CamillasConsequences (15 page)

“No!” He would continue to humiliate me by carrying on with an actress who has the morals of a prostitute? Suddenly, it is not enough to be released from my engagement. I must hurt him as much as he has hurt me. How can I separate him from his lover and punish him for his infidelity? “You will tell everyone you are going to America to start a branch of the company there. You are never to return to England.”

He bursts into derisive laughter. “You are sending me into exile?”

“Yes. Write a letter confirming your journey. In addition, you will sign control of the London-based company over to me. You have two days to consider what I am offering you. I could have been everything to you, Samson, if only you had let me.” The diamond is still on my finger. I spin around and leave the room, my love for him scattered in shards at my feet.

After spending two inconsolable days in my parents’ home, where I schemed about revenge, tormented myself over Delphine, fantasized about reconciliation and shed enough tears to make the banks of the Thames overflow, I receive a sealed envelope bearing Samson’s signature. Inside are two messages.

I am leaving for America aboard the next airship to establish a branch of my Panoptoscope company in New York. I feel this is an opportune moment to consider international expansion. Although some might disagree with me, I gave this idea due consideration and have come to the conclusion that it is a sound business decision. In the interim, Camilla Covington will be responsible for overseeing the company’s growth in England. She is aware of the company’s workings and will make all financial decisions in my absence.

The letter is exactly what I hoped for. I read the second message.

I behaved abominably the other day and realize I am unworthy of your love. You are entitled to banish me from your life. Distance will help you heal, and perhaps in time you will desire me again.

You often spoke of taking Panoptographs of the Harington Hawk, but there are so few left in England you were never able to locate a nest. I have found one deep in the marshlands off Dartmoor Pond. Please join me and bring your Panoptoscope. The International Wildlife Society will surely be interested in purchasing your pictures for their next issue.

Let us part amicably, and then I will be on my way. My selfish actions have caused me to lose what is dearest to me, the delicate flower that is my Camilla. Let the nesting site be my final gift to you, my love, for I never meant to break your heart.

Samson

For a moment, his eloquent prose ensnares my heart, but then reason takes over, and I remember Delphine writhing on the bed with Samson on top of her. What could I have done to prevent Samson from reaching out to that harlot?

By blaming myself, am I not falling into society’s well-laid trap? Women are always held responsible for men’s mistakes. My self-recrimination must stop.

I want to see Samson one last time before he boards the airship, so I take my equipment and ride Beauty to the edge of the bog. Harington Hawks were instrumental during the Scottish skirmishes a decade ago. They carried coded messages between strategic military posts, and they were trained to hunt Scotland’s homing pigeons, destroying the cryptograms bound to their legs. In retaliation, the Scots set out to kill as many hawks as possible, virtually exterminating them.

I find Samson, his hair blowing in the warm wind, tall trees casting shadows over his face. For a moment, when he smiles at me, the pain vanishes and I forget my heartache. I remember the day he proposed at the Royal Gardens when the camellias were in full bloom, and their pink and white and purple blossoms surrounded us. The memory is brief and tinged with regret.

He had picked a blood-red flower with unusual scalloped petals and gotten down on his knees in front of me. “The camellia is a symbol of an undying union between lovers. This particular variety is called Camilla’s Everlasting Love. I offer it to you because I love you, Camilla.” He gave me the bloom and I inhaled its sweet scent. “Will you marry me?” From his pocket he produced a diamond ring, placing it upon my trembling finger as I whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

I should never have accepted his proposal, but the past cannot be altered.

“Welcome, Camilla,” he says sweetly. “I’m happy you came.”

“I came for the hawks.” My equipment is slung over my shoulder. “Lead me to them.”

We follow a treacherous path deeper into the bog, which is alive with the croak of bullfrogs and the insistent whine of bush crickets. Many times Samson reaches for my hand to help me across a stretch of water, but I refuse to take it. The spongy ground springs underfoot, and as much as I can, I follow in Samson’s steps. Water soaks my boots and the hem of my cloak, but my riding breeches remain dry. In this area, the trees are sparse, and tall marsh grasses dissimulate dangerous quagmires.

A tuft of grass threatens to give way, and I balance precariously on one foot. Samson watches, but instead of extending a hand, his eyes grow cold.

My heart batters against my chest as I steady myself and grip my leather equipment bag. “Where is the nest?”

Samson frowns and he stands rigidly, his shoulders filled with tension.

There is no nest. “Why am I really here, Samson?”

“Because I will not allow you to destroy me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You will start a new life in America, away from me and Delphine.”

“My life is here. Did you honestly think I would go?”

“You should have loved me unconditionally, the same way I loved you.”

“I tried, Camilla, and I do love you in my own way, I swear it, but I need Delphine to provide me with the things you cannot.”

“I will expose you to the world!”

“No!” He lunges and shoves me hard.

I tip over, arms flailing, and the strap of my equipment bag snags on a branch. My arms reach up, grabbing the bough to stop myself from tumbling into the soggy terrain. The branch breaks with a loud snap. I land hard on my back—
splash
—the breath knocked out of my lungs. Samson curses and charges at me. I swing the broken branch with all my strength, striking him in the chest, knocking him down.

Samson tumbles face first into the muck. The bog squelches and sucks at his body. He pushes himself onto his elbows and struggles to his knees. Uttering a frustrated roar, he puts all his weight on his right knee and struggles to position his left foot on firm soil. As he shifts his weight to his foot, arms pinwheeling for balance, his boot punches through the thin carpet of moss. Samson plunges knee-deep into unstable ground. He fights to extricate his leg but only manages to sink deeper.

Gasping for breath on the ground, I watch him flounder. Samson tried to kill me. The realization sends my heart into a frenzy of uneven beats.

The more he thrashes, the deeper he sinks, and when the ooze reaches his thighs, he transforms into a wild animal, shrieking and howling and clawing at grass that tears beneath his grip. He sinks and sinks, past his hips, to his waist.

Slowly, I roll onto my belly, spreading my weight evenly along the shifting layer of peat. I inch forward until I reach firmer ground and cautiously rise on my elbows. Samson’s feral eyes meet mine, and they beg for help. His muddied hair lies plastered against his scalp. Water trickles down his face.

“For the love of God, Camilla, save me!” He holds out a hand.

I must rescue him. My heart pulses wildly in my ears. I wriggle through the wet grasses and reach for him. Our fingers are inches apart, so I crawl closer. The bog tightens its hold on him, submerging him to his chest.

“Please, Camilla, hurry!”

We make contact. Our hands clasp tightly. Samson pulls so hard I fear he will tear my arm from its socket. Dear Lord, no! I am not freeing him from the boggy terrain. Instead, he is pulling me forward, pulling me down with him. I brace myself by digging in with my knees, but they sink into the mire.

I will not die for Samson.

With a defeated moan, I release him and stare at my hand. My engagement ring is gone. Samson holds it between his fingers, despair etched on his face.

The broken branch lies a few feet away. I crawl to it and toss it at Samson, hoping it will give him purchase. He seizes it, but he is like a drowning man grabbing at an anchor. The wood immediately sinks into the water, and his arms disappear beneath the surface.

A wave of nausea overcomes me. I can do nothing more. His screams deafen me, and I hold my palms over my ears. I hate him for betraying me, but does he deserve to die?

The blame will be on my shoulders.

There is no one nearby to call for help. I have no rope. I have nothing.

And I am glad.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“This is who I am,” I admit to Hephaestus. “Surely you no longer desire me.” I dread the answer and wait for him to pass judgment.

For a long time he says nothing. He stares at me, his eyes dull, unreadable. I cross my arms over my chest, remembering my return from the bog, stumbling over the uneven ground, mounting Beauty and galloping down the desolate stretch of road to London. My mind in tumult, I promptly purchased an airship ticket in Samson’s name. After giving his father the letter, I arranged for Samson’s luggage to be sent aboard the
American Eagle
. In the confusion at boarding, no one seemed to notice only the bags embarked on the dirigible and not their owner. The lightning storm that struck the
Eagle
from the sky that very evening proved to be a most fortuitous event. I had to answer many questions about Samson’s abrupt departure, and was even questioned by Scotland Yard after his father insisted Samson would never leave his family with so little explanation, but in the end I became the first woman in England to head a powerful enterprise, Panoptography Limited, and my career as a sexual blackmailer began.

At last Hephaestus speaks. “Your fiancé lured you into the swamp to murder you. Do not blame yourself for abandoning him. He met a just end.”

I breathe a long, relieved sigh, and a heavy weight lifts from my shoulders.

He tilts his head at the cabinet. “What of these other men?”

“I discovered their infidelities, took Panoptographs of their immoral behavior and blackmailed them. All of them bent to my will save two.” I explain about Neville Mountbatten and Darmond Fitzwellington but neglect to mention the physical reprimands I meted out. Those details are best left for another day. “Fitzwellington is more unpredictable—and more dangerous—than I initially believed.” I relate my encounter with the Chinese dragon.

“You need protection. Allow me to stay with you tonight.”

“I will ask Ursula to prepare a room.”

“I wish to share yours.”

Mine? “Yes!” The word drops eagerly from my mouth.

Hephaestus folds me into his arms, and my fears vanish into the aether. Clinging to him, pressing my cheek against his massive chest, I close my eyes and allow the tears to fall. “I was afraid you would leave me.”

“No, darling. There is so much more I need to discover about you.” He wipes away my tears. “I know what you need, my sweet. Forgiveness.”

Do I deserve forgiveness after all I have done? My heart beats so loudly. Love threatens to burst free, like a dove from its cage, like a rose opening in the sun.

“Your heart belongs to me.” He squeezes my pendant in his fist.

Taking my hand, he leads me to the bed. We stand next to it, and I am all atremble. He reaches behind me to undo the eyelets on my bodice, but I stop him.

“This time, I will undress you.” I have only stripped men bare during my punishment sessions, mostly with the aid of my knife.

Using my hands in a tender fashion is a novelty, and my heart flutters. My fingers hover, then take hold of his shirt, and I reveal Hephaestus’ chest one button at a time. After pulling his shirt off his shoulders, I run my palms hungrily through the coarse hair that forms a line down his belly, to his sinewy, muscular arms. My pearl awakens, and moisture gathers in my nether folds. I want him closer to me, touching me.

Only his trousers remain, and I work on those buttons as well. My breath catches in my throat. Hephaestus twines his fingers in my hair. We do not speak. We do not need to.

My fingers brush against the bulge in his trousers. I stop, unsure of myself. Yet I have seen women pleasure men so frequently that I should not hesitate. I know exactly what I must do to please him. After undoing the buttons, I let the trousers fall. His erection presses against his thin cotton drawers. Taking a breath, I push the drawers down as well, revealing a member larger than any I have seen in the past. Considering Hephaestus’ stature, I should not be surprised.

He steps out of his trousers and cups my chin. “If you are uncomfortable, my sweet, you need not go farther.”

“I want to.” My cunny insists.

I run my finger from the base of his shaft to the head of his member, admiring the veins snaking along the surface. Hephaestus expels a shuddering breath. My touch excites him, and that in turn excites me. Closing my fist around his member, I run my hand from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. My other hand joins in, duplicating the motion, and soon the rhythm sets Hephaestus on fire. His lips part, and he watches my rapid movements.

“Squeeze slightly more,” he instructs.

His eyes are smoldering embers, his touch is fiery hot, and he slides his hands down my arms. I continue the movements over and over, and Hephaestus thrusts his hips forward, pushing his manhood more firmly into my grip. After several more thrusts, he stops, taking a series of shallow breaths.

He leans forward, his lips hovering by my earlobe, and kisses me. The kiss tickles, and I laugh.

“We are treading on dangerous ground, Camilla.”

“How so?”

“If you continue to fondle my manhood, I will throw you down on the bed and ravish you.”

My heart pounds. “What if my deepest desire is to be ravished?” Years of pent-up longing struggles to burst free, and for once I will not stop it. My fantasies must come true. Hephaestus must bed me, slide his cock into me, make me moan and gasp as I have seen so many other women do.