by Lauren Royal
“I want to play with Anne,” Mary said. “I told her I would bring my doll over this morning. Mama made me a most lovely doll,” she told Sir Cameron.
“Why would you promise Anne such a thing?” Clarice started toward her door. “You knew that today you’re to salt and mold the butter.”
Mary trailed after her. “I forgot,” she said, her cheeks flushing pink. Cam sneezed as he followed them through the garden. “Please, Mama?” she asked as he shut the door behind them.
Cam would never have found it in him to deny the wee lass, but Clarice looked resolute. Mary turned to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Would you mind very much taking Mama rowing without me? Only because I promised Anne.”
Was the little minx plotting to get him and Clarice alone together? “I’ll miss you,” he told Mary with a broad smile, “but nay, I wouldn’t mind. It’s important to keep your promises.”
“The butter—” Clarice began.
“I’ll do it later, Mama. I promise, like I promised Anne. She’s waiting.” Mary’s blue eyes begged. “Please?” she repeated.
Cameron saw Clarice’s features soften. “Very well. I’ll walk you to the cookshop.” She put the basket on the table. “But as for going rowing alone with Sir Cameron—”
“We’ll be out in the open for the world to see,” he rushed to reassure her. “There’s nothing unseemly about that.”
While Mary skipped to her trundle to fetch her doll, Clarice lifted an enormous pile of neatly folded and colorfully decorated throw blankets, holding them before her as though she hoped they were armor Cam couldn’t pierce.
“May I see one?” he asked.
“Certainly.” She lifted her chin from the top of the stack, and he took one and shook it out. “Crewel work,” she explained. “They fetch a pretty penny in London.”
“You’re very talented with a needle.” The designs were lovely. “Were you thinking to take them to London now?”
Musical laughter filled the room, lifting his heart. “I’ve never been to London. Martinson—the village blacksmith—he visits his sister there twice a year and sells them for me.” She replaced her chin on the pile. “I heard he’s leaving next week, so I thought to bring them by. The smithy is beside the cookshop.”
“Anne’s mama owns the cookshop,” Mary put in.
“Ah, I see.” Cameron followed them to the door. “Do you mind if I walk along with you? I could carry some for you.”
“As you wish.” Clarice visibly relaxed when he relieved her of more than half the pile. “But I’m not going rowing.”
SIX
HALF AN HOUR later, Clarice was stepping into a well-used hired rowboat.
Warm sunshine glinted off her plaited blond bun as she seated herself on the wooden bench and settled her pale yellow skirts about her. Cam took up the oars and paddled them into the center of the River Caine, where the gently flowing water took over the work, drawing them downstream.
“A lovely day, isn’t it?” He set down the oars and swept off his hat, tilting his face to the sun with an appreciative sigh. “I’d wager it’s raining now in Scotland.”
“Do you think so?”
“Aye.” He moved to sit beside Clarice, one hand near to hers where it was clenched on the edge of the bench. “A good bet, as it’s usually raining. Though it’s beautiful for all of that.” England was pretty, especially here by the river, but he preferred the more striking, harsh contours of his homeland. Inching his hand closer, he linked his little finger with hers. “Scotland is a bonnie place to live.”
Without pulling her hand away, she stared straight ahead, feigning interest in a pair of swans floating on the river. “I’m certain Scotland is lovely. But so very far from here.”
“Not so far.” He twined another finger with hers. “Caithren has already promised to pay a visit next summer.”
“But she’s from there, isn’t she? She would want to go home.”
“Her home is here now, with her husband. As it should be.” A quick bit of maneuvering, and three of his fingers were wrapped about a like number of hers. “But aye, she’ll want to come see me and keep an eye on what I’ve wrought with the land of our forebears.”
Her hand felt cool, her fingers slightly roughened from her work. More evidence, had he not known it already, that she stood on her own two feet and did what had to be done.
If—hypothetically, of course—he were to marry, he’d need a bride who would shoulder her fair share of the never-ending tasks around Leslie. His cousin Caithren was like that, and the more time he spent in Clarice’s company, the more he found himself thinking she was the same sort. The sort who would be a helpmate and a friend as well as a wife.
He blinked at that thought. “Has the village always been your home?”
“Always. I’ve never once laid my head anywhere else.” She shot a swift glance to their joined hands. “I was born here in Cainewood…more than twenty-three years ago.”
Cameron didn’t miss the falter in her voice. “And you’re thinking that’s a long time, are you?”
She pulled her hand away and folded it with the other one in her lap. “I’m nearly twenty-four. How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” he said, shifting on the bench to face her.
Her eyes grew hazy, contemplative…disappointed? “Just as I thought,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I appreciate your attentions, Sir—”
“Cameron. Just call me Cameron.”
Clarice hesitated. While she didn’t want to anger him by ignoring the request, she didn’t want to encourage him, either. A small part of her had hoped he only looked youthful, that he was her age or maybe just a year or two younger.
But nineteen! Lud, she was more than four years his senior!
And a widow with a child.
“I appreciate your attentions,” she repeated, omitting the Sir this time. “It’s quite flattering under the circumstances—”
“And what circumstances might those be?”
She averted her gaze, but the bright pink musk-mallow flowers that dotted the riverbank looked entirely too cheerful. “I’m half a decade older than you.”
“A slight exaggeration,” he said. “And you’ve lived your entire life here in Cainewood. I reckon I’ve seen more of the world.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I promise, Clarice, the difference in our ages doesn’t matter.”
For the first time, she sensed an impatience in him that should have frightened her, given her past. But for some odd reason, it didn’t. Or not much.
She drew herself up. “How about my feelings, sir? Do they matter?”
“Of course your feelings matter.” Leaning near, he captured her gaze with his clear hazel eyes. “But maybe you’ll find that I can change them.”
He was close, so close. Too close. She stopped breathing. How could it be that even with full awareness of her low station and true age, this handsome young baronet—this literally breathtaking young man—still wanted her?
It was nonsensical.
And even more nonsensical, part of her wished he were serious. That he wanted her for good.
Her heart fluttered dangerously. It seemed the fairytale wasn’t over after all. But it would end soon enough, and then she would fall back to Earth, hurt again by a man.
Because that was what men did to women.
Somehow, she managed to find air. “You cannot just wish my feelings different—”
He silenced her with a kiss that stole her breath again, a soft press of his mouth so warm and tender it seemed to melt her very bones. When he pulled back, she stared at him, silent.
His eyes darkened with concern. “Is something amiss?”
“Your lips are soft,” she murmured. She’d never known a man’s lips could be soft. Her husband’s sure hadn’t been.
Sir Cameron smiled broadly. “So are yours.”
“But—”
“Hush.” His mouth touched
hers again. His arms slid around to pull her close, and she unwittingly let him draw her along the bench until her body was clasped tightly to his. Of their own accord, it seemed, her hands crept up and stole around his neck, threading themselves in the silky-softness of his hair.
As their lips moved together, she abandoned herself to a whirl of new sensations. So strange, so thrilling, so wondrous…
So improper.
She withdrew at once, glancing about, relieved to find they’d drifted far enough downstream that no one else was in sight. “I—”
“Hush,” he said again, taking her face in his hands and pressing his forehead against hers.
She stared into his eyes, so very close to hers, seeing in their depths an earnestness and an honesty she’d never before sensed in any man. But it was only because he was so young. He hadn’t experienced the way life could bruise and batter, not just the body but also the spirit.
“You liked kissing me,” he whispered. “So why are you trying to escape?”
“I’m not.” She tried to shake her head, but only succeeded in rubbing noses. “I just…I only…well, you surprised me, is all.”
“I want to take you home with me, Clarice. I told you so yesterday.”
“You were jesting,” she breathed, trying to quash that part of her that hoped.
His lips brushed hers again, and her eyes drifted closed, then popped back open in dismay when he broke the kiss.
The secret little smile was waiting for her. “Aye, you like it. And I’m not so sure I was jesting.”
Before she could react to that, his mouth met hers once more.
This kiss felt sublime. She sank into it, reveling in new feelings. It seemed a long time before he pulled away.
As she fought to calm her breathing and recover her wits, he grazed her cheek with the backs of his long fingers. “You seem so…innocent,” he murmured, his hazel eyes growing murky, a slight blush confirming his meaning. “But you cannot be. You have a daughter, a lovely bright daughter who could charm the warts off a toad, if she so chose.”
Clarice smiled faintly. “I’ve no doubt of that, sir.” Then she sobered. “I did not give birth to Mary. She was brought to me an orphan, a year ago, by Lord Cainewood. But I’m not ‘innocent,’ as you say. I was married seven years. And…” She looked down, her gaze settling on the bottom of the old boat.
He touched her hand and spoke in a low, kind voice. “And you were nearly raped, is that what you wanted to tell me? You needn’t say the words. I’ve learned from Caithren what happened—your sorrowful ordeal that ultimately brought her together with her new husband. Lord Cainewood blames himself, as I understand it.”
“It wasn’t his fault, though I reckon he may feel responsible. The man was out to hurt him and mistakenly thought he could do it through me. He thought”—she pushed at one of the oars with the toe of her shoe, then looked up at him—“he thought I was Lord Cainewood’s mistress.”
He rubbed a thumb under her chin. “You’re certainly pretty enough.”
She was as unused to compliments as she was to physical affection, and she didn’t know how to respond to either. So she didn’t. “The man would have finished the job he’d started, except for what happened to Mary.”
“Which was?”
“She was in his way. So he slammed her against a wall. When she lay there, still as death, he took off, afraid he’d killed her.”
“Which he nearly did, from what I’ve been told.”
She nodded gravely. “She didn’t awaken for weeks. But she’s better now.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I do,” she said in a whisper. “Every day.” From the look in her eyes, Cam didn’t doubt it. “But the truth is that now I’m healed I don’t think of what almost happened to me overmuch…it was nothing I hadn’t experienced before.”
He’d known it somehow, but the confirmation was like a hoof to the gut. “Before?”
“Within my marriage.”
He was silent for a long moment, holding himself perfectly still. He felt filled with rage he wanted desperately to unleash on those responsible for her pain. But the men who had hurt Clarice were dead, and anger wouldn’t help her now.
When the roaring in his ears had ceased and his temper was under control, he took one of her hands. “It’s sorry I am for you, Clarice. I’m sorry you were hurt, this last time and the times before. And I’m sorry because…I don’t understand. As a man, I don’t think I’ll ever understand.”
“You understand very well,” she said, wonder in her voice.
Cameron sensed that she wanted to say more. Steeling himself, he decided if she could survive such cruelty, surely he could bear the mere hearing of it. He moved away to give her space. “Would you tell me about your marriage?”
“I was fifteen.” She focused down at her hands clasped in her lap. “My folks had other mouths to feed. Will needed a wife and children. He was getting on in years—forty-five, he was—and he wanted to breed a family to support him in his dotage.”
“Your parents married you off to a man thrice your age?”
She looked up, her eyes flashing with challenge. “Is that so different from what you’re asking?”
He gazed at her unblinkingly. “Aye. It is.”
For a moment, that challenge persisted. For all that her declaration made not a lick of sense, he admired her spirit. He’d never wanted a biddable woman.
At length a long sigh escaped her lips. “It’s the done thing. I was a good daughter. I offered no argument.” She shrugged. “I spent my childhood working my hands to the bone in their home. I thought marriage would be easier.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Not with Will. All I wanted was a family of my own, a family I could do better with, children I could cherish. But…”
“What?” He leaned to touch her clasped hands. “Tell me.”
“Will couldn’t give me that.” Her voice broke, and she paused for a breath. “He betrayed our vows with other women, and he never gave them children, either.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. And then, “Marriage doesn’t have to be like that, Clarice. Painful and empty and childless.” Rushing on, he took her hands in his and squeezed. “It wouldn’t be like that with me.”
“Marriage! You’re jesting again.” But he looked uncertain, surprised by his own words, and Clarice was afraid he mightn’t be jesting, after all. “Even were I to take you seriously, and your youth aside, sir, the fact remains that Mary and I are better off alone. In all my life, I’ve never been happier than I am now…and I don’t mean to risk our happiness.”
Without a word, he brushed a stray blond strand behind her ear, and her cheeks heated even as she tightened her jaw.
And her resolve. “No matter what my body tells me, my head knows what’s best.”
He held her hands between his. “You speak of your body and your head. But what does your heart tell you, Clarice?”
Birds twittered in the background while she searched his face, a face smooth and unlined, unmarred by the scowls and spite that had characterized the only man she had lived with since leaving her parents’ home.
He’d asked what her heart told her, but she didn’t trust it now. “My heart is not at issue here. I—I cannot marry you. You’re…you’re a baronet, for heaven’s sake!” She struggled until he let loose her hands. “I cannot marry a baronet.”
A new protest. Cam wondered if it was progress or a step back. “Whyever not? You sound like the little sister.”
“Who?”
“The little sister, from the story of Nippit Fit and Clippit Fit. She knew her feet were small enough they might fit the shoe, but she couldn’t imagine herself as the wife of a prince. Do you remember? She thought people would make fun of her and say she wasn’t fit to be a princess.”
Clarice remained mute.
“Don’t sell yourself short, love. You’re fit to be a queen. It’s sorry I am that I can onl
y make you a mere Lady.”
The boat rocked violently when she stood. “This is not a fairytale, and I’m not the little sister. These big feet won’t fit into any glass shoes. I’m tall, not dainty. Too tall—”
“You’re not too tall for me.” He stood as well, to demonstrate, and the boat swung even more. She swayed wildly. Alarmed, he grabbed for her, but she leapt away.
And flailed backward, headfirst into the river.
SEVEN
CAMERON DOVE in after Clarice, snatching her to him when she came up sputtering.
“Lud!” She laughed, a sound of pure delight that shocked him to his core. He’d expected outrage. “You’re turning my life upside down, Cameron Leslie,” she said, swiping water from her eyes.
The river was frigid, and her teeth were already chattering, her lips tinged blue in a stark-white face. There was only one thing to do.
Kiss the warmth right back into them.
Deftly treading water, he managed to swing her into his arms and find her lips. She shocked him a second time by responding in kind. Deepening the kiss, she curled herself around him like a wet, willowy stole, and he was certain he’d never felt anything so glorious. His very heart seemed to swell within his chest.
And they might have gone on kissing until his heart burst, except Cameron gradually became aware they were drifting downstream—and the boat was drifting far ahead.
“Crivvens,” he whispered against Clarice’s lips. They would soon be down the river without a boat. He wouldn’t mind walking back, but he would mind having to pay the rowboat’s owner for its loss. Leslie Castle was bonnie, but the estate itself was cash poor.
“Wh-what?” Her voice sounded distant and dreamy. “What is it, Cam?”
Cam. He had to reward her for that with another kiss.
“Crivvens,” he said again a couple of minutes later.
“What on earth does that mean?”
“It means our boat is floating away.”
“Lud!” She looked around wildly. And then, “I cannot swim!”
She clung to him as he struck out for the boat. Not too long afterward, he hauled himself aboard and pulled her in after him. She sprawled on the bench, laughing. Until she looked down at her pale, wet gown plastered against her front.
