“The Barker-Pratts hail from Shropshire, but have lived in Tivoli for many years,” Pen continued with false brightness. “Mr. Barker-Pratt is an expert on Roman funerary monuments.”
“How interesting,” Cam murmured. Pen’s skill at weaving through the introductions filled him with dreadful fascination. It was like watching someone cross a gorge on a high wire while a river full of hungry crocodiles snapped below.
“We haven’t returned to England in forty years, despite war and revolution. We’d feel quite foreign in London. Although with so many English friends here, it’s like being at home.” Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s laugh could shatter glass. “At home with only the most interesting people, of course. Don’t you agree, my lord, that the best of the English are those who leave the country?”
Cam smiled at Pen. “In Miss Thorne’s case, that’s definitely the case.”
Pen sent him a withering glance. “So gallant, my lord.” She turned back to Mrs. Barker-Pratt. “His lordship is a childhood friend. We met by chance this evening.”
If she wasn’t careful, the story would unravel. The staff knew that they’d arrived together. Still, he’d do his best to play along. “A pleasure to see dear Miss Thorne again.”
Mrs. Barker-Pratt looked puzzled. “We heard you were meeting your brother in Paris, Miss Thorne.”
Pen paled. During these last weeks, her grief for Peter had been a palpable presence.
Cam saved her from having to talk about Peter. “Lord Wilmott has passed away.”
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Barker-Pratt might be an unwelcome intruder, but Cam felt a surge of gratitude when the woman swept Pen into a motherly embrace. For weeks, he’d longed to extend a similarly generous response. Once he wouldn’t have hesitated. But they’d both grown up since then, damn it.
Cam stepped back. “I’ll wish you good night. You have much to discuss, I’m sure.”
As he walked away, he couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if he and Pen had remained alone in the lamplight. Nothing to be proud of, that was sure.
Prescott Place, Wiltshire, March 1828
“Yes,” Sophie said immediately and her hand tightened around Harry’s. “I’d love to marry you.”
“Oh, my dear!” Harry raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. He could hardly believe that the space of an afternoon had delivered not just this glorious creature’s vow of love, but also a promise to be his. “I’ll speak to your brother the instant he returns to London.”
Sophie snatched her hand back and regarded him with horror. “No, you mustn’t.”
The abrupt change left Harry bewildered. “You’re under twenty-one, Sophie. I need his permission.”
She scrambled to her feet and stared down at him as if he’d suggested some unnatural practice. “My brother wants me to marry Lord Desborough.”
More slowly, Harry rose from his knees, his gaze never wavering from Sophie. “You can’t marry Desborough. You love me.”
For a moment, he thought she might hurl herself into his embrace, but she curtailed the movement and wrapped her arms around her crushed bodice. “My brother is determined on the marriage.”
“Your brother is a reasonable man. He’ll—”
She interrupted him. “He is a reasonable man. He’s arranged a match with a kind gentleman of great fortune who’s fond of me.”
Harry glared at her. “You sound like you want to marry the sod.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said on an exhalation of despair. “You don’t understand.”
He folded his own arms, fighting his hurt. To think, five minutes ago, he’d considered himself the world’s happiest man. “I understand that you said you’d marry me and now seem to say that you won’t.”
She curled her hand around his tight forearm. “Let’s not quarrel.”
“I can’t let you marry Desborough.”
“I don’t want to. But my brother is in a state because of Uncle Neville’s suicide and because Sedgemoor is working against us and because he thinks the scandal may end his political career. It’s not the time to tell him that his carefully laid plans won’t eventuate.”
“You’re frightened of him.”
The suggestion shocked her. “Of course not. But open defiance now, when he feels like the world turns against him, would hurt him.”
What about me?
Harry bit back the childish question. “So what do you propose?” Moments ago, “propose” had conveyed a completely different meaning.
She stared up with a sweet entreaty that, if he was less upset, would have him back on his knees. “We wait.”
“I can’t wait.” He made a sweeping gesture. “I need everyone to know that you’re mine. Living without you this last week nearly broke me.”
“Please don’t be angry,” she said softly, changing her grip into a caress.
“How long until you turn twenty-one?” Although even then if Sophie married without Leath’s approval, there would be a brouhaha.
Devastation darkened her blue eyes. “Nearly two years.”
Two years? That was an eternity. He stared at her in anguish. “I can’t bear to think I might lose you.”
“You’ll never lose me,” she said with a certainty that should have surprised him, but didn’t. She was young, but she was steadfast. Which was a double-edged sword. A flightier girl wouldn’t spare a thought for her brother. “We can continue as we are.”
“Meeting in secret? Lying? Snatching moments that only serve as a painful reminder that moments are all we have?” He swung away. “The longer we wait, the more the world believes that you’ll marry Desborough.”
“Do you want me to release you from our engagement?” she asked miserably, stepping back.
A cold wave of dread turned Harry’s blood to ice. “Do you want that?”
She looked on the verge of crying. “Of course not.”
He crossed the chasm separating them and discovered it only measured a pace. He seized her in his arms and kissed her hard. For an instant that lasted an eon, she resisted before kissing him back with a fervor that threatened to send everything but passion to hell.
She leaned back to see his face. “I want to marry you, but I don’t want my selfish pursuit of happiness to burden my brother with more scandal.”
“Does that extend to marrying Desborough?” Harry asked harshly. “When I met you, you were crying over your brother’s plans. Don’t pretend that suddenly you’re prepared to play the dutiful sister.”
With a sigh, she laid one hand against his cheek. “I was prepared to play the dutiful sister. That’s why I was crying.”
Fear dug its talons into his aching heart. “You can’t enter a loveless marriage to save Leath’s pride.”
She stiffened. “You demand so much.”
His hand tightened on her waist as if Leath emerged from the undergrowth to steal her away. “Meeting like this does us no credit.”
Temper lit her face to vivid beauty. “You should be used to deception. I’ve heard gossip.”
Harry’s resentment of Leath ratcheted up another notch. “I’ll wager most of it came from your brother.”
When Sophie avoided his gaze, he knew he was right. “Did James lie?”
Harry had never been ashamed of all his dashing widows and bored wives before. He was ashamed now. “Hell, Sophie, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” His voice shook with sincerity. “That’s what’s important. That, and how these meetings stain your character and mine.”
Resentment shadowed her expression. “You’re cruel.”
“No. I’m a man in love.” He paused. “I want to shout that love from the rooftops, not meet you in corners as if my feelings are a dirty secret.”
“Harry, I’m sorry.” She rose on her toes and peppered his face with kisses. Each one eased his outrage, until he caught her and pressed his lips to hers.
“I can’t be angry when you kiss me.”
“Th
at’s good.” She trailed her lips along his jaw with a tenderness that melted pique. “When we’re married, I’ll kiss you all the time.”
She spoke as if merely by promising to marry him, their difficulties vanished like mist across the morning meadows. He wasn’t nearly so convinced that delay would change her brother’s mind.
For the sake of his future and his love, Harry must brave the dragon and claim the maiden.
Chapter Ten
English Channel, late March 1828
Cam stood clinging to a rope on a deck that bucked up and down. He wiped stinging, icy rain from his eyes and reminded himself that the yacht had withstood worse. His gut tightened with foreboding only because they were so close to journey’s end.
They’d experienced rough weather since leaving the Mediterranean and sailing into the Atlantic. Thus far, the Windhover had coped with raging seas like the thoroughbred she was. Spring gales had tossed the ship until Cam didn’t know which way was up. Much the way he felt when he encountered his enigmatic passenger.
Now they were only hours from Folkestone, the port he’d chosen in preference to Dover. At Dover, he was too likely to run into someone who recognized him. After that inn above Genoa, Cam was more careful than ever. Pen had assured him that she’d headed off Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s curiosity. If she was right, Cam had achieved a miracle. He’d managed to bring Pen home without jeopardizing his plans to marry Lady Marianne.
Even more miraculous, he’d managed to keep his hands off Pen. Despite a case of blue balls unlike any he could remember, he’d resisted the ravening hunger that kept him awake at night, and restless and cranky all day.
A wonder indeed.
Now he just had to deliver Pen to London. Then, given her plans to return to the Continent, he’d probably never see her again. He was a damn fool to regret that. But regret it he did. Losing her before he discovered what all those lovers had taught her made him want to gnash his teeth and break something.
Even in the last minutes, the storm had worsened. The wind through the rigging shrieked like lost souls in hell.
“Can we turn back to France?” he shouted to his captain, who was lashed to the wheel. The usually imperturbable Scotsman fought to hold the helm steady, the set of his jaw betraying their danger.
“Too far.” Through the gale, the man’s brogue was barely comprehensible. “Better we race for the nearest port and wait the storm out.”
“Do as you think best,” Cam shouted back.
For years, he’d sailed with John MacGregor. If anyone brought the Windhover through, it would be the dour Aberdonian.
“Go below, Your Grace.” His tone held no deference. If Cam hadn’t been worried sick, he’d smile. “Ye’re proving a wee distraction up here.”
It was an indication of their perilous situation that MacGregor admitted to needing all his concentration to keep the yacht afloat. “I want to help.”
“Ye’ll help by bundling up somewhere safe. If the bonnie Duke of Sedgemoor drowns on my watch, my bluidy wife will never let me hear the end of it.”
Cam acknowledged the man’s dry humor, surely the only dry thing left on the ship. He clapped MacGregor’s shoulder then turned. Staggering from one handhold to the next, he struggled against the clawing wind toward the hatch.
Below decks, he’d thought the din would lessen, but it was somehow worse for being contained. The creak of timbers, the water pounding against the hull, the deep, irregular bang as the Windhover struck the bottom of a wave. He wondered how the fragile wooden structure survived.
In the saloon, he shook off the water drenching him. Like the crew of five above, he wore oilskins. Not that they provided much protection. Swiftly he undressed to shirt and breeches, shivering in the cold.
Pen was in her cabin. Throughout this trip, she’d borne every inconvenience without complaint. But in such a storm, even a good sailor with a courageous heart would be frightened. Whatever her distaste for Cam’s company, he couldn’t leave her terrified while they plunged through this turbulent ocean. She was alone—Maria hadn’t wanted to come to England.
Bumping drunkenly from one wall to another, Cam made his way down the short corridor to where Pen’s cabin faced his. During their fortnight at sea, that proximity had plagued him. Now, all he could think about was extending comfort and reassurance.
Although it was only early afternoon, the hallway was as dark as the pit. Cam knocked on Pen’s door, received no reply, knocked more loudly, then realized that he’d need to bash the polished teak with a hammer for her to hear. Feeling like a trespasser, he depressed the brass handle and stepped inside.
All day he’d breathed air sour with salt. How was it, then, that the moment he entered this shadowy room, he caught Pen’s violet scent? Sweet, womanly, alluring. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he was here purely to provide assistance.
“What do you want?” Pen asked sharply from across the cabin.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw her braced in the porthole embrasure. He’d imagined she’d be in bed, but of course, that would be devilish uncomfortable, given the yacht’s lurching.
“I wanted to see if you were all right.” He raised his voice over the bedlam. He shut the door, hoping that might help. It didn’t.
“Of course I’m all right.”
Disappointment and self-disgust weighted his gut. He’d been a fool to imagine she might want him with her. “I’ll go to my cabin, then.”
He faced the door, catching the lintel for balance, when she replied. “No. Stay.”
From Pen, that counted as a major concession. Slowly, he turned. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Cam, don’t be a numbskull,” she snapped. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“Oh, my dear…”
The endearment escaped before he could stop it. He prayed that the storm muffled the words. With a few unsteady steps, he covered the space between them and, knowing it was a mistake, wrapped his arms around her. As he pressed into the opposite side of the embrasure, lightning flashed, revealing her face as she jerked her head up.
“Cam, what are you doing?” Like her expression, her voice was wary, but her eyes betrayed flaring heat. Even without the lightning, near the window the light was better.
“Stopping you from falling.” They balanced inside a narrow nook, porthole on one side, cabin on the other. The restricted space offered at least an illusion of stability.
Was his world reeling because of the tumultuous ocean or because he touched this woman? His hands tightened on her waist and he couldn’t even pretend that he held her for safety’s sake. She was tall and strong, but he felt her tremble.
“They’ll give you a medal,” she said with a dryness that wouldn’t have disgraced John MacGregor.
“Is there a kiss with my medal?”
More lightning illuminated the way she nervously licked her lips. She shifted backward, but their nook was so small, she had nowhere to go unless she returned to the cabin.
“How can you flirt when we’re about to find a watery grave?”
“How can I not?” His voice roughened into urgency. “If the ship goes down, I’ll be damned if I die without kissing you.”
She started without moving away. “This is a mistake.”
He laughed, wondering how his demise became cause for amusement. Perhaps Pen’s courage bolstered his. Most people would cower at the raging seas, but valiant Penelope Thorne met the storm and the man who wanted her with her head high and a smile on her lips. At that moment, if he’d been capable of love, he might imagine that he loved her.
“The thought of kissing you has tortured me.”
Her hands linked around his neck. To steady herself or because she wanted to touch him? He hardly cared as long as she stayed near.
“I thought you were bored with this journey.”
He snorted his disbelief. “We’ve battled brigands, avalanches, bad roads, nosy English travelers, and fleas as big
as cats. Boredom would be a relief.”
“You acted bored.”
He’d never seen her like this. Like she yearned for his touch the way he yearned for hers. Desire pounded harder than the waves outside. Thunder cracked close.
“Oh, hell, Pen,” he groaned, firming his grip on her. He was incapable of gentleness. The storm outside was a pale echo of the storm in his blood.
On another guttural groan, his mouth crashed down.
As the ship plunged like a wild thing, Cam’s mouth ravaged hers. Astonishment held Pen captive as a fierce mixture of sensations struck her harder than the waves against the hull.
Since she was a girl, she’d imagined Cam’s kisses. The reality was earthier, more intimate, more passionate, more… exciting than anything she’d conjured in fantasy, no matter how lurid. His mouth was hot and commanding. His hands were ruthless and inescapable. The storm beat around her until she wasn’t sure whether the chaos was outside or within her.
Pen was no longer the nineteen-year-old innocent who had turned down his proposal. She knew how a man behaved toward a woman he respected. In Cam’s kisses, there was neither caution nor care.
Some distant corner of her mind urged her to protest. He treated her the way he’d treat a strumpet from the docks. But how could she demur when she basked in endless heat? All her life, she’d felt so cold, so cold.
His tongue plunged between her lips, demanding a response. Helpless to resist, bewildered and giddy with arousal, she gave it to him. She opened her mouth wide, sucking his tongue, tasting this man she’d always wanted. Her senses flooded with his rich flavor, his salty scent of storm and ocean and clean male sweat.
She moaned and arched into his damp clothes, frantically seeking the searing heat beneath. She’d set him alight and the flames of his desire lashed her. His hard length jutted into her vulnerable belly.
The knowledge of how much he wanted her set up a throbbing between her legs and she wriggled, wanting more. He rocked against her in an imitation of the sexual act. The breath scraped from her throat and she closed her eyes, reveling in incandescent sensation. Never had she felt like this.
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