Indiscreet Part 21

Camilla gasped at the delight of his rougher skin on the tender bud. He circled the pebbling nub of flesh, then lightly pinched it between his forefinger and thumb, pulling gently. Camilla could not suppress a groan at the new and delightful sensation. He slipped his other arm around her, taking both b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his hands and playing with them, teasing her nipples so that they elongated, pushing saucily against his fingertips.

He pulled his hands away, and she gasped at the loss, but before she could protest, he was sliding them up under her skirts. His fingers moved up the backs of her thighs and cupped the soft mounds of her b.u.t.tocks. He dug into the soft flesh, and Camilla unconsciously moved her hips, inviting more. He answered by slipping one hand between her legs. Though she was still sheathed by her undergarment, he could feel the blazing heat of her body and the welcoming dampness.

Camilla moaned, embarra.s.sed by the eager wetness that greeted him, but she could not stop herself from moving against his hand. Her nether lips felt huge and swollen, and she was literally aching to feel his touch upon her bare flesh.

"Please," she whispered, rubbing against his fingertips. "We must not. We must stop." Yet she knew that she could not stop, that if he pulled away from her now, she would probably scream and claw to get him back. "I cannot..."

"Don't worry." He curved over her, whispering into her ear and sending delightful shivers through her at the touch of his breath. "I won't harm you. I will only pleasure you."

Camilla drew a ragged breath. She didn't know what he meant. But she had expended what little protest she had in her.

"Now, turn over." He stopped the pleasurable things that he was doing and tugged on her arm, turning her over on her back. "I want to see you." He began to unfasten her b.u.t.tons, opening her dress all the way down.

Camilla lay quietly, letting him work on her clothes, and all the while her eyes traveled over his body. She was past shame now, entranced by the feel of his hands on her body. She gazed at his muscular body, at the organ that now hung huge and thrusting between his legs, far larger than it had been earlier, and she could feel herself flushing again, but this time with desire.

He undressed her, working swiftly and competently, pausing now and then to caress her hip or thigh or stomach, or to drop a kiss upon the hard bud of her nipple. Finally, he had her naked before him. He gazed down at her for a long time, his eyes taking in every inch of her body, and all the while Camilla grew hotter and hungrier for his touch, until she was almost ready to cry out.

He laid his hands over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and began to caress her. He moved slowly, surely, taking his time, gliding his fingers over her sensitive skin. He lingered over the softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stomach and explored the hard ridges of her hipbones. Teasingly, he circled the well of her navel with his forefinger, then trailed it slowly down to the thatch of hair between her legs. Camilla's gasp was almost a sob, and she dug her fingers into the sheets, arching up involuntarily to meet him.

His finger delved into the slick, tender folds, opening and exploring them. All the while, he looked at her face, watching pa.s.sion suffuse her features, glazing her eyes and slackening her lips. Camilla panted, digging in her heels, her body as taut as a bowstring. She was flooded with moisture, quivering with desire. Something hot and hungry coiled deep in her abdomen. She thought that she could feel no newer or greater sensation.

But then he bent and touched his tongue to her nipple, and she knew that she had been wrong. Hot and wet, his tongue flicked back and forth across the tight bud, lashing it lovingly. With each little stroke, the knot in her abdomen tightened even more. He took the nipple into the warm, wet cave of his mouth and began to suck. Camilla let out a shuddering groan. Every pull of his mouth sizzled straight down to the swollen, pulsing center of her desire, where his fingers were still busily at work.

She writhed beneath him, aching for release from the delightful torment. His mouth trailed downward. His tongue circled her navel. Camilla dug her heels into the bed, straining up against him. Benedict raised his head and looked down at her quivering, lush body. His eyes roamed slowly upward to her flushed face. He watched her intently as his thumb found the tiny hard nub at the seat of her pa.s.sion and gently stroked it. Camilla moaned, shocked and amazed at tins newest, even more intense, pleasure. Her body trembled, caught on the threshold of something she had never dreamed of.

Benedict smiled, and his thumb pressed harder. Camilla cried out as she tumbled over the precipice. She convulsed around him, her legs clamping together as a flush suffused her chest and neck.

Finally, with a soft sigh, she relaxed. Camilla looked up at him and smiled shyly, filled with the most complete satisfaction she had ever known. "Oh, Benedict..."

He pulled his hand away slowly, trailing it down her soft thighs. Camilla glanced down and saw his throbbing, engorged manhood. "Oh!" She looked back up at his face anxiously. "But, Benedict, aren't you... Don't you...?"

He smiled. "Yes. I am, and I do." It took a great deal of effort for him to merely lean over and plant a brief kiss on her soft lips. "But don't worry. It will be all right. I promised not to dishonor you, and I won't. That was entirely for your pleasure."

"Yes, but..."

"Shh." He shook his head. "I will be all right."

He bent and kissed her again, this time letting some of his restrained pa.s.sion show, but after a long moment, he pulled away. "Now, close your eyes and go to sleep."

"Will you stay here with me?"

He nodded. "Yes. I will stay here."

Camilla smiled, a little fuzzily, still wrapped up in the warm coc.o.o.n of her afterglow, and obediently closed her eyes.

Benedict swallowed hard and turned away, struggling to retain control. Her innocent questions had almost been the undoing of him. He had been mad, he knew, to do what he had done. He would pay for it the rest of the evening. He should have walked away, left the room, but he had been unable to resist the temptation. But at least he had had enough strength not to take her. There had been a few moments there when he was not sure he would be able to restrain himself.

He lay back down and closed his eyes, throwing his arm across them. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, then drew another, slowly willing himself into a calmer state.

He thought about Camilla and the situation they were in. He thought about his honor and hers, and the old man in the room at the end of the hall. He thought about her foolish cousin and her loyalty, about the pa.s.sion that had thrummed in him the past few days and the way she had dissolved in pleasure beneath his touch. It was a long time before he slept.

Camilla lazily drew her needle through the fabric, stretched tight by the embroidery hoop, her mind only half attuned to her aunt's light prattle. She had been in a dreamy state all morning. She had awakened early, feeling blissfully happy and refreshed. She had lain for a short while, looking at Benedict as he slept and wondering if she would ever again feel what she had felt the night before. Just thinking about it made ber nerves start to sizzle.

Quickly she had jumped out of bed and dressed. The last thing she had wanted was for Benedict to wake up and find her mooning over him. It miffed her a little that he had been perfectly in command of his desires and emotions while being able to so completely destroy her control. Not, of course, that she had not been a very willing partic.i.p.ant in that loss of control.

The tide had already been up, so she had not gone across to the island. Instead, she had wandered down to breakfast and then into the less formal sitting room. With her thoughts still on the night before and with nothing better to do, she had picked up a partially done embroidery of a pillowcase. Before long, Lydia joined her. Since she wanted to talk at length, as she had ever since Camilla had arrived at the Park, about Benedict's courtship, the conversation had severely taxed Camilla's powers of imagination.

Fortunately, Mr. Thorne had come in and distracted her aunt, saying, "Ah, if only I had the power to paint a portrait of you now, madam. A veritable Arachne."

"But she wove, did she not, rather than sewing?" Camilla asked with great innocence. "And, if I remember correctly, she wound up as a spider."

"A spider!" Lydia exclaimed. "Really, Mr. Thorne, I think I prefer not to be compared to a spider."

The young man looked chagrined. "I meant the woman before the jealous G.o.ddess changed her, of course. I would rather cut my tongue out than offend you."

"Well, I don't really see how that would help," Lydia protested mildly, and Camilla had to press her lips together tightly to keep from laughing out loud at the admirer's offended expression.

Camilla returned to daydreaming as Mr. Thorne and Lydia continued to talk, primarily about acquaintances they had in common and a London Season about which Camilla knew little.

Then Benedict strolled into the room, and suddenly every nerve in Camilla's body was awake. She wasn't sure how she had known he was there. He had, as usual, made almost no sound, and she had been looking down at her needlework. But somehow she had sensed his presence, and she looked up to find him standing in the doorway, watching her.

A blush immediately mounted in her cheeks. "G-good morning, Benedict."

"My dear." He came into the room, greeting Lydia and her swain politely, then took up a seat beside Camilla on the sofa. "How are you this morning? I trust you slept well."

Camilla's blush deepened. "I- Uh, very well. I mean, it was good. I liked-" It seemed as if everything she said pulled her deeper into the mora.s.s of double meaning, so she stumbled to a halt.

He smiled, and Camilla's eyes were drawn to the curve of his lips. He had a lovely smile, she thought, but even better than his smile was the way his lips felt on hers. She remembered them on her body, loving her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and all other thoughts went out of her head.

"I thought today would be a perfect day for us to picnic at the old keep," he went on.

"What?" Camilla looked up at him, her eyes as wide and startled as a doe's.

"Keep Island," Benedict explained. "You said that we would explore it one day, and I thought today would be ideal. We can take a picnic lunch with us."

"Uh..." Why had he seized upon this idea? It seemed to her that he had an uncanny sense of what she would most like not to do. "But the tide is in," she protested lamely.

"We can take a boat, can we not? I can row across so narrow a strip of water."

"Oh, yes!" Lydia exclaimed delightedly. "That sounds like just the thing. So romantic."

"Eating among the ruins?" Camilla countered doubtfully. "I've been there many times," she told Benedict, "and it is really nothing remarkable."

"Oh, but think of the past," Mr. Thorne put in, obviously horrified that she did not appreciate the keep's Gothic charms. "The heroics, the evil deeds. Dungeons and fair damsels in distress."

"I think it was rather more drafty than exciting living there," Camilla pointed out practically. "I don't think there were any dungeons-or any damsels in distress, for that matter."

"Don't be so practical," Benedict said cajolingly. "I have never seen it, so it seems quite interesting to me."

Camilla realized that if she protested any more she would make everyone suspicious, so she forced a smile and said, "Yes, I suppose we could go."

Her patient, she reminded herself, was hidden away below ground. There was no reason to think that Benedict would get a glimpse of him. Of course, there was the entrance to the cellars. If he found that, he might want to go exploring down there. But, hopefully, she could dissuade him, could convince him that the old cellars were unsafe.

She sent a note to Cook, telling her to prepare a picnic basket, and went upstairs to change into a dress more appropriate for clambering around among rocks and ruins. Carrying the basket of food, they walked down to the Park's dock, where Camilla was relieved to see Anthony's small boat moored. They took me rowboat and made their way across the smooth waters to the island.

Camilla dutifully led Benedict up to the ruins and showed him where the great hall and the other rooms had been. Benedict, to her dismay, seemed bent on poking his nose into every nook and cranny. Struggling to keep a smile plastered to her face, she catered to his whims, showing him around every pile of rubble. When they were in the old kitchen area, near the door down into the cellars, she was careful to keep her eyes away from the scraggly bush that hid the square wooden door in the ground behind it, and was equally careful not to appear nervous or anxious to leave.

The longer they roamed the grounds, the more Camilla wondered if Benedict suspected something. He had been very suspicious yesterday morning about where she had been. Had he seen her going to or leaving the island? Or had he spied Anthony coming over here? If he really was a customs agent, as Anthony thought, then perhaps he thought that the smugglers worked out of the ruins. She supposed that that would be a logical enough guess. She decided to try to hint him away from that idea.

"You know," she said as they wandered back toward the gra.s.sy, sunny spot where they had decided to dine, "the locals are all terrified of the ruins." She watched him carefully to gauge his reaction.

There was nothing but mild interest on his face as he replied, "Really? Why?"

"There's a local legend that it's haunted. I suppose it started because it's such a desolate-looking place now, though most of the stones were removed for building the new house, not because of any real destruction."

"It certainly looks a likely place for ghosts." He spread out a blanket for them to sit on, and Camilla began to unpack the basket.

"I suppose that is why they believe they're here."

"What sort of ghosts?"

"All kinds. Some say there is a woman whose child died, and she walks along the gallery, which is no longer there, and wrings her hands and wails. Then there's a woman in white-isn't there always? Mysterious lights. I don't know what else. None of it's true. I mean, we have lived right across from it all our lives, and we've never seen anything. But the villagers are all scared of it."

Camilla slid a sideways glance at him. She could not tell from his expression whether her words had made any impression upon him.

Cook had outdone herself with the luncheon, perhaps carried away with the idea of the romantic getaway for the newly weds, just as Aunt Lydia had been. After lunch, they sat and talked, gazing across the water, toward the cliffs opposite them and, beyond, Chevington Park itself. As they sat, Benedict put his arm around her shoulders. Camilla could not keep from letting out a little sigh of pure pleasure and leaning against him. How sweet it was to sit this way with him. Unexpected tears gathered in her eyes. She wondered how something that felt so good and sweet could also be so painful.

The good feeling came from the pleasure, the happiness of being with him, of having him close and tender. The pain, she knew, came from the fact that she loved him.

It was something she had not wanted to admit, even to herself, but it had been growing within her for days. How ironic that she had fallen in love with this man playing the role of her husband. Was he so good an actor? Or was Benedict, a man whose last name she did not even know, the one man in the world for her? After all these years, had she stumbled in this bizarre way on a man to whom she could finally give her heart?

It was absurd. She wished with all her heart that it was not so. But she had known as soon as the thought popped into her head that it was true-no, even before that. It had been when he put his arm around her and leaned his head against hers, and she realized that this was exactly what she wanted.

Benedict turned her chin toward him with his forefinger, and he kissed her. It was soft and warm and sweet, and Camilla wanted it never to end. As they kissed, the sweetness turned to heat, and they were straining together, arms wrapped tightly around each other. Gently he pushed her back onto the blanket, covering her with his body. His skin was searing; all the banked fires from the night before had sprung to life in him again.

A breeze caressed their bodies and tangled their hair. They kissed again and again. His hand roamed her body, scorching her through her clothes, and Camilla tentatively touched his chest. His quick, indrawn breath at her naive touch emboldened her to move her hand over his chest and back and arms, exploring the contrast of bone and muscle beneath the soft lawn of his shirt. She recalled the way he had looked naked the evening before, and the way his bare skin had felt beneath her fingers. She slipped her hand inside his shirt at the neck, and he shuddered, his mouth devouring hers.

His mouth left hers and began a trek down her throat to the neckline of her dress, leaving a line of fire in its wake. Camilla dug her fingers into his hair, caressing him. Her own hair whipped wildly around her face.

"I want you," Benedict mumbled against her throat "G.o.d, I don't think I can take another night of this." He began to kiss his way back up to her chin.

"Then don't."

"What?" He stopped, raising himself on his elbows, and looked down at her. His black eyes burned into hers.

"I mean, I don't want that, either," she replied, a little amazed at her own temerity. But she knew, as certainly as she had realized that she loved him, that this was her one chance at love. Soon this would all be over. He would be gone, and she would be left alone. At least, she thought, she could have some memories. "I want you, too. I want to make love with you."

He swallowed hard. The wind tousled his hair. "You don't know what you're saying. Your reputation- Your future- What if you should conceive?"

"All that is my concern, isn't it?" she asked bluntly. "As for my reputation, it is ruined, no matter what happens, if word gets out that we are not really married. And we have from the beginning planned for my future to include being a widow. As for a child, widows do have children."

"Yes. But it is harder than you imagine. This charade cannot be swept away so easily."

"Neither is it as hard as you make it out to be," she retorted, then smiled. "Do you have to fight me even on this, Benedict?"

For an answer, he bent and kissed her. When at last he raised his head, he said in a ragged voice, "This is not the time or place." In one lithe motion, he stood, reaching down and pulling Camilla to her feet, too. "We are going home."

For the first time since they had sat down to picnic, they took a good look around them. The wind that had swept over them as they lay on the ground had brought in a ma.s.s of gray clouds behind the ruins, out to sea. Even as they watched, the clouds piled up ominously, and the sky darkened.

"Oh, no. A storm," Camilla moaned. "I should have been watching."

"It is still well out to sea. Surely we can make it The sh.o.r.e is not far from here."

Camilla looked uncertainly at the brewing storm. She knew how quickly storms could blow up here on the coast. But he was right; it was still a good distance away.

Quickly they packed their basket and folded the blanket, then fled back to the rocky beach where they had left the boat. They tossed in the basket and climbed into the boat, and Benedict settled down to row. Camilla wished that she could help him. Growing up by the sea, she had learned to row as a child, and was still able to, but if she manned one of the oars, her weaker strength would unbalance them, so that it would probably slow them down more than letting Benedict handle both oars.

The winds had turned the waves choppy, and they splashed into the boat now and again, forming a puddle of water that soon reached Camilla's shoes. Surprised at the sudden wetness, she glanced down. To her amazement, the floor of the boat held a huge puddle. She tore open the basket and searched through it for something with which to bail water. She came upon a bowl, and she tossed the remaining contents of it into the ocean and began to bail.

But the bottom of the boat continued to fill, far faster than she could empty it. She realized with horror that so much water could not be from the waves slopping over into it.

"Benedict!" She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. "The boat's leaking."

"So I see," he retorted tersely. "Rather bad one, I'd say." He turned and looked over his shoulder at the opposite sh.o.r.e. They were almost exactly halfway between the island and the beach.

Desperately he tried to continue rowing, and Camilla dipped out water, but they were foundering badly. The boat wallowed through the waves, moving much more slowly than it had at first. The storm was gaining on them. A wave hit them hard, washing over them, and suddenly the boat was sinking beneath them, and they were in the water.

Chapter 15.

Camilla's head went under the water, and she came up sputtering. She treaded water, looking around for Benedict, and let out a soft cry of relief when she saw his head bob up a few feet away from her. Quickly she kicked off her shoes. Fortunately, as was the style, she wore a narrow-skirted dress with few petticoats beneath it, but she nonetheless reached under her skirt and yanked them off, aware of how easily the sodden material could weigh her down.

Benedict moved through the choppy waves to her side, his arm going around her. She shook her head and shouted above the noise of the wind and ocean, "I'm all right! I can swim! You don't need to help me!"

He nodded, and they struck out for land. Camilla was a strong swimmer, and she had swum this far before, but never in such raging surf. The winds had kicked the waves into high, pounding walls of water that swamped her again and again. The undercurrent dragged at her, pulling her down and off course. Once she went down under a high, slapping wave, and she did not think that she could fight her way back up. She struggled, terrified, and finally popped back up above the water, coughing and flailing. Benedict fought his way to her and wrapped one strong arm around her beneath her arms, holding her up and treading water while she regained her breath.

Another wave came swooping down, but this one miraculously broke behind them and lifted them up. Camilla saw that they were much closer to sh.o.r.e, though a good bit farther down the beach than they had intended when they set out. The sight of the land gave them renewed strength, and they struck out again. The waves seemed to take them now, flinging them toward the sh.o.r.e, but this was a new danger, as well as a help, for they were being hurled straight toward the jagged rocks near the mouth of the cave. Desperately they swam against the current, as well as toward the land.

Lightning flashed across the sky, lighting the darkened day, and they saw the most joyous sight they had seen all day: a group of Chevington's servants wading out into the surf, carrying a line of rope. With renewed strength, they swam toward them. The foremost figure was Anthony, up to his waist in water. He whirled the rope around his head and threw it out. It fell in the water some feet from them, and he reeled it back in, then tossed it again.

This time Benedict grabbed it, wrapping it firmly around his arm and gripping it with his hand. His other arm went around Camilla just as firmly, and they worked only at staying afloat as they let the servants haul them safely in to sh.o.r.e.