Impulse (29 page)

“No,” he panted, “don't go. Untie my hand, and let me pleasure you again.”

Angela shook her head. “No. I want—I want to do it for real.”

Cam went still. Passion slammed through him with such force that he felt almost dizzy. He was unable to speak, but the stark desire on his face spoke volumes.

“Can we— Is this way all right?”

Cam nodded. She was astride his legs. She had only to move forward and slide down onto his swollen shaft. Merely the thought of her doing so made him throb even harder. If his hands had been free, he would have grasped her hips and guided her onto him.

Angela moved forward and reached down to curve her fingers lightly around his staff. Slowly she lowered herself, guiding his engorged manhood to the very gate of her femininity. She paused there, the tip of his shaft
pulsing against her slick flesh. Cameron gazed into her face, watching her eyes as she slowly slid down, taking him into her.

Her eyes widened as she felt herself stretch to accommodate him. As she slowly seated herself to the very root of his shaft and he filled her more and more, she let out a low, guttural noise, her eyes drifting closed in pure physical satisfaction. She had never felt anything like this, never taken a man inside her without pain, never felt the pure satisfaction and pleasure of being filled to the utmost.

She shivered. Cam struggled for control. It was all he could do not to pour his seed into her in swift response to the virginal pleasure on her face. He clenched his fists, aching to sink his fingers into the firm flesh of her buttocks, to move her on his engorged staff, to slam his hips up against her again and again in a blinding climax.

Just as he managed to retain control of his need, feeling as if he were clinging to it with his fingertips, Angela began to move, sending ripples of delight through him all anew. She rose, almost to the end of his manhood, then sank back down all the way. She let out an odd, shuddering sigh and began to circle her hips, enjoying the different sensations. She reached behind Cam's head and gripped the headboard, fingers digging into it as she began to move faster and faster, racing toward the pleasure that danced almost unbearably out of her reach. Cam panted, tugging at his bonds with all his strength, almost mindless now with desire, struggling to retain a last small ounce of control.

Then it was gone, and the blackness enveloped him. He let out a hoarse cry as he hurtled headlong down a wild spiral of sensation. His hips bucked wildly beneath
her, and suddenly the wild, clawing thing inside Angela herself, the ever-tightening knot, flew apart. Her scream was high and thin, as wild as the feeling inside her.

She collapsed upon him, sobbing for breath, and her arms went tightly around his neck. “Cam, oh, Cam…”

Cam breathed her name in return, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “Untie me. I have to hold you.”

She did not want to remove her hands from him for even an instant to untie him, but she wanted his arms around her as badly as he did, so Angela fumbled with the knots. Her fingers trembled so that she could hardly complete the task, but at last his wrists were free, and his arms curled around her, squeezing her into him. He buried his face in her hair, incapable of doing anything more than breathing and holding her. His whole world, his life, had been reduced to this moment, this instant in time, and it seemed to him that he could never want anything more.

“I love you, Cam,” Angela whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

It was all that ever needed to be said.

A
NGELA LEANED HER
cheek against the window of the train, looking out to see as far down the track ahead of them as she could. “There it is, Cam,” she said, excitement lacing her voice. “Beckford-Hollings.”

On the seat across from her, Cam smiled back at Angela. He enjoyed watching her excitement more than he felt any himself. They had received a letter from the daughter of the retired rector two weeks ago, thanking Angela for her polite interest in her father and answering that yes, indeed, her father remembered Grace Stewart and would be more than happy to meet with them. Angela put much store in the minister's being able to tell them about Cam's father and the circumstances of Cam's birth. Cam, however, was far less sure. He had been thwarted so many times in his quest for his origins that he found it safer and easier to assume that nothing would turn up this time, either.

Still, he had moved up their plans for a business trip to London, and they had set out from Bridbury the afternoon before. This time Mr. Pettigrew and Kate accompanied them, for an assistant when one was doing business and a personal maid when one was dressing for London were essentials. Jason Pettigrew had looked thrilled the whole trip at the prospect of returning to civilization, and Kate's cheeks were pink with pleasure at the change of scenery.

Once, Angela's only thoughts upon returning to London would have been remembering the humiliating experience of her divorce and subsequent exile from Society and, worse than that, the dread prospect of perhaps running into Lord Dunstan. This time, however, she had not given a thought to the possibility of meeting Dunstan. The only things she considered were Cam and what they would do in London.

They would not be staying with Jeremy at Bridbury House. Cam had made arrangements for a house all their own in fashionable Mayfair. Angela had already considered the pleasant possibilities of making love in their own abode.

For the past few weeks, lovemaking had been the topic uppermost in Angela's mind. The night after she and Cam finally consummated their marriage, Cam had brought out the silken cords, but Angela had tossed them aside, saying that tonight she wanted to feel his hands on her. Since then, they had had a veritable orgy of celebrating their connubial bliss. They had made love on the rug in front of the fireplace, and on a blanket in the shelter of the trees beside the lake. They had tried out Angela's bed and the wide wingback chair in Cam's room, as well as the desk in the study, late at night. Cam moved slowly with her, never pushing her faster or further than she felt comfortable going. But gradually, every barrier had fallen; each of her fears had given way before his sensual persistence.

At first she had been reluctant to try any position other than the one in which they had first made love, but one night, as they rolled across the bed, Cam had wound up on top of her, and they had made love that way. There had been none of the smothering feeling she had felt before, none of the helplessness and fear.
Confident that Cam would move if she asked, she had had no need to get away. He had introduced her to new positions, new practices, but with him, none of them felt frightening or painful, and her desire to try new pleasures had been as great as his.

Angela looked over at Cam, and she knew by the darkening of his eyes that he was aware of where her mind had strayed. He smiled a promise to her:
Soon.
A shiver of delightful anticipation ran down her spine.

The train pulled into the village of Beckford- Hollings, and Cam and Angela alighted. Pettigrew and Kate would travel on to London with most of the bags. Cam and Angela would catch the train later that evening, after their talk with the retired minister.

They walked from the station through the village, pausing to ask directions in the center of town. It took them only a few minutes to find the small cottage where Reverend Cunningham lived with his daughter. A short, cheerful-looking woman answered the door, and when Cam told her who he was, she beamed delightedly.

“Come in, come in,” she said, waving them inside. “He will be ever so glad to see you. He's been awaiting your visit with great pleasure.”

She led them back through the house, saying, “There is nothing he loves like talking about the old days and the people up there.”

She showed them into a comfortable sitting room, where an elderly man sat reading in front of a window. He was white-haired and small, quite frail-looking, but when he looked up at them, Angela could see that his eyes were sharp and alert.

“Papa, here are visitors,” the woman told him in a loud voice. “They've come to talk to you about Carnmore. You remember…the Monroes. You got a letter
from them.” She popped back out of the room, saying something about tea.

The old man's brows lifted, and he smiled. “Yes, of course. Well, how delightful.” He braced his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up and out of his seat, toddling forward to shake Cam's hand.

“How do you do, sir? I am Cam Monroe, and this is my wife.”

The old man smiled. “Oh, you needn't shout. That's just Betsy's way. She thinks all old people need to be talked to loudly and slowly. Makes one feel rather like a slow-witted four-year-old. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you, sir.” He made an excellent bow over Angela's hand. “And madam. It is a rare pleasure to these old eyes to see as lovely a lady as you.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Angela smiled at the old gentleman, thinking that he must have been quite popular with his parishioners—the ladies, at least.

“Please, sit down.” He motioned them toward chairs and resumed his own seat, setting aside the book he had been reading. “Now, if I remember correctly, you were inquiring after Grace Stewart.”

“Yes, sir. She was my mother, and she lived in your parish about thirty-five years ago. Your daughter's letter said that you remembered her.”

“Oh, yes, I knew the Stewarts. Her father was a very rigid man, quite religious, but with little compassion. And, of course, I had dealings with Grace after she left her father's house.”

Cam leaned forward hopefully. “You did? Did you baptize me? I was looking for the records in Carnmore and could not find them. They had been lost.”

“Lost? Why, how was that?”

“A whole page had been torn out of the parish records,” Angela explained.

“How dreadful!” The old man looked as distressed as if it were still his parish. “How could something like that occur?”

“We're not sure. That's why we came here. The present rector said it was before his time, and he gave us your address. I thought you could tell me if she baptized me there.”

“Oh, no. I'm sorry. I am afraid you've come all this way for no reason. I did not preside at your baptism. They had moved on by then. They did not tarry in Carnmore long. Well, it was understandable, I suppose. It was too small a town, and they would be forever running into her family. No, I presume that she had you baptized in, well, wherever they moved. I am afraid I don't recall where that was.”

“‘They'?” Cam asked. “What do you mean, ‘wherever
they
moved'?”

“Why, your mother and her husband. Those were the dealings I had with Grace Stewart. I performed your parents' wedding ceremony. Ah, she was a beautiful young bride, so radiant….” He sat back, beaming at the memory.

Angela and Cam stared at him, stunned by his words. “My parents…my parents were married?”

“Why, yes, of course.” The minister cast Cam a puzzled look. “Did you think they were not? That you were…”

“Illegitimate. Yes, sir, I did, up until this moment.”

“But did your mother and father never tell you? I mean—”

“I didn't know my father. My mother never spoke of him. If I raised a question about it, it upset her terribly,
and I soon learned not to ask. Because of that, I assumed that he had not married her, that I was born out of wedlock. And when my aunt told me that my mother's father kicked her out of the house, it confirmed to me what I had always thought.”

“Oh, no, they were married, all right.”

“Who—who was my father?”

The reverend stared at him. “Why, I presume his name was Monroe.”

“No. I mean, I don't know. My mother used the name Monroe, but we suspect that it was merely a name she made up. There was a family named Monroe who owned a shop by theirs.”

“Oh, yes, Alistair Monroe, the tobacconist. No, it was no one in his family. The groom was a young man I did not know at all. He was a foreigner.”

“Foreigner?”

The old gentleman chuckled. “Forgive me, that is just one of my conceits. He was an outsider. Not from the village. That made one a foreigner in the eyes of Carnmore. Why, when my daughter married and moved away, everyone felt that she had turned traitor. No, this young man was from another place. I don't know how he had met Grace. Oh, now I remember—he wasn't even a Scot. He was from England.”

“But his name?” Angela pressed.

Reverend Cunningham frowned. “Oh, dear…I am sure I must have known it. I married them, after all. But it has been a long time. I'm not entirely sure I would have remembered Grace's name if you had not told it to me first.”

“Do you remember what he looked like, sir?” Cam asked. “Anything at all?”

“Well, he was rather tall, like you. Fair, as I remember.
Blond hair, perhaps light brown. I'm afraid I haven't any idea what color his eyes were. Well dressed, well mannered. I remember thinking that Grace had married herself a gentleman.”

They stayed with the old minister quite a bit longer, partaking of the tea and cakes his daughter brought in and listening to him reminisce about Carnmore and the people he had known there. It had seemed the least they could do for him, after the news he had given them. Finally, they left to catch the evening train to London.

“So he did the right thing by her,” Cam said as they strolled through the village. “He married her. It's hard to believe.”

“What? That your father was an honorable man? That he wasn't a scoundrel and a libertine?”

“It's nice to find out that he was not. But all these years I have been so certain that he was. That he had seduced and abandoned Mother. After we talked to Mrs. Stewart, I was even more convinced of it. Now, to find out that he married her…and him a gentleman, moreover. Quality.”

“Your mother was a very pretty woman. One could see that even when she was older. And she was worthy of a gentleman.”

“But not in lineage. I mean, her family was of good stock, but artisans, merchants, not the landed gentry.”

“He must have loved her,” Angela said softly. “It's a very romantic story.”

“Yes, but what happened to him? Why was he not part of our lives? I don't ever remember there being a man with us. From my earliest memories, it was just my mother and me. Did he abandon her after marrying her?”

“Perhaps he died,” Angela pointed out.

“Of course, that's possible. Did Mrs. Harrison say when we moved to Bridbury? I think I was about three. Perhaps it was right after he died—or whatever happened to him. But a young widow alone—why would she not have stayed where they had lived? Wouldn't he have taken her to his family? Wouldn't she have continued to live with them?”

“Perhaps he did not have any family.” Angela hesitated, then went on, “Or it's possible they might have not acknowledged the marriage.”

“Of course. You're right. His family would probably have been horrified at his marrying ‘beneath' him. In that case, my mother certainly would not have gone to them to ask for help after he died. Damn! If only we had some idea where they lived! Why did she never tell me anything about him or what happened between them? I feel so helpless, so at sea.”

“She must have kept the marriage certificate.”

“What?”

“When she married your father, she would have kept the certificate. That isn't the sort of thing you throw away or leave behind you. Particularly when there is a child of the marriage, and you might have to prove that he was legitimate.”

“But it was as if she preferred that I be illegitimate. I mean, she almost went out of her way to make me think that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. And other people, as well. You remember that Kate's mother had the definite impression that I was born out of wedlock. Why would you hide the fact that you had been married from everyone?”

“It
is
peculiar,” Angela admitted. “However, even if your mother wanted everyone to think that you were illegitimate, I still think that she would have had difficulty
destroying her marriage certificate. She would have treasured it, at least at first, for it was proof that he really did love her, that she had not been a fool to give herself to him, that he had honored and respected and loved her. I mean, think of it. Her father had tossed her out of the house, had called her a tramp. I am sure he told her that she was ruined, that the man would not marry her. Yet he did. She was bound to be proud of that fact. She had to feel vindicated.”

“Yes. No doubt she must have treasured it at first.”

“Then, later, whatever happened, even though it was such a painful memory to her that she did not want to talk about it, I think she would have kept it. She would have put it away someplace safe, maybe somewhere where she never looked at it. But still with her. You don't just throw away something that has meant a great deal to you.”

“But it was not with her things. We've looked.”

“I know. Maybe she left it somewhere in your house in the United States. Not necessarily in her things. Or perhaps we didn't look closely enough through the things in the trunk. A marriage certificate is not big. It could have been folded and tucked away almost anywhere. Sewn into the lining of a dress or pinned in a pocket. Tied up in a handkerchief. Put between the pages of a book.”