With a noise that sounded ridiculously like a child denied a longed-for treat, and completely unbecoming for a thirty-one-year-old woman, she began to undress, fumbling with the fastenings and ties that had been so cunningly designed for a female without a maid, finding them infuriatingly complicated. She had to be out of this dress, and now. A tearing sound made her curse, but she struggled on regardless. Serve her right for wearing the damned thing. Hadn’t she known the effect it would have on Cameron? And hadn’t she hoped it would have exactly that effect?
Tugging the gown down over her hips and stepping out of it, Kirstin cursed again. Stupid of her not to take account of the fact that it might have that same effect on her. Though it hadn’t been the damned dress, had it? It had been bloody Cameron Dunbar!
‘Oh, God.’
She slumped down on the bed, tugging at her hairpins. If only he hadn’t looked at her like that. If only she hadn’t returned that burning gaze of his. She ought to have remembered how it had been before. That look, the heat of it, and the rush, like some sort of fatal chemical surging through the brain. Desire. Every bit as fatal. It had happened that first time, and it had happened again. Though this time they had not kissed. Not like the last time...
December 1812, Carlisle
‘You’ve well and truly banished my demons,’ Cameron said. ‘I’m much more likely to be kept awake thinking of you, if you want the honest truth.’
The honest truth was that she was like to do the same, Kirstin thought, though she’d never have dared speak so plainly.
Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, for his words changed everything between them, turning what had been lightly flirtatious into something weightier, more dangerous. Desire. Though she’d never felt it before, she recognised it for what it was, rooting her to the spot, coursing through her blood, a dark, delicious temptation that whispered seductively in her ear that it should not be denied because the opportunity would never present itself again. She knew it was wrong, she knew it made no sense, but as she stared into Cameron’s eyes and saw them darken, reflecting exactly what she was thinking, Kirstin cast caution to the four winds.
She stepped into his arms and his arms wrapped themselves tightly around her even before the distance was closed. She could hear his breathing, rasping, fast and shallow, just like hers, could see from the rigidity of his mouth, of his hands on her waist, how close to losing control he was, and it was, heaven help her, the most heady, powerful feeling, knowing that she could make him take that final step.
And so she did. One hand on his shoulder. The other hand resting on his hip. She lifted her face for his kiss, parting her lips, closing her eyes. There was a second when he resisted. And then his mouth claimed hers and she was lost. Lost without words, without reason, surrendering to the sensation of his mouth on hers, the heat between them, his tongue touching hers, setting her alight, his hand cupping her face, his fingers tugging through her hair, his other hand roving over her body, her back, her bottom, her waist, her arm, brushing the side of her breast.
She was a quivering, gasping, moaning creature, following his lead, running her fingers through his hair, feeling the roughness of it where it was short-cropped at his nape, his skin hot to her touch, and the unexpected silkiness of it where it was longer. She could feel his muscles tensing beneath his coat, under her flattened palms. She traced the line of his spine down to the indentation at the base, and as his hands curled over her bottom, pulling her tight against him, she felt her hands on the tightness of his rear and the thick, astonishingly hard length of his arousal against her belly.
She had never lost herself like this before, and sought only to lose herself further, the wanton creature that must have been dwelling inside her waiting to be released, making her nip at his bottom lip, shiver when he moaned in response, making her arch her back, pressing herself more urgently against him, through all the layers of her travelling gown and her petticoats, a primal instinct to press the insistent thrum of her own arousal against his.
He swore violently, a word she had heard only in the stables, and pushed her away.
‘I did not mean—you must believe me when I tell you that I did not—do not...’ He shook his head, his eyes dark, his lips swollen from their kisses. ‘You’d better go to bed before we do something we’ll both regret.’
‘Will we?’ She was already beyond regret. Her body was like a racehorse, mid-race, at full tilt towards the finishing line and unstoppable. ‘Is it what you truly want, Cameron?’
‘No.’
‘No more do I.’
‘Kirstin, do you know what you’re saying?’
Her lie was instinctive. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
This time there was no need to lie. ‘Certain,’ she said.
Hampstead, February 1819
The Spaniard’s Inn, situated opposite the toll house, had reputedly once been the haunt of Dick Turpin amongst many other notorious highwaymen. Less than two hours’ travel from London, it was an extremely popular posting house, for many travellers the last stop before the metropolis. The Reverend Mr Collins and his wife Euphemia arrived at a relatively quiet time, in a hired post-chaise in the middle of an unseasonably sunny morning.
Cameron was dressed in a shabby black coat patched at the elbows, with breeches, woollen stockings, heavy boots, his adopted profession’s requisite neckcloth and a shallow-crowned hat bare from brushing. The outfit, acquired that morning by Kirstin at a second-hand market, exuded an odour which made him wrinkle his nose, though he did not, as she had first feared, refuse to don it, insisting only on his own linen.
The correspondingly shabby brown gown and grey jacket which she wore came from the same market, as did the oversized poke bonnet which obscured her face, and the truly hideous plaid shawl woven in what she could only describe as shades of rotting straw, which she’d draped around her shoulders. What little of her hair showed had been greyed with powder, while her face was the colour of a woman who spent much of her time outdoors, skilfully achieved with greasepaint.
As the chaise pulled up at the front of the inn, Cameron grinned. ‘Are you quite ready, my dear Euphemia?’
‘Indeed,’ Kirstin said primly, rummaging in her cavernous bag, knitted by an unknown and highly unskilled hand in a shade which she had named seaweed. ‘But you, Reverend, are not. Put these on.’ She handed him a pair of pince-nez. ‘And, pray, if you can, refrain from smiling.’
He put the glasses on his nose, eyeing her over the top with his brows raised. ‘I thought I was to be a jovial man of the cloth.’
Kirstin couldn’t repress a snort of laughter. ‘Kindly, not jovial. Sober, verging on the funereal.’
Cameron put his hands together, casting both his mouth and his eyes downwards, and let out the heavy sigh of a man who had lost a sixpence and found a penny. ‘Like this?’
‘Much better,’ Kirstin said, stifling a giggle. She produced a bible from her bag. ‘Put that in your pocket. I am sure you will find an appropriate opportunity to consult it.’
‘You think of everything. May I say that you look quite—quite Euphemia-like?’ Cameron said. ‘It requires only a scowl—ah, perfect.’ He swung open the door and leapt down, turning to help her. ‘What is that smell coming from my coat?’ he asked, as she stepped onto the cobblestones beside him. ‘I’ve been trying to put a name to it, but for the life of me cannot place it.’
‘Wet dog,’ she told him, making a show of straightening his waistcoat in a wifely manner as their empty chaise trundled round the corner to the stables. ‘If only you would hang your coat up as I have time and again asked you to, my dear, then our hound would not have the opportunity to make his bed on it.’
She could feel him shake with laughter, but she dared not meet his eyes lest he see her own amusement. Though she had not for a moment lost sight of the reason they were here, and the
urgency of their mission, she was enjoying herself, relishing the role she was playing and the playing of it alongside Cameron.
‘Goliath,’ he said to her as he held out his arm for her to take.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The name of our hound, my dear. How can you have forgotten when you named him yourself, don’t you remember? Even as a puppy he was so very large.’
‘And so very smelly.’
‘The disadvantage of having such a very sensitive nose, my dear Euphemia. It is to be hoped that the landlord is not similarly endowed, or he will be in no way inclined to prolong our little chat. Shall we?’
The Spaniard’s Inn was a square building of three storeys with two tall chimneys and a shallow roof. The windows on the ground floor were shuttered, and those on the second adorned with window boxes which were at this time of year empty. The narrow hallway which they entered was panelled with dark wood, the bare boards scuffed and pitted. A glimpse into the taproom on the left showed a large chamber similarly panelled, empty save for two draymen propping up the bar.
‘Landlord’s out back, Reverend,’ one of them informed Cameron. ‘George!’ he bellowed. ‘There’s a vicar here to see you. Hope you aren’t going to confess to watering down your ale!’
The summons was not needed, for the landlord was already bustling down the hall, drying his hands on his apron. A tall spare man, with a thin band of grey hair which made his tonsure look like an egg rising from a scarf, he had a mournful moustache to match and would, Kirstin thought, have made an even better man of the cloth than Cameron.
‘Reverend.’ The landlord, assimilating Cameron’s appearance with the eye of a man who made his living from such lightning assessments, sketched the shallowest of bows. ‘How may I be of service?’
‘Collins is the name, and you can help me with a wee cup of tea for myself and my wife, my good man,’ Cameron said in a thick Glaswegian accent. ‘Have you a room fit for my good lady, sir?’
‘If you’ll come this way, madam... Reverend Collins. I’ll have my wife tend to you.’
Clearly concluding they were not worth his valuable time, the innkeeper abandoned them in a small room at the back of the inn looking over the stable yard, clad in the ubiquitous dark wood panelling. A fire smoked sulkily in the grate, above which a watercolour of the Spaniard’s Inn hung.
‘Dick Turpin and Bess, I presume,’ Kirstin said, eyeing the one-dimensional figure on a horse depicted, pistol raised, in the foreground of this dubious masterpiece. ‘Though it could just as easily be Bessie the cow he’s sitting on. I’ve never seen such a bovine horse.’
Cameron, pulling the bible from his pocket and setting it down on the one table the room possessed, looked up at this. ‘I would refrain from saying so, however. I suspect the artist must be kin to the landlord. Why else would a work of art worthy of a five-year-old be on display?’
‘A five-year-old would at least have got the number of windows right,’ Kirstin said, joining Cameron on the wooden bench set into the wall behind the table, which was the room’s only seating. ‘Even I could have done better than that.’
Opening the bible, Cameron clasped his hands together and lowered his head, as if in prayer. ‘And you, by your own admission, have no talent for art.’
‘No.’ Kirstin eyed him curiously. ‘Have you?’
‘What?’
‘A talent for drawing?’
‘As a matter of fact I do, though I’d call myself a draughtsman rather than an artist. I like to draw maps. Not sure where I get it from. Why do you ask?’
She wished she had not, now, for it forced her to recognise what she had always known, yet never allowed herself to acknowledge. A person was made up of two halves, inheriting traits from both sides of their heritage.
‘Kirstin?’
And this person, seated beside her, unlike almost every other person she encountered, had a most unnerving ability to read her thoughts.
She gave herself a shake and picked up the bible. ‘Shall we pray together, my dear?’
‘What for? A decent cup of tea?’
His irreverence made her smile, but the quizzical look he drew her made it clear he knew she was equivocating.
‘Not that I’d know a decent cup of tea, mind,’ Cameron added, showing an even greater understanding of her character by choosing not to pursue the matter, a fact that was a relief and a worry at the same time.
Fortunately for Kirstin, the landlady chose this moment to arrive with the tea, decent or otherwise. ‘Reverend... Mrs Collins, I am sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said, putting the tray down. ‘I am Mrs Crisp. I’ve brought you a piece of my currant cake, but if you’d prefer something more substantial...’
‘No, no, Mrs Crisp, this looks affie good,’ Cameron said, getting to his feet and resuming his broad accent. ‘If you can spare us a wee minute of your precious time, my wife and I would like a word.’
‘You would?’
‘Sit ye doon, sit ye doon. Why don’t you take the second cup?’ Cameron retrieved a chair from the far corner of the room and pressed the surprised Mrs Crisp into it. ‘You pour, Euphemia, my dear. I’m sure this good lady will welcome the chance to get aff her feet for a moment.’
‘Well. Thank you very much. May I get you an ale, or...?’
‘Nae, nae. I’m fine, thank you, I’ll just have a wee bit of cake. I’m right fond of cake, am I not, Euphemia? Though you’ll not take it amiss, Mrs Crisp, if I tell you that my wife, in my most humble opinion, makes the very lightest of sponge cakes of anyone in all of the British Isles. The receipt is the most closely guarded secret in the parish we’ve left behind, but if you ask her nicely I’m sure she’ll tell you.’
‘Mrs Crisp is not interested in cake ingredients,’ Kirstin said, biting her lip and kicking Cameron sharply under the table.
‘Ah, but indeed I am,’ Mrs Crisp said, taking the cup which Kirstin handed to her. ‘Though I make a very good fruit cake, my own sponges often fail to rise. Do tell me, what is your secret?’
What did one make cakes with? Kirstin’s mind was a complete blank. ‘Why, nothing but air,’ she replied.
‘Air?’
‘Good Scots air, Mrs Crisp,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s the secret of a nice rise. Now, before my husband allows his stomach to make him forget his manners, I’ll have him say a wee prayer.’ She smiled sweetly at Cameron. ‘Say grace, my dear.’
He bowed his head. He clasped his hands together. ‘Grace,’ Cameron said solemnly, and took a large bite of currant cake. ‘Delicious, Mrs Crisp, quite delicious. I don’t think we’ll taste anything as good as this in the New World.’
‘You are bound for America, Reverend?’
‘Indeed we are, Mrs Crisp, a new congregation, a new country. We’re fair excited about it.’
‘Though one thing is bothering us,’ Kirstin said, leaning confidentially towards the landlady. ‘We’ve said our goodbyes to all our friends back home save one. A Mrs Ferguson. She’s one of my oldest friends. I don’t suppose, with so many people coming through this lovely inn, that you’d remember her? We missed each other, you see, and I’m worried that we’ll miss each other again—that she’ll have been and gone before we reach the city ourselves. A woman of my age, though much better dressed, she—’
‘I remember her well, Mrs Collins.’ Mrs Crisp looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘Did you say you are good friends with the lady?’
‘Oh, aye, very good friends. The pair of us were at school the’gether.’ Cameron was not the only one who could thicken his accent. Kirstin assumed a worried look. ‘Don’t tell me that something happened to her?’
‘No, no. That is...’ Mrs Crisp got up, checked the door of the parlour and came back to the table. ‘I will be frank with you, Mrs Collins, Reverend Collins, my husband and I are rather at odds on this matter.’
‘This matter? You are putting the wind up me, Mrs Crisp.’
‘No, no. There is naught—at least that is what Mrs Ferguson assured my husband. For myself, I would have been inclined to call the authorities, no matter what she said, but she would have none of it, and one must assume that the woman knows her daughter well enough.’
‘Her daughter?’
‘This is a respectable inn.’ Mrs Crisp crossed her arms over her sparse bosom. ‘There are some,’ she said, her voice lowered to a whisper, ‘where young women are preyed upon, where young girls from the country are indeed—Well, suffice it to say that the work they are offered and the work they are given bear little resemblance to each other. You understand me, Mrs Collins, Reverend? I am sorry if I offend...’
‘Och, not at all,’ Cameron intervened, touching Mrs Crisp’s arm sympathetically. ‘Euphemia and I have long worked in the poorest of parishes. We are sadly very much aware of the vices young lassies can be drawn into. Though I do hope you are not going to tell us that Mrs Ferguson’s lass...?’
‘No, no. Goodness, no. What I’m trying to tell you is that she could not have been—nor her servant. We are most vigilant about keeping a respectable inn and a respectable courtyard.’
‘Despite your historic associations with the highwayman standing guard over the mantel?’ Cameron said, with a perfectly pitched smile.
‘Oh, that thing. My husband’s mother painted that.’ Mrs Crisp returned his smile with a grim one of her own. ‘A better judge of his fellow man than Mr Crisp there is not, but when it comes to his mother I’m afraid he is blind.’
As is his mother, if her artwork was anything to go by, Kirstin thought irreverently, as Mrs Crisp embarked upon a clearly long-suppressed description of her mother-in-law’s many failings.
‘Aye, you’ve many a cross to bear, but if you don’t mind,’ Cameron interjected as the landlady drew breath, ‘I’d like to return to the subject of Mrs Ferguson’s daughter.’
A Scandalous Winter Wedding Page 8
