True Heart (21 page)

Her brush. Her dresses. Her comb and mirror. Worldly possessions, but they were hers and stood as tangible proof that she could get her life back. Her heart grew light, and she thought she might fly around the room, touching every item she possessed.

Instead, she buttoned her nightgown, gave the kitten a good-night pat, and went to the window. Her room faced a darkened alley, but if she laid her cheek against the glass, she could see activity on the next street over. Freeing the latch, she opened the window and leaned outside. The air smelled of the sea and the city, and she could hear the voices of drunken men and sultry women.

A weight pressed in on her, and she slumped beneath it, her hands clutching the edges of the window frame. She knew what troubled her. She had foolishly thought that her problems would end once she left the plantation, but with sad acceptance, she understood that she hadn't come alone to Norfolk; loneliness had traveled with her.

Tears filled her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to hold back a sob. She'd been a strong child. When last her family had seen her, she'd been decisive. Because of her lie, she must keep herself apart from them.

Closing the window, she climbed into bed. She had just fluffed her pillow for the tenth time when a knock sounded at the door. She grabbed her tartan shawl, lit the candle on the desk by the door, and went to see who was there.

Cameron stood on the threshold, a pail and saucer in one hand and two tankards in the other. His expression sharpened. “You've been crying.”

“I couldn't sleep,” was the best excuse she could think of. “What have you there?”

His mood brightened, and he clicked his heels together in military fashion. “Lemonade for us and milk for Hixup.”

He'd exchanged his formal evening clothes for his tartan kilt. He wore the same shirt and silk neckcloth; the latter was still perfectly tied. Dressed casually, he looked different and yet the same. One thing was certain; he didn't look the least bit sleepy.

All she could think to say was, “Hixup?”

“The kitten. 'Tis a better name for a ship's cat than Mermaid or Balthezar.”

“Ship's cat? I thought you gave her to me.”

“Then we should discuss it. May I come in?”

Again she was captured by the sound of good manners. Before she remembered propriety, he shoved the mugs into her hands and walked straight to the basket where the kitten slept.

As if he were talking to an old friend, he chatted to the little cat, picked her up, and held her nose over the pail. The mewling kitten tried to dive into the milk.

“Whoa!” He separated the two. “I'll need some help here, Virginia.” He pressed the cat to his chest. The wiry, hungry animal scurried up his shoulder and down his arm to get back to the milk. With no hint that he'd been hurt by those needlelike claws, he said, “Close the door, so we don't lose her.”

Virginia did as he asked, then took the pail and saucer from him.

He sat on the floor. She sat beside him and poured the milk. The instant Cameron put the cat down, it raced to the saucer and began to drink.

“You bathed the cat.”

“She stank of fish. I couldn't keep her here smelling like that.”

She'd always taken responsibility for her pets.

“Have you news for me?” she asked.

“I thought you might be worried or frightened about the voyage.”

Any reservations she had about returning to Scotland paled beside the knowledge that she'd welcomed him into her bedroom. But it was too late for regrets. She'd let him stay for a few minutes, then she'd ask him to leave. “What should I be worried about?” The fear she'd keep to herself, for it mingled with the loneliness.

He handed her a mug and drank deeply from his own. “We'll be at sea for weeks, and there's little privacy.”

Life in bondage had prepared her for that. “I'll be fine.”

“Unlike your sister Mary, you've never suffered from seasickness. In case you were wondering.”

A woman with little memory should have considered the aspects of a long voyage. “I hadn't thought of that.” To cover the mistake, she drank the sweetened juice.

“No?” He scratched the kitten behind the ears. “What have you been thinking of?”

Of how dear he is to me, she wanted to say. Of how precious was every moment spent in his company. Hope for the future kept her silent about her feelings for him, but she couldn't resist scooting closer. “I was wondering what you and Papa talked about—on your walk?”

As if he were merely tossing out words, he said, “The voyages, the port of Boston . . . the mundane.”

Following his lead, she kept her tone light. “He was certainly insistent about you going on to London. Were you bothered by that?”

“Was I bothered?” He shook his head. “Nay.”

Niceties forgotten, she huffed and sent him a look rife with tried patience. “Liar.”

Light from the single candle illuminated only half of his face, but his gaze was steady, probing. “Because he wants to keep you away from me. He wants to rule your life.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Then why is he going to Boston and sending me to Glasgow with you?”

The vulnerability of the words clashed with the intimacy glowing in his eyes. His interested gaze wandered over her hair, which was only a little longer than his.

Her pulse raced and her thoughts drifted to the romantic.

They were both beset with a passion neither could hope to deny.

He couldn't resist touching her; she couldn't deny him.

The cat meowed, breaking the spell. Virginia added more milk to the saucer. “We were discussing my father.”

Cameron reached for her. “Let's not.”

She leaned back. “Let's do.”

He dropped his hand. A slight hesitation preceded a shrug. The end of his tartan, a rectangle of cloth wrapped and belted at his waist, slipped from his shoulder. “You said you wanted to go to Glasgow rather than to Tain.”

He danced around the question, but she was determined to have an answer. “If he's so determined to rule my life, why give in to my wishes?”

“He's no ogre, and if you recall, he told me to go straight to London.”

“Do you have important business matters there?”

“Didn't I mention that my father sits in the Commons?”

If he could be obtuse, she could be coy. “Oh? Have they changed the session dates?”

“How would you know if they had?”

She prayed for patience. “Remember the
Virginia Gazette?”

“Of course.” On a self-deprecating laugh, he patted her hand. “Forgive me.”

His winning ways had probably gained him absolution for much greater blunders. She'd drop the matter of his business interests in London for now, but a long voyage awaited, and she'd have plenty of time to question him. She chose a more immediate subject. “I wondered how I should dress aboard ship.”

Quietly, his attention on the kitten, he said, “Did you?”

He sounded so very interested, and it pleased her greatly. She could wait and ask Agnes in the morning, but Cameron was here and he obviously wanted to chat. She touched his tartan-covered knee. “Yes. Will I be comfortable in my fancy dresses?”

His gaze slid to her hand. “You have always been at ease with me, no matter the circumstances.” Her palm grew damp and her hand trembled, but she could not take it away. “But to answer your question about what to wear, you will be more comfortable in modest clothing, or if you're game, you could wear seaman's breeches.”

She'd shamed Agnes and her family at the table with bad behavior; Virginia had no intention of doing it again. “What will Agnes wear?”

“Lottie created a feminine version of seaman's pants.” He wiggled his brows. “Very revolutionary.”

“Sounds perfect for me. I know all about revolutions.”

He chuckled. “Aye, you do.”

Like a new bridge spanning a river of time, the companionable moment soothed and inspired her to say, “But Agnes is much smaller than I am. I shan't be able to wear her revolutionary wardrobe.”

“I'll find you something comfortable.”

Her recently acquired independence asserted itself. “I have money.”

He looked up and gave her a bland smile. “Money from your mother?”

She moved her hand. “From my wages.”

“You won't need to spend it on seaman's breeches. I keep an assortment of garments in the purser's closet. You'll need your sewing kit.”

He went back to stroking the kitten. As she had on many occasions since his arrival, Virginia watched him but felt detached from the scene, as if she were dreaming that she and Cameron Cunningham sat crosslegged on the floor discussing everyday things.

Again, he looked up. “That's an interesting smile.”

She flushed, feeling like a window peeper who'd been discovered.

“Give me your hands.” When she did, he curled his fingers into hers. “Promise me something, Virginia.”

At the gentleness in his tone, she grew wary. “I don't think we should—”

“Just hear me out.” He squeezed her hands and haltingly said, “If you are ever afraid, swear that you'll call out for me.”

Her throat grew thick with love for him, and words wouldn't come.

“I'll be there to help you.” Leaning close, he pressed his cheek to hers. His breath was warm against her ear, and he smelled of an exotic spice she couldn't name. “If bad memories or frightening times from your past come back to you, promise you'll tell me. We'll face them together.”

A sob broke through. He embraced her, lifted her, and set her on his lap. Without the cumbersome corset and heavy dress, she felt the heat and strength of him through the cotton nightgown.

“You don't yet realize,” he went on, “how completely you can trust me. Sharing all things . . . pain, joy, pride at a job well done, was ever our way.”

This man was her Cam, and nothing would do but to feel his lips on hers again. At the first touch of his mouth on hers, her head spun and she grew breathless. Yet she couldn't get enough of him, couldn't get close enough, couldn't quench the thirst of a decade spent without him.

She couldn't tell him the truth, not in words, but her body couldn't lie. Comfort came with that understanding, and she deepened the kiss, the way he'd taught her, the way they had always planned. Hadn't he said that she talked too much? Yes, and if she could not say what was in her heart, she could show him.

Her decision pleased him, for he growled low in his belly, and the sound vibrated against her, setting off a hollow ache deep inside. Her hands shaped his head, then brushed his ears and his cheeks. The slight stubble she found there tickled her palms. Inspired, she threaded her fingers through his hair. The ribbon tie at his nape slipped free, sending his hair cascading to his shoulders.

With an insistence and power that promised an end to her yearning, he brought her to the edge of a swoon. He trailed kisses over her cheek, down her neck and lower. How had her gown become unbuttoned? When his warm breath touched her breast and his lips closed over her nipple, she didn't care how he'd gotten there; she only prayed that he would not stop. At his gentle suckling, she couldn't hold back a moan.

He moved to her other breast and lavished it, suckling, licking, and priming her for what she did not know.

Contentment settled like a blanket over her, but with the happiness came a new need, a yearning to crawl inside his heart and curl up for a lifetime. She felt real desire, not the breathless, romantic urgings of her youth, but the deep, sensual longing of a woman for her man.

The drag of his palm against her inner thigh felt heavenly, and her knees trembled, but when he touched her intimately, she froze. Old horrors rose to meet her. She squeezed her legs together to force him out. “No. Don't touch me there.”

He withdrew his hand, and his mouth left her breast. Tenderly, he cradled her against his chest and rocked her. “I'm sorry, Virginia.”

He'd gotten it wrong. The fault lay with her and the degradation she'd endured. If unburdening herself would better their circumstances, she'd trip on the words to tell him. Only Merriweather had known the extent of Virginia's suffering, and it had taken almost two years for the pity to leave his eyes. But no civil man, least of all a lover, could countenance the perversions of her life at Poplar Knoll.

Still, she owed him some gentling words. “I'm to blame, not you.”

“Has someone hurt you? A man?”

He thought the greatest harm to a woman must come from the male of the species. He was wrong. Women could be heartless to their own kind; Virginia had learned that lesson firsthand. At a time when men ruled the world, women should help each other; they should be mentoring sisters, doting aunts, and loving mothers, not twisted villains eager to mete out the cruelest blows. Shared vulnerability of the weaker sex should be a catalyst for trust and honor, not a license to hurt and betray. But there it was.

“Don't be afraid, Virginia. Tell me about it.”

“It's vague. I'm not sure.” Nor did she want to think about past betrayals.

“You probably don't recall this, but years ago, while we were riding, my horse pitched me into a bramble patch. You pulled thorns from my bottom for hours. I never once worried that you'd tell anyone how often I yelped in pain.”

She had cried along with him that day. He'd stripped off his breeches, giving her her first look at a naked male. Her youth and the crisis they faced had given great innocence to the event. But there was nothing innocent about the way his hands roamed over her.

“You were always my true heart,” he whispered.

At the betrothal ceremony, as he'd slipped the ring onto her finger, he'd teasingly said, “No more swooning over other beaus. You are my true heart, and I'm the man for you. The only man.”