This Perfect Kiss (22 page)

“I would rather think you would write the letter because you love your niece, my lord Leighton.”

Chapter 12

P
otholes rutting the narrow drive made Camden's approach to Blackthorn Castle excruciatingly slow.

Leaning nearer to the window, he looked toward the distant meadow as the coach passed beneath the imposing stone watchtower on the drive that opened into the parkland. The morning was fresh and pure. Yellow gorse hugged the ground, scenting the air with a honeyed coconut aroma. In the distance, sunlight turned the front of Blackthorn Castle golden.

When he'd left here almost seven weeks ago, the trees had still been brown, the roads frozen. Only that morning, he had docked the
Anna
in Prestwick. In another week, the ship would be sailing without him, her hold filled with goods.

“You have not taken your eyes from the window for the past hour,” Sir Jacob remarked. He sat in the seat opposite Camden.

Jacob's coach had been waiting in Prestwick that morning, and Jacob had offered to deliver Camden to Blackthorn Castle, where they would conclude their business. “One would think you are actually glad to be returning home,” Jacob added with amusement.

It wasn't the sight of the estate that lent impetus to his impatience, Camden realized. The moment the coach stopped and the step lowered, he opened the door and climbed out. None of his footmen or groomsmen greeted the coach upon its arrival. As he approached the stone portico, the door opened and the staid butler appeared, red-faced and breathless. “My lord!” he said as Camden walked past him into the house. “We did not receive a message that you were arriving.”

Making a perfunctory comment, Camden removed his tricorn and gloves, and peered up the winding staircase. “Where is everyone?”

“Most of the servants are at the old gardener's cottage today.”

“Indeed. And why would they be at the gardener's cottage?”

“Oh, 'tis no longer the gardener's cottage, my lord. Miss Douglas and Doctor White have renovated it and 'tis now the new surgery.”

Camden's hands paused over his gloves. “Miss Douglas?”

“Aye, my lord. Blackthorn Castle has been without a physician since the last one was lost in the blizzard of eighty and fell over the—”

“Smolich.”

“Aye, my lord. Miss Douglas thought that Doctor White should be available to the servants and tenants' families. The dowager agreed, and they found the old gardener's cottage unused.”

“Are my grandmother and daughter upstairs?”

“Oh, nay, my lord. They are also at the cottage.”

Camden held out his hand to retrieve the cloak Smolich had just taken. “Is there anyone
not
at the cottage besides you?”

“The cook, my lord. Supper is at eight.” Smolich's gaze settled on Sir Jacob. “Will we be having guests overnight?”

“Aye, Smolich. See that he is settled.”

Camden's first glimpse of the old stone cottage stopped him. He vaguely remembered that the place had gone neglected for years, its thatch roof one with the brambles that had overgrown this section of the estate. Not so any longer.

A slew of people worked on what used to be a yard overgrown with prickly gorse. Furniture sat outside in the sun while the floors were being varnished, the roof and windows replaced, and the chimney flues cleaned.

Wearing a double-caped military cloak, Camden was hard to miss, and people stopped working when they saw him. One of the men oiling the door hinge spotted him. “My lord!”

Snow melt had made the ground wet. Camden was careful to remain on the flagstones, but his shoes were no longer spit-and-shine black by the time he crossed the yard. “Are my grandmother and daughter inside?”

“The dowager has gone to the herbal with Doctor White. Lady Anna is upstairs with Miss Douglas.”

Stepping past him, Camden said over his shoulder, “Send word to the dowager that I am home.”

The man dropped the rag in his hand. “Aye, my lord. At once.”

Pausing in the doorway, Camden looked around. A new coat of whitewash had already dried on the walls. The room held a pungent, though not unpleasant, scent of varnish and beeswax.

As he walked inside, Christel suddenly came into view on the landing above him. She stood on a spindle back chair before the tall window, her arms outstretched, struggling to hang a length of drapery. A blue kerchief wrapped her hair. An apron covered the front of her dress but did little to hide a shapely backside and two perfectly formed ankles. He stood transfixed, his head brushing the beam that ran the length of the ceiling.

With muted anticipation and without taking his eyes from her, he climbed the stairs, and he wondered in the next thundering beat of his heart if she had thought about him as much as he had thought about her. The stair creaked beneath his step. She looked over her shoulder, seeing him at the same time that he reached the second-floor landing, and her smile was so powerful that it was like a physical force against him.

“My lord . . .” The chair wobbled. “You have returned!”

He caught the back of the chair and steadied her with a hand on her waist. “ 'Twould do me no good if you broke your neck because of it.”

He possessed a profound desire to kiss her. Picking a cobweb off her bodice, he lowered his gaze to her mouth. “Only you could look carnal covered in dirt and grime.”

“What are you
doing
here?” she whispered. “Your staff received no word of your arrival.”

“I believe I live somewhere on this estate, though I cannot be sure this is the same place I left in January.”

And there was nothing civil inside him as his gaze went over her face, her breasts, the curve of her waist, traveling lower. He had no need to stretch his memory to recall the promise of what lay hidden beneath her clothes.

His arm was already behind her back, dragging her off the chair and full against him. He surveyed her with a slow smile, an action as indicative of his current unreserved mood as it was of something else he could not define.

She might have glimpsed the maelstrom of emotions that broke within him, but he also bore witness to hers. Her sigh touched his ears. “I have missed you,” she said as her feet finally touched the floor.

“Papa!” Anna's voice came from the hallway behind Christel, startling him to step away and turn.

Anna came running toward him, the green ribbon in her hair trailing after her. Dirt smudged her nose and apron. With his leg, he could not lean down on his knee, but it didn't matter to his daughter as she flung her arms around his waist.

“Oh, Papa! I am ever so happy you are back.”

He laughed, and because it was already too late to save his clothes, he lifted her in his arms. His daughter smelled of grown-up things like sandalwood and talcum, as if she'd played with Christel's personal effects. “Your words are music to my ears, pup.” His eyes drifted upward, and from over his daughter's head, his gaze touched Christel's. “I have missed you, too.”

“H
ow is it you could allow the niece of a known smuggler and blockade runner to take on the job as Lady Anna's governess?” Sir Jacob asked from the doorway behind Camden. He had already changed for supper.

Camden stood in his dressing room, his hair still damp from a bath. With a word, Camden released his valet and finished tying his own cravat. “We have already discussed Miss Douglas, Jacob,” he said, an edge to his tone.

“Aye, but the last time she was not Lady Anna's governess.”

“No offense, Jacob . . .” Camden slapped his friend on the shoulder as he snagged his dinner frock from a plump upholstered chair near the window. “You are thinking like an officer of the Crown,” he said, sliding his arms into the sleeves. “Always suspicious.”

“Does she know that you are the one who paid the taxes and the note on Seastone Cottage?”

Camden yanked the cuff of his shirt from beneath the coat. “I would like to know how
you
know that.”

“Then your solicitor neglected to inform you that I
own
the bank that held the mortgage on Seastone Cottage. I am apprised of all business of import.”

Camden walked to the door and edged it shut. Out of courtesy for their long-standing friendship, he tempered his agitation as he faced the only man who had never turned his back on him. “Then you must have known that bank note was due soon. If I were not such a trusting friend, I would believe the only person inconvenienced by her presence is you?”

“Bloody hell, Carrick,” Jacob snapped, his temperament equally volatile. “Why do you trust her? She is rumored to have been wed to one of the most notorious spies in the colonies during the war. She is alleged to have been one herself and is suspect in the deaths of three of our men in Virginia.”

Camden tightened his jaw. He knew the story. Lieutenant Ross had related it to him in a more sympathetic version, considering the three had murdered her husband in cold blood. “Only three men? Why not make her responsible for the loss of the war as well?” He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. For whatever the matter was between him and Jacob—and Camden suspected it had much to do with Jacob's desire that Camden wed his daughter—they were in bed financially. Camden needed Jacob's political and monetary support to bring to fruition his plans for Blackthorn. It was one of the reasons he had gone to Glasgow. Why he had remained an extra week.

He also knew that Jacob had always been a devout loyalist, while Camden had already begun to see beyond the symptomatic blindness that had come with his own oath to the Crown. He was by no means a Whig, but neither was he blindly loyal to any man's cause, not any longer.

“Whatever happened, the war is over,” Camden said. “Most certainly, 'tis finished for me. I have given all but my life and my daughter to Crown and country. You will afford me my indulgence when it comes to the feminine company I keep.”

This seemed to pacify the worst of Jacob's concerns. “If our positions were reversed, Carrick, as a friend, would you not ask me these questions concerning your new governess?”

Maybe. Perhaps
. But Christel's presence at Blackthorn was not open to discussion. Camden's smile was brief but unapologetic. “I know what I am doing.” He stood at the door, inviting Jacob to leave. “Now go. I need to say good night to Anna.”

Only after Jacob's departure did Camden feel his fist unclench from around the doorknob.

B
rushing her hands down her skirt, Christel walked into Anna's room to make sure she was dressed. The purple draperies were still open. A hint of coral-and-crimson-tipped clouds was all that remained of the sunset. Christel drew the curtains shut and turned into the room. Bright yellow and lavender wallpaper matched the tiered yellow fabric draping in swathes from the canopy around the bed. It was a beautiful room, and when Christel had left it an hour ago to change her clothes, the chamber had been in pristine condition.

Christel now confronted a disaster.

Blankets had been dragged off the bed and were now draped over a dresser and a rocking horse. Evidence that Anna had raided the kitchen pantry lay in an incriminating trail beneath the blankets. Amidst this wreckage, her hair a wet tangled mop, Anna, wearing only her shift, was jumping on the bed, ignoring Mrs. Gables's attempts to entice her into her stockings.

When she saw Christel, Mrs. Gables straightened. “She will not listen to me, mum. Perhaps you will have more luck.”

“But I wish to stay up and play!”

“Not tonight, Anna,” Christel said.

“Yes. Tonight.” Anna suddenly stopped bouncing. “Papa!”

Lord Carrick stood in the doorway behind Christel, a silver-eyed aristocrat, looking immaculate, dressed formally in a dark blue velvet dinner frock, black breeches and a white waistcoat. This was not how she had expected him to see her in her role as governess.

“My apologies, my lord,” Mrs. Gables said as she failed to contain Anna's wriggling. “I have been trying to dress her for bed.”

“But I do not wish to go to bed.”

“I do not blame you. Come.” Lord Carrick held out his hand. “Let me see you.”

Anna jumped off the bed. Christel stepped between Anna and her papa. “What did I say earlier, Lady Anna?”

She lowered her blue eyes contritely. “You said a lady never runs in the house barefoot or climbs trees in dresses or bounces on beds. But I do not
wish
to be a lady anymore if I cannot have any fun!”

Lord Carrick coughed over what sounded like a laugh. He hastily looked over at Mrs. Gables, now standing next to the rocking chair. “Come, Anna.” He lifted her in his arms. “You will need to dress for bed. Your hair is still damp and your feet are like ice. No more trouble.”

As Anna turned her attention to Mrs. Gables, her small mouth tightened.

“Tomorrow I have a surprise for you,” he added.

“Do you, Papa?”

“I do.” He set her down. “Now off with you.”

Without arguing, Anna accepted Mrs. Gables's hand. Together they disappeared into the dressing room.

Whatever else Lord Carrick might have been to the rest of Britain, beneath that hard masculine shell, the great Barracuda was naught but mash in Anna's hands and she well knew it.

Perhaps he did as well, as his expression signified. “What does it matter if she breaks routine this one time? Or jumps on the bed?” Amusement-laced words lightened his tone but did not dispose Christel to humor. “I do not remember you being so rule-oriented and ladylike when you were younger,” he said.

“I do not recall your having a breadth of fondness for unruly young ladies, either,” she replied, noting that his slight smile no longer held humor. “It matters not a whit to you that I have been working with Anna these past weeks,” she continued, “making a concerted effort to do my best by you and your grandmother.”

She did not mention the deed to the cottage, and neither did he. There was no need for the reminder.