Highland Awakening (9 page)

She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her fingers over her shins. “Please.”

“Please dinna torture you by making you think about this? What kind of torture will it be when you wish to write and you cannot because he's forbidden that activity, or strangled the creativity from your soul? Or do you plan to skulk around, continue writing in secret, keeping the truth from your own husband?”

She wanted to cover her ears and pretend he wasn't introducing these things—her biggest fears about her upcoming marriage—into her head. “Please. Stop.”

He ground his teeth. She sent him a covert glance. He looked frustrated beyond measure, as if he wanted to shake her until sense untangled her snarled thinking.

“I dinna wish to stop,” he told her darkly. “I dinna want to see you unhappy.”

“You want me to be happy?”

“More than anything.” He seemed as surprised by his admission as she was.

She gave him a soft smile. “I like you very much, Cam. I really hope we can remain friends, even after I am married.”

“Whitworth wouldna take kindly to our friendship.”

She sighed but didn't deny it.

“Dinna do it, lass.” His words emerged strained, almost as if on a moan of pain.

She didn't respond this time, just settled against him. She didn't want to think about this anymore. She just wanted to be with him.

“When is the date?”

“The date?” she asked, confused. “Today's date?”

“No, of your marriage.”

She took a shaky breath. “A month from now. The nineteenth of May.”

He gritted his teeth. “Too damn soon.”

“You can't come here again,” she said softly. “If we were caught…If my brother found out—”

“Aye, I ken. Disgrace. Embarrassment. Pistols at dawn.”

They were silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, “I wish things were different.”

“They'll only be different if you grab the reins, lass, and take charge of your future.”

Why hadn't she encountered this man a year ago, when the world had been open to her? Why had she agreed to marry Henry Whitworth?

Well, she knew the answer to that. She'd agreed to marry him to save the House of Trent from scandal, and because Henry was decent and simply
safe
.

Cam said she should take the reins of her future, and in a way she'd thought that was what she'd done. But maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she'd just taken the reins from Trent and handed them to Henry. And she didn't love or trust Henry like she loved and trusted Trent.

She pushed her fingers into her hair and cupped her forehead in her hands. “What are you doing to me?”

“I'm making you think,” Cam said.

“I'm not certain I like the things you're making me think about.”

“Better to think them now than before it's too late.”

“Maybe it's better not to think at all.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you really believe that?”

No, she didn't. A sigh was her only response.

Cam was the kind of man who'd be more than willing to give her pleasure. To teach her all the joys of the marital bed without tying either of them to it.

As enticing as that would be, it wasn't what she needed. She needed stability. A decent, unassuming husband and a quiet, uninteresting home that would shield her from the judgments of society.

“Kiss me,” Cam whispered.

She gazed at him for a moment. Then, for the first time, she leaned in, initiating a kiss. He sat passively for a long moment, allowing her to explore him with her mouth. She licked his lips, tasting their softness, which contrasted so dramatically with the hardness of his body. Turning more fully toward him, she slipped her hands around him until her fingertips played with the soft strands of hair at the back of his neck.

Every time she touched him, every time they kissed, so many sensations rushed in all at once, nearly overwhelming her. It was difficult to separate one from the other, discern what was happening to any single part of her body.

She moaned, struggling against the desire that swamped her, that made her want to give this man everything.

He gently pulled away and laid her back on the bed, then lay atop her. She gazed up at him. “You won't hurt me,” she said. “You wouldn't.” Her conviction on that score was strong, although she knew it didn't hold much logic. In the dim light, he looked dangerous—dark and piratical.

“Och, Esme.” He stroked a rough finger down her cheek. “You are so naïve.”

“Probably,” she admitted.

“You're too trusting. You canna imagine all the things I want to do to you right now.”

“Oh,” she murmured, “but I can.” She'd done her research, after all. She knew much, much more than a virgin of her status should.

His expression darkened, and he pressed his weight upon her.

“Mmm,” she said.

“You're going to be the death of me, lass.”

Pleasure rushed through her. A feeling of power. She felt like one of her heroines. Unlike most of those experienced, sensual ladies, she'd never before had any confidence she possessed feminine wiles.

Cam smirked. “Is that what you want, then? To be the death of me?”

“Would it be so bad?” she asked coyly.

He made a growling noise and kissed her again. This kiss was hard. Demanding and so dominating it made her toes curl. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, kissing him back until her whole body vibrated with a deep-seated need.

He moved downward, kissing her jaw and her neck. Then he pulled back a bit, undoing the ribbon ties of the bodice of her nightgown, then pulling the edges apart, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

“Oh,” she whispered as his breath washed over one of her nipples. And then he leaned down and wrapped his lips around it.

“Oh God,” she groaned as sensation burst through her. It felt good—almost unnaturally so. She had, of course, touched herself there, experimented, but it was nothing like this, nowhere near as intense. “Cam…”

He didn't respond, too intent on his task. Her nipple had tightened to a taut nub, and he flicked his tongue over it, making her gasp in pleasure-pain.

“Do you like that?” he murmured.

“I…think so. I…”

“What? What do you want? Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she admitted.

It was his turn to groan. He moved to her other nipple, giving it the same attention. She was on the verge of losing her mind. Of giving him everything—her body, her virginity, her never-ending adoration. If only he'd satisfy the need burning so deep in her core.

But she needed to rein all that in. She needed to control herself—that one aspect of herself she could control.

“Cam…” His teeth scraped over her nipple, and she gasped in pleasure. “Please.”
Please more…or please stop?
She hardly knew. “You must…stop.”

He pulled back, cupping her face in his big hands and rubbing his thumbs gently over her cheekbones. “I'll stop if that's what you want, lass.”

It wasn't what she wanted. Not at all. But she said, “Yes. Please. The household will awaken soon, and if we're caught…” She couldn't even fathom the horror of that.

“Aye,” he murmured. He retied the ribbon of her nightgown, hiding her breasts once again, as she lay on the bed. Then he held himself over her for a long moment, silently staring at her. His gaze communicated so many things, she couldn't quite keep up with all of them. He didn't want to go—that much was clear. But he would. Because that was what she'd told him she wanted.

He slid off the bed and drew on his boots as she watched. He rose to leave but hesitated at the door.

“Good night, Esme.”

“Good night, Cam.”

“I'll see you again.” It was a promise, and relief flooded her, because even though she knew it wasn't wise for them to see each other at all, she couldn't stomach the idea of
not
seeing him again.

She nodded, but it was too late. He'd already gone, slipping silently from her bedchamber.

A few days later, Cam was at Mrs. Trickelbank's establishment yet again, sitting on the sofa outside the room where Pinfield was “meeting” with Betty, who, it seemed, had become his favorite girl.

Cam stifled the urge to cover his ears like a child and hum loudly to ignore their exuberant sounds. Instead, he rose and paced the tiny antechamber.

When he and Pinfield had arrived earlier this evening, they'd gone into the common room, where Pinfield liked to drink a glass or two of brandy and flirt with the girls before retiring to this private room with Betty.

Henry Whitworth had been in the common room speaking with a willowy blonde—a woman rather opposite in appearance to Esme. When their gazes had met, Whitworth had grinned, like they were two comrades sharing an enjoyable common interest. Cam's return smile was no more than a baring of teeth.

Whitworth was an ass.

And he would be the one Esme would give herself to. This man who would never understand her, not like Cam did. Who couldn't bring her the satisfaction Cam could. Who would look for and find his true pleasures outside the marriage bed.

Who would never make her happy.

Cam swiveled around and stared at the door. Pinfield and Betty were fine, and their night had just begun. They would be perfectly all right if he left them for a few minutes. There had been no evidence of anyone wanting to cause the man harm since they'd begun this seemingly fruitless endeavor months ago.

Lately, he'd begun to wonder if it wasn't all just a massive waste of time. Adams didn't have any real assignments for the Knights, so he'd saddled them with this ridiculous task to…what? Have them prove their mettle when it came to matters of extreme boredom?

Just in case, though, he locked Pinfield in the chamber, using the key Mrs. Trickelbank had given him. Then he strode down the corridor toward the common room.

As Cam had expected, Whitworth was still there. He'd been enjoying himself with one blonde earlier. Now that one was gone and another sat on his lap upon a long, red-velvet divan. His hand was up the woman's skirt, and he was lazily opening his mouth as she fed him grapes.

A few other men lounged in similar fashions in the room. The girls milled about, giggling, groups of them hovering around each of the men.

Cam strode right up to Whitworth and sat in an adjacent armchair. “Mind if I join you?”

He'd tried to sound light and friendly, but the words came out clipped.

Whitworth looked over the lass's shoulder at him, chewed his grape, swallowed, and said, “ 'Course not. Care for some brandy?”

“Whisky,” Cam said.

Whitworth snorted. “Right. Nothing but a Scottish drink for a Scot such as yourself. How could I forget?” He patted the girl's rounded behind. “Go on, then, Tess, and fetch the man some whisky.”

She hopped up and disappeared to do as she was bade. Whitworth watched her, his eyelids at half-mast, while Cam watched Whitworth.

Whitworth sighed happily as she reached the sidebar. “Surprised I haven't seen you here before, man. It's one of my favorite haunts.”

“Hmm. Well, it's not one of mine.”

“Why on earth not?” Whitworth cast his arms in a grand gesture. “Have you seen the ladies here? Prime meat, I say.”

“Oh? And what of your fiancée? Do you consider her to be prime meat?” The words were out before Cam could check them. Just being near this pompous bag of wind infuriated him.

Instantly, Whitworth's face darkened. “I trust you weren't speaking of Lady Esme? I wouldn't want to have to call you out, McLeod.”

“Why not?” Cam demanded. “Afraid for your life?”

He should be. Whitworth was soft, untrained. He was no warrior. It didn't matter what weapon was chosen—Cam would beat him in a duel within seconds.

Whitworth laughed. Cam didn't.

“Seems your time away has dis-educated you in the ways of things,” Whitworth said.

“What ways are those?”

“There is a code, man. We don't speak of our families, of ladies, while engaging in these less…er…
refined
pursuits.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Whitworth said self-importantly, “ladies of our rank are to be kept in their gilded cages. In every way. You wouldn't discuss a lady of importance here any more than you'd discuss Tess in the presence of such a lady. Ah, there you are, Tess.” He smiled warmly at the whore as she handed Cam the whisky with a broad wink. Whitworth patted his lap, inviting the woman back onto it.

“Even after you're married to such a lady?” Cam asked as Tess wiggled her way into a comfortable position.

“Oh, especially not then.” Whitworth tilted his head in question. “Have you become stupid in the army? I hear that happens to some. They return from battle dim-witted, and not only from injury, I hear.”

Cam ground his teeth—if this man had fought against the French, he'd be dead, not merely dim-witted—but he managed a shrug. “Aye, well, I intend to tell my wife everything, if I ever marry.” Which was a stupid thing to say, since he'd never thought about what secrets he'd tell a wife. There was no point—he never planned to have a wife to begin with.

Whitworth snorted. “Much to your detriment, I'm sure.”

“Why? I don't intend to engage in adultery while I'm married. Do you?”

“Not
adultery
—of course not. A little fun now and again, though, keeps a man in his prime.”

Cam glanced around at the giggling whores, many of whom were dressed in a fashion that most ladies of Esme's class would find appalling—short dresses that revealed ribbon garters, too-small bodices with breasts pouring over their tops, garishly bright cosmetics.

“The kind of fun to be had here?” he asked Whitworth.

“Precisely.”

“If a man is married, that still qualifies as adultery.”

Whitworth gave him an exaggerated shocked look. “When did
you
become such a prig?”

When I saw how my father ruined women's lives.

He said nothing. But he remembered the morning when he was about ten years old that he'd found his mother sobbing in her bedchamber. He'd gone next door to his father's room to investigate and had discovered his father asleep with a naked woman beside him.

His father had brought one of his mistresses into the house—
with Cam's mother in residence
—and hadn't bothered to hide the woman. Later, with all three children huddled in the corner of the room, he'd shouted to Cam's distraught mother that he was the Earl of Sutton and had the right to bed whomever he damn well pleased. And furthermore, he'd prefer to bed anyone over her, because she was a sniveling, skinny, ugly excuse for a woman.

“Of course it doesn't qualify as adultery,” Whitworth scoffed. He was such a damned idiot. “Mrs. Trickelbank runs the finest establishment in London. All the girls are extremely discreet.”

“Because they dinna blab about it makes it not qualify as adultery?” Cam asked in disgust. Asses like Whitworth would make themselves believe anything in order to justify their actions.

Whitworth slid his arm over Tess's chest, his hand cupping her breast, and drew her close. She slumped back against him, her legs opening. Cam would have a prime view if he bothered to look. Whitworth glanced at Cam over her shoulder and said, “When no one's the wiser for it, who's to say anything ever happened?”

Cam said nothing.

“Come on, man. You know one gentle lady—especially a lady as gentle as…” Whitworth paused, seemingly unwilling to say Esme's name in this place. “Well, she cannot serve the needs of a single man.”

Cam thought he might vomit. He kept his mouth shut. Whitworth made it clearer with every passing second that he knew nothing about Esme. What would he think if he knew Esme had actually visited this establishment? That she'd probably talked to the very lady Whitworth now jiggled on his lap?

He might suffer from a fit of the vapors and need the smelling salts, that's what. The thought made Cam genuinely smile for the first time tonight.

“I see you agree,” Whitworth said smugly. “Our ladies are too delicate to manage a man's natural appetites.”

“Nay.” Cam didn't want this man operating under the assumption that he agreed with him on any level. “You underestimate Lady Esme.”

Whitworth jumped, then scowled in reaction to Cam voicing her name. “Please,” he said darkly, “be discreet.” He pushed Tess off his lap and straightened. The girl pouted, thrust out her chest, and reclined against the arm of the divan.

“And don't presume to know anything about my fiancée,” Whitworth said, swallowing the last of his brandy and holding his glass out to Tess to fetch another.

“I don't presume,” Cam said. He
knew.

“She's a very delicate lady, prone to fits of nerves at times. She's handsome enough, but she possesses a mixed reputation of being a terrible bore and an utter social failure. Not to mention being the subject of even more unsavory gossip, all of which is untrue, of course, but nonetheless still affects her image in society.” Whitworth shrugged and gave him a conspiratorial look. “However, she's a duke's sister and she comes with a rather large dowry, and those facts trump her debilitating shortcomings, wouldn't you say?”

Something inside Cam turned black as coal, but he managed to hold on to his composure. “I see. She's delicate, is she? Then surely she would understand and support your”—he gestured to the room at large—“proclivities.”

Tess returned with Whitworth's brandy, prompting Cam to take a swallow of his forgotten whisky. Tess took his glass and wandered off again.

Whitworth leaned toward Cam, brandy cupped in his hands. “You are naïve, man. She'll never know about my private life. We will have a very public marriage. Put on a show for the people. What I do in my private life, however, is none of her concern.”

“What about what she does in
her
private life?”

Whitworth's lip curled. “She will be my wife. I will retain all control over everything she does, public and private.”

“And you believe that's fair?” Cam asked mildly.

Whitworth snorted. “She is a woman, I am a man. It is the way of things.”

“And if she pursued ‘activities' that didn't meet your approval?”

“Such as what? Adultery? She wouldn't dare. She's too well-bred.”

Oh, of course, it was perfectly fine for Whitworth to be an adulterer, but heaven forbid if Esme were to do the same thing.

God, he was reminded all over again why he hated this world so damn much. Give him the life of a simple Scottish countryman—where honor and loyalty ranked above all, and equally for both men and women—than this life of debauchery and dishonesty.

“Not adultery.” Cam took the whisky Tess proffered and drank it down in one long swallow. He set the empty glass on the side table with a
clunk
as the woman returned to Whitworth's side. “But what if it was something else? What if she engaged in something that didn't affect you at all, but that you wouldn't approve of?”

“Such as?”

Cam held Whitworth's gaze evenly, but his mind was scrambling. This was his chance. He could end it right now, right this second.

Esme might hate him for it. She might never speak to him again. But at least, at the
very damn least,
she wouldn't have to be subjected to spending a lifetime married to this idiot.

Whitworth didn't deserve her. He shouldn't even be allowed in the same room with her, as far as Cam was concerned.

“What if she were secretly an authoress of romantic novels that were published and sold to the public?”

He gritted his teeth. Bloody hell. He'd done it. Esme was going to consider this a horrible betrayal. Cam wouldn't blame her for that. He didn't deserve her, either, after all.

But he was doing the right thing, damn it. That thought brought him strength.

Whitworth held very still. After a long silence, he motioned to Tess to go. She sighed dramatically and flounced away.

Whitworth tapped his thumb on the lip of his glass. “I assume you're speaking hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically. Of course.” Cam's voice was dry as autumn leaves.

Whitworth shrugged. “Absurd.”

“But if she were? What if she engaged in this activity secretly? What if no one knew about it?”

Whitworth grimaced. “No matter. Such a thing would be a disgrace. It would never happen.”

“But if it did?” Cam pressed.

Whitworth cocked his head. “Are you telling me something, McLeod? Are you sending me some kind of message?”

Cam finally looked away from him. He curled his hands into fists. “Make of it what you will, Whitworth. I've told you nothing.”

“Fine,” Whitworth bit out. “I would have naught to do with an authoress of any kind. And romantic novels…” He shuddered. “I would not countenance it. In fact, I would not deign to have any communication whatsoever with a woman who engaged in such activities.”

“Of course you wouldn't.” Cam felt like he was speaking through a mouthful of grit.

“Would you?”

“Mayhap. Depends on the woman, not on her choice of profession.”

“Profession.” Whitworth grimaced. “As far as I'm concerned, unless a woman is a whore, she should have no profession, save the care and keeping of her children and husband. Either way, she spends her life in service to a man.”

At this point, Cam shouldn't have been surprised by anything this man had to say. But Whitworth was growing more intolerable by the second.

“So,” he said carefully, “I'm just wanting to understand. If Lady Esme—”

Whitworth held up his hand as if to stop Cam from speaking her name.

“If
Lady Esme,
” Cam repeated firmly, “was secretly Jean Hayden, writer of romantic novels, you'd cast her aside?”