Impulse (12 page)

Mr. Pettigrew blushed to the roots of his hair. “Sir! I did not mean for you to…” He cast a hasty, wretched glance toward Angela. “Very well, sir, if you are certain about the matter, I shall leave you alone.” He sketched a stiff bow in the direction of the bed and started out the door.

“Coward,” Cam said calmly to his back, the corners of his eyes wrinkling up with amusement.

“Cam!” Angela stared at Cam with wide eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Jason suspects that the shooting yesterday was no accident. I am rather inclined to agree with him.”

Angela felt as if she had stepped into a madhouse.
“But what else could it be?” She stopped, a chill running through her. “You don't mean—you don't think someone tried to kill you on purpose!”

He shrugged, then winced at the pain it caused in his shoulder. “It would not be the first time such a thing has happened.”

“Not to you, surely! Don't be absurd. It was a poacher.”

“Who thought I was what? A deer? Riding on horseback?”

“Well, no, I did not mean that someone took aim at you, thinking you were an animal, but that he fired at something else and the shot went wild. You just happened to be there.”

“It is possible, I suppose.” The expression on his face told her that he did not really believe his words.

“Of course it is. It is more than possible. What else could it be? Why would anyone have tried to kill you? Even though, given the way you run roughshod over everyone, I am sure that you have acquired enemies, surely they are all in the United States. Do you imagine that someone would have sailed across the ocean to track you down and shoot you here?”

“No,” he responded quietly. “I do not imagine that.”

“Then what? You have not had time to acquire enemies in Britain.”

“None except my in-laws.”

Angela stared at him. She felt as if the wind had been punched out of her. “You are jesting.”

He shook his head. “Who would logically want me dead? Perhaps some member of a family that hates me, a family into which I have pushed myself, whose property I have bought, who owe me money on several notes. A
family, moreover, which would profit enormously by my death.”

Angela backed up a step, as though she could distance herself from the evil he had suggested. “I cannot believe this! How could you think such a thing! Who do you think did it? Jeremy? Or maybe my mother rose from her sickbed, or my grandmother hobbled out there with her cane and rifle. Why, if one of us wanted you dead, why wouldn't we have done it earlier, when you were first here and threatening us, pressing us? Why would we have capitulated to you and
then
shot you, when we could have done it and been free of you long ago?”

“Ah, but it would have solved only a part of your problem. My estate would still have held the notes, the property, the mine shares. But once I married you, then if I die, my widow inherits it. A Stanhope would once again own the mine and the real estate, and you could cancel Jeremy's debts.”

It was a long moment before Angela answered. Finally, levelly, she said, “So that is why Mr. Pettigrew is suspicious of me. He thinks that
I
tried to kill you. And you think so, too. You think that I am a murderess.”

“I
DON'T KNOW,”
Cam answered Angela, his gaze steady on her face. “I am not even positive that
anyone
tried to kill me. As you said, it could have been a stray bullet from a hunter. I have no way of knowing who did it—or who paid some henchman to do it, for, as you point out, it is a bit unlikely to think of your mother or grandmother or even you out there firing a rifle at me.”

“Ah, a henchman. Naturally you would assume that, since it would allow you to suspect me even though I was so clearly here at the house when you came riding in.” She turned and strode away, fury rising up in her with each step. “And, of course, you have no faith in me, no instinctive realization that I could not have done such a thing. You assume that I would have been willing to kill you.”

“I hope it was not you. I would like to think that it was not.” He paused, then added, “But you are the person who would benefit the most. You are the one who would be rid of a burden, not just of an embarrassing in-law.”

“I see.” Her voice was frigid. “How refreshing to think that one is so trusted.”

Cam stirred a little. He felt uncomfortably guilty. “Angela…Angel…”

She swung back around fiercely to face him. “You call me Angel? What am I now, your angel of death?”

“I did not say that I believed it was you!” he responded, goaded.

“No. Only that you don't believe that it is
not.
I wonder that you would marry a woman whom you hold in such disregard.”

“No more disregard than you hold me in.”

“Perhaps not. But, then, you were the one who wanted the marriage.”

Her words effectively silenced him. He settled back against his pillows and closed his eyes. He felt too weak to spar with her at the moment.

“I wonder that you did not agree with Mr. Pettigrew that I should not sit with you while you are ill.” Her eyes flashed, and her hands tightened into fists at her sides. “I might, after all, attempt to smother you in your weakened state. Or give you a dose of poison instead of medicine. But, no, what am I thinking? You have a logical reason for letting me stay. I would not do it, because it would be too
obvious.
Not because it would be a sin. Not because it would be immoral.”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Nay. You would have no need to use poison. You will flay me to death with your tongue.”

Angela started to respond acidly, but one look at his face, pale beneath his tan, his eyes closed vulnerably, and a stab of pity kept her from uttering the hot words that rose to her lips. “You seem to find a murderous spouse quite amusing” was all she said. “Somehow I think that I would be more concerned, if I were in your place. What do you plan to do when you recover? Depart from this nest of vipers?”

“No. I shall be more careful until I can determine exactly what is going on.”

“Well, until that time, I imagine it would probably
be best if I no longer acted as your nurse. I am sure that Mrs. Wilford, Kate and Mr. Pettigrew will be sufficient to watch over you. If not, we can hire one of the women from the village. My old nurse is getting a trifle on in years now, but she has a daughter, I know….”

“Stop.” He raised a hand, and his face looked weary and years older. “I do not want someone else to nurse me. I like the way you do it.” He lowered his hand, extending it to her. “Come, Angela, do not condemn me to Jason and Kate or some woman from the village. I shall be bored to tears, and I am such a wretched patient, they will all resign.” When she did not move toward him, he continued, “Please. I am sorry. I do not believe
you
tried to kill me. I cannot. I told Mr. Pettigrew so. Please, come sit beside me and talk to me. I am feeling hot and horrid and stupid.”

“Well you
are
hot and horrid and stupid,” she replied, relenting and starting toward him. It was easy to fall back into the old way of talking with him, the light, affectionate banter, and it was only belatedly that she thought about what she had said and how he might react to her criticism, no matter how lightly it had been given. She would never have dared to say such a thing to Dunstan, for with him it would have been a rare instance when punishment did not follow immediately upon such a remark.

Her gaze flew quickly to Cam's face. There was no frown there, no icy stare. He was smiling at her, his face rather weary and etched with pain, and his hand was still extended to her. She continued to the bed and slid her hand into his. His skin felt a trifle warmer than it had when she first came into the room, and she reminded herself that it was not wise to engage a sick man in a heated conversation.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

“A little,” he admitted.

“Then perhaps you should close your eyes and rest.”

“I have been closing my eyes and resting all day,” he grumbled. “It was the only way I could get away from Jason's incessant concern.”

Angela smiled. “He is a man, and I am sure he is not used to sickrooms.”

“You show commendable generosity toward a man who suspects you of being a murderess.”

She shrugged. “He does not know me well. And he is admirably loyal to you.”

“Yes. He's a good man. But not nearly so pleasant to look at as you.”

Angela glanced at him, surprised. Was Cam actually flirting with her? The idea seemed bizarre, yet she did not know how to interpret what he had said in any other way.

“Tell me something diverting,” he continued.

“I…well…I am not sure I know anything diverting. Very little goes on around here.”

“Mmm. I've already heard about Barton's pig getting into the rector's garden. Mrs. Merritt told me yesterday, when we stopped by her house.”

Angela's eyes lit with amusement. “Oh, yes, there was that. I understand that the rector's language was, ah, very ‘unusual.' But since you have already heard that, you know all the news of the week. Unless, of course, you would like to hear a description of Mama's latest ailments.”

“Please, spare me that.”

“Then I am afraid I know very little to talk about.”

Cam lay, studying her. He wanted to say something
about the dream he had had last night, the heated, sensual dream in which he had been stroking and caressing her naked body. It had seemed so real, especially that moment in which she had been kissing him. He had thought that he had awakened and that she had indeed been kissing him, but, given the way she felt about him, he knew that that thought was absurd. He could not ask her any more than he could tell her of his lascivious dream.

“Tell me how you spend your days,” he said instead. “That is a subject I have occupied some hours pondering to no avail. Where do you go for hours on end with that strange band of animals?”

“Oh, that.” She hesitated, then went on, “It is nothing terribly exciting, I'm afraid. I walk on the moors.”

“I often see you carrying a pad with you as you leave or return. Do you draw the landscape?”

Angela shifted uncomfortably. Her instinct was to withhold from him the knowledge of her occupation. There was really no reason why he should not know what she did, but she had left her first marriage with an enormous urge, she would even have said
need,
to keep herself to herself. Dunstan had had to know everything, see everything, be in control of every aspect of her life, until she often felt that there was nothing left of her life that was her own. Now she was inclined not to let anyone know very much, if only for the satisfaction of owning it herself.

Cam gave her a quizzical look, clearly puzzled by her reluctance to answer the question. “I'm sorry. I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy. I was merely curious.”

Angela felt foolish. “No. It is silly. I am simply not used to talking about my work. I do draw, but it is not
landscapes. I sketch flowers and birds. Those are my interests.”

“Ah, I see. I do not remember you drawing.”

“I was not wont to when I was young. I did it only because my governess or the teachers at school forced me to. I was much more interested in riding and such then, you know.” At her words, a whole host of images and thoughts flooded in on her, remembrances of the horses and the rides, of Cam, of the hope and excitement that had surged in her then, bringing with them an ache so great it made her want to clutch her hands to her chest and cry out.

“I remember.” His gaze on her was steady and searching, giving nothing away. Angela had to look away, afraid that he might see the sudden tug of emotions written on her features. She did not want to feel them; she wanted even less for him to see what she felt.

“I have drawn much more the past few years, especially since I…came back to Bridbury. I like the exercise, and I like to search out the flowers, to find where a new one has sprung up, or to sit so still that the birds will come close enough that I can see them.”

“And what do you do with the sketches?”

“Why do you ask?”

He looked faintly surprised at her wary response. “I don't know… Making conversation, I suppose. I was curious.”

“Oh. I, well, I keep them. In a drawer in my room.” She did not want to tell him of her selling her sketches to periodicals and books. Her secrecy was instinctive and immediate. It would not be considered quite the thing for the sister of an earl to be peddling her pictures to publications. But her reluctance to talk about it was more than that. Selling her pictures was her one bit of
independence, the hope to which she clung so that if marriage became unendurable, she could go somewhere else and live and still manage to support herself, even if in a very rudimentary fashion. She did not want Cam to know of that independence. She was afraid that he would demand that she stop; a man was likely to view his wife's getting money by working in some fashion as an insult to his ability to support his family.

“I would like to see them sometime,” Cam went on.

Angela glanced uneasily at him, then away. Dunstan's scathing critiques of her sketches had made her reluctant to show them to anyone, much less to a man who already held great resentment toward her. However, she knew Cam was not the sort to give up on anything. “Uh, there is not much to see,” she said, stalling. “They are only wildflowers and such, no great art. I am sure you would not be interested in them.”

“Of course I would. I do not require a large picture or vast scope.” He looked at her oddly. “Of course, if you do not wish to show them to me, I won't insist. I know artists are sometimes reluctant to expose their work to Philistines such as myself. But, one day, if ever you feel like letting me look, I would like to see your work.”

Angela relaxed. “Thank you. I'll tell you what, why don't I read to you? I am sure it would be far more entertaining than village gossip.”

“All right.”

“What would you like to hear? Something light, perhaps?”

“Yes. No Dickens. I haven't the stomach for poor- houses or orphanages today.”

“Mmm. No Russians, either.”

“God, no.” His reply was heartfelt.

They discussed authors for a while and finally settled on a mystery,
The Moonstone,
which Angela had read before and enjoyed. She went downstairs to the library to get it and spent much of the rest of the day reading it to him. Angela was surprised at how easily the afternoon passed. Cam slept a little; she read to him, and they talked, mostly reminiscences of their youth and the people whom they both had known in years past. They did not speak of anything upsetting or recent; they talked of no sorrow or anger or regret. It was amazingly easy, Angela found, to slip back into the old ways with Cam, to chat and laugh, and she rediscovered how often their minds ran along parallel paths, finding amusement in the same things or sharing curiosity.

The doctor came in the late afternoon to check on Cam and announced himself greatly encouraged by Cam's progress. Cam's fever was low, and his wound showed no sign of abscessing. Dr. Hightower approved of Angela's program of complete bed rest and quiet talk or reading, and firmly reminded Cam to let his man of business do just that, take care of his business.

“You,”
he said, pointing sternly at his patient, “are not to think or worry or plan. Just enjoy the peace and quiet.” He let out a chortle and winked at Cam. “Why, being just married, that's what you ought to be doing anyway, enjoying the time with your new wife, what? I'm sure you can find plenty to do. But not too strenuous, eh?” He chuckled again at his own wit, while Angela colored and looked daggers at him.

Cam, who was watching Angela, suppressed a smile. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Good. Sensible lad. More sensible than you used to be, that's for certain. Never met such a boy for dreams as you were. And questions! I remember one winter,
when your mother was so sick, and I went to visit her, you asked more questions than a dog has fleas.
Why this and why that? What if you did such a thing?
You were always a quick one.” He paused, then added, “I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was a good woman.”

“Yes, she was. Thank you.”

Dr. Hightower smiled and nodded and left the room. Angela walked with him to the door, thanking him for coming, and closed the door behind him. She turned and came slowly back to the bed.

“I was sorry about your mother, too,” she said. “I apologize for not telling you earlier. I was… Well, everything has been so hectic, and we haven't really talked.”

“I know. You have been too busy avoiding me.”

Angela cast a sidelong glance at him to see if he was angry, but his expression was amused, not upset. She went on, “I always liked your mother. She used to sew things for me when I was little. I remember I thought she was very pretty.”

“Yes, she was.” Cam gestured to her to sit, patting the bed beside him, and Angela sat down, curling her legs up under her.