by Candace Camp
Any discussion of Laura seemed too fraught with past emotions to bring up with Graeme. What could he say? Frightfully sorry I married the woman you wanted? And, by the way, do you mind if I tell you how soft her skin is or how good it felt to kiss her or how damnably hard it is to keep my hands off her? Do you think she’d despise me if I broke my vow not to insist on my husbandly rights?
To cover his awkwardness, James reached down to scratch Dem’s head.
“How is Laura?” Graeme asked, as if he’d been reading James’s thoughts. “She looks well.”
“Yes. She’s fine.” He looked up at the other man, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
Graeme blinked. “I don’t know. I just thought I’d ask after her.”
“Well, she’s fine,” James repeated. He was silent for a moment, but he couldn’t hold it back. “Did she say something to you?”
“What? No.” Graeme frowned. “What do you mean? Say what?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who mentioned it.” James looked at the other man’s astonished face. “Oh, the devil. I’m sorry, coz. I’m in a devilish humor. I, um, it’s these headaches.” He seized on the first excuse he could think of. Cowardly, of course, but better than the truth.
“You still have them?” Graeme was immediately concerned, which made James feel even lower.
“Yes, somewhat. Don’t tell Laura,” he added hastily. “I, uh, well, I just . . .”
“Don’t want her to know?” Graeme suggested. He smiled. “I understand; wives tend to fuss. I think it means they care.”
“Mm. I suppose.”
“I shan’t say a thing to Laura.” Graeme rose. “You should go up and lie down, get rid of your headache.”
“No, I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s fine.” Graeme smiled. “I’m the last person you need to play stoic with, James, you know that. I must pay my regards to your mother and the other ladies anyway.”
James stood up and followed him to the door. It seemed craven to seize on Graeme’s excuse. But maybe his cousin was right; things might improve if he lay down and slept. At least he could avoid being pulled into the drawing room by his mother.
He turned down the hall in the opposite direction, Dem padding along behind him, and climbed the back stairs to the next floor. He thought about the way Laura would soak a cloth in lavender water and lay it across his forehead, and he wished he had one of those rags now. Even better would be to have Laura sink her fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp in that way that turned him to butter. It was amazing, really, this new affinity for being coddled.
He had always considered himself so independent, so self-contained, so little in need of someone else’s attention. He hated being cosseted. Why had it felt so good when Laura did it? Why did he miss it now?
James hesitated outside the door of his chamber. Dem tilted his head inquiringly. James looked down at him. “I know. I’m a fool, aren’t I?”
He walked on to Laura’s open doorway. Dem followed and squeezed past him into her bedchamber. Tail going at a slow pace, the mastiff trailed around the room, sniffing at this and that, reacquainting himself. James understood how Dem felt; he, too, had an urge to walk about the room, picking up her perfume bottle and sniffing it, trailing his hand along the cover of her bed.
Why had he insisted on going back to his room to sleep? It was much nicer here, really. All the reasons he’d told himself held, of course—his shaving stand was there, his clothes, everything. It was what he was accustomed to; he liked the comfort of his own bed. He liked to be alone.
But it was damned quiet and empty.
It wasn’t like this room, which even in Laura’s absence was filled with her presence. Her dressing gown was tossed across the foot of the bed. The cameo she often wore lay on top of her enameled jewel box. Her jars and bottles lined the vanity, the tortoiseshell brush and comb before them. Beside the brush set was a dainty glass dish containing the jumble of her hairpins. There was a squat perfume bottle of amethyst-colored crystal, with an arching metal spritzer and oblong bulb. The faint scent of lavender, Laura’s scent, hung in the air.
The furniture was mostly the same, heavy and dark, but she’d made the place her own—a low rocking chair by the window, decorative pillows strewn across the bed, a delicate lace runner along the dresser. Everything seemed softer here, more inviting. Feminine and faintly mysterious and therefore alluring.
He thought of what it would be like to lounge on the bed and watch her brush out her hair or pin it up, spray a little mist of perfume at her throat, clasp a strand of pearls around her throat. He thought of putting the pearls around her throat himself.
Trapped in his unsatisfying thoughts, he roamed to the window to gaze out. Laura was climbing up the steps from the garden. She wore no hat, and her blond hair gleamed in the sun. James leaned closer.
She looked up at the terrace, and a smile broke across her face. Below him Graeme stepped into view. As James watched, Laura ran lightly up the steps, her hands held out to Graeme. Her face glowed; James knew that if he were able to see her eyes, they would be shining. Something in James’s chest clenched, tight as a fist.
Did she still love the man? Graeme had pined for years over their blighted love; there was little reason to think Laura would not have done so, as well. And while Graeme had been pulled from that mire by his wife, had found love and happiness, Laura had never married. She had lived at home with her father, tending to him, helping him, no real life for her except in her music.
If he wanted to write a romantic tale of sorrow and lost love, with some wretchedly saintly heroine to suffer it all, Laura would be the perfect subject. The fact that Laura had faced her situation with a level head and a pleasant nature did not make her loss any less real.
James might dismiss the idea of love enduring over the years as maudlin sentimentality. But he was not the one who had to live this way, constantly reminded of what she had lost. He was not a woman of sensibility, artistic and loving and loyal.
Nor did it matter that James had not meant to put her in this situation, that he had tried to give her a rosier future than the one facing her. The result was still the same: Laura had saved James, and in doing so, had manacled herself to a marriage she did not want with a man she didn’t like, let alone love.
And all he could think about was how much he wanted her in his bed. That, he supposed, said all one needed to know about the two of them.
chapter 28
Laura trotted up the stairs, humming beneath her breath. Her spirits had been so buoyed by her talk with Abby that when she ran into Graeme afterward, he had probably wondered if she’d lost her mind. A woman whose husband’s life was in danger should be more worried.
She was worried. It was just that James was so much better now and so determined, so capable, that it was easy to let those troubles slide. Easy for her mind to stray to more frivolous thoughts, such as whether James would kiss her again or what it would be like to make love with him or if Abby’s dresses would spark a light in his eyes.
Was Abby right? Could Laura lure James into becoming a real husband to her? And wasn’t it amazing that only a month ago she would have recoiled from that possibility, not rushed toward it?
She was thinking so much about James that it didn’t surprise her when she walked into her room and saw him standing there, idly fiddling with the objects on her vanity table, his mind obviously somewhere else.
“James!” She came to a halt, a smile starting on her face until she saw that he looked drawn and tired. “Are you ill?”
“No. Sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here.”
“Why not?” Laura frowned, puzzled. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something different about him, something more like he used to be.
“Without an invitation.”
“Oh.” She went closer. “Is something wrong? You seem . . .” He quirked an eyebrow, and she finished lamely, “I don’t know.”
“I—
” He glanced around as if he might find his next words posted on her wall or wardrobe. “I apologize for putting you in this situation. I didn’t mean to.”
“I’m sure you didn’t realize someone was trying to kill you,” Laura said reasonably. Whatever was the matter with him?
“No, of course not.” He paused, still not looking at her. “Or that you wouldn’t let me die.”
Laura had no answer for that.
“You could have.” He looked into her face finally, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I could have what?”
“You didn’t have to save me. You could have left me in there, done nothing.”
Laura’s jaw dropped. “Let you die? Have you gone mad?”
“Why not?” James shrugged. “It would have been easier. No one would have been any the wiser. You would have been rich and free. It wouldn’t have been murder, you know. Simply appreciating the fortuitous aftermath.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? Of all the harebrained ideas . . .”
“You’ve disliked me for years.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted you dead!” Laura wasn’t about to admit her feelings for him had changed. At this moment, with anger rising in her, she had to wonder why they had.
“No? Perhaps it’s just me, then. I’ve wished any number of people dead over the years.”
“Well, one would hope you wouldn’t have acted on it. Good Lord, James.” Laura swung away, too angry to stand still. She turned back, fisting her hands on her hips. “Do you really think I could have done such a thing?”
He gazed at her for a moment. “No. Of course not. Not you.”
“No doubt you consider me too straitlaced.”
“No. But perhaps too selfless for your own good.”
“I don’t understand you. This is the most bizarre conversation I have ever had. And with you that’s saying a great deal. You sound as if you wish I had let you die.”
“No. Believe me, I’d rather be standing here than lying in the family plot. But you did yourself little good. And I—” He took a little breath. “I am sorry for that.”
“So your apology is for not dying.” The man was trying to start an argument, she decided. He was the most contrary person she had ever met.
“I promised you a widowhood. Wealth and future freedom. Yet here you are, shackled to me for life.”
“It may surprise you to know,” Laura said bitingly, “but becoming a widow was never my primary goal in life. I suspect any number of women would count themselves lucky to be plucked up and dropped into a life of ease. Unless your plan is to lock me up or beat me daily—”
“Laura!” He stiffened, his eyes flashing.
“Hah!” Laura jabbed her forefinger at him. “You see how unpleasant it is to have someone suggest you’d do awful things? Since clearly you want to have a disagreement, I will tell you my side of it. If you had not offered me your hand in marriage, I would be sunk in debt to a despicable man. I would have had to give up my home and most of my possessions and live in a governess’s room or on my aunt’s charity. You have put me in a lovely house; you have on more than one occasion urged me to buy new clothes.”
“And will again,” he muttered. “I cannot see why you are so stubborn about that.”
“I’m not stubborn. I would love to have a new wardrobe. But I haven’t exactly had a lot of time. Silly me, I thought trying to keep you from dying was more important than trotting off to London to buy new frocks.” He moved to object, but with a sweeping gesture, she went on. “Don’t try to distract me. I haven’t finished.”
“I’m sure you have not.”
“I am living in luxury. I can spend my time on my music or whatever I want. I can go to London. See plays, the ballet, opera, museums, galleries . . .”
“But you won’t have love.”
Laura went still. It was surprising how much his words pierced her. She already knew he didn’t love her; she thought she was armored against such emotion. She turned away to hide the hurt that must show in her eyes. “That’s an odd thing for you to be concerned about, I must say.”
“No doubt you’re right,” he retorted in a clipped voice. “I can’t imagine why I even thought to consider your problems.”
“I don’t have a problem. Other than you.” She swung around. “I’m beginning to understand the reason for all this nonsense. It’s you who is regretting our marriage. You obviously think of marriage as chains. Imprisonment. You’ve lost your freedom.”
“I beg your pardon? You think that I—”
“Wish you had not made that impulsive decision to marry me,” she finished. “Yes. It was all very well to leave your money to a stranger as some bitter jest upon your expectant relatives. But the prospect of having to live with the woman you married is a different thing, indeed. You are ruing your hasty bargain.”
“Don’t be a fool. We were talking about you, not me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I am discussing you. You’ve realized you made a bad bargain. That you lost your chance at your perfect wife.”
“Who?” His eyebrows soared in astonishment.
“Your dream bride.” Laura injected the words with all the sarcasm she could muster. Anger bubbled in her now. “You told me how little I resembled that woman, if you’ll remember.”
“Oh, that,” he scoffed.
“Yes, that. The woman of acceptable appearance and superior lineage. One willing to provide you with heirs but not offer any of those sticky inconveniences like feelings.”
“I know I didn’t say that.”
“It was implied. In any case, your vision of an ideal wife was certainly not me.”
“And yet I chose you,” he said flatly.
“As I said, you made a bad bargain. You purchased a widow but you wound up with a wife.”
“You may not count my life as worth very much,” he shot back. “But it’s rather important to me, so that would make marrying you a very good bargain, I’d say!”
“Naturally you’re glad I stumbled upon the cause of your illness.”
“You did a good bit more than that.”
“Of course you’re glad you’re alive, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are tied to a wife you don’t want.”
“Don’t want?” He gave an odd little mirthless laugh. “When, may I ask, have you ever heard of me doing anything except what I want? It’s a hallmark of my character, is it not?”
“No. The hallmark of your character is coldness.” And now, suddenly, it came spilling out of her, a surging tangled mass built from weeks of worry and jangled nerves, of frustration and wounded feelings and dashed hopes. Why had she ever thought she could have a real marriage with this man? Why had she even considered it? “You don’t care about anyone. Worse, you take pride in that fact! It’s no wonder you wanted a bloodless cipher for a wife. Someone who wouldn’t ask anything of you or want anything from you.”
His eyes were silvery bright with anger, his body taut. “No doubt you’re right. I am still the despicable man you told me I was years ago. Almost dying didn’t change that. Didn’t make me a paragon like—”
“Ohhh!” She couldn’t stand it anymore. Laura flung out her hands, planting them flat on his chest, and shoved.
Taken by surprise, he staggered back a step. His eyes widened. “You think you can push me out?” He closed on her. “You’re going to put me out of your life? Shove me away?”
“Yes! Yes!” Laura felt wild and somehow exhilarated, as if arousing his anger excited her. She knew in the back of her mind that she was not acting like herself, neither of them were, but another part of her, the one that yearned and wept and laughed, didn’t care. That part was charging full speed ahead. “I want you out.” She shoved at his chest again, though this time he was ready for it and it didn’t move him. “Out! Out of my room. Out of my head.” With each statement, she pushed him, not caring whether it rocked him back, just aching to do it. “Out! Out!
”
He clamped his hands around her arms and jerked her to him. She came up hard against his unyielding body. He hooked one arm around her waist, imprisoning her, and he plunged the other one into her hair, dislodging hairpins and sending her hair tumbling. She barely had time to draw in a little gasp before his mouth was on hers.
There was none of the tenderness of the last time he had kissed her. This was all heat and fury and hunger. And she loved it. Laura responded in kind, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body into his, meeting his kiss with fire of her own.
She clenched her fingers into his jacket. She wanted to meld herself to him, to crawl inside him. It was mad and wild and desperate, and it made her tremble. It was dangerous to feel like this, yet she rushed toward it. The kiss went on and on, and when finally his mouth left hers, he kissed his way down her throat.
James groaned, lifting her, and they tumbled back onto the bed. His hand went to the buttons down the front of her bodice, fumbling them open, and he delved inside, shoving her chemise down to cup her breast.
He bent to take her nipple into his mouth, and Laura jerked at the delicious surprise of it. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her breath catching in her throat. Every nerve in her body, it seemed, was alert, waiting, seeking each new pleasure. She loved this; she wanted more.
He came back to kiss her mouth, his hand caressing her breast. His leg lay over hers, pinning her down, and strangely, that, too, was exciting. She wanted—oh, God, she wanted so much and she wasn’t even sure what it was she yearned for.
But James, she knew, was leading her to it. With each kiss, each stroke of his fingers, each breath that tickled across her skin, he was drawing her closer. She gave herself into his hands, aching for the end, but reveling in each moment along the way.
