Forevermore (3 page)

He danced courtly dances, and with the likes of Lady Kendra. Clarice rarely found herself tongue-tied, but she couldn't think of anything proper or significant to say. Not a word. Besides, she was busy watching everyone's stockinged feet as she mimicked their steps.

Sir Cameron's hands felt very warm in hers. She'd never danced a dance designed for a couple—all the country dances she knew were done in lines or a circle. She had to concentrate very hard, and she always felt a beat behind. Step forward on the toes with the left foot. Bring the right to meet it and lower the heels.

"Just repeat on the other foot," Sir Cameron whispered.

So far, so good. She was almost enjoying herself.

He squeezed her hands. "Now the same, but twice forward. That's right."

They came close and then pulled back again. It struck her that the dance was rather provocative, its movements mimicking courtship. Once more her cheeks betrayed her thoughts.

She hated that.

"Do you like it, Mrs. Bradford?"

"It's…difficult."

"You're doing beautifully." He gave her a broad smile that made her heart flip-flop, creasing his faintly-stubbled cheeks.

Dimples. The man had dimples. Her lips curved at the sight.

"Is something funny?" he asked.

"Ah, no. It's just…" The dimples made him look even younger. But she couldn't tell him that. "You're doing beautifully yourself, having learned the dance just yesterday."

"I've many to learn before Friday."

"Friday?"

"Jason—Lord Cainewood—will be hosting a ball to celebrate his marriage. All the local gentry are expected, and some from London as well, I'm told." He sighed theatrically. "Three days to learn a host of dances."

She wished she could see the ball. Not attend it, of course, but just see it, perhaps hiding in the minstrel's gallery. She remembered noticing a minstrel's gallery in the great hall last Christmas Day.

The castle was centuries old and terribly romantic. But other than the great hall, she'd never been inside it before, and odds were she'd never be inside it again. Clarice Bradford did not belong in castles. Which was perfectly all right with her. Tonight was a dream, though, a lovely dream…

"And a week from today I'll be gone."

"Gone?"

The music ended, and the single word seemed to vibrate in the beautiful chamber.

Gone…

Why did the thought make her suddenly sad? She'd only met this man tonight, so surely she wouldn't be missing him.

"Aye, I must get back to Leslie. The harvest approaches." He held on to her hands for a few extra moments before dropping them. "I shouldn't have been away this long, but I couldn't think of missing Caithren's wedding. And then the ball, just a few days more…but after that I must leave."

"Oh." Surely it wasn't proper for her to care about him leaving. She certainly wouldn't admit it.

But he looked like he wanted her to.

Impossible. Wishful thinking was leading her to see something that wasn't there. And regardless, he was too young.

When the music didn't resume, Clarice wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. It was past midnight, and the wedding party began stumbling off to bed with a lot of final kisses and good nights. The women even gave Clarice hugs, which rendered her speechless. Titled ladies hugging her.

One of Lord Cainewood's brothers went off to fetch a footman to see her home. Mary didn't wake when Sir Cameron lifted her and beckoned Clarice to follow him through the castle to the double front doors.

Reluctantly, it seemed, he handed over her daughter and leaned against the doorpost with a faint smile. "It was a lovely evening."

"Yes, it was. Like a dream, almost." In her arms her slight daughter felt limp, warm, and overly heavy. "A beautiful dream of castles and lords and ladies. A fairytale come true. And now I must return to the real world, but I'll carry this memory with me."

"I'll remember our dance."

Low and meaningful, his words were like warmed, sweet honey flowing over her. Her own words failed her once again.

He touched her on the arm. "May I see you tomorrow?"

"P-pardon?" She looked down to where his fingers still rested on her pink linen sleeve. Long, strong fingers, so unlike her late husband's older, coarse ones. Beneath the fabric, her skin prickled and the little hairs stood on end.

"May I see you tomorrow?" When he removed his hand, she felt a distinct sense of loss. "I thought perhaps you'd like to come out walking."

It was impossible! The dream was over. No matter that her heart melted when she looked into his eyes—there could be no point in seeing him again. "I have work to do tomorrow."

Mary slumped in her arms, and Sir Cameron leapt to right her, his hands gentle, lingering on her daughter as he smiled and glanced back up at Clarice. "The next day, then?"

"No, I—" She broke off, not knowing what to say.

He pulled away, but not before he brushed the hair from her daughter's face. "You don't want to see me," he said flatly.

She winced as his eyes faded and his mouth settled into a grim, straight line. "No, it's not that, my lord—"

"I'm not a lord, Mrs. Bradford. Only a mere sir."

"Oh. Sir. Well. It's just—" She drew a deep breath and tried again. "I wouldn't be…seemly…for me to be seen about the village with one so…" She looked down at Mary's tumbled curls. "Young."

There, she'd said it. She looked up.

"Do you really think I'm too young?" Part of her was mortified that she'd said it—in doing so, she'd as much as admitted she thought he was interested in her. Yet the light was back in his eyes. Clearly he didn't consider this objection insurmountable.

But he didn't know about her other objections—ones more deep-seated and not easily brushed aside.

Just then the door opened and a footman presented her with a brief, snappy bow. "Mrs. Bradford? I've been sent to escort you home."

She knew him. John Foster, Mrs. Foster's oldest son. And John Foster knew her, too. Moved to the castle from the village, he was dressed in Cainewood livery and had acquired the manners to go with it.

She could acquire manners, too, if she wanted to. But John Foster belonged here, and she didn't. Not here or anyplace like it.

"Shall we leave, then?" she asked, following him down the steps.

She didn't dare look back. But she knew Cameron Leslie was watching her.
Sir
Cameron Leslie.

And lud, it felt entirely too good to know that.

Late the next morning, Cameron paused in front of Clarice's white thatched-roof cottage. A colorful profusion of carefully tended flowers bordered the pristine raked path through her tiny garden to the unassuming front door.

What would she think of the small castle in eastern Scotland he'd recently inherited? It was no palace, to be sure, but her cottage would fit onto half of one of its four floors.

He sneezed as he approached the door, then almost fell in when it jerked open unexpectedly and Mary launched herself into his arms. "Oh, Sir Cameron," she gushed. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again!"

"Did you think I'd abandon my precious Mary?" Charmed, he held the barefoot, pink-cheeked lassie tight, shifting her to balance on a hip as his gaze swept the cheerful one-room cottage.

Her mother was stirring something in the kettle over the fire, something that smelled fruity and sweet. Not half as sweet as her shy smile when she set down the spoon and turned to look at him, though.

"Ah, there you are," he said.

"Whatever brings you here, my lord?" Clarice blushed prettily and wiped her hands on the apron that protected her simple tan dress, then gestured to the kettle. "I told you I was busy today."

He hadn't forgotten that she'd also told him he wasn't to come at all—her failure to mention that was encouraging. "Now, I'm not a lord, Mrs. Bradford. I told you that yesterday."

"Sir—"

"Please call me Cameron." He set Mary on her feet. "As to what brought me here, I just happened to be walking by—"

"Walking?" Clarice looked a bit flustered. He hoped that would keep her from wondering how he'd located her house. "You walked all the way from the castle?"

Humming a careless tune, Mary ran circles around him. He smiled at her indulgently. "And why not? It's not so very far."

"It's just that…well, they usually ride down in a carriage." Clarice pushed back some hair that had escaped her brown plaited bun. "Or on horseback."

"They?"

"The family, I mean." She reached out to stop her daughter's dance, pulling Mary's small body back against her taller one. Like a shield, Cam thought. "Of course, some of those from the village who work there walk, but the family—"

"I'm not the family," he said with a shrug, wishing he could set her at ease.

"But the new Lady Cainewood is your cousin, isn't she?"

"Aye, Caithren is kin. First cousins, and all. But I'm a simple man, Clarice—" He stepped closer. "May I call you Clarice?"

Color flushed her cheeks. Mary squirmed, but Clarice held her tight and nodded.

"Clarice, then. As I said, I'm a simple man. A baronet is yet a commoner, you know, and before last month I wasn't even that, and never thought to be. Until Caithren's brother died—"

"I'm sorry," she said, looking down to her daughter's curly head.

He waved a hand. Although he would never have wished his cousin harm, he and Adam hadn't been close. "Until he died, I had no property to call my own. No prospect of any, either. So you see, I'm naught but a simple country lad."

At the word
lad
, she glanced up and eyed him sharply. He wished he could bite back the word. "A simple country
man
, I mean."

She nodded slowly, but it was clear she didn't agree. She set Mary free and retrieved her wooden spoon. "Why did you stop here?" she asked again.

"I…"

Mary crossed her wee arms. "He promised to tell me a story."

"Did he?" Toying with the spoon, Clarice looked dubious.

"Oh, yes! He said he knows tales of fairies and brownies." The lassie's eyes danced when she looked to Cameron. "Didn't you, my lord?"

"I'm not a lord, Mary."

"But you did promise me a story, yes?"

"Aye. That I did."

A small trundle bed sat in one corner, and Mary flounced her way over and perched on its edge. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. "Well, tell me one, then. A tale of fairies and brownies. Or one about a princess."

Failing to hide a smile, Clarice turned back to stir her pot of preserves. "Mary wishes to grow up and become a princess," she told Cam. "Though I tell her that's never to be."

"Princesses live in castles." Back and forth, Mary swung her feet off the edge of the bed. "Mama says I'll never live in a castle, and I may as well get used to the…what is it you say, Mama?"

"The fact." Still facing away, Clarice set down her wooden spoon.

"The fact, yes. That I'll never live in a castle, and I may as well get used to the fact."

"Hmm…I must say I disagree." As he spoke, Cameron stepped closer behind Clarice, close enough that he could smell her own enticing scent over that of the strawberries. With stunning clarity, a sudden picture invaded his mind: these two, a woman and a child, playing outside his castle.

"You could very well end up living in a castle, Miss Mary. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Then have you never heard the story of Nippit Fit and Clippit Fit?"

With a small huff of disapproval, Clarice turned toward him, then jumped back when she saw how near he'd come. He whirled to catch her before she could stumble into the fire, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders.

"Nippit who?" Mary asked, clearly delighted.

Her mother's breath caught, her gray eyes wide with embarrassment. He didn't think it was his imagination when those eyes darkened and she shivered.

"Nippit who?" Mary repeated.

With an inward sigh, he dropped his hands and turned to the lass, then couldn't help but smile at her cocked head and avid expression. "Nippit Fit and Clippit Fit aren't people. It's the story of a commoner who became a princess."

"Oooh. See, Mama?" Mary didn't wait for her mother's answer. "Tell me," she said to Cam.

Looking dazed, Clarice walked slowly to the well-scrubbed table and seated herself before a gigantic bowl of strawberries. Cameron trailed in her wake. "In a country far across the sea lived a prince in a grand castle—"

"Was it pretty?" Mary interrupted.

"Aye, very pretty." Without waiting to be invited, he pulled out another of the four wooden chairs and sat beside Clarice. "It was full of lovely furniture, beautiful artwork, and rare ornaments. One of them was a wee glass shoe which would fit only the most delicate foot in the kingdom."

Mary's feet ceased their swinging motion. "Like mine?" She stared down at her tiny pink toes.

While Clarice pointedly ignored him and worked at hulling her strawberries, he leaned across the table and craned his neck, pretending to peruse the wee lass's foot. "Why, a dainty little foot like yours exactly. And the prince, he loved dainty maidens, he did, and he decided he wouldn't marry until the day he found a maiden who fit the shoe." Under the cover of clearing his throat, he scooted his chair a wee bit closer to Clarice's. "That lucky lady would become his wife."

"And then she'd be a princess," Mary said.

"Aye, that she would. So the prince called one of his knights and gave him the task of riding back and forth across the kingdom until he found a lady the glass shoe would fit."

"And did he find one?"

"Patience, Miss Mary. You must listen to what happened." Wondering if perhaps he should also practice patience, but unable to help himself, he touched her mother on the arm. "Is that not so, Clarice?"

Startled, she looked up and met his eyes. "Patience, yes." Her gaze flicked to where his fingers rested, and when he didn't remove them, she took a strawberry from the bowl and pushed it into his hand.

Clever lass, he thought, pleased and amused.