To Tame a Rogue (20 page)

 
Genevieve and Camille had been waiting in the hall for what seemed like hours for his prognosis. He looked at them levelly. “A few inches more, and it would have been his heart.”

 
Genny nearly collapsed in Camille’s arms. “You mean?”

 
“Yes, he would’ve died instantly if it wasn’t for your bravery, madame.”

 
“Is he going to…be alright?” Camille asked while Genny sobbed.

 
“I believe he’s going to pull through.” Tears of relief slid down Camille’s cheeks.

 
Genevieve looked at her in awe. “My God, you saved his life. But how did you know?”

 
“I didn’t. Meagan came to visit and told me about the race shortly before it was supposed to start. I didn’t want Nicholas to see me, so I took a back route. I was too late to stop the race and I didn’t know what I was going to do but I felt an urgency and acted on it. I saw the man with the rifle,” her voice caught, “crouching in the brush. I only did what came naturally.”

 
Nicholas moaned. “Is he awake?” Genny asked the doctor.

 
“No. He’s in a lot of pain. He’s lost a lot of blood. Fortunately, the shot hit his arm and not his chest. I’ve arrested the bleeding, cleaned the wound, and removed the bullet. I’ve sutured it, so now we’ll have to watch for fever. Someone will need to cleanse the wound with carbolic acid lotion.”

 
The question stood in Camille’s eyes. Genny blinked, her thick black lashes wet with her tears. “Yes, by all means. You should be the one to do it.”

 
“Thank you,” Camille said quietly.

 
“He’ll need a lot of rest,” the doctor admonished.

 
“Thank you Dr. Adams,” Genny said. “Thank you so much.”

 
He nodded and left. Camille and Genny quietly entered Nick’s room. He slept, his skin pale. Without thinking about it, Camille ran a finger softly over his brow.

 
They stayed by his side for hours. Genny eventually went to see about the girls, leaving Camille asleep in a chair by Nick’s side.

47

 
Camille stayed by Nick’s side for two more nights, nursing him, cleaning the wound, soothing his jerking body when the lotion was applied. When she knew for sure he was going to be alright, she came to a decision. She didn’t belong here. She’d caused him enough grief. Her own feelings, well, she would sort them out later.

She wrote a letter to Genny, explaining how she felt, telling her she was so sorry to have caused them all heartache. In the middle of the night, she left the note downstairs, where Genny would be sure to find it, and left.

When she thought about Nicholas, pain knifed her soul, pain and longing. Genny had told her that Kipp had hired a detective, and that Philip, under suspicion for arranging the attempted murder, had fled town. Kipp was a good friend to Nicholas. She was glad.

As the carriage carried her back to Josephine’s, Camille could barely keep her eyes open. Just before she dozed off she realized, with a start, that she was in love with Nicholas. And it was too late. Too late to do anything about it.

48

Camille passed the next few weeks in abject misery. No amount of entertaining could raise her out of it, though Josephine tried. Josephine knew that her granddaughter would have to find her way on her own, sort out her feelings. And when she did, she would have to make a decision. She’d even heard rumors that Nicholas’ first wife Marlena was still alive and had been with Philip the whole time. That she hadn't drowned like everyone believed.

Meanwhile, the steady stream of guests and parties exhausted Camille. The summer was coming to an end; the nights were clear and beautiful.

She knew that Nicholas was well healed by now, that he’d come to see her a few times, but she’d refused to come down. She just wasn’t ready to face him, and he’d gone away. Finally, he’d stopped calling and Camille felt an emptiness beyond anything reasonable.

Awaking from an afternoon nap to a pleasant breeze coming through the window of her bedroom, Camille was informed she had a visitor. Her heart beat wildly. Nicholas. How many times can I refuse him?

She carefully brushed her hair, chose a pale green day dress and matching slippers, and checked her reflection. Her cheeks were once again flushed; her eyes were dark and stormy. She descended the stairs and entered the parlor, only to stop mid-stride.

Josephine rose and came to grasp Camille’s arm. “Camille, this fine young gentlemen tells me that you know each other. He’s been away at sea for a long time and he wanted to pay you a visit.”

Christopher.

He was different somehow. He looked paler and thinner but just as friendly. He stood and gallantly bent low over her hand and kissed it. “Camille, you look fetching as always. There’ve been a lot of changes in your life. Josephine filled me in.”

“Christopher, it’s so good to see you. You’re looking well.”

They sat down together and a servant bustled in with tea, coffee, and cakes.

They talked as the strangers they were and Camille tried to find the feelings she’d once felt for him but couldn’t, even when she looked deep down. The only thing she saw were gold-brown eyes, arrogant, laughing at her, mocking her, challenging her, roving over her with desire.

“When did you arrive? Where have you sailed from?”

“I’ve been many places, most recently
China
.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Camille said.

Christopher scratched his head and Camille noticed his scraggly whiskers for the first time, the hard calluses on his hands. “I have to say, I was surprised to get your letter.”

Camille blushed, embarrassed. “You were always so kind to me,” she said.

“You didn’t have it easy, that’s for sure.” He smiled, and dimples appeared in his boyish cheeks. Camille couldn’t help herself, but she kept comparing him to Nicholas. Christopher still seemed like such a boy, where Nicholas was a
man
.

“I’m not sure how to say this, but I…I can’t reciprocate your feelings. I think you’re lovely, don’t get me wrong, but….but I was married overseas.”

Camille felt a flood of relief. She took his hand in hers. “Christopher, it was kind of you to come and see me while you’re here. You've come a long way. I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you."

"Nah," he said. "My ship came into port here."

The two sat for an awkward silence.

"Well, but you’re right," Camille said. "A lot has changed. I’ve…I’ve married too.” She didn't want to think about the annulment she would have to get soon.

“Oh?” he said. “Congratulations. I truly hope you’re happy.”

Camille smiled, not unaware of the sailor’s discomfort at being in her grandmother’s home, surrounded by frilly, fragile, lacey things. She had to remember he was used to the roughness of the sea. She hadn't told him she was married in the letter. She was afraid he might not come to see her. But now that he had, she didn't feel the things she'd thought she felt for him.

A short while later, she escorted him out, wishing him all the happiness in the world. Then she remembered she had to get dressed for dinner and dancing, again. It was the last thing she felt like doing.

49

Camille was dressed in a gold gown with black piping; the fabric was light with a high waistline and short puffed sleeves. The Italian opera season was coming to an end and Camille wished she were outside, drinking deep of the cool evening air, instead of within a crush of faces. She was glad the summer was coming to an end and that the fresh, crisp fall days would soon be here. Men and women had arrived at Josephine’s house after having dined at the home of Alice Mercury, and they would meet Alice and others of her party again at the Opera House.

Camille sighed, needing to escape to the gardens. When the musicians took a break for refreshments, she slipped outside, into the cool, dark night that whispered with brilliant stars. A glow in the eastern horizon gave promise of a full moon.

She sat for a while on a marble bench, her eyes closed, the breeze caressing her, easing the thin sheen of perspiration from her neck.

“You’ve avoided me for far too long.”

She opened her eyes to find Nicholas standing before her, elegantly attired in a black jacket, crisp white shirt and black trousers.

Camille trembled slightly. “How…how is your arm?” she asked quietly.

“The bone aches, down to my very being, but I’m alive.” His eyes pierced hers. “Thanks to you.”

She stood, uncertain of her feelings, of what to say or do. He solved her dilemma by pulling her into his embrace, his dark good looks reaching into her very womb. She closed her eyes. She knew she would be lost if she looked at him.

“Open your eyes, my sweet. There are things I need to say…but not with words.”

Before she could utter a reply, his lips descended on hers. It wasn’t with the savage brutality she expected, but with a thorough, seductive gentleness.

Her heart hammered. She splayed her fingers on his hard, muscular chest, letting all her pent up feelings go, letting him have his way, letting him lead her with his lips.

“Why…did you come?” she finally breathed. In answer, he swept her into his arms and carried her to an alcove, a private gazebo festooned—actually
nearly covered
—with roses and vines. He sat on the bench and positioned her intimately on his lap. “You’re my wife. A man has a right to call on his wife.”

He hiked up her skirt. The feel of his hand on her thigh, rolling down her stockings, was a heated shock. A strange feeling swirled in the pit of her stomach; ravenous warmth began to eat at her soul. “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done long ago, my sweet. Breaking my vow. Ending the sham. Thoughts of you have been driving me crazy. It’s time I did something about it.”

His hand left her thigh for only a moment to remove her shoes. Deftly, he rolled her stockings down and discarded them on the floor of the gazebo, amid the scattered petals of apricot and pink roses.

His bold, searching hand moved even higher on her thigh. Camille was frightened. “Don’t…please! If you touch me again, I’ll burst into flames!”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “You do realize that’s a compliment, my sweet, don't you?”

He crushed her in his embrace once more, his kisses igniting a fire within her that threatened to consume them both. He forced her lips apart, his tongue delving into the honeyed interior of her mouth, searching, beseeching, claiming. She felt the roughness of his five o'clock shadow against her skin. Her breathing gone ragged, her mind gone blank and replaced with a hazy spiral of passion that threatened to blaze headily out of control, she reached up, twining her slender fingers into his thick dark hair. Sweet God, but she had wanted to do that for so long. It no longer mattered that he was who he was. That she was who she was. That they were completely unsuited. He was her lawfully wedded husband, and she was his wife.

“Tell me what you want Camille.” There was unmistakable male victory in his voice.

“I…don’t know...I want…your hands on me. I want to … touch you.”

She waited, afraid he would change his mind, afraid he’d come here to simply thank her for saving his life and that he would agree to an annulment, that with a signing of a paper, she could end it all and he would walk away, back to Lavinia.

In that instant, she bared her soul to him. She held her breath as heated gold-brown eyes delved into hers.

His voice was gruff. “Say my name. I want to hear it on your lips. I want to be sure.” His breath was on her ear. “Because once I start, my dear, there will be no turning back. Tell me you understand this.”

Camille nodded. Her tongue darted out to lick her rosebud lips. He watched the movement like a hawk watches his prey. “Nick…Nicholas…touch me…please. I…want to know your touch.”

He made a sound. A husky growl.

Her voice was a thin silky whisper that set his blood afire, his loins to near bursting. “This night, you will belong to me. I will make you mine. Do you understand?” Her veins pulsing with pleasure, her mind numbed to thought, she nodded weakly.

Vaguely, it puzzled Nick that she seemed so innocent and was even now trembling in his arms. He knew she was not innocent of men, and yet there was something virginal about her acquiescence. Though he longed for nothing more than to bury his shaft deep within her womanly core, he held himself back.

“Touch me, feel me, know how I desire you.” He took her small hand and placed it on his manhood, which was thick and swollen with need, straining to break free of his trousers. Camille gasped—remembering how large, how thick, he was. His lips came back to her neck. She pulled her hand away. “Now is not the time for modesty, my dear.