Forevermore (7 page)

"I have Mary," Clarice said doggedly.

And I'm terrified
, she added to herself.

"For how many years will you have her?" Gisela asked. "They grow. They grow and they're gone. You cannot live your life through a child, dearie. That wouldn't be fair to either of you."

"Delicious." Cameron pushed back from the table. "You're a woman of many talents. I thank you for the fine meal."

Her cheeks burning, Clarice rose to clear the plates. "It was nothing compared to what they serve at the castle."

"I've told you, Clarice, I'm a simple country man. I prefer simple country food."

His words weren't mere flattery—he'd polished off two servings of the stewed venison she'd prepared. She leaned close to access his empty plate. He smelled fresh and faintly spicy, not just the clean scent of the river, but like he'd bathed afterward at the castle, using expensive imported soap. Her husband had worked hard at the mill and rarely bathed—he'd usually smelled of stale sweat.

She jumped back when Cameron released an ear-splitting sneeze. She couldn't help but stare at him. He'd been sneezing ever since he'd arrived.

He shook his head as though to clear it. "Oh, I'll admit that once in a while it's nice to eat fancy. But a man could fall ill eating like that every day, aye?"

"I hope you're not falling ill now," she told him, her heart thudding at the sudden thought. The Black Death had swept through England two years earlier, devastating the population. And its first symptom was sneezing.

His face turned red. "It's just—" Cupping his hands over his mouth, he sneezed again.

Mary stared at him with open admiration. "You have the loudest sneeze I've ever heard."

"Mary!" Clarice admonished, although she'd been thinking the same thing herself before the possibility of serious illness distracted her.

He sneezed yet again, seeming to shake the cottage walls. "My apologies. It's just—" Another explosion had Clarice backing away in an effort avoid this plague.

It was all she could do not to grab her daughter and run for the door.

His eyes filled with regret, he rubbed a finger beneath his nose. "It's just the flowers," he admitted sheepishly.

"The what?" Mary asked, nibbling on a nail while Clarice wracked her brain, wondering if her daughter had touched him.

"The flowers." He gestured toward the middle of the table, where Clarice had placed a bowl crammed with cheerful posies she'd picked from her garden. "They make me sneeze."

His words finally got through to her. As he drew breath in preparation for another discharge, Clarice snatched up the bowl, clutching it to her chest and sagging with relief. "Flowers make you sneeze?"

With an obvious effort, he held back. "Aye. I've always been that way—I don't know why."

"Lud." And here she'd worried he'd been on the verge of death. Trying not to laugh—at herself or his absurd affliction, or maybe both—she backed toward the door. "Let me just take these outdoors."

Cameron began to rise, as though he intended to help her. Or to leave.

"Mary," she choked out, "will you please pour Sir Cameron more ale?" She hurried outside, closing the door behind her before she slumped against it, attacked by a fit of the giggles like she'd never experienced.

Around this man, she seemed to be a different woman. She had to get herself under control. Biting her tongue, she drew a deep breath and used every ounce of her will to keep a straight face as she reentered the cottage.

As she'd requested, Mary had poured more ale. Apparently recovered, Cameron sipped and chatted with the girl while Clarice bustled about, calming herself and lighting candles to ward off the dark that was swiftly falling. Though she hadn't a clue whether he would stay a spell longer or not, she was hoping the cozy lit room and another cup of ale would keep him there awhile.

To her vast surprise, she found herself craving another kiss. What could it hurt? A memory to keep her warm at night.

He'd removed his surcoat and sat at her table in a thin lawn shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. That small display of skin was enough to remind her how he'd looked and felt all wet, with his clothes plastered to his body. Firm and strong, so unlike her husband's aging form. She'd been distracted to the point that she'd nearly forgotten to eat.

Yet he hadn't so much as touched her all evening. She wondered whether he'd given up, or whether he was simply gentleman enough not to press his suit in her daughter's plain sight. She hoped it was the latter.

She was dying for a kiss.

Although the thought of anything more intimate scared the very wits out of her, she found Cameron Leslie's kisses unbearably exciting. But that was because she'd never really been kissed before. A mindless grinding of the lips, yes, but not a real kiss as she'd come to know a kiss this afternoon.

The rest she could happily live without. She knew what
that
felt like, and why anyone would ever call it
making love
was beyond her comprehension. A glossy lie, that, doubtless invented by men to keep virgins from abandoning their marriage beds.

"Well, I've got two choices." Refilled ale cup notwithstanding, Cameron rose. "I can either leave or we can dance."

"Dance?" Whatever was he talking about? Slowly she removed the apron that covered her navy blue dress. A nice dark color. Even if she were soaking wet, he wouldn't be able to see through it.

"Aye, dance," he said. "I was supposed to practice my dancing tonight, in preparation for Friday's ball. Lady Kendra told me in no uncertain terms that I was to return early or dance here instead."

She didn't fall for that story, but when he began pushing the table and chairs out of the way, she couldn't seem to find the words to tell him no. Courtly dancing was for couples, mostly. He would have to touch her.

Her hands tingled at the mere thought.

Mary scraped a chair across the floor. "May I dance, too?"

"Of course you may." He brushed his palms on his plain wool breeches. "We'll start with the minuet. I need the most practice in that—"

"We've got no music," Mary pointed out.

"I can count the beats." He cleared his throat and launched right into the lesson. "We count six for each minuet step, but the first movement is only a plié—"

"A what?" Mary cocked her golden head.

"A plié. Just turn out your feet and bend your knees a little."

"Like this?" She pliéd until her bottom nearly touched the floor.

Clarice's heart melted when she saw him bite back a laugh. "Nay, princess. Just a wee bit. Like this." He demonstrated. "Now, that's really naught but a preparation for the step, so we start with the last beat of the previous bar. Six, one, two, three, four, five; six, one, two—"

"I think I feel the headache coming on," Clarice interrupted, putting a hand to her brow. "This is terribly complicated, isn't it?"

"You'll do fine. Follow me. Plié, then step forward with your right foot and rise on your toes. Close in your left foot and lower your heels." As best they could, Clarice and Mary executed the steps while he watched. "Good. Now the same on the other side." Counting off, he danced along. "Six, one, two, three, four, five. Smaller steps, Princess Mary. The steps must be tiny to fit in the beats. Six, one, two, three, four, five…"

When he took Mary's hands to show her how they would dance together, Clarice wanted to scream. Not that she begrudged her daughter the attention, but lud, she'd been waiting all night to touch him. And she felt downright silly dancing alone.

"Six, one, two, three, four, five. La la la, la la la—"

"What are the words?" Mary broke in, stopping midstep.

Cameron blinked. "It doesn't have words." He tugged on Mary's hands to get her dancing again.

"Oh." She stayed stubbornly still and ruminated on that a moment. "I like songs with words."

He shrugged. "I know no words to this one, Princess Mary."

"Then I will sing something else." And without further ado, she launched into a lovely rendition of "The Twenty-Ninth of May."

"Let the bells in steeples ring
And music sweetly play
That loyal Tories mayn't forget
The twenty-ninth of May."

The charming dimples appeared when Cameron grinned. "You sing beautifully, princess." And finally, while Mary's sweet voice trilled the lilting tune, he dropped her hands and took Clarice's.

Mary made her way to a chair.

"Twelve years was he banish'd
From what was his due
And forced to hide in fields and woods
From Presbyterian crew;
But God did preserve him,
As plainly you do see
The blood-hounds did surround the oak
While he was in the tree."

Clarice's feet seemed to glide effortlessly, her body guided by Cameron's warm hands holding hers. Her gaze was locked on his compelling hazel eyes. Her blood pumped much harder than the sedate dance should warrant. Lud, what was happening to her? If her daughter weren't watching, she feared she'd throw herself into his arms.

His intimate smile suggested he just might be reading her mind, and her heart skipped a beat. His hands tightened on hers when she would have stumbled, but he didn't comment on her clumsiness. "She sings of King Charles's restoration, aye?"

"P-pardon?" The song was the farthest thing from her mind.

"I'm speaking of Mary." The dimples winked, telling her he was pleased with her discomposure. "Her song tells of the Restoration, of Charles hiding in the Royal Oak."

"Oh. Yes." Somehow, probably owing to Cameron's skill, her feet kept moving in time to the melody. He must have been jesting when he said he needed practice; he was a superb dancer. "It's a Cavalier ballad she sings. Cainewood—the whole village—was a Royalist stronghold throughout the Civil War. In support of the marquess, you understand. His family was fiercely Royalist—his parents both died in the Battle of Worcester."

"Do you remember that?"

"Most certainly." Then she remembered something else, and her heart dropped to her knees. "You were too young, weren't you? I'd wager you don't remember the Commonwealth. It was no trial to you, was it, that sad period in our history?"

For a moment, lost in his gaze and the dance, she'd forgotten their age difference. But it would be there, wouldn't it? Always. Different life experiences.

"Nay. I don't remember overmuch," he admitted, confirming her suspicions. "I was but a bairn. And though London holds rule over Scotland, you must remember we are quite far removed from what happens here."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We haven't much in common, do we? You're Scottish, I'm English…"

A profound sense of loss swept through her as her words trailed off.

"So let the bells in steeples ring,
And music sweetly play,
That loyal Tories may…n't…forget
The…twen…ty…ninth…"

The song trailed off as well. Curled up on the chair, Mary was sound asleep. Their dance ground to a halt. In unison, they both shot her a glance before their eyes met.

"I want you, Clarice."

She looked down at her scuffed black slippers. No glass shoe, to be sure. "I was never meant to be a lady…indeed, I wouldn't even know how to behave."

With a finger under her chin, he brought her gaze back to his. "Exactly like you do. You're the best woman I've ever met."

Her smile was quick but sad. "And you're the most charming man
I've
ever met."

"Nay, I'm serious." His eyes searched hers. "You've the kindest heart, the sweetest soul. I wouldn't want you to behave any other way than you do already. And no matter what you say, we have quite a bit in common." Cameron's voice went suddenly lower, husky. "Most importantly, what we have in common is this…"

And he pressed his mouth to hers. His hands went to the small of her back, pressing her body to his as well. And God help her, she went willingly. Eagerly. Her lips opened beneath his, aching for the sweep of his clever tongue.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless. Lightheaded.

Halfway in love.

"Now I'll hear no more talk of what we don't have in common," he told her. "What we do have in common is much more pleasant, don't you agree?"

She nodded, then shook her head. "But there are other things—"

"Aye?" His hands gripped her shoulders, and he kissed her again, short and bittersweet. "I will hear of them, then. We will speak of those things tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Today you fed me, tomorrow I'll feed you." Another kiss. Clearly he meant it to be short, but she kept her mouth fused to his when he would have pulled away, sinking into the caress. With a groan, he capitulated, and for a glorious space of time Clarice was positive there was nothing occupying his mind save for her. The power was heady. When she finally let him release her, she grinned, licking his taste on her lips.

His answering grin was a bit too cocky for her comfort. He dropped his hands from her shoulders and strode to reclaim his surcoat.

"Tomorrow," he repeated, shrugging into it. "A picnic. I will call for you at noon. And Mary, of course. She may bring her friend Anne if it pleases her."

Her gaze shot to her daughter. Lud, she'd been wantonly kissing a man, and Mary right in the room. Sensible Clarice had lost her senses.

"Don't worry," he said, reading her mind. "She saw nothing."

On his way to the door, he paused to draw her close and plant one more kiss that left her reeling. He was outside and down her garden path before she could catch her breath. A final sneeze drifted back to her.

Noon. Fifteen hours from now. Fifteen hours until she would have to tell him the one thing that would send him running from her as fast as his legs would carry him.

This had gone much too far already.

"There's a bonnie loch near Leslie." Seated on the blanket he'd brought—which he'd positioned as far from any flowers as possible—Cameron crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the trunk of a tree. "But not nearly as large as this one."