The Lord of Illusion - 3 (9 page)

But slaves were not paid for work.

Servants were.

Camille passed a finger along the mantel, across the delicate tables gilt in gold, atop the vases crafted with golden-etched scenes of hunting and flowers. Not a spot of dust anywhere. Apparently Augusta earned her place here. Plenty of coal stocked near the fireplace. Water full in the pitchers and buckets.

Oh, and joy! The sideboard in the dining room held two rounds of cheese, some hard loaves of bread, and candied fruit. Camille ate a hasty meal, still feeling like an interloper in this place. She defiantly drank a tumbler of warm port, and immediately felt better. A bit bolder.

She sucked in a breath, made her way to the viscount’s bedroom, and opened the door. Surely she would find much to clean within. But the bedding she had soiled had already been changed to a different coverlet, the floor cleaned, and the dirty cloths cleared away. Camille sniffed. She could not smell a trace of the suet that had coated her body last night.

She frowned in dismay until her eyes lit upon the trunks. Viscount Hawkes’s trunks. He had not brought a valet with him, and Captain Talbot did not look like a man who could serve in that capacity. She would wager nothing had been unpacked as of yet. The dressing table looked bare, and when she opened the wardrobe door, it rattled with a hollow sound.

She had found a useful occupation.

She would not think about the opportunity it gave her to find out more about Lord Hawkes. It would not be prying. He would expect someone to unpack his things for him.

Camille ignored the leap in her belly as she opened the first trunk. Clothing. Mounds of velvet, silk, and damask coats. Brocade and embroidered waistcoats. Silk stockings and lace-trimmed cravats. Breeches of matching material and soft leather. White shirts edged with lace. And near the bottom, polished boots. Judging by his attire, Viscount Hawkes was a wealthy man, although singular in the color of his clothing. Unlike the vibrant colors of the court, he preferred browns and blacks edged with gold and silver.

She hung up the coats, laid out many garments in the clothespress drawers to smooth the wrinkles, and reminded herself to ask Augusta the whereabouts of a flat iron to press the most wrinkled of the cravats. Camille would not consider actually dressing the man, but perhaps she could lay out his clothing of an evening. She would make sure to create appealing ensembles of tidy appearance.

Most gentlemen of the court considered it of utmost importance.

Camille opened the next trunk. Unlike the careless way his clothing had been packed, the contents of this chest had been lovingly arranged, with white sheets of paper separating the books.

Books.

What kind of man went to the difficulty of lugging about his book collection?

Camille picked up the first leather-bound volume and read the title gilt in gold,
The
Unfortunate
Traveler
. She resisted the temptation to open the pages and read. She had missed Molly’s story last night, and did not know when the next opportunity might arise to hear another… although Camille heartily prayed it would not be anytime soon, no matter how much she longed for a whimsical tale.

She rose with book in hand and glanced about the room. A set of shelving sat next to the bed, currently occupied by a few artful boxes of gold, a clock with sculpted angels surrounding the face, various other items obviously left behind between visits so the place would not look bare. She took down the pieces and arranged them on a table, and set the book upon the first shelf.

It looked as if it belonged there.

She imagined a man so enamored of his book collection would prefer to have them easily at hand, and hoped to please him by arranging the entire contents of the trunk upon the shelves.

He had saved her life, after all.

Camille had half the contents emptied before she could resist temptation no longer. The clock told her the noon hour had passed, and Augusta had not appeared. Nor anyone else, for that matter.

It was not necessarily forbidden for slaves to know how to read, but their time and duties certainly made it unlikely. If not for Molly, Camille never would have learned.

Still, she held her breath for a moment, listening for any sound, and could not stop the feeling of guilt that arose when she opened a volume titled,
Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories & Tragedies
, and the book fell open to the play,
Much
Ado
About
Nothing
. Despite having to puzzle over some of the words, she soon became absorbed in the story, a smile playing about her mouth at the banter between the hero and heroine.

Molly wrote charming stories, about a world that had never been invaded by elven lords, an England gay with parties and debutants and admiring beaus. But this story, which she first thought to be a frivolous love story, involved complexities that lay beneath the surface, deceptions that reminded her strongly of those used by the elven lords.

Camille did not hear anyone enter the apartments. Indeed, when she looked up and saw him standing at the door, it gave her such a start she dropped the expensive book.

“Where is Augusta?” asked Viscount Hawkes, one arm across his chest to grip the other, his face paler than usual.

“I… I do not know, my lord. I haven’t seen her since last eve.”

He slumped against the door frame, exposing the frowning face of Captain Talbot just behind him, and glanced over his shoulder.

“You shall have to fetch the healer,” Lord Hawkes told his man. “And twice bedamn what the court fools say, fetch that old woman, not the palace healer.”

“Aye, sir. Perhaps I should see to the bleeding—”

His lordship shook his head. “Camille will tend me.”

Captain Talbot gave her a doubtful look, one that made her bristle with indignation.

“I am not unfamiliar with the sight of blood.”

“I should rather think not,” answered Lord Hawkes. “Go on, Edward.”

Without another word, the captain turned and quit the apartments, leaving Lord Hawkes standing there with his gaze fastened upon her once again. The tender way he looked at her made her feel peculiar inside.

“As much as I would enjoy standing here and looking at you forever, I’m afraid I might fall over if you do not help me to the bed.”

Camille quickly stepped forward, and just as quickly came to an abrupt halt.

“Come now. You do not truly think I am in any position to molest you?”

She shook her head. But he stood so tall, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the doorway, or so it seemed to her. He exuded that masculine aura of strength and dominance, and despite the blood seeping between his fingers where he clutched his arm, that well-earned knot of warning rose to strangle her.

The frown of pain etched on his mouth gentled into a half smile. “I understand it will be an odious chore to touch me. I fear you shall have to bear it.”

Camille’s aversion to men mostly extended to soldiers, for the other men she met usually just ignored her. This man fit neither mold. Still, he had the look of a warrior, and she could feel he
wanted
her, but chose to deny himself.

She had thought him a puzzle. Now, she feared to solve it.

He cocked a brow. “Will you truly stand there and allow me to bleed to death?”

“No, I…” Camille stepped forward, held out her hands. He did not reach out to her in any way, just stood there, waiting. She closed the distance between them and grasped his uninjured arm, allowing him to lean on her as she led him forward.

“You may not have any magic,” he said, “but you have the elven strength in plenty.” He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at her. “And the grace, and more than the fair share of beauty.”

Camille flushed. No one had ever called her beautiful, not with her odd eyes that seemed to take up most of her face. The compliment made her feel even more peculiar, so she chose to ignore it. “How do you know I haven’t any magic?”

“My dear, you would have used it to save yourself last night.”

“Of course.”

“Can you help me off with my coat? I shall have to release my hold on the wound, which means it will spout more blood, so you shall have to try to be quick in the removal of it.”

“I understand.”

“Jolly good then. On three. One, two, three.”

He let go of his wound and Camille tugged the coat over his shoulders. It had not been her imagination. He had very broad shoulders. She thought of the blood gushing down his arm, heard him mutter a curse beneath his breath, and quickly jumped on the bed behind him, yanking at the collar, pulling the coat down his back.

Lord Hawkes quickly grabbed his injury again.

“Camille?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The room is spinning.”

She scrambled off the bed, tugged off his boots. Folded his ruined coat with the wet part inside and placed it on the bed. She would not allow his bedding to be ruined two nights in a row. He started to fall over sideways, so she picked up his legs and heaved, allowing him to collapse on his back.

Camille leaned over and positioned the coat a bit more securely beneath his injured arm. It brought her too close to him. She could feel his heat, smell the spicy scent of his skin, and wondered what cologne he wore.

He inhaled deeply, echoing her thoughts. “You smell wonderful, Camille. Like sweet wine… and something else. It is a vast improvement over the scent you wore last night.”

He made her smile. And she did not feel afraid to be this near to him, even though she could tell he desired her, injury notwithstanding. His voice had such a deep, tender quality to it, a teasing note she could not take umbrage to.

She pulled away, stared into those faceted golden brown eyes, and then blinked. “I shall fetch some soap and water.” With a swirl of her borrowed skirts she ran from the room, returning with a bucket she had noticed in the wash closet, and cloths and soap.

Lord Hawkes captured her with his gaze yet again. “I am afraid I cannot let go of the gash in my skin. Parts of me will be liable to spill out. If you would grant me the boon of washing the rest of the blood off of me, Camille, I would consider it a personal favor.”

She glanced at his bloodstained shirt. Went into her room and fetched the scissors from the sewing box, and promptly went about cutting off the shirt. She ignored the contours of his chest as she went about the task. Ignored the ridged muscles in his abdomen. The bulge of muscles standing out in shoulder and arm. The smooth, nearly hairless expanse of his skin, testament to the elven blood running through his veins.

She set cloth to soap and plunged it in the bucket. Wiped down his arm, his chest, his belly, always careful to keep the cloth between the touch of her fingers on his bare skin. His eyes closed, and she thought he might have lost consciousness, except for the sighs that occasionally escaped his lips.

He had extraordinarily full lips for a man.

Camille found herself breathing hard. Too hard to account for the small labor of washing him. Heaven help her. She had never desired a man before this moment. But she recognized the feeling. Because sometimes her traitorous body gained pleasure from the soldiers, and she could not stop it. And this had disgusted her most of all.

Lord Hawkes had lulled her into a false sense of security. He made no movement to touch her. Had made no advances to threaten her, to weaken her guard. But how much magical glamour had he cast over her?

Tricky bastard.

Camille jerked away from him and abruptly flung the reddened cloth into the bucket.

He opened one eye. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing, sir. You are as clean as I can manage at the moment.”

“I see.” He shifted on the bed. “What is taking Edward so long? Even a good healer cannot stop the fever completely if the wound festers.”

Camille sniffed, refusing to be put off her guard again with sympathy. Besides, he had probably acquired the injury by flirting with some man’s wife and being taken to account for it. The scenario happened all the time with the aristocracy, much to the amusement of the elven lord. She sometimes wondered if they did it just to please him.

“How did you come by your injury, sir?”

His other lid flew open, and the color of his eyes darkened to a smoky gold. Those lips narrowed, and his face hardened with a mask Camille somehow thought familiar to him. As if he had adopted the wearing of it over the years.

When he spoke, his voice vibrated with some deep emotion. “Let us just say that the slave master shall never beat another woman again.”

Camille gasped. Swayed on her feet. She remembered something he said last night, but the pain of her back had made her only half-aware. She thought she had misheard him, or that his vow had been spoken only in the heat of the moment. Apparently, Viscount Hawkes could be taken at his word. “Did you kill him?”

His smooth chest rose and fell on a great sigh, and when he spoke again, he used the same gentle tone she had grown accustomed to. “I have killed men only in self-defense. I certainly could not kill one who wept at my feet, despite the temptation to do so.”