Too Dangerous to Desire (10 page)

No answer.

Her heart thumped against her ribs, once, twice, three times in succession, forcing her to draw a shallow breath. More silence, and disappointment hit again, leaving her feeling a little bruised.

Rejection, however oblique, hurt like the devil.

Fisting her hands, Sophie fought to compose her conflicting feelings. On one hand, she wished to hit back. A foolish notion, of course. It would be like velvet striking against stone. And yet…

“Very well.”

At first, she thought it might only have been a whisper of the wind, but he said it again, louder, and with more force.

“Very well, if you truly wish to come along, I have no right to say no. However, I ask that you think long and hard about your final decision. Make no mistake—there are grave risks involved, and I cannot answer for the consequences.”

Sophie nodded, not trusting her voice.

“No matter how carefully plans like these are made, they can—and do—often go awry,” he went on.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Silence shivered between them, but she stood firm.

“There will be rules,” he warned. “And the one promise I demand from you is that you’ll obey them without question.”

“You hate rules,” she pointed out.

“Not the ones that ensure survival.” Cameron ran a hand through his windsnarled hair, looking for a brief instant like the hunted instead of the hunter. And then his gaze hardened, turning impenetrable as the weathered granite around them. “Yes, I take chances, but not foolhardy ones. There are times when it’s best to cut my losses and run.”

This was becoming more and more intriguing. “All this sounds very professional on your part. Do you do this sort of thing often?”

“Taking chances?” Distraction, again. He did it well.

“No, stealing into private places. Searching for secrets while leaving no trace of yourself.”

“Often enough that it’s become second nature,” Cameron answered. “And the more closely guarded the place, the more of an interesting challenge it is. Not long ago, I heard through my informants in the docklands that there was an undergovernor of the East India Company who was falsifying records on the diamond shipments coming from Golconda. I also learned—never mind how—that he was using a small building on a side street east of St. Paul’s as a private office for his side business. So I slipped inside one night during a heavy rain, knowing the Sikh guards were unused to the sounds of a London storm. From his papers I discovered the location of the warehouse where he was hiding his ill-gotten gains until a gem merchant from Antwerp arrived buy them.” He smiled. “I confess, there is a rather sweet satisfaction in outwitting another thief.”

Intrigued, she asked, “What are some other of your exploits?”

“You don’t want to know every sordid detail about my life, Sunbeam. There are dark crevasses there where even your light cannot penetrate.”

“Yes, I do.”
I want to wrap myself in the knowing, rubbing its hard and soft textures over every inch of my skin.
“I want to know everything.”

“Not now,” he growled. “There are things I must do to get ready for the visit to Wolcott’s inner sanctum.”

“Like what?” pressed Sophie.

“Supplies, reconnaissance,” answered Cameron after a long moment. “All the little things that tilt the odds in my favor.”

The boy she remembered had worn his passions—every hurt, every triumph, every defiance—writ plain on his face. This man had learned wariness. It was impossible to know what he was really thinking.

“You may be very good at these games, Cam, but you may bet on one thing,” she said slowly. “If you change your plans and go on without me, I shall make a number of new holes in your flesh—and they won’t be located in your earlobe.”

His gaze danced and darted around hers, refusing to reveal more than a flicker of beautiful green. “You don’t trust me?”

She lifted a brow. “Should I?”

At that, he gave a sardonic laugh, but his eyes, however evasive, betrayed its lie. Cameron Daggett might be a master of manipulation, but some things he could not hide. “No, not for an instant. That way, you won’t be disappointed.” He shifted his stance. “Again.”

The wind rose in a sudden gust, its low, keening whistle echoing off the stones.

“Let’s just be sure we understand each other, Sophie,” he added, his voice almost too low to be heard.

I have always understood you, Cam. More than you think.

“As I said before, Sophie, I have my own selfish reasons for pursuing these men, so don’t make the mistake of thinking me motivated purely by noble altruism.”

“You may have a clear conscience on that,” she replied. “You’ve taken great pains to disabuse me of any girlish illusions.”

He appeared to be studying the lone hawk floating high in the sky. A hunter, spinning its predatory circles.
Always alert, always watching.

“But as I said, I’m not a girl any longer, so the terms of your offer are perfectly acceptable.” She reached down for her herb basket. It had fallen and now lay on the hardscrabble ground, its greenery powdered with a gritty dust. “Where shall we meet? And when?”

Cameron crouched down and began helping her gather up the herbs. “At the north gate of the gardens, the one by the orchards.” He had very deft hands, with long, tapered fingers that skimmed over the pebbles with a lithe grace. Held by some shadowy spell, her gaze remained mesmerized by his movements. Gentle, caring—in contrast to his jaded words.

“Let us say at midnight,” he went on. “The witching hour when darkness will cover our evil deeds.”

A smile found its way to her lips. “Georgie would like that. It sounds like something out of the latest novel she purchased in London. Which, by the by, is called
Lady Avery’s Awful Secret
.”

He softly blew on a clump of purple-flowered borage, stirring a pale puff of sandy grains.
A laugh?
The
whoosh
seemed to ease the tension between them. “Georgiana,” he said, “has grown into a very interesting young lady. It isn’t often that one encounters…” The dark strands of his hair caught in the breeze, revealing a peek of amusement in his eyes. “…such enthusiasm and exuberance for life.”

“You haven’t met Penelope,” murmured Sophie.

A chuckle, dry as dust. “That roly-poly little pixie?”

“Is now nearly as tall as Georgie. And nearly as vexing.” She sighed. “I am surprised my hair hasn’t turned gray.”

Swiftly, silently, Cameron gathered the rest of the meadow herbs and placed them in the basket. “Think on it, Sophie, and whether you wish to take such a dangerous gamble.”

Dangerous.
That word again.

“If you use your usual good sense, you won’t show up tomorrow night.” He rose. “I’ll keep my promise and be there tomorrow at midnight. But if you are a moment late, I’ll go on without you.”

“I’ll be there,” she assured him. “You don’t frighten me.”

His look turned even more inscrutable than before. “Oh, but I should.”

T
he next day seemed to pass slower than a turtle crawling through treacle. Her nerves wound tight as a watchspring by Cameron’s appearance and Dudley’s new threat, Sophie made herself stay busy, inventing chores to keep from glancing at the clock every quarter hour. The pewter was burnished to silvery brightness, the pantry shelves were spotless, the stove swept free of ash.

“Good Lord, you are jumpy as a cat on a hot griddle,” said Penelope, the youngest of the Lawrance sisters, as she looked up from her mending. “This is the second time this afternoon that you’ve dusted the mantel. Are you expecting to entertain company tonight?”

“No, of course not,” she mumbled. The Staffordshire figurines seemed to roll their ceramic eyes as she wiped a rag over the painted wood one last time, while the ticking of the small silver-plated clock added an audible reproach. “Things always need an extra measure of attention after I’ve been away for a while.”

“Mrs. Hodges would not be happy to hear you say so,” quipped Penelope. “Oh, a pox on Lucifer and his legions,” she added, seeing that she had dropped a stitch.

“A young lady should not use such salty language,” scolded Sophie, happy for the distraction from her own wayward thoughts. “Especially if she is only thirteen.”

“Yes, and furthermore, a young lady should not read private letters where she might acquire such salty language,” piped up Georgiana from the far corner of the parlor. “Especially if she is only thirteen.”

“You left Anthony’s latest missive lying open on the desk,” protested Penelope. With a theatrical swish of the old sock in her hands, she heaved a swooning sigh. “La, he uses
far
more interesting phrases than that. Especially at the end, where he declares—”

Georgiana cut her off with a word that would have put a Death’s Head Hussar to blush.

“If I
ever
hear you repeat that, Pen,” cautioned Sophie. “You will be emptying the chamberpots for a month.” A pause. “Or worse still, I shall put all the novels in this house under lock and key.”

Penelope quickly rethreaded her needle and went back to work.

Leaving her sisters to their sulks, Sophie slipped away and sought refuge in tidying up the henhouse.

At last the supper hour arrived, though the meal seemed to drag on interminably. Too on edge to eat a bite, Sophie made mincemeat of her pork and simply pushed it around on her plate. Thankfully, her father seemed more lost than usual in his own thoughts, and her sisters were too busy discussing the latest London fashions to notice.

Somehow, she managed to sit still until the pudding plates were cleared, and their father’s chair scraped back. Offering up a silent prayer of thanks, she quickly rose as well.

“Sophie, we are going to read the next chapter of
Lady Avery’s Awful Secret
,” murmured Georgiana as Mr. Lawrance drifted off toward his study. “Would you care to join us in the parlor? It’s really quite entertaining.”

“Alas, I think I will forgo the pleasures of Lady Avery’s perils,” replied Sophie.
I am facing enough of my own.
“I’m tired, and feel a beastly headache coming on. So if you will excuse me, I am going to retire early.”

“Sorry. I know you dislike shopping, so London was a tax on your patience. Do you wish for me to make you a tisane?” asked Georgiana in concern. “There is a fresh batch of chamomile in the stillroom.”

“No, no. I assure you, a night of uninterrupted peace and quiet will be remedy enough.”

“Sleep well,” said Penelope. She crinkled her nose. “You do look a little frayed around the edges.”

“No doubt my advanced age is beginning to show,” replied Sophie dryly. “Enjoy your heroine’s adventures.”

Chuffing a sigh, Penelope fingered her braid. “Nothing adventurous ever happens to any of us. I wish…”

Repressing an inward wince, Sophie started up the stairs.
Oh, be careful what you wish for, Pen.

Rope, grappling hooks, an assortment of thin steel probes, tiny wood wedges to keep doors and drawers open…Cameron rechecked the items in his leather rucksack one last time before extinguishing the candle and easing open the hut’s planked door.

Wispy swirls of sea-damp mist ghosted through the trees. The air was heavy with moisture, muffling the riffle of the breeze through the long grasses. He stood very still, letting his all senses readjust to the textured nuances of a country night. The slums of London were not exactly rife with the twitter of nightingales or the scent of heather. Its symphony of sounds and smells were sharp and piercing as knives—they lanced right through a man’s gut.

Here the dangers were more subtle.

Clouds scudded through the skies, playing a rag-tag game of hide and seek with the starlight. The shadows deepened as Cameron started off down the path, but despite the gloom, he moved swiftly, surely over the loose stones.

“I am a creature of Darkness,” he murmured, feeling the cool fingers of night nymphs tickle his cheeks and thread through his hair. A man whose heart was now carved out of coal.
Black, oh-so black, and cold to the touch
. “Connor and Gryff may be Lords of the Land, but I am a Wraith of Midnight.” A specter whose place in the world was here, moving through the realm of the Moon.

The Moon and not the Sun.

That he was letting Sophie set foot into this murky netherworld was wrong. Selfish.
And yet, I’ve made it clear to her that I’m not a saint
, he told himself.

But somehow that didn’t absolve him of guilt.

A flitting movement up ahead drew his attention. There within the dark, leafy branches was a figure, tugging at the folds of her cloak.

How like Sophie to be early for the rendezvous.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan.

Coming up behind her, Cameron tapped her lightly on the shoulder. At least she had thought to wear dark clothing.

“Mmmph!”

His hand quickly, clapped over her mouth, muffled her cry. “Shhhhh, it’s me.”

“You nearly scared me out of my skin,” muttered Sophie, once he had released her.

“Would that I had startled some sense
into
your head,” he retorted. The scent of verbena, warm with her heat, tickled at his nostrils. Its sweetness made him even more ill tempered. “You need to be more observant. The next time it might be a foe, not a friend, creeping through the trees and you’ll find your lovely throat cut.”

“Thank you for the first lesson in skullduggery. I shall make careful note of it.”

“You had better pray that you are a quick learner.” His tone was deliberately rough. Allowing her to come, he decided, had been an error on his part. A weakness. And survival, he repeated to himself, depended on unyielding strength in this dog-eat-dog world. “Sophie, on further reflection, I—”

It was her turn to cut off a sound. “Don’t waste your breath. I’m not going home. So you can either continue on with me, or scuttle your plans. I have an even louder howl than Rufus, and I vow, I’ll wake the entire shire if you try to leave me in the dust.”

“When did you turn so devious?” muttered Cameron.

“That is rather like the pot calling the kettle black,” she replied. A rustle of wool, and a small package appeared from her cloak pocket.

An odd odor wafted up from the oiled paper. “What’s that?”

“Raw chicken and anchovies. Rufus adores the combination.”

A fish-and-fowl-loving hound, a doggedly determined young lady—the foray was fast descending into farce.

Ah, but I have always been the Devil’s own fool.

The forces of Nature seemed aligned against him, and so with an ungracious sigh, he surrendered to the inevitable. “Where are we likely to find this epicurean beast?”

“Under the archway leading into the walled rose garden,” said Sophie. “It’s the one to the left of the swan fountain, tucked behind the privet hedge.”

“I know the spot,” said Cameron curtly. He took her hand. “Come along, before I change my mind.”

Beneath the hood of her cloak, her face was naught but a blur of pearl and charcoal shades. But the hiss and crackle of sparks in her hidden eyes was almost audible.

Sophie’s inner fire, fighting to break free?

Grass flattened under her half boot as she swung into a long-limbed stride. “What are we waiting for?”

“Not so fast.” Holding her back, he edged forward to take the lead. “Follow my lead and try to stay light on your feet. From here on in, you must be silent as the grave.”

“You might choose a less grim metaphor,” she murmured.

“I believe in calling a spade a spade.” The gate latch of the perimeter released with a rusty
snick
. “Let us hope it is not going to end up digging us into a very deep and dirty hole.”

On that note, all talk ceased. They crossed the lawns, keeping low and hugging close to the slanting shadows of the shrubbery. At the far end of the formal gardens, the imposing manor house rose from a sea of silvery mist, its jagged black silhouette of turrets and towers looking slightly menacing against the night sky. A sleeping monster, ready to devour anyone who dared to trespass on its hallowed turf.

For an instant, Cameron felt his chest tighten. He was a boy again, torn between fear and loathing.

Grrrrrrr.
The cavernous rumble seemed to be emanating from the very bowels of the earth.

He took shelter behind a decorative urn, flattening Sophie against the smooth marble. “A friend of yours, I trust?” The shaggy shape padding toward them was big as a bear.

“Yes,” she hissed. The dog—at least he assumed it was a dog, and not some hairy Nordic Viking come back to life from one of the nearby ancient burial mounds—was favored with a far nicer tone. “Rufus. Come here, sweetheart, and let me scratch all the little spots that you love to have touched.”

Until that moment Cameron had never imagined he could be jealous of a four-footed beast. “If I get down on my hands and knees and lick your hand, do I get the same offer?” he asked.

She darted him a quelling look. “Ignore him, Rufus,” she whispered, fondling the dog’s drooping ears. “I brought you a little treat.”

The growl was now more of a purr.

“Here you are, darling.”

The massive jaws opened, revealing a peek of gleaming dragon-sized teeth. A snorty little snuffle was quickly followed by a soft
whoof
of contentment.

“Now lie down. And stay.” That was directed at Rufus. To him she said, “It’s safe to approach the house. Have you decided where you are going to seek entrance?”

Cameron squinted at the façade. No lights were visible in any of the windows.
So far, so good
. He would continue according to his primary plan. “There is a side door that opens into the foyer adjoining the Gun Room,” he answered. “It’s set in a corner of the East Wing, and sheltered by a slate portico, so I’ll be well hidden from view.”

Sophie turned abruptly and moved to block his way. Her hand grasped his coat collar, light against dark in the mizzled moonlight. “Are you sure about this, Cam? The local blacksmith—you remember Neddy Wadsworth, don’t you—helped install the new locks. He said he had never seen such baffling mechanisms.”

“Clearly Neddy is not nearly as well traveled as I am.” Seeing her troubled expression, he smiled. “I told you, don’t worry. Now that that I’ve slipped past the Guardian of Thunder…” Rufus was now snoring. “…the rest will be child’s play.”

A poor choice of words, for her face tightened, the pale skin stretching taut over her delicate cheekbones. “Wolcott hates you, Cam. He’ll squash you like a bug if you’re caught.”

“I’m not a bug to him. I’m a stinking piece of pond scum, a much lower form of life. But the thing about scum is, it’s slippery stuff, and surprisingly adept at survival. Not easy to kill a squiggle of slime.”

His sarcasm made her flinch.

Good. Maybe he could chip away at her trusting resolve. Make her see him as he was, uncolored by her illusions of the past.

“Well, I’d rather not test that assumption by provoking His Lordship’s servants into shooting at you,” replied Sophie.

“If you would keep your voice down, I might have a chance at avoiding a hail of bullets.”

She scowled, but answered in a low whisper. “Perhaps we should withdraw and reconsider our plans.”

“According to you, time is now of the essence. We can’t afford to waste a single moment.”

This time she had no retort.

“Stay here and keep rubbing Rufus.” He uncurled her hold on his coat. “I will be back shortly.”

“Damnation.” Rufus twitched beneath her stroking fingers but did not waken. “Damn, damn, damn.” Sitting back on her knees, Sophie watched for any sign of life within the manor.
Nothing.
There was nothing but a brooding blackness that matched the darkening of her mood.

Why?
Why was Cameron hellbent on taking such cursed risks?

A stupid question.
She knew what fire burned in his belly. Oh, yes, he hid it well these days, deep down inside a shell of laugh-at-Lucifer cynicism. His face and his voice told the same carefully controlled lie. Only the heat of his skin betrayed the burning coals within, hot as hellfire, sizzling, smoldering just beneath the surface.

The Marquess of Wolcott had been Cameron’s nemesis for as long as she had known him.

Wolcott.
Lord of the manor. He was a cold-hearted aristocrat who refused to acknowledge that he shared any of his precious, privileged blood with a bastard brat.

In the past, youthful passion had driven Cameron to poke a red-hot pitchfork in the Devil’s eye. His attack was far more adroit now, his weapons far more sophisticated.

Which didn’t make the danger any less frightening.

“If your master catches Cam, he will kill him,” she murmured to Rufus.

The dog snuffled in response, utterly lacking in canine sympathy.

She had never imagined that accepting Cameron’s help would draw him back into the perils of his own personal past.

Woof.

“Yes, I know. I’ve been a weak-willed widgeon.” She rose to a half crouch. “He has to leave. Flee. Never come back here.”