Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02]

by A Pirates Pleasure

  “Ah! So the Camerons are known to harbor criminals!”

  “Criminals? Never!” His eyes sparkled so that she discovered she had to smile in turn. “No criminals, madame, just those with visions different than some. Those passionate, and sometimes foolish, in their loyalties. There was little danger when he harbored Jemmy’s revolutionaries. You see, James the Second did not last long upon his throne. William of Orange was a dour fellow, so they say, but extremely bright. With James’s daughter Mary he started his own bloodless and ‘glorious’ revolution and between them and their very proper and Prostestant ways, they took the throne. And they were a tolerant pair. Alas, poor Mary died quickly, and then William, and then Queen Anne wore the crown, and now it is a German from Hanover. Meanwhile, over here, at Cameron Hall, we merely battle Indians and mosquitoes and disease, and we set sail from our coasts to battle the Spanish each time our reigning monarch declares us to be at war. We watched Jamestown burn, and burn again, and my father was delighted when they moved the capital to Williamsburg.”

  “And you, Lord Cameron, what do you delight in?”

  It was a leading question; one she shouldn’t have asked. He took her hand and kissed it slowly, meeting her eyes. “My love, I don’t remember. Since I have seen your face, I delight in your presence.”

  There was a wicked gleam about his eyes. Skye snatched her hand away. “I believe, Lord Cameron, that since you have seen my face, you have delighted in taunting me!”

  He bowed gracefully to her. “That, too, Lady Cameron. That, too.”

  He turned and strode back to the helm, shouting out orders as he did so. She did not miss his smile of amusement, despite his quick motion. He knows! she thought furiously. It was almost as if he knew the very truth of her heart, and taunted her mercilessly for it. She gritted her teeth and stared toward shore. The ship was coming about at the dock. She could see a throng of people there; it was like a holiday. Barefoot sailors cast ropes to the dock and the ship was soon brought to her berth. The sails were all furled and men worked to coil the rigging. Wives called to husbands, children to their fathers. It was a fascinating and colorful display. Tara and Bess were silent, in awe of the commotion. Skye was quiet, wondering at her future. She stared up the slope to the house. Her father would be there. And this fiasco would come to an end. She would go home and see her friends in Williamsburg. Mattie would be there, keeping house. Skye would be her father’s hostess, planning parties and engagements with Mattie, discovering the gardens again, walking to the governor’s new mansion for afternoon tea. It would be all right. She would pitch into her life with energy and fervor, and she would forget the pirate Silver Hawk, just as she would forget his noble cousin.

  That was not to come so quickly, though. The plank was being stretched to the dock and Lord Cameron was coming her way once again. “My love?” He took her elbow, not allowing her to refuse his touch.

  “I am not your love!”

  “Come!” he commanded swiftly.

  She had little choice. “Wait until I see my father!” she threatened him in a whisper.

  “I wait with bated breath, madame,” he assured her.

  They stood upon the plank. Lord Cameron paused, smiling his charismatic smile. A cheer went up, and cries of welcome. He silenced them all. “My bride, Skye, Lady Cameron!” he announced. More cheers went up. Little urchins struggled from their mother’s skirts to see her. Scarves were waved high in the air.

  He led her across the plank and to the dock, and there he started making introductions so swiftly that her head began to ring. “My love, here’s Mary, the rector’s daughter. And Jeanne, his wife. Mr. Tibault, and Mr. Oskin—they are our tenants, my love, and farm the northern acres of the hundred. Mrs. Billingsgate—” He paused, brushing an old woman’s face with a quick kiss that sent her to flushing like wildfire. “Her late husband sailed with me. She runs a wee store here at the docks for the men and their wives. She brews tea and ale and makes fine, sweet biscuits!”

  Mrs. Billingsworth bobbed quickly to Skye, still blushing. Her eyes fell back to her lord, adoringly. He did have his charm, Skye admitted, and it seemed that his people were all a bit spellbound by it. He was a popular master.

  “Ah, the carriage!” he said, and pulled her forward. With every step, there were more rapid introductions. She nodded here and there, meeting people whose names she would never remember. Everywhere she was greeted with warmth, and nowhere did she manage to say that she was not Lord Cameron’s wife, nor would she ever be so.

  He brought her to a handsome coach that would have been wonderfully appropriate for a fine English estate. The Cameron coat of arms was emblazoned upon the doorway. A footman opened the door while a coachman drove the fine team of four dapple grays. Skye entered the coach and he quickly followed her in. She sat back. It was luxurious indeed. A whip cracked in the air, and the horses started off. The ride was smooth, the upholstery was deep and cushiony and in an elegant teal velvet.

  But even this ride had its price. He was watching her.

  “What is it, madame, that dissatisfies you so?”

  Skye moved against the door because he was leaning too close to her; his eyes were dark and probing, and she was suddenly afraid. He could be a brooding man, silent or eloquent as he chose. His temper could be great, she knew, soaring like flash fire before it became carefully leashed once more. “I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured. How long could this ride be? They were so near the house.

  And he could be, at times, so like the Silver Hawk. He could reach inside of her. He could tease and evoke the same fevers, and make her feel as if she gasped for breath, as if she could forget the past, or remember it all too well.

  “What is it, madame, that you do not like? My pride in my home is exorbitant, perhaps, but it is still one of the richest estates in all Tidewater Virginia—in all of the colony, I imagine. There is a certain prestige to be discovered here. The house has every luxury available, madame. We are a seafaring people, and acquire all manner of fine imports. Our table is always bountiful. So what is it, madame, that you do not like about being Lady Cameron?”

  She smiled very sweetly. “Lord Cameron!” she told him, and turned quickly to look out the window. She did not know if she had ignited his temper, and she suddenly did not care to discover the truth of it if she had.

  She heard his soft laughter, but it came with an edge. “We will see about that,” he promised her.

  “Aye, we shall!” she agreed.

  The coach came to a halt. The door was swung open by the footman, whom Lord Cameron quickly thanked. Then he reached for Skye. She fell against him as he lifted her from the carriage to lower her to the ground. His eyes touched upon her. “Indeed, we shall see!” he promised her.

  She was dismayed to discover that her heart raced frantically. Quickly she lowered her eyes and disengaged from him. He took her elbow, leading her quickly up the steps to the porch with its massive Greek columns. Doors to a massive hallway with a polished wood floor lay open to them and a very correct butler in handsome livery awaited them.

  “Peter, how goes it, man?”

  “Well enough, sir. A bit o’ the gout in my leg, but that is all.” The man swept a low bow to Skye. “We welcome you, milady, with all of our pleasure and very best wishes!”

  Petroc Cameron stood away, and as Skye looked into the wide hallway, blinking against the sunlight, she saw that the household servants were all arrayed to meet her and offer her best wishes. She met the groom and the cook and the upstairs maids and the downstairs maid and the head groom and his staff. She smiled graciously, and seethed inside. She would not stay! And with every passing moment, she felt as if ties bound ever more tightly around her.

  When she came to the end of the line, she discovered that her husband had disappeared. The butler Peter was waiting for her. He bowed again, offering a pleasant and eager smile. She thought that for all the very proper dress and appearance of the servants, things were very different
here. Cameron was a lord, but he was a colonial, too. A Yankee, like herself. It was not England. Servants, tenants, and masters all depended upon one another, and so the lines of society were far less rigid here. Peter, she thought, was more Roc Cameron’s friend than a mere servant. And he was eager to please her for his master’s sake.

  “Milady, if you’ll be so good as to come along, I will show you to your room.”

  “Fine. Thank you. But, Peter, where is my father? Lord Cameron said that he would be here.”

  “Lord Kinsdale has not yet arrived, milady.”

  “Oh,” Skye murmured, disappointed.

  “If you will, please …” Peter indicated a graceful and sweeping stairway. She followed him along it, looking about. The manor was truly fine and gracious. The hallway loomed beneath her, while a fine gallery stood above her. She followed the curve of the banister and came at last to the landing, another hallway, leading to the main room, and to the two wings of the house, east and west.

  She paused in the hallway. It was a portrait gallery, the type made popular during the reign of Elizabeth I. There was a fine array of Camerons portrayed there, beautiful women, handsome, provocative men.

  Too many of them with the haunting, silver eyes! she thought, and shivered. They could be so much alike. The Hawk could just as easily have his portrait hung here as the rightful Cameron heir. Shave him and queue him neatly and dress him fashionably and—

  “Milady, this way, please.”

  He took her through the hall to a more narrow corridor leading into the west wing. There he cast open a set of double doors to a large chamber.

  Skye stepped inside.

  The room was huge and handsome. Paned windows reached near to the floor on the far side, looking out upon the James River and the beautiful slope of the land. Skye walked to them first, and instinctively murmured with delight. Then her murmurs and delight faded as she slowly turned around to look at the room.

  It was dominated by a huge four-poster bed with handsome blue velvet draperies. Far to the right were bookshelves, and far to the left was the fireplace with several wingback chairs brought near to the hearth. There was a huge trunk at the foot of the bed, and there were matching armoires in the two rear corners. Across from the fire and facing the windows was a large oak desk, and closer to the sunlight was a small round table covered simply in white linen. An open doorway led to a dressing room. Skye strode to the doorway and stepped through, bracing herself against the shadows there. There was a washstand and a pitcher and bowl and beyond it a huge brass hip tub and a necessary chair. To the far rear of this smaller room was a rack hung with coats and apparel.

  Men’s coats, men’s apparel.

  She stepped out from the dressing room. Her trunks were already arriving here. She didn’t speak, but looked around once more. It was the master’s room, beyond a doubt. It faced the river, and it caught the river breezes. It was a handsome and masculine room. It offered every amenity and elegance, but it retained something of a manly air.

  “This—this cannot be my room!” she protested to Peter.

  Peter, startled, looked her way. “Milady, this is Lord Cameron’s room, of course. He instructed me to bring you here, Lady Cameron.”

  “But I’m not really—”

  She broke off, not willing to argue with his servants. It would get her nowhere, she realized. Her trunks were already arriving, carried by grooms and houseboys, who all bowed to her again with shy and welcoming pleasure. If she protested, they would merely think that she had gone mad.

  Her fight was with Lord Cameron. She had to stop him from this madness, and no one else.

  She clenched her fists to her sides and approached Peter. “Where is your master, Peter.”

  “He’s busy, Lady Cameron—”

  “I did not ask you that. Where is he?”

  “His office, milady. But I would not—”

  “No, Peter, you should not—but I would, and I will interrupt him,” she said sweetly. She left Peter and the servants and the wing behind, coming out upon the portrait gallery and clutching the banister to scamper down the length of the stairway. She felt all those pairs of blue and gray and silver eyes following her down to the landing in the lower hallway.

  In his office …

  She pushed open a door to the left and discovered the formal dining room. Swords crossed over the fireplace, the table sat at least twenty, a Persian rug lay over the floorboards and beneath the table, and the Cameron coat of arms covered the far wall. Windows looked out upon the sloping lawns of the estate.

  Skye slammed the door and went on. The next one entered to a music room with comfortable chairs and a beautiful rug and molded and corniced ceilings. She slammed that door and went on, discovering a parlor decorated to the Sun King’s tastes. She slammed that door, too, and hurried across the hallway. She shoved open the first door and discovered Roc Cameron behind a massive, polished desk. There was a huge globe on the floor nearby, and every shelf there was lined with books. Again, it was a masculine room.

  He had shed his coat and wore only his breeches and fine laced shirt. He pored over correspondence, a frown on his face that faded when he saw her standing there. He laid down the letter he was reading, and waited. He did not invite her in. He didn’t even speak.

  For a moment she panicked. She had rushed here, she had torn apart the house, and she wasn’t even sure what she intended to say.

  She should have just run, she thought. She should have very sweetly agreed to everything, and when the servants had all disappeared, she should have run for the stables and stolen a horse. She didn’t know the peninsula well, but he had said that it was three hours to Williamsburg. Surely she could find her way!

  “Are you coming in? Have you something to say? Or have you come merely to stare at me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Skye came in, closing the door behind her. She strode to his desk, then discovered herself tongue-tied. She pushed away from it and paced, then suddenly sat in the leather chair before his desk.

  “You have put me in your room,” she accused him.

  He lifted his hands and shrugged. She sensed that a smile played beneath the bland and innocent stare that he gave her. “You are my wife,” he said.

  “I dispute that.”

  “You may dispute the sun, but when it rises, it is still daylight.”

  She slammed a fist against the table. “You said that my father would be here.”

  “I expected him, yes.”

  He was telling the truth, she thought. He seemed as puzzled as she that Theo had not yet arrived.

  Skye sat back. “If my father were here,” she told him with narrowed eyes, “you would not attempt to put me in your room!”

  “Madame, if your father were here, and his father, and his father’s father, I would still put you in my quarters. You are my wife.”

  “But—”

  “I left you be upon the ship, milady, out of the delicacy of the situation. We are home now. Upon terra firma. I weary of the waiting, madame.”

  She stiffened, leaning back. He meant his words. She could not be his wife!

  And unless she did escape him that very afternoon, there seemed little hope for it. Her stomach catapulted. He would discover her a liar in the very worst way. What would he do to her then? What could he do, except release her …?

  And yet, she didn’t dare chance the discovery. Nor did she think that she could bear his touch. She dreaded it; she felt the heat of it too keenly. She didn’t know if she despised the man, or if she was fascinated by him beyond all measure. The tempest living inside of her was unbearable.

  “I can’t!” she said suddenly, certainly.

  “Can’t?”

  She leaped up from the chair, walking about the room in a state of agitation. Could she say what she intended about the Silver Hawk? What difference would it make? If the Hawk were ever captured, he would hang pure and simple, and her words could not make him die any
more or less thoroughly.

  For a moment, though, it seemed as if her heart itself sizzled, for she was betraying something. It was love, she thought, for indeed, despite her later anger, the tenderness and care of the pirate had drawn upon her every emotion. She had, indeed, loved him with care as well as passion. Now she betrayed that very love, but it seemed she had little choice.

  “I cannot be your wife because …”

  He sat back. “Because …?” he prompted.

  She turned her back to him, looking to the windows. If she was going to die, she might as well do it dramatically, wholeheartedly.

  She dropped her head in abject shame. “I cannot come to you as your wife. Ever. I am not what I appear to be. I—”

  She broke off.

  “He—he raped me!” she claimed.

  “He what?”

  The chair fell back as Lord Cameron jumped to his feet in indignity. He came behind her, grabbing her shoulders, spinning her around. “He—what?”

  She kept her head lowered, willing a glaze of tears to her eyes. Slowly she let her head fall back. “He is a pirate, you know! Scourge of the seas. A deadly, horrible rogue.”