Forevermore (8 page)

Clarice smiled, watching Mary play with her friend Anne by the lake's edge. "We are fortunate the marquess allows us to enjoy his park."

Indeed, this patch of England was a sylvan scene, blue water lapping softly at green shores. Friendly swans roamed the gently sloped grassy banks, begging crumbs from the picnickers who sat shaded beneath the tall, leafy trees.

Before they'd eaten, the girls had begged dancing lessons from Cameron. Right there in the open, he'd taught them all a branle, the courante, an almain, and the English pavane. "Lady Kendra's been busy," he'd told Clarice.

Now, watching her lick the delicious stickiness of roast chicken from her hands made him envy her lucky fingers. She turned to the huge picnic basket he'd brought with him from the castle. "Lud, there's enough food left to satisfy the entire village."

He grinned. "I told Cook I needed to feed four ravenous folk."

Sipping wine from a pewter goblet, she sent him a mock glare over the rim. "Are you telling me you didn't prepare all this yourself?"

"Nay." Cameron crossed his long legs. "I suppose you should know I cannot cook. That's why I require a wife."

Though he'd said it in jest, he was pleased to see she didn't flinch at his words. Maybe she was getting used to the idea.

Tomorrow was the ball, and Sunday he'd be leaving for home.

The realization hit with a stab of desperation. He couldn't leave her here. Whatever bond he'd felt upon meeting her, since then it had grown. He was more than certain of his feelings now.

Aye, he'd known her but a few days. Aye, it was daft. But he'd always been a man who knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was Clarice.

He suddenly reached to pull her to him, to hold her close, to devour her sweet mouth, to convince her, once and for all, that she didn't want to live without him any more than he did without her.

Her goblet fell to the ground and rolled down the mild slope. With her palms flat on his chest, she pushed away and sat straight. "I cannot do this." Her words came in a harsh whisper. "I'm feeling too close, and…you're leaving."

She shot a glance to where Mary played by the water, oblivious.

"Clarice." Fingers on her chin, he gently eased her gaze back to his. "Lord knows I've tried to be patient, but I want you. If you didn't believe it before, maybe you will now. You have to now, or it will be too late." He studied her eyes, the gray bright with a sheen of tears. "Do you truly think it matters that you've years to your credit I haven't lived?"

"No," she whispered, for all the world looking defeated. "It's—"

"You cannot believe you don't deserve a baronet. For God's sake, all that means is I own some land. And with it comes a title of sorts. But I'm not nobility, Clarice, and even if I were, I'd still want you."

"I know."

Then why did she look like her heart would break? "Would you be so unhappy, then, to leave the place of your birth?"

"No." She shook her head vehemently. "That's not…no."

"Are you afraid, then, to come away with me unwed? Afraid for your soul? For though the kirk may say it's wrong, the truth is I cannot wait three weeks for banns to be called. I must get home. And the thought of leaving you here…"

"No…that's not the problem, either. I cannot marry you, Cameron. I cannot. It wouldn't be fair to you, can you not see that? I'm not young anymore, and—"

"I told you, I don't care about such things!"

"Let me finish—"

"A handfasting, then—"

"A what?" She blinked, clearly confused.

"A handfasting. At home, we don't have too many clergymen, as you do here. And so it is custom to join hands, and to pledge to each other to live as man and wife for a year and a day. At the end of that time, if no child is conceived, the couple can choose to part ways. When next a priest comes to visit, the marriage is confirmed in the eyes of the kirk. It's simple, aye?"

"It's impossible," she whispered.

He didn't understand. "Why would you think so? It's the perfect solution. A time-honored ritual…tell me true, would you feel unwed if the ceremony weren't performed by a member of the clergy?"

She shook her head. "I was wed during the Commonwealth." Cameron knew that during Cromwell's rule, marriage had been a civil matter only, not considered to be any business of God's. "And truly wed I was," she added, visibly shuddering. "It took no clergyman to bind me to Will."

Once again he wondered what this marriage of hers had been like. But this was not the time to probe.

"Then what is your objection, if I may ask? I know you like me—no, more than that. And I won't hear otherwise."

"Whenever my husband…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, then faded away entirely.

"Aye?"

"I cannot be a true wife to any man," she blurted all of a sudden. "I was married fourteen years. Long years. Yet I never once enjoyed sharing a bed with my husband. He said I was…frigid." Her face turned red, but she held Cam's gaze. "I hate that word. But it fits. When it comes to intimacy, I feel…nothing. Nothing but pain and revulsion and fear."

Cameron drew a deep breath and let it out. "That was with him. You don't feel revulsion and fear when I kiss you," he pointed out carefully.

"That's different. I had never been kissed before—" His mouth gaped open, and she held up a hand. "Not really. Not what, with you, I've come to know as a kiss. It was new to me, and yes, wonderful. But I know what the other is like. I don't know how other women stand it. I know only that, for me, it can never be something I more than tolerate. Barely."

He knew she was wrong. But he also knew that no words would convince her of that. "It's sorry I am for you, Clarice. That must have been hard on your marriage."

"It was. Will always said that a night in my bed was…akin to rape. And truth be told, what he did was not all that different from what that other man attempted this summer." A single tear overflowed and traced a path down her cheek. "Will never let me forget, for one minute, what a failure I am as a woman."

"Clarice…"

"That's why I was so thrilled to be given Mary." Her gaze strayed to where her daughter chased Anne along the shore, their giggles floating to them on the breeze. "To have a child, at last, and without having to remarry. I…I don't know if I can go through that again."

A strangled sound escaped his throat, and she looked back to him, her features etched with both pain and determination. "You're young, Cameron Leslie. You have love in your heart, and land and a title to bequeath to children of your body. You shouldn't have to rape your wife in order to get them."

How many times had he pictured those bairns she spoke of running around his castle, growing, working with him side by side? He wanted her for their mother. "Would you be willing to try, Clarice?"

She shrugged. "I tried a thousand times, with all my heart. I always hoped that if I tried, he wouldn't hit me." More tears ran down her cheeks, and he reached to brush them away, feeling a stab of hurt when she pulled back to avoid his hand. "It never worked, and—though I might try again—it never will. Other women speak of a mindless joy, a special bonding. I won't deprive you of that, not even to secure my own happiness. I'm not that selfish. You deserve better."

He knew she was wrong—she was warm, not cold, and, with patience, the right man could overcome the emotional scars of mistreatment.

She was wrong.

But what if
he
were wrong, instead? What if she knew of what she spoke?

Could he live with that?

She rose to her knees, reaching for the goblet that had rolled away, tossing everything back in the basket. "I want you to leave, Cameron."

"What?" Would she cut out his heart?

"I want you to leave." She shoved the basket into his hands, then tossed the blanket over it. "Now. Just leave me alone, like you should have in the first place."

He stared at her for a long moment, until she scrambled to her feet and turned her back.

He slowly stood.

"I love you," he said.

Her shoulders remained stiff, unyielding. The words vibrated across the chasm that stretched between them.

A chasm it seemed he couldn't leap. But he would find a way.

For the first time in close to a week, Clarice felt she'd done a full day's work. She'd made more strawberry tarts and delivered them to Gisela at the cookshop. Her fingers were stained red from picking berries for tomorrow's batch. She'd finished one crewelwork throw and started another, both of which would bring a tidy sum. The house was swept, the linens washed.

Her heart was empty.

She'd known all along that Cameron wouldn't choose to marry a cold woman. She'd been foolish to allow herself to get close. But though she'd said from the start that she and Mary were better off on their own—and truly meant it as well—the thought of never seeing him again left her feeling like there was a gaping hole in her middle.

Yet surely she would get over that. It was all for the better. She was terrified at what the marriage bed would bring, and having escaped that once, she'd be foolish to go back. She might have lived a fairytale for a week, but she wasn't meant to live in a castle forever.

She was setting supper on the table when the rattle of carriage wheels began parading down her street. One after the other, the local gentry were making their way to the castle for the marquess's wedding celebration ball.

Mary ran to fling open the door. "Look, Mama! Oh, look at the beautiful coaches! Look, that one has four white horses! And I can see inside. That lady's hair has jewels stuck in it!"

"How lovely," Clarice answered with as much enthusiasm as she could muster—which wasn't much. Though she'd never expected to attend the ball—unlike her daughter, never even dreamed of such a thing—that didn't mean she wanted to ogle the guests. She'd prefer to block the entire event from her mind. Just knowing Cameron was there, probably already dancing the new dances, made her heart ache anew.

"Eleven carriages so far, Mama."

"Is that so?" Clarice struggled to pull herself together. "How many if three more arrive?" she forced herself to ask, playing their old game. "How many then?"

Mary's golden head tilted, but she stayed facing away, her gaze glued to the proceedings outdoors. "Fourteen," she finally announced, pride in her small voice. "Fourteen, is that right? And here come three more now."

She yawned, covering her mouth with one small hand; Clarice had kept her busy all the day long, running, fetching, and helping wherever a girl her size could help. Then suddenly she stilled, and her voice sounded puzzled. "Here comes one from the other direction, Mama. Do you s'pose the party is full?"

"I think not."

"But the carriage is stopping, Mama. It's not turning around. The party must be too full."

Despite her melancholy, Clarice found herself laughing. "I imagine the ballroom is large enough to accommodate half the population of Sussex."

"Cainewood doesn't boast a proper ballroom," came a deep voice, "but they're using the great hall. And your mama's right—the chamber is unlikely to be strained to the bursting anytime soon."

"Cameron?" Clarice whispered.

"Good eve, princess." He swung Mary up into his arms and stepped inside, dressed in the blue velvet suit he had worn to the wedding.

Lud, he was devastating.

Wickedly confident, his grin lit up a place in Clarice's heart. But she steeled herself to caution. "Good evening, Sir Cameron."

"Clarice." He nodded, a gallant incline of his head. "I hope you remember the new dances."

"Wh-what?"

"The new dances. I'll be wanting to dance with you at the ball."

Whatever could he be talking about? "I'm not going to the ball!"

"Oh, aye, you are. And it's started already, so we'd best be on our way." Setting Mary on her feet, he brushed a stray blond curl from her face. "You'll be needing a ribbon for your hair, princess, and you must put on your best gown."

Mary's eyes were round as two blue saucers. "Am I going to the ball, too?"

"Not exactly. But you can watch from the minstrel's gallery." The minstrel's gallery. The exact place Clarice had wished she could watch from a few days earlier. "And there will be one special ceremony where I'm hoping you'll want to bear witness."

"What about a bear?"

"Bear witness. You'll see. Then, when you get tired, you may sleep in the nursery."

"With baby Jewel?"

"The very same. And her nurse to watch over you both."

"You've planned everything," Clarice put in, finally finding her tongue. "But I'll thank you not to make promises to my daughter that you cannot keep. I cannot go to the ball. I'm no lady, and I've nothing to wear."

"Did you think I taught you those dances only so you could do them with Mary?" The ostrich plume on Cameron's hat bobbed when he shook his well-groomed head. "I've a gown for you in the carriage—just wait here while I fetch it."

"Wait here," Clarice scoffed, turning to ladle her soup. "As though I've anywhere to go. Certainly not to a ball at the castle."

But a moment later he was back, a brilliant yellow gown over one arm that reminded her of the buttercups alongside the River Caine. It had an underskirt of golden tissue, and a wide gold flounce all the way around the bottom.

"I had the seamstress add the flounce," Cameron explained, "since you're a wee bit taller than Kendra."

An understatement if ever she'd heard one. But her fingers itched to touch the sumptuous fabric. "You expect me to…wear this?"

"Aye. I went to great trouble to have it readied when both Lady Cainewood and Lady Kendra were wanting their new gowns finished at the same time. And…" From his surcoat pocket, he pulled a short strand of large, lustrous pearls. "I want you to wear this, too."

She'd never seen anything quite so beautiful. "But nothing has changed," she said as he stepped behind her to fasten the clasp. The pearls felt heavy against her collarbones. "Between us, or otherwise."

When he came around to face her, his eyes were as earnest as ever. "I didn't think anything had changed. I want to take you to the ball, Clarice." He held out a golden stomacher that matched the dress. "Hurry. It's already started."