Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor by Anna Bradley (18)

“Don’t say, Mrs. Mullins, they hid the kittens in the kitchens? Why would they bring them here?”

Eleanor leaned toward the cook across the scrubbed surface of the scarred wooden table, a grin on her lips. She’d come down to the kitchens for less than honorable reasons, but at some point during her conversation with Mrs. Mullins, she’d begun to enjoy herself.

Mrs. Mullins’s kind blue eyes twinkled with merriment. “Dear me, who knows what goes through young boys’ heads? I suppose they thought it would be warm in here, what with all the cooking. It took me days to figure out where all the cream had got to.”

Eleanor curled her fingers around her cup of warm milk. “They sound terribly naughty, both of them.”

“Oh my yes, they were. Good boys though, and they’ve grown into fine men too, though I don’t have to tell you so, being as you’re betrothed to Mr. Camden.”

Eleanor squirmed against the wooden bench. She didn’t like to lie, but really, it was just a tiny little one, and Mrs. Mullins wouldn’t talk to her about Cam if she knew the truth.

Though what the truth was at this point, Eleanor couldn’t say. It had started simply enough, but everything had become so confused, she was certain of only one thing. She had to know. Cam’s whole story, not just fragments of it.

“Did Cam come see you today, Mrs. Mullins? I hope he wouldn’t forget the friend who sneaked him sweets and saved his kittens.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t forget me, my lady. He came after the gentlemen got back from their sport, and dear me, such a handsome man he’s grown into. Even when he was just a lad I knew he’d be handsome. I’d have recognized him anywhere, with those green eyes, though I haven’t seen him these eleven years.”

“Yes, he told me he hadn’t been back to Lindenhurst since his return from India.” Eleanor kept her voice casual, but her heart began to hammer in her chest. “He didn’t say why. He doesn’t speak much of his childhood.”

Mrs. Mullins twirled her mug between work-roughened hands. “Bad memories, I daresay.”

“How old . . .” Eleanor took another breath, and plunged ahead. “How old was Cam when his father died?”

Mrs. Mullins shook her head, her expression grim. “Nine.”

Nine years old. Eleanor should have been able to release her breath then, for she’d guessed correctly. Cam’s father hadn’t left. He’d died.

But the breath wouldn’t come. “How?” She choked out.

“Fever. It was that quick.” Mrs. Mullins tapped the table once with her finger. “He didn’t recognize his wife and son at the last.”

A green-eyed, tousled headed boy, nine years old, rescuing kittens and pilfering sweets one day, and the next . . .

She released the breath on a shudder. The next, his father was dead.

“After that, well, Sarah West was never right again.”

“No. She wouldn’t be.”

Had Sarah West been more fortunate than Ellie’s mother, or less so? She’d known love. She’d had that much, at least, but oh, so briefly, and at the end she’d been left with nothing, because once you gave your heart, you never got it back.

Eleanor took a sip of her warm milk, but the lump in her throat remained. “Reginald West moved his family to Lindenhurst after Cam’s father’s death?”

Mrs. Mullins nodded. “There’s no telling what might have become of Mr. Camden if his cousin hadn’t come to live here.”

Eleanor tried to smile. “To save kittens, and steal sweets?”

“Oh, much more than that. He saved Mr. Camden, too.” Memories drifted over Mrs. Mullins’ face. “I’ve never known a boy with a more affectionate heart than Julian West. Pure gold, his heart, just like his mother’s.”

It was a wonder a man like Reginald West hadn’t tarnished her heart—hers, and his son’s. That he hadn’t crushed their every decent impulse. Ellie had seen it happen before, seen a man squeeze until the people around him became unrecognizable . . .

“Some here don’t think of it as so,” Mrs. Mullins said, “but I’ve always thought it was a blessing they came, despite what happened afterwards.”

Eleanor gripped her mug, her knuckles white.

Amelia. She’d happened afterwards.

She didn’t dare ask Mrs. Mullins if Sarah West had remarried. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. “You mean Cam and his mother being forced to leave Lindenhurst?”

Mrs. Mullins’ lips went tight. “They removed to the gamekeeper’s cottage, at Mr. West’s insistence. Those of us who’d known the first Mr. West were heartbroken over it. No matter what Sarah West had done, Lindenhurst was her home, and she was a widow with a young child.”

Cam’s mother had done something, then . . .

Something. Eleanor could hardly be at a loss to imagine what. The secret she’d been chasing, the secret she’d been so eager to discover—it wasn’t Cam’s secret at all.

It was Amelia’s.

She wrapped her fingers around her mug to stop their trembling. “Cam and his mother lived with the Wests at first? For nearly four years, until . . .”

Until Reginald West had learned of Sarah West’s disgrace.

Mrs. Mullins leaned toward her across the table. “Yes, and things might still have been well, but for—”

“Lady Eleanor,” a low voice drawled from the door. “I find you at last.”

Eleanor whirled around, half-rising from her seat. Cam leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d shed his coat, and the white cambric of his shirt stretched tight over his powerful shoulders.

Dear God. He looked . . . huge. Huge, and furious.

He eased away from the door and sauntered into the room. “I’ve been all over the house, searching for you. Odd, but I hadn’t thought to look in the kitchens.”

His green eyes glittered with anger as they settled on her face.

Mrs. Mullins rose from her place at the table. “Why, good evening, Mr. Camden. What brings you to the kitchens?”

“Good evening to you, Mrs. Mullins. Amelia asked for some warm milk. I wanted the walk, so I came down to fetch it for her. Would you mind bringing it up to her for me? Lady Eleanor and I have a matter to discuss before she disappears again.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Mullins bustled over to the stove and poured the rest of the warm milk into a mug.

Eleanor jumped to her feet, the bench behind her nearly toppling over backwards. “I’ll come with you, Mrs. Mullins. I’d like to say goodnight to Amelia.”

She wasn’t usually such a coward, but Camden West had a menacing look about him at the moment, and better a coward than a fool. She began to edge around the wide wooden table, but before she took two steps, Cam moved in front of her, trapping her between the bench and his body. “It’s all right, Mrs. Mullins.” He never took his eyes off Eleanor. “Go on ahead. A word, Lady Eleanor?”

Eleanor watched in despair as Mrs. Mullins disappeared through the kitchen door, mug in hand.

“Alone at last,” Cam murmured. “Now, my lady, suppose you tell me what you’re up to?”

Eleanor had to crane her neck to see his face. Had he become larger since the last time she saw him? The backs of her knees hit the bench. No, he wasn’t larger. She’d just never stood this close to him before—close enough to feel his heat wrap around her body.

She should have scrambled over the table and leapt for the door while she had the chance. “Up to? Why, nothing at all. I fancied a warm drink and came down to fetch one. Surely there’s nothing so terrible in that?”

“No, warm milk is innocent enough, but you could have rung for it from your bedchamber. Instead you crept down here to corner Mrs. Mullins in the kitchens.”

“Corner her? What nonsense. Why should I—”

“I searched the house for you. Everywhere but the kitchens.”

Eleanor dropped her eyes to avoid his gaze, but raised them again at once when she found herself staring at the open neck of his shirt, at a bare patch of sun-kissed skin.

Don’t think about his skin. “I was in my bedchamber, reading.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow, and slowly shook his head.

She stared at him for a moment, then gasped, outraged. “You entered my bedchamber, without my consent, as if you—”

“Own the house? Yes, just like that.”

Eleanor huffed out a breath. “I must have been in Charlotte’s bedchamber when you came, then.”

“Ah, Eleanor.” He touched his fingertips to her chin. “You blush when you tell a lie. Did you know that?”

She knew. She just hadn’t realized he did. “I—I’m not lying.”

“Of course you are. I can see it on your face, just here.” He drew one finger across her cheekbone. “But it’s worth listening to your lies to see that blush.”

Dear God. How could one finger wreak such havoc with her breathing? She fought not to close her eyes as his finger dipped down to trace her jaw and the line of her neck.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “The blush begins at your cheeks, but I can’t see where it ends.” He trailed his fingers down her neck to trace her collarbone. “Is it here? Or lower?”

She tried to turn her head away, but he cupped her cheek in his hand to still her.

Don’t look at him.

She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the heat in his—so he couldn’t see it mirrored in her own.

“No, Eleanor.” He sank his long, warm fingers into the mass of hair at the back of her neck. Hairpins pinged onto the wooden table and skittered to the floor, and a long lock came loose and brushed against her neck. “Don’t hide from me.”

She forced a laugh even as her knees went weak at his touch. “Why should I wish to hide? I’m not afraid of you.”

His smile mocked her. “Ah, but you’re afraid of yourself. Your cleverness won’t help you this time, Eleanor. Cleverness is no match for desire.”

Eleanor stared at him, at the tousled hair falling across his forehead, the green eyes gleaming under lids gone heavy. At his mouth, his lips. Heat seared her, scorched every part of her body, and yet the lie sprang easily to her lips. “I don’t desire you.”

His mouth lifted at the corners. “Liar.”

So soft, that one word. Not the accusation it should have been, but tender, and it was that which undid her. She closed her eyes again. He was too close. She had to do something to shut him out.

But he wouldn’t allow it. “No. Look at me. See me.”

She grasped his bare forearms with both her hands to push him away, but her fingers curled into his skin. Held on. “Do you suppose I don’t see you? I have from the very start.”

His fingers sank deeper into her hair. “What do you see, Eleanor? You asked me once if I was a gentleman or a scoundrel, and I told you—”

“Both. You said you were both.” She closed her eyes, remembering. She’d thought his answer absurd at the time, because one was either the villain or the hero. Never both at once.

Except it wasn’t that simple, and she should have known better even then, because she’d learned long ago the truth was never simple. That line between hero and villain, good and bad, devil and angel was blurred, indistinct. Maybe it had always been that way, and she’d refused to see it.

He stroked a finger down her cheek. “We see what we want to see, Eleanor. It’s easier that way. You taught me that.”

She opened her eyes. “What do you want from me, Cam?”

He laughed, the sound harsh, as if it were torn from his chest. “I want so much from you, I don’t even know where to begin.”

She scraped her nails over the flesh of his forearms. To hurt him? Or because she wanted to feel him, his skin under her fingertips? “Yes, you do. You searched for me, and now you’ve found me. End this. Tell me, then let me go. What do you want?”

He shuddered at her touch. “You.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. Oh, God, it would so easy to give herself to him. To give in. To let herself drown in him and forget everything else. Everything she’d learned about him, and about Amelia. Not to have to think about how she could use it against them.

Or if I can bear to.

He stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “I want your mouth.”

Were his hands shaking?

She let her fingernails sink deeper into his flesh, because she did want to hurt him, and to keep him near her at the same time. “Then take it. That’s what you do, Cam—you take. It’s all you know how to do, so do it now.”

Heat flared in his eyes at her words. “Because that’s what a villain would do, isn’t it, Eleanor? So much easier that way.” He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “But I won’t make this easier for you. Ask me to kiss you.”

Oh, it was wicked, and he was the devil, after all. She could feel the fires of hell licking at her heels, the flames green, like his eyes. To withstand the lure of his kiss was hard enough, because she wanted it so badly. Wanted him. She wanted his lips on hers, and never in her life had she been afraid to take what she wanted.

But to ask for it . . .

She looked at his mouth, his lips, and without her consent, her own lips parted.

He drew a ragged breath. “Ask me, Eleanor.”

She couldn’t give in to him, because if she did, if she did . . .

A kiss. One kiss. A small surrender only, but a surrender still, and surely one would lead to another. “You’ll take everything from me, Cam.” She searched his face. “You’ll take everything, and I’ll have nothing left.”

“No.” His hoarse voice scraped against her nerve endings, but his fingers were gentle as they stroked her collarbone. “I give you my word. Ask me.”

Her breathing quickened to match his, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Kiss me.”

His eyes went dark, but he didn’t move. “Say my name.”

No denials then, and no half measures. Stripped bare.

She lifted her chin. “Kiss me, Cam. I want your mouth.” She reached up to trail her finger across the seam of his lips. “You’re a hard man, but your lips feel soft. Are they? I want to taste you—”

A strangled moan tore from his throat. “Stop it.”

His warm palms slid down the sides of her neck to grasp her shoulders, and for a moment she thought he’d push her away. But he pulled her closer, so close she could see the wild beat of his pulse at the base of his throat, and she wanted to taste him there.

She didn’t mean to touch him, didn’t want to, but her hands moved to his chest. His muscles leapt to meet her touch and his heart throbbed under her palm, but it wasn’t enough. Touching him—it wasn’t enough. “A kiss, Cam. This isn’t a kiss.”

He brushed his lips over hers, so soft, once, again, then lingered there, firm and warm before he drew back to murmur, “Is this what you want?”

He coaxed her with light touches of his lips and tiny kisses against the corners of her mouth. His kiss was gentle. Gentle, even as she felt the anger and desire leap inside him, felt the muscles in his body draw tight, felt him strain to bank his passion as it clamored for release.

Screamed for it.

This man, who’d never been taught to give, only to take . . .

He kissed her gently.

Panic rose in Eleanor’s throat. No. She didn’t want this—his gentleness, his tenderness. She didn’t want him to give anything to her. She couldn’t fight him if he did.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, tugged hard at the tousled chestnut waves at the back of his head, and parted her lips for him.

He groaned when he felt her mouth open under his. “God, yes. Give me your mouth.”

She nipped hard at his bottom lip. “I’m not giving, Cam. I’m taking. I’d think a man like you would know the difference.”

His breath was short, harsh. “Take more.”

She fisted a handful of his shirt and dragged it aside, and then her lips were on his jaw, his chin, his neck, her tongue against the pulse point that had fascinated her earlier. He made a choked sound, and she felt the vibration of it against her mouth as she licked him there.

His skin was so hot it seared her tongue, his taste earthy, clean—a faint trace of salt and shaving soap. He tasted like a man.

“More. Take more.” He was panting now, shaking with need and the effort to restrain himself.

She worked the neck of his shirt open and spread the material wide with impatient fingers—oh God, his chest was a wall of muscle, the skin smooth, except for the dusting of hair there, not like the tawny hair on his head, but darker, crisp, thicker.

Eleanor swallowed. She wanted to run her hands over his chest, his shoulders, his belly, touch the smooth, warm skin stretched like velvet over his hard muscles. She wanted to touch his nipples, taste him there. Would they rise to meet her fingers, her mouth?

Did she dare?

She darted a glance at his face. He watched her, his pupils huge under his half-closed lids. “Take more,” he whispered.

She brushed a thumb across one of his nipples, felt him shudder at her touch.

“More.”

She opened her mouth over the center of his chest and kissed him there once, before trailing her tongue over the dark flesh of his nipple.

“Ellie . . .” He surged to life, his hands rough over her back as he dragged her against his body with a harsh groan, his mouth taking hers, ravenous now—his tongue hot, insistent, his control shattered. “Is this what you want?” he demanded against her mouth. “To tease me until I lose control?”

She couldn’t answer. He stole her breath. Her will.

“Do you want me to beg, Eleanor? Would that satisfy you?” He wrapped his hands around her waist and for one dizzying moment the floor dropped out from under her feet. Then she felt a hard wooden surface beneath her and she knew he’d lifted her, set her before him on the table. He slipped his hands under her skirts and closed them around her ankles. “Because I’d sink to my knees even now, just for another taste of you.”

He dragged his tongue across her lower lip and slid his palms up her calves until he reached the inside of her knees. Warm fingers dipped under her garters to tease against her bare flesh, then he pressed her knees apart and moved between them so he was there, the neck of his shirt open, his body hard, primed from the teasing touches of her hands and mouth.

She’d wanted this—wanted him, and she wanted him still.

“You drive me mad. You’re all I can think about.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth and bit down, then pressed his hot mouth behind her ear, against her neck. Eleanor’s head fell back as he nipped and teased the sensitive flesh. He wedged his body tighter into the space between her legs, his breath shuddering through him. “Do you think I won’t take you? Because you’re right, my lady. I do know how to take. God help me, it’s all I know.”

Eleanor moaned as he dragged his hands down her legs and out from under her skirts. Relief or protest, that moan? Oh, she didn’t know, and Cam, ruthless in his desire, gave her no time to think before his hands gripped her waist. He stroked her there, then teased his fingers higher, so slowly she wanted to scream, did scream, silently, when at last he cupped the firm curves of her breasts in his palms. He found her nipples and his clever fingers slid over the silk of her gown, his fingertips relentless against the straining peaks.

“How else shall I take you?” He pressed his lips to her neck, then the base of her throat. “With my mouth?” He slipped two fingers into the neckline of her bodice, dragged it lower, and opened his mouth over the top of her breast. “Here,” he whispered. His hot breath fanned over the damp spot he’d made on her skin.

Dear God. As if in a dream, Eleanor felt her ankles lock together behind his hips.

His laugh was soft, dark—triumphant. He traced his tongue along the narrow band of lace at her bodice, then pressed his lips to the top of her other breast. “Here.”

She plunged her fingers into his hair, held him tight against her as she arched into his mouth. He groaned and slid lower to scrape his teeth over the tip of her breast before he sucked her nipple into his mouth, wetting the silk. “Here. This is what you want, isn’t it, Ellie? You want me to take you here.”

Eleanor couldn’t speak, only writhe against his mouth as his tongue flicked against the hard peak. When she thought she’d go mad from the caress, he raised his head. His palms rested against her neck for a moment, then he took her face in his hands and turned it up to his. “Ah, my lady, I’m a villain, after all, because I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

His eyes dropped to her lips right before he took them again with a pained groan. He kissed her and kissed her, his tongue plundering the depths of her mouth until she could do nothing but kiss him back, her body aching with a desire she’d never believed possible.

“Which are you doing now, Eleanor,” he gasped, when he released her lips at last. “Giving, or taking?” He let his forehead rest against hers. “Do you even know?”

God, she was such a fool. Giving, taking—what difference did it make? Could she even do one without the other? She didn’t know—she knew only she shouldn’t be doing either. Not with him. He was far too dangerous, because if she let him touch her again, she’d give him everything.

Not just her body. Everything.

She stared at him, dark eyes into green, her skin on fire, still panting from his kisses and the wicked touch of his hands. “Let me go, Cam.”

She placed her palms flat against his chest and forced herself to push him away.

“No. Ellie, I—”

“Yes.” She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away from her face. “Will you go back on your word?”

He didn’t move or answer, just stood there and looked down at her fingers, wrapped around his wrists. His labored, shallow breaths seemed loud in the otherwise silent room.

Eleanor released him and held her own breath, and after what seemed an eternity, he stepped back, away from her.

Without a word she slid down from the table. She’d taken a few steps toward the door when his voice stopped her.

“I told you I’d let you go. I never go back on my word, my lady.”

No. He never did. She froze for a moment, her back to him, his words echoing in her head until she couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

He wasn’t a villain, and he wasn’t a hero.

He was both.