Page 14 of A Pirate’s Pleasure (Cameron Family #2)

XI

P etroc Cameron strode across the room and plucked her coverlet from the floor. He returned to her, sweeping it around her shoulders while she stared at him in stunned silence. “As for you, madame, perhaps you would be so kind as to return to your own cabin. It has been a trying afternoon, and I’ve work to attend to.”

Blankly, she stared at him. He smiled slowly. “Did you really think me so cruel? It’s just that it is a very serious situation when a pirate flag flies, as you well know, and I must confess, my heart leaped to my throat when that ruffian had his filthy fingers upon you. Davey is a good lad; he will learn to be a fine sailor. And now, my love…”

She was silent still and he caught her arm, leading her to the door. He did not leave her in the hallway, but went with her down the few steps to her cabin. Someone had come back and cleared away the small tub, and several lamps burned brightly upon the dresser. He opened her door, bowed deeply, and left her, and she had still to say a single word.

He was a curious man, indeed.

She sat down upon her bunk, either bemused or completely in shock. In a while she curled up on it, drawing the covers high around her and shivering.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have burst upon the deck so. It was just that she had not wanted to be trapped in the smoke and fire. It might have spread. A fire on shipboard was a frightening and serious matter. She walked right into the arms of the pirate, just as she walked straight into Logan’s arms when she had been the Hawk’s prisoner off of New Providence.…

She curled up and thought about the Hawk, and tried hard to cling to his memory. It was fading, and she could not allow it to do so. Fading…and becoming combined with the reality of his cousin. Her husband.

She burned suddenly where she lay, thinking of Cameron’s intimate kiss. It had been no gentle caress, but something fierce and demanding. She thought of his casual display of disdain topside when the pirate had held her. Take her, she is trouble, he had said.

And he had bared her back, but not to the lash. Rather to the searing tenderness of his lips…

She tossed about. He could call himself “Lord” Cameron, but he was hard and could be callous. The tenderness was a facade, for they were already well cast into battle. She would not remain married to him—no, she would not accept that she was married to him! She would not. She owed him gratitude, perhaps, but no more.

She had just dozed when another seaman brought her dinner upon a silver tray. It was a delicious fresh fish seasoned with green peppercorns. She was weary and discouraged that night, though she knew not why. She didn’t bother to dress for dinner, but cast aside her torn shift and donned a nightgown made of fine linen decorated with tiny embroidered daisies. She tied the delicate laces at the bodice and sat down in her nightdress and froth of covers to eat. The rum he had sent earlier sat upon the dressing table, and she dared to sip it. It was so potent a brew that her lips quivered before she could swallow, but she did manage to imbibe some. It burned down to the very heart, blazing a path from her throat to her stomach. She did not sip much, but she was glad of what she tasted, for it allowed her to lie down again and seek to sleep. In the midst of the night she dreamed of the beguiling paradise lagoon upon Bone Cay. Her lover rose from the water and came toward her, but with each step the man was different, depending on how the sunlight dappled on his naked shoulders. At one moment it the Silver Hawk, claiming her affections with gentle demand. Then the light would change, and it would be her lord husband, noble and imperious and bold and undaunted, and she would not know whether to run and to scream, or to wait until he came to her, and open her arms to him.

She awoke with a jerk. Her lamps were burning low, so she knew that morning was almost with them. Arising, she heard a soft oath in the hallway. Was someone coming her way?

She slipped out of bed and found Lord Cameron’s sword upon the floor where she had left it the previous night. Footsteps were coming to her cabin. She leaped back into bed, carefully bringing the razor-sharp weapon along with her. Her heart thundered.

Her door was cast quietly open. For the longest time she lay there, barely daring to breathe. She opened her eyes a bare slit, allowing her lashes still to shield them. She feigned sleep, but looked to the doorway.

It was Lord Cameron. His white wig neatly queued, his shoulders broad upon his tall frame. He watched her in silence.

As she waited, he entered, closing the door. He came her way. The cover had slipped from her shoulders. She nearly screamed when he moved his hand to pull it more fully upon her. She could not help her eyes from flying open and falling upon his with grave alarm.

“There is nothing, madame. I apologize for disturbing you,” he said softly, his words a breath of air in the night.

“You’ve no right in here!” she murmured nervously. He did not touch her, he just stood over her, and inwardly she came alive with hot, cascading shivers.

“I’ve every right in here, but we won’t dispute that tonight. We’ll come home soon enough.”

“My home is Williamsburg.”

“Milady, your home is a beautiful place upon the peninsula. Sweat and tears and blood went into the founding of it, and I do not take kindly to your insults.”

“I’ve not insulted—”

“But you have. Good night.”

She was not about to let him turn away. She sat up, drawing his sword from her covers with a blue flame rising in her eyes. She was quick and expert, bringing the tip of his own sword against his throat before he began to realize her intent.

“Skye—”

“No! No!” she admonished, holding the blade at his throat while she came up upon her knees and faced him. She dug slightly, forcing him to raise his head. It was her turn to smile. “Sir, I have had it with beginning and ending these conversations. Shall we go back to the beginning? You have no right here. You and my father played some trick and you think then that I am married. Well, I dispute that fact, so you do have no right here! Now, sir, you have rescued me from the grip of not one pirate, but two. However, sir, I find you little better than either of them! You fought today with the same sizzle of conquest in your eyes, and you are every bit as arrogant and disdaining of social custom as your cousin! I did not set out to make your life miserable, sir—you stumbled into my life!”

“I beg to differ. Your father—”

“My father!” She prodded the sword closer to his throat, forcing him to cease speaking. “My father! What is this about my father? Are you not a man, sir? Have you not heard the word ‘no’?”

She pressed against his throat. He did not seem to care. His eyes grew narrower by the second and they seemed to blaze like the North Star. “Madame, there is nothing that I do not do by my will, and by my will alone. But I honor my father, and so I chose to honor his vows. If you have a disagreement about our present relationship, feel free to bring it up to your father, but know this! By the law you are my wife. By temperament I am afraid that your very hostility has made me bound and determined to keep what is mine. You are at my mercy, madame, and you’d best remember it!”

Skye laughed with sheer delight. She had him at the disadvantage; he was the one with the blade of honed steel against his throat, and he still thought to threaten her.

“I should slice and dice you!” she whispered.

“Yes, you should. And immediately,” he said calmly. “Umm. I daresay that your best move would be to do murder this very second, because otherwise you will live to rue this moment with all of your heart.”

“I don’t think so. I think that you will leave my cabin this very second.”

“Not without my sword.”

“That will be difficult. I hold your sword.”

“No, you do not.”

Maybe he knew that she could not really murder him; maybe she had not been threatening enough, or maybe she had been so thrilled with her own moment of triumph that she had fallen prey to his speed and daring. He simply took the blade with both his hands and thrust it from him before snatching the hilt from her. And he did it with such speed and reckless bravado that the blade lay against her breast before she could so much as blink.

He smiled pleasantly. “I hold my sword, milady, as you see.”

Skye sank down upon her haunches, keeping a very wary eye upon him. His smile remained. So did the blade. He very calmly drew it through the laces of her gown. Its honed edge slit the delicate ties soundlessly and effortlessly, and her gown spilled opened. His eyes fell upon her in the lamplight, but gave no clue to his thoughts. She could not have known if he desired her, or despised all that he saw. He moved the material away from her breast with practiced ease—the razor-edged blade did not so much as scratch her flesh. To her dismay, her body responded in an alarming fashion. Her breasts swelled, her nipples peaked and hardened. Her breath rasped too quickly and he surely saw the rise in her pulse as it beat against her veins. She saw his eyes then, and the satanic mischief in them. “Bastard!” she hissed to him, and shoved the sword away. With deep throaty laughter he allowed it to fall.

She clutched her bodice together. “This was a good gown!” she snapped to him.

“Since it is my duty to see you fed and clothed, I shall replace it, madame. May I say that it shall be well worth the cost.”

“You may not!”

“Poor rogue who captured you, milady! So this is why the Hawk let you go without demanding a single farthing!” Chuckling softly, he turned. Had she been blessed with any good sense whatsoever, she would have let him go.

Good sense seemed to be the least of her virtues at the moment. Skye vaulted from the bed to slam against his back with both fists flying. “You are not amusing, and you are not my husband, and I absolutely insist that you—”

She broke off, for he had whirled around, and he held her very tightly in his arms. The sword had fallen to the ground, where he ignored it. He didn’t speak for several seconds; she had gone dead still, for she sensed in his hold, in the heat of his body against hers, that now, more than ever, she had gone too far. He held her in a grip of steel, he held her without moving, barely breathing. Then at last he whispered very softly, “Unless you wish me to prove you my wife in every way this very night, this very moment, press me no further!”

She did not. She allowed her head to fall back and she watched him with a certain awe, trembling and trying not to do so. Her bodice gaped open and she felt the tremendous burning pressure of his body heat against her breasts. She could feel his hips, flush to her thighs.

She wanted to die. Shame and humiliation rushed into her, bringing a rose red flush to her cheeks. She did not want both men; she hadn’t wanted either man, but the one had taught her about passion and the sweet dark secrets of desire, and now this stranger with the same silver touch seemed to be beckoning her anew. She could not allow it; she could not bear this of herself.

“Please! I am sorry, let me go!” she said.

He breathed out in a rasp, slowly releasing her. His fingers brushed her bare flesh as he brought the straying folds of her torn bodice together.

Then he turned again, and Skye was only too grateful to let him go. Alone at last, she sank back to her bunk, curved her legs taut to her stomach, and shivered anew. What in God’s name was she going to do? She could not marry him; she could not be touched by him.…

She might well be carrying a rogue’s child, she reminded herself.

And with that thought she leaped up once more, and drank down several swallows of the deadly potent rum.

In his own cabin Petroc Cameron—captain of the Lady Elena and once master of his own destiny—sat and imbibed more than a few swallows of rum.

He sat at his desk and slammed down the bottle and swore with a startling velocity, then tossed back his head and drank even more deeply.

Damn Spotswood! Damn Blackbeard and Logan and Vane and every pirate who had ever sailed the Atlantic and Caribbean. “And most of all,” he muttered aloud, “damn the Silver Hawk! Damn him to a hundred thousand different hells!”

He fell silent then and leaned his head back against his chair. The rum began to work its easing magic, pulling the pain and the tension, the ache and the desire, slowly from his constricted muscles, ligaments, and extremities. He closed his eyes, but he could not close his mind from the memories of her, nor could he cease to breathe in her scent, to imagine the silky softness of her flesh beneath his fingers, beneath his lips.

He could not forget her hair, spilling like sun rays over her breasts, wild and free and tempting him to touch. He could not forget her vows, or how like the Caribbean waters her eyes were, blue green, fascinating with their depths, their ever-changing color.…

He could not forget her form, and more than anything in the world, he wanted to drag her back into this cabin and feel her beneath him on his bunk that very night. Let the world be damned! Let any man come and blow them straight out of the water, he would sink and die happily, having her in his arms.…

She was his wife. He had the right.

The right…

But he had destroyed it all himself. In a surge of passion he had condemned himself to this hell, and so he would burn within it. He had no other choice.

He touched his clean-shaven cheeks and the nick where a blade had caught him that afternoon in the skirmish with pirates. He grimaced, duly noting that a bit closer and the blade might well have ended his days. His fingers ran down to his throat, where he could still feel the point of his sword. It was a mistake. He could see her face all over again, the fire in her eyes, the sweet triumph. She was always proud, he thought. She did not know how to surrender, no, she simply did not surrender, not even when she was bested. Even when he had wrested his throat away, even when he had slit the delicate ties to her gown, her eyes had battled him still. And surrender had lain within his own heart, for he had wanted with all of his heart to reach out and touch, to feel the fullness of her breast within his palm.

He swallowed more rum, groaning aloud. Had he any sense, he would keep away from her. He would bring her to Cameron Hall, deposit her there, see to business, and strike out again as soon as possible. Had he any sense. Sense did not always remain with him. One sight of her and he was challenged back to battle again. He could not leave well enough alone, he had to keep testing her.

He wanted the truth from her.

No, he wanted her. He wanted her with all the fire and flame within him, and he found it increasingly hard to endure the hell of his own creation. He could not seize her; he could not drag her here. He shouldn’t have kissed her; he shouldn’t have touched her. He should not be sitting here now, thinking of her. Of her hair brushing his naked flesh, of her eyes, liquid with passion, of her hips, moving beneath him. He should not. The hell was his, and his alone.

He would burn.…

With his bottle of rum, he thought wryly, and with his dreams.

During the next day it seemed that Lord Cameron quite purposely avoided her.

Davey was out and about again, and only slightly subdued as he served her. She was glad to have him and Bessie and Tara with her as she watched the ever-present shoreline.

The next day he did speak to her. He came to her where she stood by the railing, looking out. “North Carolina, madame. We near Virginia, and soon the Chesapeake Bay and the James River.” He paused, and she felt his eyes falling over the length of her. “And Cameron Hall,” he added.

“How nice. I shall see my father quickly, I imagine.”

“I imagine that he will be at the house. I saw Spotswood before I sailed. He knew that your ship had been seized, and that I was to claim you from the Hawk. I am sure that he has had your father come to my home.”

“We shall settle things quickly enough,” she murmured.

“Perhaps,” he said simply. He pointed to the shoreline. “Inlets and islands,” he murmured. “Spotswood finds the government of North Carolina to be sorry indeed. But then he commands a fine militia himself. And he is a military man, you know.”

She lifted her chin. “I know the lieutenant governor, Lord Cameron. I grew up not far from his new mansion.”

“You haven’t seen it yet, complete.”

“No.”

“It’s a fine manor. His balls are famous.” He smiled recklessly, widening his eyes like a rogue. “Be a good girl, and I shall take you to one.”

“Behave, sir, and I shall see that you are still able to walk to reach one!”

He laughed softly. “Lady, you threaten so swiftly and so fiercely, when it is like a sparrow against a hawk!”

She looked away quickly at the word “hawk.” Roc grated his own teeth, looking to the shore. “Madame,” he said bluntly, “you will never best me. Cease to try, and we shall get along, I am sure. Truly, my every desire is to see to your comfort.”

“My comfort—upon your bed!” she spat out, then flushed furiously, and looked about for someplace to escape him. She could not believe that she had said the words! He was laughing at her again, but his brow was arched and there was a cynical note to the sound. He came close to her.

“Tell me, my love, what do you know of such things?”

“Nothing!” she cried, and pushed away from the rail. She looked to the shore. “Father—er—Father says that Alexander is very suspicious of Governor Eden. He says that his government is not just poor, but perhaps corrupt. That he lets pirates seek safe havens in his waters—for a price.”

“Many men have a price.”

“Tell me—do you?” she demanded quickly.

He shook his head very slowly. “No, milady. I have my faults. I suppose you would say that arrogance is among them, no doubt.”

“And a certain lack of humility?” she suggested sweetly.

“Maybe. But I cannot be bought. Not for any price. Remember that, milady. If you ever seek to—negotiate.”

He turned away. She was left alone at the rail, shivering despite the balmy warmth of the day.

When she awoke the next morning, they were sailing the Chesapeake Bay. She quickly dressed and ate, and came top-side, and by then they were coming down the James. There was tremendous energy and motion on board as seaman trimmed and drew in sails.

“Oh, how lovely, milady! Don’t ye think so!”

She turned about. Arm in arm, Bessie and Tara were staring at the shoreline. There eyes were rapt, and Skye realized that this was a dream for them. They had left behind poverty and cramped spaces in the Old World, and they were looking to the New. She smiled, for they stood arm and arm, and in awe. Skye smiled at the two of them. “It is something indeed,” she said agreeably.

She glanced to the helm. Lord Cameron himself was at the wheel, navigating the river. He did not look so much the seaman as the aristocrat. He was extremely proper in his queued wig, elegant brocade frockcoat, blue satin breeches, fawn hose, and silver buckled shoes. A dark velvet ribbon tied his queue while he wore an eagle-plumed three-cornered hat. Skye was not close to him, but yet she could sense the tension and energy about him. He stood so straight; he rode the ship so well. He looked to the land.

Then she felt him turn to her, as if by instinct. He stepped briefly from the wheel to bow to her.

Skye looked quickly back to the shoreline.

Not much later the order came down that a cannon should be fired.

Lord Cameron had come home.

Skye saw the house first. It was impossible to miss, for it sat high atop a hill. Built of brick, it was both elegant and imposing. Tall pillars seemed to reach to the heavens, and the whole of the building was surrounded by a broad, sweeping porch. There were outbuildings all around it, making it appear more like a small village than a residence. The house seemed massive, and perhaps even more so because of the bounty of land that surrounded it. The hill commanded the area with majestic deep green grasses rolling down from it all of the way to the river and the docks. On either side Cameron Hall was surrounded by trees. Far beyond, she could see the fields.

“My great-great-grandparents claimed it from wilderness.”

Startled, she swung around. The captain had left his helm to come by her side. “Jamie Cameron came as a lad first, sometimes exploring with John Smith. In 1621 he came over with his bride. There was a wooden palisade then, and his first home was built of wood. They were attacked by the Indians during the massacre at Easter in 1622. Jassy was kidnapped by the Indians.”

Skye smiled, looking his way. “Sir, I am well aware that we have pushed the Indians far inland. Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Never, my love.”

“I assume that your relative was rescued?”

“Of course. We Camerons love to rescue damsels in distress.” He pointed upward to the house. “You can see the main hall, there. That was the first section built. King James died, and Charles the First came to the throne. Then came the English Civil War. Eion Cameron went home to fight as a Cavalier. He died there battling Cromwell’s men. Some of our English holdings were lost, England was under the ‘Protectorate,’ and even our holdings in Virginia were in jeopardy. But then Cromwell died and good Charles the Second was invited to return to take up his crown. Eion’s son went and retrieved his body and his property. Eion is buried upon our slopes. His son, another Jamie, added on the east wing.” His grin deepened and he leaned toward her. “James the Second came to the throne upon his brother’s death, and Jemmy, Duke of Monmouth, Charles’s favorite bastard child, tried to take the throne, damning his uncle as a papist. Alas! Jemmy went to the block, and it’s quite possible that his uncle did not blink an eye. Still, he was rumored to be handsome and gallant, and he had many supporters. Many of them came here, to Cameron Hall. There are secret passages within the walls, and tunnels run away to the sea.”

“Ah! So the Camerons are known to harbor criminals!”

“Criminals? Never!” His eyes sparkled so that she discovered she had to smile in turn. “No criminals, madame, just those with visions different than some. Those passionate, and sometimes foolish, in their loyalties. There was little danger when he harbored Jemmy’s revolutionaries. You see, James the Second did not last long upon his throne. William of Orange was a dour fellow, so they say, but extremely bright. With James’s daughter Mary he started his own bloodless and ‘glorious’ revolution and between them and their very proper and Prostestant ways, they took the throne. And they were a tolerant pair. Alas, poor Mary died quickly, and then William, and then Queen Anne wore the crown, and now it is a German from Hanover. Meanwhile, over here, at Cameron Hall, we merely battle Indians and mosquitoes and disease, and we set sail from our coasts to battle the Spanish each time our reigning monarch declares us to be at war. We watched Jamestown burn, and burn again, and my father was delighted when they moved the capital to Williamsburg.”

“And you, Lord Cameron, what do you delight in?”

It was a leading question; one she shouldn’t have asked. He took her hand and kissed it slowly, meeting her eyes. “My love, I don’t remember. Since I have seen your face, I delight in your presence.”

There was a wicked gleam about his eyes. Skye snatched her hand away. “I believe, Lord Cameron, that since you have seen my face, you have delighted in taunting me!”

He bowed gracefully to her. “That, too, Lady Cameron. That, too.”

He turned and strode back to the helm, shouting out orders as he did so. She did not miss his smile of amusement, despite his quick motion. He knows! she thought furiously. It was almost as if he knew the very truth of her heart, and taunted her mercilessly for it. She gritted her teeth and stared toward shore. The ship was coming about at the dock. She could see a throng of people there; it was like a holiday. Barefoot sailors cast ropes to the dock and the ship was soon brought to her berth. The sails were all furled and men worked to coil the rigging. Wives called to husbands, children to their fathers. It was a fascinating and colorful display. Tara and Bess were silent, in awe of the commotion. Skye was quiet, wondering at her future. She stared up the slope to the house. Her father would be there. And this fiasco would come to an end. She would go home and see her friends in Williamsburg. Mattie would be there, keeping house. Skye would be her father’s hostess, planning parties and engagements with Mattie, discovering the gardens again, walking to the governor’s new mansion for afternoon tea. It would be all right. She would pitch into her life with energy and fervor, and she would forget the pirate Silver Hawk, just as she would forget his noble cousin.

That was not to come so quickly, though. The plank was being stretched to the dock and Lord Cameron was coming her way once again. “My love?” He took her elbow, not allowing her to refuse his touch.

“I am not your love!”

“Come!” he commanded swiftly.

She had little choice. “Wait until I see my father!” she threatened him in a whisper.

“I wait with bated breath, madame,” he assured her.

They stood upon the plank. Lord Cameron paused, smiling his charismatic smile. A cheer went up, and cries of welcome. He silenced them all. “My bride, Skye, Lady Cameron!” he announced. More cheers went up. Little urchins struggled from their mother’s skirts to see her. Scarves were waved high in the air.

He led her across the plank and to the dock, and there he started making introductions so swiftly that her head began to ring. “My love, here’s Mary, the rector’s daughter. And Jeanne, his wife. Mr. Tibault, and Mr. Oskin—they are our tenants, my love, and farm the northern acres of the hundred. Mrs. Billingsgate—” He paused, brushing an old woman’s face with a quick kiss that sent her to flushing like wildfire. “Her late husband sailed with me. She runs a wee store here at the docks for the men and their wives. She brews tea and ale and makes fine, sweet biscuits!”

Mrs. Billingsworth bobbed quickly to Skye, still blushing. Her eyes fell back to her lord, adoringly. He did have his charm, Skye admitted, and it seemed that his people were all a bit spellbound by it. He was a popular master.

“Ah, the carriage!” he said, and pulled her forward. With every step, there were more rapid introductions. She nodded here and there, meeting people whose names she would never remember. Everywhere she was greeted with warmth, and nowhere did she manage to say that she was not Lord Cameron’s wife, nor would she ever be so.

He brought her to a handsome coach that would have been wonderfully appropriate for a fine English estate. The Cameron coat of arms was emblazoned upon the doorway. A footman opened the door while a coachman drove the fine team of four dapple grays. Skye entered the coach and he quickly followed her in. She sat back. It was luxurious indeed. A whip cracked in the air, and the horses started off. The ride was smooth, the upholstery was deep and cushiony and in an elegant teal velvet.

But even this ride had its price. He was watching her.

“What is it, madame, that dissatisfies you so?”

Skye moved against the door because he was leaning too close to her; his eyes were dark and probing, and she was suddenly afraid. He could be a brooding man, silent or eloquent as he chose. His temper could be great, she knew, soaring like flash fire before it became carefully leashed once more. “I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured. How long could this ride be? They were so near the house.

And he could be, at times, so like the Silver Hawk. He could reach inside of her. He could tease and evoke the same fevers, and make her feel as if she gasped for breath, as if she could forget the past, or remember it all too well.

“What is it, madame, that you do not like? My pride in my home is exorbitant, perhaps, but it is still one of the richest estates in all Tidewater Virginia—in all of the colony, I imagine. There is a certain prestige to be discovered here. The house has every luxury available, madame. We are a seafaring people, and acquire all manner of fine imports. Our table is always bountiful. So what is it, madame, that you do not like about being Lady Cameron?”

She smiled very sweetly. “ Lord Cameron!” she told him, and turned quickly to look out the window. She did not know if she had ignited his temper, and she suddenly did not care to discover the truth of it if she had.

She heard his soft laughter, but it came with an edge. “We will see about that,” he promised her.

“Aye, we shall!” she agreed.

The coach came to a halt. The door was swung open by the footman, whom Lord Cameron quickly thanked. Then he reached for Skye. She fell against him as he lifted her from the carriage to lower her to the ground. His eyes touched upon her. “Indeed, we shall see!” he promised her.

She was dismayed to discover that her heart raced frantically. Quickly she lowered her eyes and disengaged from him. He took her elbow, leading her quickly up the steps to the porch with its massive Greek columns. Doors to a massive hallway with a polished wood floor lay open to them and a very correct butler in handsome livery awaited them.

“Peter, how goes it, man?”

“Well enough, sir. A bit o’ the gout in my leg, but that is all.” The man swept a low bow to Skye. “We welcome you, milady, with all of our pleasure and very best wishes!”

Petroc Cameron stood away, and as Skye looked into the wide hallway, blinking against the sunlight, she saw that the household servants were all arrayed to meet her and offer her best wishes. She met the groom and the cook and the upstairs maids and the downstairs maid and the head groom and his staff. She smiled graciously, and seethed inside. She would not stay! And with every passing moment, she felt as if ties bound ever more tightly around her.

When she came to the end of the line, she discovered that her husband had disappeared. The butler Peter was waiting for her. He bowed again, offering a pleasant and eager smile. She thought that for all the very proper dress and appearance of the servants, things were very different here. Cameron was a lord, but he was a colonial, too. A Yankee, like herself. It was not England. Servants, tenants, and masters all depended upon one another, and so the lines of society were far less rigid here. Peter, she thought, was more Roc Cameron’s friend than a mere servant. And he was eager to please her for his master’s sake.

“Milady, if you’ll be so good as to come along, I will show you to your room.”

“Fine. Thank you. But, Peter, where is my father? Lord Cameron said that he would be here.”

“Lord Kinsdale has not yet arrived, milady.”

“Oh,” Skye murmured, disappointed.

“If you will, please…” Peter indicated a graceful and sweeping stairway. She followed him along it, looking about. The manor was truly fine and gracious. The hallway loomed beneath her, while a fine gallery stood above her. She followed the curve of the banister and came at last to the landing, another hallway, leading to the main room, and to the two wings of the house, east and west.

She paused in the hallway. It was a portrait gallery, the type made popular during the reign of Elizabeth I. There was a fine array of Camerons portrayed there, beautiful women, handsome, provocative men.

Too many of them with the haunting, silver eyes! she thought, and shivered. They could be so much alike. The Hawk could just as easily have his portrait hung here as the rightful Cameron heir. Shave him and queue him neatly and dress him fashionably and—

“Milady, this way, please.”

He took her through the hall to a more narrow corridor leading into the west wing. There he cast open a set of double doors to a large chamber.

Skye stepped inside.

The room was huge and handsome. Paned windows reached near to the floor on the far side, looking out upon the James River and the beautiful slope of the land. Skye walked to them first, and instinctively murmured with delight. Then her murmurs and delight faded as she slowly turned around to look at the room.

It was dominated by a huge four-poster bed with handsome blue velvet draperies. Far to the right were bookshelves, and far to the left was the fireplace with several wingback chairs brought near to the hearth. There was a huge trunk at the foot of the bed, and there were matching armoires in the two rear corners. Across from the fire and facing the windows was a large oak desk, and closer to the sunlight was a small round table covered simply in white linen. An open doorway led to a dressing room. Skye strode to the doorway and stepped through, bracing herself against the shadows there. There was a washstand and a pitcher and bowl and beyond it a huge brass hip tub and a necessary chair. To the far rear of this smaller room was a rack hung with coats and apparel.

Men’s coats, men’s apparel.

She stepped out from the dressing room. Her trunks were already arriving here. She didn’t speak, but looked around once more. It was the master’s room, beyond a doubt. It faced the river, and it caught the river breezes. It was a handsome and masculine room. It offered every amenity and elegance, but it retained something of a manly air.

“This—this cannot be my room!” she protested to Peter.

Peter, startled, looked her way. “Milady, this is Lord Cameron’s room, of course. He instructed me to bring you here, Lady Cameron.”

“But I’m not really—”

She broke off, not willing to argue with his servants. It would get her nowhere, she realized. Her trunks were already arriving, carried by grooms and houseboys, who all bowed to her again with shy and welcoming pleasure. If she protested, they would merely think that she had gone mad.

Her fight was with Lord Cameron. She had to stop him from this madness, and no one else.

She clenched her fists to her sides and approached Peter. “Where is your master, Peter.”

“He’s busy, Lady Cameron—”

“I did not ask you that. Where is he?”

“His office, milady. But I would not—”

“No, Peter, you should not—but I would, and I will interrupt him,” she said sweetly. She left Peter and the servants and the wing behind, coming out upon the portrait gallery and clutching the banister to scamper down the length of the stairway. She felt all those pairs of blue and gray and silver eyes following her down to the landing in the lower hallway.

In his office…

She pushed open a door to the left and discovered the formal dining room. Swords crossed over the fireplace, the table sat at least twenty, a Persian rug lay over the floorboards and beneath the table, and the Cameron coat of arms covered the far wall. Windows looked out upon the sloping lawns of the estate.

Skye slammed the door and went on. The next one entered to a music room with comfortable chairs and a beautiful rug and molded and corniced ceilings. She slammed that door and went on, discovering a parlor decorated to the Sun King’s tastes. She slammed that door, too, and hurried across the hallway. She shoved open the first door and discovered Roc Cameron behind a massive, polished desk. There was a huge globe on the floor nearby, and every shelf there was lined with books. Again, it was a masculine room.

He had shed his coat and wore only his breeches and fine laced shirt. He pored over correspondence, a frown on his face that faded when he saw her standing there. He laid down the letter he was reading, and waited. He did not invite her in. He didn’t even speak.

For a moment she panicked. She had rushed here, she had torn apart the house, and she wasn’t even sure what she intended to say.

She should have just run, she thought. She should have very sweetly agreed to everything, and when the servants had all disappeared, she should have run for the stables and stolen a horse. She didn’t know the peninsula well, but he had said that it was three hours to Williamsburg. Surely she could find her way!

“Are you coming in? Have you something to say? Or have you come merely to stare at me?”

“No, of course not.”

Skye came in, closing the door behind her. She strode to his desk, then discovered herself tongue-tied. She pushed away from it and paced, then suddenly sat in the leather chair before his desk.

“You have put me in your room,” she accused him.

He lifted his hands and shrugged. She sensed that a smile played beneath the bland and innocent stare that he gave her. “You are my wife,” he said.

“I dispute that.”

“You may dispute the sun, but when it rises, it is still daylight.”

She slammed a fist against the table. “You said that my father would be here.”

“I expected him, yes.”

He was telling the truth, she thought. He seemed as puzzled as she that Theo had not yet arrived.

Skye sat back. “If my father were here,” she told him with narrowed eyes, “you would not attempt to put me in your room!”

“Madame, if your father were here, and his father, and his father’s father, I would still put you in my quarters. You are my wife.”

“But—”

“I left you be upon the ship, milady, out of the delicacy of the situation. We are home now. Upon terra firma. I weary of the waiting, madame.”

She stiffened, leaning back. He meant his words. She could not be his wife!

And unless she did escape him that very afternoon, there seemed little hope for it. Her stomach catapulted. He would discover her a liar in the very worst way. What would he do to her then? What could he do, except release her…?

And yet, she didn’t dare chance the discovery. Nor did she think that she could bear his touch. She dreaded it; she felt the heat of it too keenly. She didn’t know if she despised the man, or if she was fascinated by him beyond all measure. The tempest living inside of her was unbearable.

“I can’t!” she said suddenly, certainly.

“Can’t?”

She leaped up from the chair, walking about the room in a state of agitation. Could she say what she intended about the Silver Hawk? What difference would it make? If the Hawk were ever captured, he would hang pure and simple, and her words could not make him die any more or less thoroughly.

For a moment, though, it seemed as if her heart itself sizzled, for she was betraying something. It was love, she thought, for indeed, despite her later anger, the tenderness and care of the pirate had drawn upon her every emotion. She had, indeed, loved him with care as well as passion. Now she betrayed that very love, but it seemed she had little choice.

“I cannot be your wife because…”

He sat back. “Because…?” he prompted.

She turned her back to him, looking to the windows. If she was going to die, she might as well do it dramatically, wholeheartedly.

She dropped her head in abject shame. “I cannot come to you as your wife. Ever. I am not what I appear to be. I—”

She broke off.

“He—he raped me!” she claimed.

“He what?”

The chair fell back as Lord Cameron jumped to his feet in indignity. He came behind her, grabbing her shoulders, spinning her around. “He—what?”

She kept her head lowered, willing a glaze of tears to her eyes. Slowly she let her head fall back. “He is a pirate, you know! Scourge of the seas. A deadly, horrible rogue.”

“And he—raped you?” Lord Cameron repeated.

“Yes!” she cried, breaking away. He allowed her to go. She sat upon the edge of his desk.

“My God,” he whispered in what she was certain to be raw fury. “He used horrific force against you? He dragged you—my very wife!—beneath him. Horribly and cruelly against your will?”

“Of course!”

“My God!”

She kept her head lowered. She brushed her cheek as if to take away tears of shame.

“You did not tell me!”

“I could not—I could not speak of it at first. But now you have to know so that you need not be saddled with me, or with this farce of a marriage. Lord Cameron! I free you to find a proper and innocent bride.”

“How ghastly!”

“Yes!”

“How very deplorable!”

“Yes!” She dared to turn, looking up at him at last. Shadows seemed to have fallen over the room, and she felt the silver probe of his eyes deeply upon her. She leaped up, lowering her head once again. “I shall see my things are moved. I will sign anything necessary to free you—”

“No, my love,” he said very softly.

“What?” she gasped. He came toward her, taking her shoulders. Her head fell back. His eyes sizzled, and she wondered at his thoughts. “Your—honesty—is commendable, my love. But can you truly think so poorly of me? You are my wife, sworn to me before God. I will not cast you from my side, no matter what your generosity. So, go, my love, back to our room. When my business is done, I will join you there, and most gladly still!”

In disbelief she stared at him. His eyes danced in lamplight and shadow. He lowered his head slowly to hers, and she was too amazed to move. His mouth covered hers with passion and fire, his lips molding tight to hers, his tongue probing and ravaging past all barriers with fervent demand. Warmth filled her, as shocking as the invasion that seemed to fill the whole of her body. Laps of flame seemed to lick within her stomach and all along her spine, and spin and swirl to the very heart of her desire at the juncture of her thighs.

She wrenched away from him, gasping and desperate, despising herself, despising the very passion he could elicit and evoke within her. He watched her, his hands on his hips, his eyes knowing.

She backed away from him, trembling.

He smiled, and she felt as if she faced the very devil.

“Go to our room, love. To our bed. I will follow you swiftly, I swear it.”

She wanted to deny him; she wanted to rage and tell him that she despised him completely.

But it wasn’t the truth, and so she said nothing.

She no longer wished to fight; only to run.

And escape.