‘More than six years since that night,’ Cameron said, ‘and our desire for one another is every bit as powerful. You, who take such pride in being honest with yourself, should admit that much. But it’s the only thing that’s unchanged. We didn’t know each other then. We barely know each other better now. We are both very different people.’ He dropped his hand, stepping away from her. ‘Till tomorrow, Kirstin...’
December 1812, Carlisle
Though Kirstin’s kisses made his head spin, made his body thrum with desire, Cameron reluctantly tore his mouth from hers. ‘You’d better retire to your room before we do something we’ll both regret.’
‘Will we?’
Her lips were swollen with his kisses. In the candlelight, it seemed to him that her eyes burned with the same desire which made him ache with wanting.
‘Is it what you truly want, Cameron?’
He could not lie to her. ‘No.’
‘No more do I,’ she said softly.
His mind was befuddled. Her words were so confident, seemingly so at odds with her experience—or lack of it. Had he misjudged her?
‘Kirstin, do you know what you’re saying?’
Her gaze did not falter from his. ‘Yes.’
Yet still he sought further assurance. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Certain.’
She spoke with such confidence his conscience was salved. With a groan, Cameron pulled her into his arms again, kissing her deeply. She responded without hesitation, pressing her body against his, twining her arms around his neck, opening her mouth. Their tongues touched, sending such a flame of desire through him that he stopped thinking, surrendering completely to the frantic urging of their bodies.
He had no idea how they reached her bedchamber, but as she closed the door, locked it, he asked once more, his voice hoarse and ragged, if she was certain she wanted this.
She laughed, a guttural, sensual sound that made the hairs on his neck stand on end and made his already throbbing shaft achingly hard.
‘Far more than you, by the sounds of it.’
The challenge implicit in her words stripped him of the last vestige of self-control. He pulled her back into his arms, tight against him, leaving her in no doubt of the strength of his arousal.
‘That’s not possible.’
Kisses gave way to touch. Hands frantic, tearing at clothing, eager to find skin. His mouth on the hollow at the base of her throat, tasting the warm, feminine scent of her, while he undid the fastenings of her gown, sliding it down her arms, letting it drop to the floor, revealing her slim body sheathed in clinging undergarments.
The swell of her breasts above her corset and chemise made him catch his breath. He traced the shape of them with his tongue and his hands, then the delightful dip to her waist, the even more delightful shape of her bottom, her shallow breathing, her soft moans, rousing him further, urging him on.
She fell back onto the bed, pulling him with her. Her hands roved over his shoulders, his back, under his shirt, tugging it free from his breeches. He yanked himself free of it, eager for the sensation of skin touching skin, her eyes feasting on his body in an echo of the way he drank in hers, her hands echoing his touch.
Loosening her stays, the ribbon at the neck of her chemise, his mouth found the hard peak of her nipple. She arched under him as he sucked and licked, and he slid his hand up her leg, finding the opening in her pantaloons, the warm, soft flesh of her inner thighs and the damp, soft curls covering her sex.
She stilled under him for just a moment, but even as he hesitated in response she pulled him down towards her again, her lips meeting his in a drugging kiss. He stroked his way inside her, the wet, hot, tightness of her making his erection pulse and throb in anticipation. She was moaning beneath him, her body bucking under him as he stroked her to her climax.
This was no time for finesse, and he had no wish to delay completion for either of them. Her hands grabbed fistfuls of the bedcovers, her eyes closed as she came. The sight of her, unravelled and ecstatic under him, almost sent him over the edge. He kicked himself free of his boots and breeches...
London, February 1819
Cameron groaned, running his fingers through his hair. Why was he tormenting himself with the memory of that night? He poured himself a glass of port, wrinkling his nose at the cloying sweetness of it as he knocked it back in one draught. What he needed was a wee nip of whisky, but here in the south they considered the uisge beatha gut-rot, comparable to cheap gin, the tipple of the great unwashed.
Doubtless a great many of them would consider him a product of the great unwashed. There had been a time, way back, when he’d been trying to prove himself, when he’d have agreed with them. It made him smile now, the memory of those days, when the height of his ambition had been to return in triumph to Garrioch House, to parade the trappings of his success in front of those who’d been determined he was doomed to be a failure. He never had, thank God, realising just in time, on the eve of his planned visit, that the only person he needed to prove himself to was himself.
Cameron sighed, went to pour himself another glass of port then thought better of it. He didn’t need to prove anything to Kirstin either, but he did want her to—to understand him, he supposed, with a wry smile. To know what made him who he was rather than rely on assumptions. He never talked of the past, and if Kirstin had asked him outright he would most likely have blanked her, but in time...
Time. Aye, and there was the rub. If he was to get to know Kirstin at all he’d need time they didn’t have. And he did want to get to know her. Now she’d walked back into his life, he wanted to know if there was more to whatever it was that drew the pair of them together than mutual physical desire.
It had been a while since he’d been interested in a woman, physically or otherwise. Too long, now he came to think of it. There had been a fair few women in his life, and there could have been a lot more if he’d been so inclined. For some reason the fairer sex had always liked his dark looks, and his allure only increased when it was supplemented by his success and personal wealth. Trouble was, he’d become bored with their attention. None of those women seemed interested in who he was beyond good looks and affluence.
Frowning out at the twinkling lights of the city, he tried to recall his last affaire, and was startled to discover that it had been at least a year ago, more like two. He’d been starting to believe himself past caring, that his business provided all the stimulation he needed, but Kirstin was proof that his appetites had merely been dulled, not extinguished.
Kirstin, who wasn’t a whit interested in his looks, but who was, against her will, it seemed, interested in his life. She baffled him. If she’d wanted to forget that one night, why had she taken on the task of helping him find Philippa? It was all very well for her to claim that she was the best person to help him—and likely she was—but she had chosen herself for the role, for not even The Procurer could have coerced her. So why elect to meet him again, and then pretend that it was nothing more than coincidence?
Leaning his head on the window pane, Cameron closed his eyes. It wasn’t that he’d been pining away for her for six years. He’d thought of her, but that night had, even at the time, seemed like a dream, the pair of them characters in some romantic drama, not real. He wasn’t daft enough to think that Kirstin epitomised his perfect woman, and anyway, she was no more the same person she’d been six years ago than he was. But there was still something between them, and she knew it too, no matter how much she might want to deny it. They were two of a kind. Like drawn to like.
Well, one thing he’d always enjoyed was a challenge, and one thing he’d always been was persistent. He would take a trip to the docks tomorrow, see what was coming in, what was in demand. That way he wouldn’t feel his day was wasted. And he’d ask her along. Show her a bit of his world and tell her where he came from, see if he could get her ta
lking a bit about her own background.
With a satisfied nod, Cameron selected a sheet of writing paper and dipped a pen in the ink. He had an express to send to Glasgow.
Chapter Six
When she received Cameron’s note early the next morning, Kirstin had barely started breakfast. He had decided to take an impromptu trip out to the docks, the missive informed her, and wondered if she would like to accompany him. Surprised and delighted to be able to escape the confines of the hotel, and for a reason entirely unconnected to their sombre task, she hurriedly finished her toilette, donning a full-length pelisse of crimson velvet braided with black, matching bonnet, black half-boots, and black gloves. A quick glance through the window revealed a winter sky the colour of pewter, and sent her back to the wardrobe for her black velvet muff before she hurried out of her suite.
‘I reckoned we could both do with a diversion,’ Cameron told her when he joined her in the hotel lobby, ‘while we wait for Heather Aitken to be located. It’s as good an excuse as any to take the pulse of London’s current import market.’
He was dressed for the elements in a greatcoat and beaver hat. ‘Ready?’
Pulling on his gloves, he made for the front door of the hotel, but when she stopped at the kerb, expecting him to summon a hackney, he shook his head. ‘We’ll walk down to the river, take a skiff from there.’
Though he was making an effort to slow his pace for her, she struggled to keep up with him as he led the way unerringly towards the river through St James’s Park to Westminster Bridge, unable to disguise the fact that she was considerably out of breath when they arrived.
Cameron eyed her with some amusement.
‘A lady, even one in my profession, is seldom called upon to run,’ Kirstin said defensively.
He laughed. ‘I’ve never run from anyone or anything in my life. I learnt very early in life never to turn my back on a fight.’
He turned away from her to the riverside steps, where a small skiff was waiting. He conferred briefly with the grizzled old salt in charge, before holding out his hand to help her. ‘Be careful, the steps are slippery.’
Seeing her settled as comfortably as it was possible to be on the narrow seat in the stern, Cameron cast off, rock-steady despite the violent pitching of the small boat as their oarsman steered the boat out into the Thames.
‘Why did you have to learn to fight so early in life?’ Kirstin asked, as he settled beside her.
‘I grew up in a place called Garrioch House, in the east end of Glasgow. It’s a home for foundlings.’
It took a great deal to surprise her, but this admission made her jaw drop. ‘Foundlings! But Louise—’
Cameron put a finger to her lips. ‘Let’s just enjoy the river trip.’
The sky was lowering. The surprising speed at which the little craft travelled made the hull lift out of the water then descend with a dull thud, and sent an icy spray into the air.
‘Enjoyable would not be my first choice of adjective,’ Kirstin said, as the boat crested another wave and would have jolted her out of her seat had Cameron not put his arm around her, smiling down at her as he anchored her against the shelter of his shoulder.
‘I always think you see a city in a whole different light from the water. Stop thinking about whether you’re going to lose your breakfast and look around you.’
‘Fortunately, I did not get the chance to eat breakfast,’ she answered, trying to do as he suggested.
It was an odd way to see the city she knew so well towering above her, for the tide was very low. As they rounded a bend of the Thames, Somerset House came into view, and behind it the crowded district of Drury Lane could just be glimpsed. On the south side the buildings seemed an unstructured mass, a warren of lower-lying houses, wharves and offices contrasting with the more elegant architecture of the north bank and its plethora of church spires. There was the vivid green square of Temple Gardens, while all seemed brown on the other side, and though it must be a figment of her imagination even the air seemed gloomier, the chimneys belching blacker smoke.
The river itself was alive with traffic, from the smallest of rowing boats to skiffs like the one in which they travelled and bigger craft, all vying for space, their oarsmen calling to each other, their passengers too and even, in one passing yacht, a dog yapping in the prow.
‘It is busier than Bond Street.’ Turning, Kirstin found Cameron watching her. ‘How is it that there are not more accidents?’
‘There are too many as it is,’ their oarsman interjected gruffly, glancing briefly over his shoulder. ‘Young fools who don’t know the tides, old lags who forget they’re not as strong as they used to be, and rich fools, too drunk or in too much of a hurry to realise that the river has no respect for money or bloodline. But you’re safe enough with me. I was born with the Thames flowing in my veins. You’ll excuse me now, though, I need to concentrate. We’re coming up to Blackfriars.’
The bridge spans seemed impossibly crowded but they negotiated their way through safely. St Paul’s Cathedral loomed on the left-hand side, and on the right Southwark Priory. As the narrow, irregular arches of London Bridge came into view the skiff veered towards the north bank and Cameron got to his feet, ready to tie the rope to the iron ring on the wall by the foot of the stairs.
‘It’s far too risky to go any further downstream,’ he explained, helping Kirstin out. ‘The tide makes running under the spans of the bridge extremely dangerous.’
After tipping their oarsman, who was already negotiating a fee with someone looking to make the journey back to Westminster, he tucked Kirstin’s arm in his. ‘Stay close, and if you’ve a purse on you guard it well.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she had been in every dodgy district that he could dream of when she took a quick look around her and changed her mind. She thought of London, high and low society, as her world, but this environment was quite alien to her.
‘I’ve never been here,’ she said, gazing in awe at the mass of sailing ships jostling for space, tied up two, three abreast.
‘It’s known as the Pool,’ Cameron told her. ‘Every cargo must dock here to be inspected by the Excise men.’
‘Thieving and pilfering must be rife here, given the temptation,’ Kirstin said, looking askance at the rows of open warehouses, the stacks of goods waiting on the quayside to be moved. ‘Is it similar at your wharves in Glasgow?’
‘Smaller scale, but aside from that not much different. I’ve found that if you pay your men a fair wage temptation tends to be easier to resist.’
Kirstin chuckled. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you? A shrewd tactic. I would expect no less from you.’
‘Come, let’s take a walk around, see what imports are doing well.’
They made their way towards the busiest part of the docks, past the Tower, weaving along quays and wharves, Cameron stopping every now and then to exchange words with a stevedore, with ships’ crew and even with an Excise man.
He adapted seamlessly, Kirstin noticed, to each man, his manner, his speech and his accent modulated for each conversation, not enough to appear condescending but sufficient to gain respect. She was impressed, the more so for recognising the same chameleon-like technique she used herself. Though she was content to remain in the background and simply to observe, there was never a moment when Cameron was not aware of her, keeping a careful eye, watching her for signs of boredom.
The Procurer, she knew, was sometimes called The Sphinx. Cameron was the first person she had ever known who could read her most inscrutable expression. It was disconcerting, and made her at times deeply uncomfortable, yet today she felt it bound them, and she rather liked the novelty of it.
They wove their way along the docks towards Wapping, where Cameron steered them towards the large river basin.
‘I had a brief acquaintance with this district of
London last year,’ Kirstin confided with a shudder. ‘One of the few commissions which I regret taking on.’
‘Because you failed?’
‘No, but I will admit,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘that it was a close-run thing.’ She surprised herself then, perhaps because Cameron did not press her, by telling him a little of the difficult nature of the case.
‘What happened to the young woman?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea.’
His obvious astonishment made her hackles rise.
‘Such women sign up for the opportunity to make a fresh start for themselves,’ Kirstin said, unable to keep the defensive note from her voice. ‘It is up to them what they make of it.’
‘But aren’t you curious?’
‘I know, because The Procurer pays her fees promptly, that they have succeeded. I have no desire to know anything else.’
‘If it was me,’ he said, ‘I’d want to know.’
‘Well, I’m not you,’ Kirstin said.
But he had once again made her uncomfortable by seeming to read her thoughts, since she had been wondering, since taking on this role herself, about those other women. What good would it do, though, to seek them out?
‘What is that building?’ she asked, pointing at the large edifice looming up in front of them, taking up most of one side of the massive, obviously recently created square dock.
‘Tobacco Dock,’ Cameron answered, his look telling her he was perfectly well aware that she was changing the subject. ‘These are the warehouses for storing tobacco—as you can see from the size of them it’s a very profitable trade, though not so much as a few decades ago. There was a time in Glasgow when the traders were known as the Tobacco Lords. I remember them, when I was wee, at the Exchange, mincing about in their scarlet cloaks, silver buckles on their shoes, looking down their noses at everyone as if they owned the place. Which I suppose they did, mind you.’
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