Highland Awakening (7 page)

She shrugged and looked away. “When I was a lass, he used to pinch my bottom whenever I walked by.”

“Jesus!” Cam nearly shouted.
What the hell?
“Why didn't you tell me?”

She sighed. “You were gone, Cam, those times he was at the house. You were off at school.”

“Alastair, then. Why didn't you tell him?”

“He was ill. I couldn't put even more strain on him.”

Cam bowed his head, looking at his half-eaten pie. His brother's untimely death. Fraser's untimely death. He closed his eyes. It was so unfair that so many of the best people were taken long before the worst. “You're right. I'm sorry I wasna there for you.”

“You were there for me when I needed it most, brother,” Anna said seriously. “And that's all that matters.”

Their conversation shifted to lighter topics, but Cam was only half present. His mind was jumbled with thoughts of Fraser and of Esme…and that damn notebook of hers. And his conversation with Anna about Esme was gnawing at his insides with the sharp teeth of a rodent.

He was destined to hurt Esme. The thought of seeing pain in those bonny amber-flecked brown eyes lashed at his gut. God, he didn't want to hurt her.

He should just stay away.

Cam stayed away, and he did a good job of it, too.

For about four hours.

He paced his room, thrusting his hand impatiently through his hair, unable to sleep. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was after one o'clock in the morning.

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew it was folly. But before he could stop himself, he'd pulled his boots on and was trudging through the streets of London.

St. James wasn't far, and before long, he'd reached the curving drive of the Duke of Trent's house.

The front door was bolted shut, but the back door lock was simple to pick, and in a few moments, he found himself in the dim larder. He walked carefully, listening for any sound, but all was quiet. He slowly went through the kitchen and into the corridor beyond, which was so dark he had to feel his way along the wall. He passed several doors before finally finding the entry hall and the stairs leading up from it. He mounted them, his hand gliding along the curved, polished rail.

At the top, Cam turned to the right. Four closed doors greeted him along the side of the house that bordered Green Park. Esme's bedchamber would be the one at the far end, the last door.

He crept down the corridor, careful not to make any noise that would awaken the other members of the household. He stopped at Esme's door, turned the handle, and pushed it open before stepping quietly into her room. The moon was just rising and glowing through the sheer curtain on the window. From the doorway, Cam could see the spill of dark hair across the pillow where she slept.

Esme was in a deep sleep and unmoving on her bed. Cam stood still for a long moment, watching her. Moonlight splashed over her cheek, making her skin look soft and inviting.

Jesus. What was he doing here? He shouldn't wake her. He'd just wanted to see her. He drank in the sweet smoothness of her complexion, which made his lips tingle with the urge to kiss her; the thick waves of her hair that he wanted so badly to push his fingers into; the curves of her body beneath the bedcover that he longed to feel pressed against his skin.

But there was more.
The notebook.
It was here somewhere. He'd find it and discover the secrets it contained. Then his curiosity would be satisfied and he could go home and get some much-needed sleep. He had Pinfield duty tomorrow.

He stepped into the room and closed the door gently behind him. The room was carpeted, luckily for him, and it muffled the sounds of his boot heels as he walked across it toward the bed.

She lay on her side with her mass of dark hair fanned out behind her. Her lashes were dark arches against her cheeks, and her lush lips were slightly parted, showing a glimpse of white teeth.

She breathed in deep and let out a soft sigh.

He wanted to hold her. But then what? How would he explain his presence? He wasn't in the habit of giving people explanations for his actions. But if she woke, that was exactly what he'd be doing—explaining himself and why he was here.

And why
was
he here?

Because his friend was dead. Because there was too much evil in this world, and right now only Esme could remind him that good still existed. Because he wanted to touch her and hold her and soak up all the healing sweetness that emanated from her like a soft glow of light.

He'd sound like a damn idiot if he told her all that.

He watched Esme for a long moment, then turned and scanned the room. There was a fireplace with two chairs arranged near it. A basket lay beside one of the chairs—probably for her embroidery or sewing, or whatever fashionable activity dukes' daughters engaged in when they were sitting by fires.

Two windows graced the far wall. Between them sat a desk covered in a chaos of writing implements, stationery, and books. Cam's lips spread into a grin as he approached the desk. This was one area that was pure Esme—not tidied and arranged and dusted by maids, but controlled entirely by her. Esme wasn't neat as a pin—she was actually rather untidy. He liked that immensely.

The chair was already pulled back from the desk, and he sat in it. He stared at the desk, swiping his fingertips over some of the random pages of parchment strewn on it. Her notebook wasn't here.

He tugged on the single desk drawer, but it didn't budge. He leaned back to look down at it and found a tiny key wedged into the keyhole. He turned it and pulled the drawer open.

There was her notebook, sitting atop another pile of papers. He drew it out and set it atop the desk, then slowly opened it to the first page. He frowned when he saw what was written there:
The Dangerous Duke Takes a Bride by Jean Hayden.

What?
What dangerous duke? And who the hell was Jean Hayden?

He turned the page.

The Duke of Rockwell lived alone. He was a solitary man, with no family, no wife, and no friends to speak of. He did have a dog, a small creature, who, even though it was fed and cared for properly, looked upon the duke with a wary sort of fear in its eyes.

That expression of fear wasn't reserved for the dog. Just about everyone who associated with the duke gazed upon him with similar caution. He was imposing—extremely tall and muscular, with dark hair and eyes and a narrow face that gave him a harsh, hawkish look. He saw the world through cynical eyes, because throughout his life, he had not been given much reason to be optimistic—

Cam flipped through the pages. They were covered—back and front—with writing. It was a story, he realized—the story of the Duke of Rockwell and one Miss Conners.

And as it progressed, the story became…erotic.

Heat crawled up the back of Cam's neck as he read a passage about two-thirds of the way through.

“I shouldn't be here,” she murmured. “Please. Let me go.”

His eyes were narrow slits, dark and forbidding. “Then why are you here, Miss Conners?”

“I…” She couldn't explain it—not out loud. How to explain this mad compulsion she had to see him? To touch him? To cover him—every inch of him—with her lips? With her tongue? She shuddered.

She wanted him so badly, but it wasn't right. None of this was right. She should not be alone with this man in this quiet, dark house.

“You…? You what?” Rockwell asked.

“I just…” She closed her eyes tight, then opened them, looking straight at him. She wasn't coy. She wasn't a tease. She'd always been forthright, and she wasn't going to start to be someone else, not now, not with the Duke of Rochester pressing her body against the wall. “I just…wanted to see you again.”

A wicked smile curved his lips. “Did you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You wanted more than just to see me, yes?”

Her eyes flickered away and then back to him. She nodded.

He reached up and curved his palm on her breast over her dress. She gasped.

“This?” he asked, his voice smooth as brandy.

“Yes,” she breathed.

His lips pressed against hers.

Cam turned to look at the bed, where Esme still slept, her deep breaths audible from across the room.

Good God.

He'd known she was a sensual creature, but this…This was unexpected. She behaved so innocently—and he knew she
was
innocent, inexperienced when it came to physical relations with men. But not so innocent, perhaps, in the deep inner workings of her mind and heart.

Henry Whitworth didn't know about these writings. No one knew about them. Which was why she kept this notebook hidden, why she used the false name of Jean Hayden. And why she'd fallen into a panic when Cam had snatched it away from her at the whorehouse.

Lady Esme Hawkins was a clandestine writer of novels.

Cam sat motionless for a long moment, then he closed the notebook and slipped it back into the desk drawer before locking it. He rose and walked over to the bed. Carefully, he sat on its edge. Tenderness sifted through him as he watched Esme, so peacefully resting. Even in sleep, she was such a bonny lass.

A lock of hair had fallen over her mouth, and he reached up and gently tucked it away, his fingers sliding down the silky strand. Then, he couldn't help it—he trailed his fingertips across her cheek, her skin soft and pliant and warm under his touch.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and he pulled back, but not in time. Her eyes opened, and he watched as they focused to see him. With a small cry, she lurched up to a seated position.

He wrapped his arm around her and clamped his hand over her mouth. If the duke caught him here it would either be wedding bells or pistols at dawn. “Shh,” he murmured. “It's just me. I'm not going to hurt you.”

She jerked out of his hold, but he could tell she no longer intended to scream bloody murder, so he let her go.

“Why are you here?” she gasped, her eyes still wide with panic. “What are you doing here, Mr. McLeod?”

He snorted. “I think we're in an intimate enough position that you ought to be calling me by my given name.”

“Why are you in my room, Mr. McLeod?” she asked, apparently not hearing him, as she scuttled farther away from him. Clutching the bedcover to her chest, she slid off the bed on the opposite side and stood facing him, looking not only appalled, but angry to boot.

He blew out a breath. “My given name is Camden. Call me Cam.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I…” He looked down, drawing circles on the sheet with his fingertips. “I came because…” Well, here was the moment. The moment he hadn't wanted to come but had anyhow. As much as the urge was there, he wasn't going to invent some farfetched story. He would tell her the damn truth, as much as it made him want to cringe to do so. “I came because I couldna stop thinking about you.”

She stood still, studying him. Then she shook her head in exasperation. “You could have come at a more acceptable hour! I was fast asleep!”

“Aye, that's true. But…” He shook his head, then admitted, “Yesterday wasna a good day. And I wanted to see you to…” He looked down at the sheets again. “…to remind myself that there are bonny things in life, too.”

Esme's muscles relaxed just a tiny bit at his admission. His voice was raw as he said it, and he didn't look at her. He was sharing a vulnerable moment with her…even though she was the one who should be feeling vulnerable right now.

Because…good Lord, he was in her room! In her private bedchamber—a room that no one ever entered besides her and her maid. At—she took a quick glance at the clock—two o'clock in the morning.

She shook her head. “I don't understand.”

He looked at her, and his eyes were dark in the dimness of the room, a deep blue-black, like the ocean in a storm.

“I missed you today. I wanted to see you.”

“You might have gone about it the usual way,” she said dryly. “Like…perhaps sending a letter? Or coming to call in the afternoon?”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “You know enough of me by now, Esme, to understand that I dinna crave to be ‘usual,' at least not to conform to society's ways of behaving.”

“Yes, well…Do you understand that you've snuck into the Duke of Trent's house in the middle of the night?”

“Aye, of course.”

She shook her head. It took a certain kind of recklessness to do such a thing. “What do you want from me, then?”

He smirked. “Everything.”

She took a step backward, still clutching the counterpane to her chest. Then she braced herself to scream if he came at her.

He didn't. He remained seated calmly on the other side of the bed, his posture chasing away most of her fear. Most, but not all. “But for now…just to see you,” he said. “That'll be enough.”

“All right.” She paused, then shrugged. “You've seen me. Perhaps you should go.”

“Probably,” he agreed. Then he narrowed his eyes at her, no doubt seeing the panic that still bubbled within her. “I'd never hurt you.”

She shook her head. “I don't know that. I hardly know you.”

“You ken that much about me.”

“Do I?” she whispered.

“Aye, you do.”

She waited, watching him warily.

“I dinna wish to go,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

“You should, though. It's dangerous for you to be here.”

He looked down at his lap, then back up at her, very deliberately shaking his head. “I want to talk to you. I ken I disturbed your sleep, but…” He hesitated, and something dark passed over his expression, something raw. Grief and sadness and loneliness she recognized only because she'd experienced those things herself. “Will you…will you talk to me for a while?”

Her gaze flickered to her desk, where her notebook lay in the drawer. It was closed, thank God. He hadn't invaded her—

“I saw your notebook.” Slowly he rose from the bed and faced her from across it.

Esme's gaze shot back to him. Panic froze her for a few seconds, and then every muscle in her body tightened, poised to flee. To grab her notebook and run until she was safe.

Nothing about Camden McLeod was safe. Not to her mind, or her body, or her reputation…perhaps not even to her sanity.

“I read part of it,” he continued.

Esme didn't move. Oh God. He'd read her notebook. He
knew.

Panic bubbled more furiously inside her, and then…it exploded. Into raw, pure anger. How dare he invade her privacy?

And…oh Lord, he must be completely scandalized. Her face burned at the thought of some of the things he must have read.

He tilted his head at her. “Did you think I'd judge you, Esme? Is that why you didna let me see it?”

“It is no business of yours,” she gritted out.

“Everything about you is my business,” he said softly, and an unwelcome frisson of awareness shot up her spine.

Her lips tightened and she spoke through gritted teeth. “No. I didn't give you leave to make everything about me your business.”