Indiscreet

by Candace Camp

  The longer they roamed the grounds, the more Camilla wondered if Benedict suspected something. He had been very suspicious yesterday morning about where she had been. Had he seen her going to or leaving the island? Or had he spied Anthony coming over here? If he really was a customs agent, as Anthony thought, then perhaps he thought that the smugglers worked out of the ruins. She supposed that that would be a logical enough guess. She decided to try to hint him away from that idea.

  “You know,” she said as they wandered back toward the grassy, sunny spot where they had decided to dine, “the locals are all terrified of the ruins.” She watched him carefully to gauge his reaction.

  There was nothing but mild interest on his face as he replied, “Really? Why?”

  “There’s a local legend that it’s haunted. I suppose it started because it’s such a desolate-looking place now, though most of the stones were removed for building the new house, not because of any real destruction.”

  “It certainly looks a likely place for ghosts.” He spread out a blanket for them to sit on, and Camilla began to unpack the basket.

  “I suppose that is why they believe they’re here.”

  “What sort of ghosts?”

  “All kinds. Some say there is a woman whose child died, and she walks along the gallery, which is no longer there, and wrings her hands and wails. Then there’s a woman in white—isn’t there always? Mysterious lights. I don’t know what else. None of it’s true. I mean, we have lived right across from it all our lives, and we’ve never seen anything. But the villagers are all scared of it.”

  Camilla slid a sideways glance at him. She could not tell from his expression whether her words had made any impression upon him.

  Cook had outdone herself with the luncheon, perhaps carried away with the idea of the romantic getaway for the newlyweds, just as Aunt Lydia had been. After lunch, they sat and talked, gazing across the water, toward the cliffs opposite them and, beyond, Chevington Park itself. As they sat, Benedict put his arm around her shoulders. Camilla could not keep from letting out a little sigh of pure pleasure and leaning against him. How sweet it was to sit this way with him. Unexpected tears gathered in her eyes. She wondered how something that felt so good and sweet could also be so painful.

  The good feeling came from the pleasure, the happiness of being with him, of having him close and tender. The pain, she knew, came from the fact that she loved him.

  It was something she had not wanted to admit, even to herself, but it had been growing within her for days. How ironic that she had fallen in love with this man playing the role of her husband. Was he so good an actor? Or was Benedict, a man whose last name she did not even know, the one man in the world for her? After all these years, had she stumbled in this bizarre way on a man to whom she could finally give her heart?

  It was absurd. She wished with all her heart that it was not so. But she had known as soon as the thought popped into her head that it was true—no, even before that. It had been when he put his arm around her and leaned his head against hers, and she realized that this was exactly what she wanted.

  Benedict turned her chin toward him with his forefinger, and he kissed her. It was soft and warm and sweet, and Camilla wanted it never to end. As they kissed, the sweetness turned to heat, and they were straining together, arms wrapped tightly around each other. Gently he pushed her back onto the blanket, covering her with his body. His skin was searing; all the banked fires from the night before had sprung to life in him again.

  A breeze caressed their bodies and tangled their hair. They kissed again and again. His hand roamed her body, scorching her through her clothes, and Camilla tentatively touched his chest. His quick, indrawn breath at her naive touch emboldened her to move her hand over his chest and back and arms, exploring the contrast of bone and muscle beneath the soft lawn of his shirt. She recalled the way he had looked naked the evening before, and the way his bare skin had felt beneath her fingers. She slipped her hand inside his shirt at the neck, and he shuddered, his mouth devouring hers.

  His mouth left hers and began a trek down her throat to the neckline of her dress, leaving a line of fire in its wake. Camilla dug her fingers into his hair, caressing him. Her own hair whipped wildly around her face.

  “I want you,” Benedict mumbled against her throat. “God, I don’t think I can take another night of this.” He began to kiss his way back up to her chin.

  “Then don’t.”

  “What?” He stopped, raising himself on his elbows, and looked down at her. His black eyes burned into hers.

  “I mean, I don’t want that, either,” she replied, a little amazed at her own temerity. But she knew, as certainly as she had realized that she loved him, that this was her one chance at love. Soon this would all be over. He would be gone, and she would be left alone. At least, she thought, she could have some memories. “I want you, too. I want to make love with you.”

  He swallowed hard. The wind tousled his hair. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Your reputation— Your future— What if you should conceive?”

  “All that is my concern, isn’t it?” she asked bluntly. “As for my reputation, it is ruined, no matter what happens, if word gets out that we are not really married. And we have from the beginning planned for my future to include being a widow. As for a child, widows do have children.”

  “Yes. But it is harder than you imagine. This charade cannot be swept away so easily.”

  “Neither is it as hard as you make it out to be,” she retorted, then smiled. “Do you have to fight me even on this, Benedict?”

  For an answer, he bent and kissed her. When at last he raised his head, he said in a ragged voice, “This is not the time or place.” In one lithe motion, he stood, reaching down and pulling Camilla to her feet, too. “We are going home.”

  For the first time since they had sat down to picnic, they took a good look around them. The wind that had swept over them as they lay on the ground had brought in a mass of gray clouds behind the ruins, out to sea. Even as they watched, the clouds piled up ominously, and the sky darkened.

  “Oh, no. A storm,” Camilla moaned. “I should have been watching.”

  “It is still well out to sea. Surely we can make it. The shore is not far from here.”

  Camilla looked uncertainly at the brewing storm. She knew how quickly storms could blow up here on the coast. But he was right; it was still a good distance away.

  Quickly they packed their basket and folded the blanket, then fled back to the rocky beach where they had left the boat. They tossed in the basket and climbed into the boat, and Benedict settled down to row. Camilla wished that she could help him. Growing up by the sea, she had learned to row as a child, and was still able to, but if she manned one of the oars, her weaker strength would unbalance them, so that it would probably slow them down more than letting Benedict handle both oars.

  The winds had turned the waves choppy, and they splashed into the boat now and again, forming a puddle of water that soon reached Camilla’s shoes. Surprised at the sudden wetness, she glanced down. To her amazement, the floor of the boat held a huge puddle. She tore open the basket and searched through it for something with which to bail water. She came upon a bowl, and she tossed the remaining contents of it into the ocean and began to bail.

  But the bottom of the boat continued to fill, far faster than she could empty it. She realized with horror that so much water could not be from the waves slopping over into it.

  “Benedict!” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. “The boat’s leaking.”

  “So I see,” he retorted tersely. “Rather bad one, I’d say.” He turned and looked over his shoulder at the opposite shore. They were almost exactly halfway between the island and the beach.

  Desperately he tried to continue rowing, and Camilla dipped out water, but they were foun
dering badly. The boat wallowed through the waves, moving much more slowly than it had at first. The storm was gaining on them. A wave hit them hard, washing over them, and suddenly the boat was sinking beneath them, and they were in the water.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CAMILLA’S HEAD WENT under the water, and she came up sputtering. She treaded water, looking around for Benedict, and let out a soft cry of relief when she saw his head bob up a few feet away from her. Quickly she kicked off her shoes. Fortunately, as was the style, she wore a narrow-skirted dress with few petticoats beneath it, but she nonetheless reached under her skirt and yanked them off, aware of how easily the sodden material could weigh her down.

  Benedict moved through the choppy waves to her side, his arm going around her. She shook her head and shouted above the noise of the wind and ocean, “I’m all right! I can swim! You don’t need to help me!”

  He nodded, and they struck out for land. Camilla was a strong swimmer, and she had swum this far before, but never in such raging surf. The winds had kicked the waves into high, pounding walls of water that swamped her again and again. The undercurrent dragged at her, pulling her down and off course. Once she went down under a high, slapping wave, and she did not think that she could fight her way back up. She struggled, terrified, and finally popped back up above the water, coughing and flailing. Benedict fought his way to her and wrapped one strong arm around her beneath her arms, holding her up and treading water while she regained her breath.

  Another wave came swooping down, but this one miraculously broke behind them and lifted them up. Camilla saw that they were much closer to shore, though a good bit farther down the beach than they had intended when they set out. The sight of the land gave them renewed strength, and they struck out again. The waves seemed to take them now, flinging them toward the shore, but this was a new danger, as well as a help, for they were being hurled straight toward the jagged rocks near the mouth of the cave. Desperately they swam against the current, as well as toward the land.

  Lightning flashed across the sky, lighting the darkened day, and they saw the most joyous sight they had seen all day: a group of Chevington’s servants wading out into the surf, carrying a line of rope. With renewed strength, they swam toward them. The foremost figure was Anthony, up to his waist in water. He whirled the rope around his head and threw it out. It fell in the water some feet from them, and he reeled it back in, then tossed it again.

  This time Benedict grabbed it, wrapping it firmly around his arm and gripping it with his hand. His other arm went around Camilla just as firmly, and they worked only at staying afloat as they let the servants haul them safely in to shore.

  Blankets were wrapped around them, and Anthony moved to pick up Camilla to carry her to the house. However, Benedict quickly stepped forward and laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “I will carry her.”

  Anthony gaped at him. “But you must be exhausted.”

  “I am not so tired that I cannot take care of my own wife.”

  The younger man lifted his eyebrows at that, but he backed up, shrugging, and let Benedict lift Camilla into his arms. Camilla was tired beyond thinking, and she merely rested her head upon his shoulder with a little sigh, giving herself up to the simple joy of being safe.

  He carried her into the house and up the stairs to their room, already warmed by a roaring fire. He set her down on her feet beside the tub, which her maid had ready and waiting, filled with hot water. Benedict waved Millie out of the room and helped Camilla out of her wet, clinging clothes himself. She stepped into the tub, letting out a soft moan as she sank down into the blissfully warm water. Benedict quickly removed his own clothing and climbed into the tub behind her.

  She did not question his presence. She merely leaned forward to make room for him, then lay back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his cheek upon her head. They sat like that for a long time, cocooned together and wrapped in the warmth of the water.

  “I thought I was going to lose you,” Benedict murmured.

  Camilla made a small sound of agreement.

  “It scared the hell out of me,” he went on. He pressed his lips into her hair. “You know what I kept thinking? That I was going to die and I hadn’t even made love to you. I realized what a damn fool I had been.”

  His lips moved down the side of her head, and he kissed her ear. Gently he took the lobe between his lips and nibbled at it, sending little shivers running through Camilla. She felt tired and dreamy, yet suddenly alive and sizzling, as well.

  “I don’t intend to make that mistake again,” he said huskily, kissing his way down her neck.

  He slid his hands down her water-slick arms and back up. He caressed her shoulders and back, and spread his palms out across her chest, just below her collarbone. Her skin felt like satin beneath his fingertips. His hands slid down, curving over her full breasts.

  Benedict mumbled something, but his words were muffled against Camilla’s skin, and she could not understand what he said. It didn’t matter, though. She was lost in a world of sensation, floating hazily in the pure pleasure that his hands and lips produced in her. His fingers circled her nipples, making them tight and engorged. A low throb started between her legs, aching and persistent. She thought of the cataclysmic pleasure he had given her the night before, and her breath caught in her throat.

  He cupped her breasts, seeming to weigh them in his hands, and gently squeezed them. Then his hands moved down over the flat plane of her stomach and finally delved between her legs. He caressed her thighs and hips and abdomen, returning again and again to the pulsing core between her legs. Camilla’s breath turned ragged, and she melted back against him, luxuriating in the touch of his knowledgeable fingers.

  When she thought that she must explode as she had the other night, his hands, surprisingly, left her. He took her arm and turned her toward him. She instinctively realized what he wanted, and she turned fully facing him, reaching up to kiss him.

  Their lips met and clung, for a moment gently, then with increasing heat. Their tongues clashed and twined, stoking the fires of their passion. The air was cool on their damp bodies, exposed above the water, but they did not notice it for the heat raging through them. They kissed hungrily, over and over again, straining together. His arms were wrapped around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, and yet it did not feel close enough. Camilla wanted more. The throbbing between her legs was engulfing her. She wanted to wrap her legs around him; she wanted to feel him inside her. A whimper of pure longing broke from her throat.

  Benedict surged to his feet, as if galvanized by the sound, and pulled her up with him. He stepped from the tub and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around Camilla. Camilla’s eyes slid down his body, taking in every long, muscled inch of him. He was so powerfully male that it was almost frightening. His manhood thrust from his body, huge and ready, throbbing with desire, and even as she thought that he was far too large, that he could never fit, desire blossomed between her legs, leaving her eager to feel him there.

  He lifted her from the tub and set her down on the rug in front of the fire, busying himself with drying her off and, with each movement of his hands, arousing her desire further.

  “Benedict…” she whispered, her hands going out to his chest.

  “What?” He went still, his voice hoarse.

  She did not answer except with her fingers, sliding them down over his chest, still slick with water. He stood quiescent beneath her touch, only twitching now and then or sucking in a sharp breath when she touched some particularly responsive spot. Even though his skin was still wet, he did not feel the cold. His body was like a furnace, roaring with the heat of its own passion.

  Camilla’s fingers traced the ridges of his rib cage and circled the small masculine nipples, delighting in the way they hardened at her touch. She sli
d down onto the softer skin of his stomach and caressed the hard points of his hip bones, tentatively moving closer and closer to the pulsing evidence of his desire. At the last minute, however, she lost her nerve, and her hands slid away and back over his buttocks. But that, too, was obviously pleasurable to him, for he let out a sharp little sound.

  Camilla looked up at his face as her hands slid down over his buttocks and onto the backs of his thighs. His eyes were closed, and his skin seemed stretched too tight across his bones. He looked like a man teetering on the knife edge of pain…except for the full, sensual curve of his lips, which gave away the exquisite pleasure that seared him.

  Experimentally, Camilla dug her fingertips into his buttocks, and was rewarded by an involuntary moan. His eyes opened, lit by dark flames. She squeezed and stroked, her hands moving restlessly over his backside.

  “Touch me,” he ordered hoarsely.

  Camilla knew what he meant. It was what she wanted, too, but had been too hesitant to do. Her fingertips trailed around his narrow hips, skimming over the tops of his thighs. She paused for an instant, then gingerly encircled his maleness. His member leaped wildly at her touch, and she gasped, then let out a nervous laugh.

  Hesitantly she smoothed her fingertips along the shaft, intrigued by the satin skin overlying the masculine hardness. With exquisite tenderness, she caressed him. He made an odd noise deep in his throat and pulled her hard against him. His mouth devoured hers, hungry and insistent, his tongue plundering her mouth. She could feel his shaft pulsing against her skin, the hard bones of his chest flattening her breasts. His hands swept down her, digging into her derriere just as hers had with him, and she was faintly surprised by the jolt of pure lust that stabbed her.

  Camilla went up on her tiptoes, clinging to him. Moisture gushed between her legs. She felt wild and desperate. She wanted to climb up him, to swallow him, to possess him to the utmost. His need was equally desperate. She could feel the tremors on his skin, his body tight as a bowstring.