Unless,” Maman quickly added, “they had done something very bad, such as dreadfully overspend their allowance.”
Helene had taken the explanation to heart, and repeated it to Cam verbatim. For a time, they had found it wildly humorous, and terribly naughty. But that was before things had changed. Before things had become serious between them.
Suddenly, Helene was seized with a restlessness she could not define. “Cam?”
Beside her, Cam exhaled sonorously, but said nothing. Helene nudged him with her elbow. “Cam—!”
Half on his belly, Cam lifted his head from the pillow and stared blearily at her through a shock of black hair. “What?”
Helene felt her face flush with heat again, but she needed to know. “Did you like my mouth ... that is to say ... did you think what I did was—” And then, words simply failed her.
With a deep, manly groan, Cam rolled onto his back and covered his face with the pillow. “Good God, Helene!” he muttered from beneath the heap of feathers. “There’s nothing you won’t dare to say or do. It’s embarrassing.”
Helene had recovered her resolve. “Answer my question.”
At her stunned expression, Cam threw back his head and almost laughed aloud, then reached out with one strong arm to drag her nearer to his side. “Just go to sleep, Helene. Just hush up. I have waited a lifetime to drift off with you in my arms.”
Helene was not certain just how long she drowsed in Cam’s embrace, stroking her hand down his chest and drifting on the edge of slumber. An hour perhaps had passed when the pitiful sound awakened her well before dawn. She came fully awake and slid from the bed to scrabble among the clothing which lay scattered across the floor.
The plaintive cry sounded again, louder and more fearful now. Helene had no time in which to think about the risk that she had run in drifting off to sleep in Cam’s arms, no time at all in which to chastise herself for behaving so foolishly. Ariane’s voice was unmistakable, carrying faintly but certainly through the schoolroom.
In the darkness, she found her wrapper and jerked it on. Cam still slept in the center of her bed, his breathing deep and steady. With neither a lamp nor a candle, Helene hastened into the passageway and through the schoolroom to Ariane’s bedchamber. As she pushed open the door, she remembered that Martha was away. Her mother had fallen ill in the village. Tonight, there was no one save Helene to hear Ariane’s cries.
As Helene felt her way across Ariane’s bedchamber, the little girl began sobbing; deep, almost silent sounds of unmistakable terror.
“Ariane,” Helene spoke in the most reassuring voice she could muster as she approached the bed. “All is well, sweet. ’Twas a nightmare, nothing more.”
She settled onto the bed just as Ariane flew into her arms. The child clung to Helene with a frightened desperation. In the dark, Helene could see nothing, but she sensed that Ariane was now fully awake. As Helene murmured soft words of comfort, the girl’s wracking sobs slowly eased, until at last Helene was able to scrabble about on the night table for a light. The candle flared in the darkness, illuminating the haunted expression on Ariane’s face.
Helene leaned across the bed, and tipped up Ariane’s chin with her finger to stare into the girl’s limpid eyes. “Poor dear!” she whispered softly. “Poor, poor child! I do wish you would tell me what it is which so frightens you.”
Ariane’s eyes dropped to the linen sheet, now knotted tightly in her fist.
This time, Helene persisted. “You can tell me, Ariane. I know that you can.”
Mutely, the child shook her head, signaling her refusal, an action which, in and of itself, was an accomplishment.
Determinedly, Helene pushed. “You have guessed, Ariane, have you not, that I know your secret? Yes, I do. I know you can speak. I have heard you. Just once or twice—but enough to know what a smart girl you are.”
The child’s eyes widened with alarm, and Helene laid a gentle hand across her knee. “Do not worry, my dear. I shall keep your secret. But I do wish you would confide in me. I know only that you are afraid.”
Ariane dropped her chin, and shook her head again; small, stubborn jerks which confirmed that the girl would not yield. Lightly, Helene patted her leg. “Very well. You need say nothing until you wish to. Now, do you feel that you can sleep?”
She watched as Ariane scrubbed a fist under one eye. “Then I shall go, my sweet. But if you feel frightened again, you must cry out, or come through the schoolroom and knock hard upon my dressing room door.” Helene bent to kiss the child goodnight. “I will light your lamp on my way out. If I turn it down low, it shall likely burn until dawn.”
After lighting the lamp and pulling the door shut, Helene stepped into the pitch-black schoolroom and straight into Cam’s embrace. She suppressed a gasp as his arms came around her, firm and powerful. His mouth sought hers in the dark, and kissed her, hard, quick, but nonetheless unyielding.
His lips brushed against her ear. “What was that all about?” he breathed, his voice all but silent. “Is she ill? Is she frightened?”
Helene drew away from him, and led him back through the passageway into her bedchamber, then pushed the door firmly closed. “A nightmare, but she is fine now,” she whispered, feeling Cam’s tension ebb. “Did you hear everything?”
“Yes. Is it true?” he asked anxiously. In the darkness, she could feel his eyes searching her face.
“About my having heard her speak? Yes, it is true.”
“When?” His voice held unwavering concern; so much concern that one would never have guessed he knew the child was not his.
“The night you left for Devon,” she quickly answered. “Ariane had a terrible nightmare. And twice last week, I heard her whispering to herself in the garden when she thought herself alone.”
“She is well—?” he asked eagerly.
Helene shook her head. “I cannot say. But I began to think there’s nothing too terribly wrong. She is frightened and confused, yes. But her mind is in no way disordered, of that I am sure. I think we must be patient.”
Slowly, Cam nodded, then obviously deep in thought, knelt by the hearth to poke up the fire. The coals sprang weakly to life, illuminating his utter nakedness, and leaving Helene with the breathtaking impression of a majestic, untamed savage.
His dark hair was now a bit too long, not having been cut since well before his journey, and as he turned from the hearth to look at her, it brushed enticingly over his face like heavy black silk. He rose with the smooth, controlled grace of an athlete, the warm light limning his strong legs and perfectly muscled buttocks.
Helene drank in his image as Cam came toward her with absolute confidence. He was a quiet man; a man far more certain of his body and its abilities than with hollow words or pointless conversation. He had the hands of a farmer and the soul of a poet. And yet, he did not know himself. Or if he ever had, the twists and turns of fate had wrung that knowledge out of him.
But perhaps all was not lost? Holding her gaze predatorily, he caught Helene about the waist, leaned into her with his male hardness, and slid one hand up into her hair, stilling her for a kiss. A kiss which was long, deep, and just as confident as the rest of his movements.
After a lengthy moment, he set her away from him and shot her a quizzical smile. “This has been a most eventful evening,” he said softly. He crossed to the bed, drew back the covers and tilted his head to indicate that she should get in.
“Actually, it’s almost morning.” She hesitated. “I think you’d best go, Cam.”
Still holding the covers, he nodded. “Aye, soon,” he said quietly. “After we’ve settled a few things. Now get in. ’Tis too cold to stand about in your robe.”
He would not be swayed. She knew it, and surrendered. He crawled beneath the sheets beside her, and his weight settling onto the bed gave her a fleeting sense of security and contentment. Was this how it would feel to share a bed with the man you loved, night after night? Helene did not know, and had no wish to dwell overlong on the subject.
Cam pulled her into his embrace and dragged her deep beneath the heavy covers. “Thank you,” he said, kissing her lightly on the nose. “Thank you for caring for my child. Thank you for sharing so much with me this night.”
When Helene made no answer, Cam slid his big hand around her face and turned it into his. “Look, Helene, I’m a simple man with simple words. My temper’s quick, and my ways are rough, but I want to know if you’ll wed me despite it all. I think, you know, that you ought.”
She pulled her face away, and shook her head. “Cam, it is not ... necessary.”
“Ah—!” he said knowingly. “Not necessary. Necessary to whom, do you think? To you? To me? Or to the child you might be carrying? Certainly, I can answer for at least two of us.”
“Answer for yourself, Cam. There is no child.”
Cam smiled grimly. “You can
not know that, my dear. But let me concede the point, and speak only for myself. You are as necessary to me as air and water. It has always been so. You are my most exquisite pleasure. And my most exquisite torment.”
“What nonsense.” Helene tugged aimlessly at the coverlet. “You have existed perfectly well without me for years. Perhaps I can be forgiven for assuming you’ve not been alone in your bed.”
Cam sighed wearily. “Helene, I have been a widower for a long time now. And in that time, I have had women, yes. But bloody few. They brought me relief, but little comfort. For God’s sake, Helene, I am a man. What more can I say?”
“That is not my point, Cam,” she answered quietly. “I have no wish to hear a recitation of the beds you’ve warmed.” She shook her head. “I fear it may be too late for us, Cam. Perhaps it always was.”
“You do not understand.” His voice was husky now. “I waited for you, Helene. I may have looked like a green boy when you left me, but I knew my own mind. It may have been imprudent to love you so, but I did. And I waited.”
“Why do you keep tormenting me, Cam? I do not want to hear it. I cannot bear to believe it.” She pressed her fingertips into her temples as if to will the memories away.
“Believe it, Helene,” he said, almost bitterly. “I regret having spoken in anger to you tonight. My words were worse than vile. But I have always loved you. I wrote to you for two long years. Until there could be no doubt that your education was finished. After my fateful trip to Hampstead, Father laughed at me, told me to get on with life.”
“As perhaps you should have done.”
Cam shook his head. “No, I struggled and I waited two more years, trying to make something of myself, fighting to keep Chalcote from ruin. Waiting for you to come home. Wondering if you hated me. And in the end, I did what I had to do. What I should never have done. I let reason crush my dreams.”
