Impulse (9 page)

“No.” Angela shook her head decisively. She had never told anyone what happened in the dreams. She certainly wasn't about to start now, with Cam. She could not bear for anyone to know how scared she was and how little it took to reduce her to such a state. It was not, in the telling, she knew, anything particularly scary. The terror of the nightmare was in the feeling, in the knowledge of how awful and evil was the thing that chased her. And that she could not convey without talking about
Dunstan. And Dunstan was something she refused to talk about.

“That's fine.” He stroked his hand down her hair soothingly. “You know, I remember having nightmares when I was a child. In one of them I took a step off these really high stairs, and then I was falling and falling. I would always wake up before I hit the ground.”

“When I was little, I used to have bad dreams about the Gypsies that came every spring. Do you remember them?”

“Of course. They came for the shearing, and they would camp on the edge of town. And Mother would always say, ‘Stay away from the Gypsies. They will steal you away.'”

“That's what Nurse always said, too. She said they took little children and sold them.” It was pleasant talking to him; it took her mind away from the nightmare. And his hand on her hair was soothing. “Do you think they actually did? Would there be a market for children?”

“I have no idea. With all the children in the work- houses and orphanages, I cannot imagine why one would have to steal a child from his family in order to acquire one.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair, noticing the faint scent of roses. Her hair was soft, and the scent and texture of it stirred his senses. This was something he had dreamed of, he remembered, when he fell in love with Angela so many years ago: being married to her and able to sit like this of an evening, Angela snuggled up on his lap, lazily discussing their day or whatever took their fancy.

“I can't, either. But the thought of it used to terrify me. For weeks afterward, I would have nightmares about it.”

“I would steal away with some of the other lads, I
remember, and go down and spy on their camp. They would play instruments around the fires, and sometimes they would dance. They looked so exotic to me, and at the time I thought how wonderful it must be to travel as they did. To see the whole country, to be free of constraints. I didn't consider the hungry stomachs they must often have had, or the towns they were chased out of, or the lack of a home.”

He had been rubbing her back as he talked, his hand casually moving up and down in the same soothing manner, and as he did so, the sensuality of their position crept into his mind. His skin warmed, and his hand turned lighter and more caressing. As Angela's fear left her and her trembling ended, he became more and more aware of the soft warmth of her body, of her bottom pressing against that most intimate part of him, of her silken skin beneath the light cotton nightgown. She was fully covered, but his imagination provided well enough the image of what she would look like beneath the gown, and he could not help but think of how thin was the material that separated her skin from his. His breath shuddered up through him. He bent again and pressed his lips against her hair, burying his face in the thick, silken tresses. He slid his cheek across her hair and kissed the tender skin of her temple.

“Angela…” Her name was a sigh in his mouth. His hand slid down her back and curved over her hips.

Angela stiffened and sat up, pulling her torso away from his chest. Suddenly the comfort of his lap was no longer safe or pleasant. “What—what are you doing?”

“Shh. 'Tis all right.” He ran a caressing finger under her chin. “We will be married soon. There is no harm in it.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she was off
his lap in an instant, leaving him startled and bereft. “Angela…what is the matter?”

“No. You told me. You promised.”

“Promised what?”

“You said that if I did not wish it, it would be all right. You said you would not demand that I—would not demand your marital rights.” She was looking at him with wide eyes, and her chest rose and fell in harsh little pants. “Did you not mean it? Are you planning to go back on what you said?”

Cam stood up, too, holding himself as stiffly as she did. He did not understand what had happened. One moment she had been soft and pliant in his arms, in the emotional aftermath of her dream almost the girl he had known and loved before. In the next instant she had changed into the woman he had met a few days ago— prickly and accusatory, retreating from him in haste, her eyes filled with repulsion. She hated him now, he reminded himself. It would not do to let himself think that they could slide back into the sweet love they had once had. Why, he no longer even believed in such a thing as love.

“Of course not,” he told her, coldly formal. “I would not force my wife into my bed, even if it were not a condition of our marriage. What do you take me for?”

“A man,” she answered flatly. “One who pretends to comfort someone and then turns it to his advantage.”

“That is what you think I was doing?” he snapped, outraged. “What a fine opinion you have of me, my lady.”

She raised her brows. “What reason do I have to think otherwise? I have ample experience of how far you will go to get what you want.”

“I have not deceived you. Nor have I tried to force or
inveigle you into my bed. I will not do so when we are married. You have my word on it. I have no interest in taking an unwilling female into my embrace.”

“Good. So long as we are both clear on the subject.”

“I am perfectly clear.” He was cold with anger. He felt a fool to have been worried and anxious about her, to have tried to rescue her from her nightmare. She saw his caring as nothing but a ploy to seduce her, and that fact served to remind him of how foolish and useless it was to let emotion cloud his thinking. “We have an ‘arrangement.' I get what I want out of it, and you get what you want. It is not to be a marriage in fact, but only in form. It seems to suit the bloodless woman you have become.”

Angela shot him a flashing glance. “And the heartless man you are.”

He sketched a small, ironic bow to her. “As you say. It would seem that we are very well suited, then. We shall marry as soon as the license is obtained. Good night, madam.”

“Good night.” Stonily Angela watched him go. She shivered, suddenly aware of how cold she was. She got back into bed, pulling the covers up around her to warm herself, and leaned back against the headboard. Her room seemed very cavernous and dark now, and without Cam's reassuring presence, she felt once again afraid. She reminded herself that this was the way it had been before; she was used to being on her own. It was the way she preferred it, too. If Cam kept his promise, it would continue the same way after their marriage.

She lit a lamp, huddled down in her covers and prepared to wait out the night, ignoring the ache in her chest.

 

Cam and Angela were married by special license three days later. Mr. Pettigrew, it seemed, had had the foresight to obtain the license and carry it with him when he came to Bridbury with Jeremy.

“A most diligent servant,” Angela commented to her maid when she told her of the rapidly approaching nuptials.

Kate let out an unbecoming snort. “A most interfering and mealymouthed one, if you ask me. Imagine having the gall to assume that you would agree to their scheme.”

Angela shrugged. “It was pretty obvious that they held all the cards. Apparently Cam has become used to getting his way. I don't think he considered that it might end any other way.”

“Well, he didn't use to rush his fences,” Kate said darkly.

“He has changed—” was all Angela replied, her face hard. “Just as I have.”

They were married by the rector in the small church in the village. Angela wore one of her nicer dresses, a neat navy blue silk without ornamentation. She had not had time to have a new dress made, and, anyway, she found this dress better suited to her mood. Only her family and Mr. Pettigrew were in attendance. Afterward, Cam and Angela rode back to the castle in the Earl's carriage, speaking little.

The cook had prepared an elegant wedding dinner, despite the short notice, but here, too, the festive mood was sorely lacking. Angela retired to her room soon after the meal, and Cam shut himself in the office with Mr. Pettigrew and various account books. Angela was careful to lock both the connecting and the hallway door to her bedroom later that evening, when she went to bed.
She had no intention of trusting Cam's word. He had had his things moved into the bedroom that connected to hers, pointing out that it was the customary thing. The move had made her a trifle uneasy.

Later in the evening, she heard Cam enter the room next door. Now and then she heard the sound of his footsteps or the murmur of a voice as he talked with his valet, Rundle. However, not once did she hear him even approach the door to her room, much less try the knob. Even when all was quiet next door and his room was dark, Angela continued to lie alert in her bed, waiting for the slightest sound. There was none. She was glad, of course, and relieved that Cam was keeping his word. But she could not help but think that perhaps he had no difficulty sticking to his vow; the simple fact was probably, as he had said, that he had no interest in her as a woman, but only as a symbol of something he wanted. That thought, she noticed, left her a trifle chagrined.

Almost a week passed with a minimum of contact between them. Angela saw Cam primarily at meals, though usually not at breakfast, for he ate far earlier than she, so that he could get started on his day's work. The rest of the day, Angela went about the same activities she had done ever since she had moved back to Bridbury. She walked the moors with the dogs, looking for birds and spring wildflowers, often sketching one or the other. She mended; she read; she occasionally did embroidery. She delivered her grandmother's instructions to the housekeeper or butler or gardener, and oversaw whatever domestic crises came up, for her grandmother had grown too old to bother with them, and her mother was always too sick.

Cam, on the other hand, spent most of his time in Jeremy's study, which he had more or less taken over for
his own. There he met with Niblett, the manager of the mine, and Markham, who ran the farms, and sometimes with Jeremy, and, of course, the faithful Mr. Pettigrew. On one day he rode over to the mines, and the next he set out on a ride about the farms, accompanied by the steward. For once Mr. Pettigrew, not at ease on a horse, remained at the castle, working on a large envelope of papers sent over from the United States.

Angela had just returned from one of her rambles and was sitting down on the steps to remove her muddy boots when one of Jeremy's horses came rattling into the yard, huffing and snorting, and stopped, head lowered, breathing tiredly. Angela stared. It was the black gelding, sweating and tired, looking as though he had just been on a hard run. However, he carried no rider. An empty saddle sat on his back, stirrups dangling, and his reins hung down loosely, trailing on the ground.

Angela jumped to her feet, her heart suddenly pounding.
This was the horse Cam had ridden out on this morning!

A
NGELA WALKED
carefully toward the animal, talking in a low, soothing voice, all at odds with the way her insides were jumping around, until she reached him and pick up the reins. He took a nervous little sideways step, rolling his eyes, but responded to the calm in her voice and acquiescently followed her when she led him to the stables.

“Wicker?” she called, entering the stable yard, and one of the stable boys ran to get the elderly head groom. Within two minutes he was beside her, all grins until he saw the horse she was leading.

“Corsair?” He stared at the animal, belatedly coming forward to take the reins from Angela's hands. “What happened to him, my lady? Where's Mr. Monroe?”

“I don't know. This is the horse he rode out on, then?”

“Why, yes. Not more than three or four hours ago, it was.”

“Do you think he has thrown Cam?”

Wicker gave her a look of disbelief. “Not likely, my lady. That boy was always a good rider. And Corsair's no wild horse—a little spirited, but nothing more than that.”

“Where is Mr. Markham? Why hasn't he come back for help if Cam was hurt?” Angela frowned. “You had better saddle a horse for me. I shall go look for them.”

Wicker looked startled. Angela had ridden little since she returned to the castle, a fact that had greatly saddened him. “Yes, my lady, of course. I'll send one of the grooms with you.”

He turned to the grooms, snapping out orders as he handed Corsair's reins to one of the boys. Angela waited impatiently, not even going back into the house to change into a riding habit. She would be able to manage well enough in the old dress she had worn to go walking; it had no hoop beneath it, only a few petticoats, and while it might look odd, it would not be a great hindrance. She wasn't about to waste the time it would take to change. With every passing minute, she was more and more certain that something dreadful had happened to Cam.

Just as one of the grooms was leading out a horse for Angela to mount, there was a shout. Angela turned to look and saw one of the gardeners hurrying across the yard. A moment later, a horse came around the house, walking slowly. On it was the steward, Markham, and behind him, leaning heavily against him, was Cam. Angela sucked in a startled breath.

“Oh, my God.” Lifting her skirts, she took off at a run toward the horse. “Cam! Cam!” She reached the animal and looked up at the pair on its back. Cam's face was white, and his eyes were shut. “Markham, what happened?”

“Poacher shot him, my lady.”

“Shot him!” Angela's face went almost as white as Cam's. She felt suddenly dizzy, and was grateful for the firm hand of the groom as he came up beside her and reached out quickly to steady her.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

“Yes, of course. I'm fine. Help him down.”

At the sound of her voice, Cam's eyes opened, and he looked down at her. “Angel.”

“Yes. I'm here. How badly are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “I'll live. He only winged me.” His hand went to his arm, supporting it. Angela's eyes followed his movement, and her eyes widened when she saw the red stain spreading over the black cloth of his coat.

“Cam!”

“Looks worse than it is.”

By now there were several servants around, and they helped to carefully pull Cam down from the saddle, with Markham steadying him as best he could. Even so, it visibly jarred him when he reached the ground, and he sagged against the horse, clutching at the saddle with his good hand. Instinctively Angela stepped forward, sliding her arm around his waist and taking some of his weight.

There were others about who would have made a sturdier support for a wounded man, but Cam did not look to any of them, nor did Angela. Cam curled his arm around Angela's shoulders.

“Can you walk?” she asked anxiously.

“Of course. I told you, it is little more than a flesh wound.”

Looking at his pale face and the blood-soaked sleeve of his coat, Angela was inclined to doubt his statement, but she suspected that he would be jostled less if he walked than if he was lifted and carried by several men. Besides, there was the matter of pride.

“All right.” She turned toward the groom who had followed her from the stables. “Ben, take the horse you saddled for me and ride to Dr. Hightower's house. As fast
as you can. Tell him we need him out here immediately. Tell him it's serious, a gunshot wound.”

“Yes, my lady.” The lad was off like a shot.

Angela looked toward the house, then back to Cam. “Are you ready?”

He nodded, gripping her shoulders a little more tightly, and they started the slow walk to the house. Markham, who had slid off his horse as soon as Cam was down and handed the reins to one of the other servants, followed them, explaining what had happened.

“It was just as we came down the lane on our way to Tom Ellis's farm, just before the stone wall. There are woods on past that wall, you know, and the land slopes up.”

“Yes, I know the place.”

“That's where the poacher was, I think. I didn't see anything, only heard a shot, and the next thing I know, Corsair's rearing and throwing off Mr. Monroe. Then that horse takes off like the devil's after him. I got down, of course, to see if Mr. Monroe was all right. He was bleeding, you can see that, and the fall gave him a little conk on the head, so for a minute he wasn't too clear, but then he began to come around. We stayed low for a while, just in case, but there weren't any more shots, and I realized it must have been a poacher, and, of course, he had run as soon as he saw what he'd done.”

“Yes. No doubt.”

“I'm terribly, terribly sorry, my lady. I had no idea anything like this was going to happen. I should never have suggested we look around the land.”

“Don't be silly. How could you have known? I am sure you are not responsible.”

“Of course not,” Cam agreed shortly. “Don't talk nonsense.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?” Angela asked.

“No, my lady. I'll take several of the men out and beat the woods to see if we can find any evidence. But unless someone confesses, I imagine there's not much likelihood of finding out.”

They had reached the steps by this time, and they paused. Angela looked up the stone stairs with some trepidation. Cam let out a little sigh.

Markham offered to support him from the other side, but one look at his wounded arm ended that idea. There was no way Cam would be able to lift that arm and drape it around his shoulders, much less lean on it. Cam gritted his teeth and said, “Come on. Let's get it over with, before I disgrace myself by fainting.”

They started up the stairs. The door in front of them was flung open, and Rundle, Cam's valet, hurried out, crying out Cam's name in horror. He was followed by the butler and the housekeeper and several other servants, who clustered in the doorway. Mr. Pettigrew impatiently shoved his way through them, but stopped when he saw Cam.

“Cameron!” The shock of seeing Cam bleeding profusely was apparently enough to shred Pettigrew's usual rigid formality. He trotted down the steps to Cam, reaching out as though to support his other side. When Cam winced, he drew back his hands quickly. “I'm sorry. I— What can I do? Mrs. Monroe, perhaps
I
should help him up the steps.”

Cam tightened his hold on Angela and said darkly, “I am fine. Why is everyone making such a fuss? It's only a flesh wound.”

“Sir, the bullet is still in there,” Markham reminded him.

Pettigrew paled a little more at this blunt remark.
“Good God, Cameron, what happened? I should have gone with you.”

“And how could your being with me have stopped a bullet?” Cam pointed out reasonably. “Now, if everyone would please step aside, I would rather like to go to my bed right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Pettigrew moved to the side, watching anxiously as Cam and Angela made their way up the stairs.

Cam was leaning more and more heavily on Angela, and she was finding it difficult to support him. She shot a worried look at Cam's assistant, saying hesitantly, “Mr. Pettigrew, I think I need your hel— Mr. Pettigrew!”

The young man leaped forward as Cam collapsed against Angela and she staggered beneath his weight, struggling to keep him from crashing to the flagstones. Mr. Markham, too, grabbed him, and they held him up long enough for the valet and two footmen to come to their aid. The men lifted his limp body and carried him into the house and up the staircase to his bedroom. Angela followed, her hands clenched tightly in her skirts.

By the time they had laid Cam on his bed, the efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Wilford, came in, carrying clean linen rags and a bowl of water. She bustled over and set them down on the stand beside the bed, then took a pair of scissors from her pocket and turned purposefully toward Cam.

“That's all right, Mrs. Wilford. I shall do it,” Angela told her, taking the scissors from her hands. She wasn't sure why, but she wanted to be the one who took care of Cam.

She started at his cuff and carefully cut his shirt and coat away, revealing his blood-drenched arm and the
raw wound high up on it. Seeing how level it lay with his heart sent a shudder through Angela. Only a few inches to the right and it would have killed him.

She wet the cloth and began to gently wash away the blood from his arm. By the time she had rinsed the cloth a few times, the water in the bowl was red, and she sent Kate for a bowl of clean water. All the time she worked, Jason Pettigrew hovered over her. It took her a little while to realize that, instead of looking at Cam, he was watching her every move. She frowned. Did he think her so incompetent that she could not even wash the blood away?

“Really, Mr. Pettigrew,” she snapped at last, exasperated, when he shifted to the right once more, so that he could peer over her shoulder, “this would be much easier to do without you twitching and hovering behind me.”

“I left Cameron unattended once. I don't intend to do it again. Either Rundle or I will be with him the entire time after this.”

Angela twisted around to look up at him, puzzled. Kate, however, standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for whatever command Angela might give her, understood the man's implication immediately, and bristled. “How dare you be saying such a thing to my lady!” she demanded pugnaciously.

Pettigrew turned to look at her. His skin was stretched tautly over his facial bones; his body was rigid with tension. “My first priority must be my employer.”

“Well, of course it is,” Angela said soothingly. “It is for all of us. Kate, don't be rude to Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Rude?” Kate snorted in her overly free way. “When he's accusing you of harming Cam if he were not watching you like a hawk?”

“What?” Angela stared at her, then turned toward
the man. “Is that true, Mr. Pettigrew? Are you watching me because you think I would harm Cam? Is it that you think I am wicked, or merely incompetent?” Her voice grew icier and more regal with each word.

Pettigrew flushed under her well-bred scorn, but he held his ground, setting his jaw stubbornly and saying only, “I do not think either, ma'am, but I intend to keep an eye on Mr. Monroe.”

“Fool!” Kate exclaimed contemptuously. “It's obvious they grow them stupid in America, if you can think that my lady would ever harm anyone, let alone Cam Monroe.”

Pettigrew's eyes flashed at Kate, and he started to retort hotly, then stopped himself, pressing his lips together tightly for a moment. Finally he said only, “Your loyalty is admirable.”

Kate made a disgusted noise and turned away, crossing her arms angrily across her chest. Angela rose gracefully from where she was sitting on the bed. Lifting her chin and looking every inch a lady of breeding, she said levelly, “As is yours. I have finished cleaning the wound. It is all I can do. Perhaps you would like to take my place here, so that you can watch Mr. Monroe more closely.”

She walked away to a chair against the wall and sat down, leaving Pettigrew standing beside the bed, feeling a trifle foolish. They remained thus for several minutes, the air thick with tension, until finally Cam's eyelids flickered, then opened, and he glanced around vaguely.

“Angela?” He saw Jason and said, “Hallo, Pettigrew. Did I faint on you?”

“The stairs were too much for you. It looks to me as though you've lost a lot of blood.”

“That's certainly the way it feels.” He turned his head to look around. “Where's Angela?”

“I'm right here.” Angela stood up and walked closer to the bed.

Cam half smiled when he saw her. “Good. I thought you had left.” His voice was vague and tired. But at least there was no suspicion in it.

Angela was flooded with relief. She refrained from shooting Mr. Pettigrew a triumphant look as she went over to the bed and took Cam's hand. “No. I was merely sitting down. Mr. Pettigrew wanted a chance to watch over you.”

“Yes. Mr. Pettigrew is very solicitous of my health.” Cam's hand curved around Angela's, and he squeezed it a little. “It is all right, Jason. I don't think I am about to give it up quite yet.”

“Yes, sir. Of course not. I am sure you will be fine.”

He remained standing close to the bed, right behind Angela. After a moment, Kate spoke up, “Why don't Mr. Pettigrew and I leave you and Her Ladyship alone, sir? We can step out into the hall.”

Mr. Pettigrew stiffened and shot her a look of disfavor. Kate merely lifted her eyebrows and gazed back at him blandly.

“Thank you, Kate.” Cam managed a small smile for her. “That would be nice.”

Kate bobbed a curtsy to him and walked over to open the door. She looked toward Mr. Pettigrew pointedly.

He set his jaw. “Are you sure, sir?”

Cam looked at him oddly. “Yes, of course. Is something wrong, Jason?”

Pettigrew hesitated, obviously torn between wanting to warn his employer about his suspicions and not
wanting to worry the man while he was lying there, carrying a bullet in his arm and weak from loss of blood. “No, sir. It is just my usual fretting.”