True Heart (22 page)

Not until his arrival in Virginia had she received her first kiss, for the peck on the cheek he'd given her years ago hardly counted. She hadn't imagined passion, certainly not the churning ache that spread to her loins and melted her resolve.

“What pleasantry occupies you?” he asked.

“I was thinking that resolve is much overrated, no?”

His eyes gleamed with happiness. “Especially 'tween you and I. And that frown on your brow must go.” He kissed her there, then studied his handiwork. “That's better.”

In the next kiss, he made chaste work of what had gone before. She felt caught up, drawn out, by his loving. The strength of his embrace and the absolute serenity he inspired made her want to shout out loud, but other more physical needs beckoned.

Following his lead, she let her hands roam his chest and arms, and when her fingers again slipped into his hair, he eased her back onto the hearth rug. With a slight jerk, he untied his neckcloth. The ends of the silk trailed over her. “Unbutton my shirt.”

Captured by his dreamy gaze, she lifted her arms and slipped the pearl buttons free.

“Touch me.”

A mat of downy hair fanned his chest and cushioned the pads of her fingers. But beneath the softness lay muscles taut from the strain of holding himself above her.

“Come here,” she heard herself say.

He lay full upon her, their loins nestled. Against her leg, she felt his desire, insistent and boldly male. As she lay beneath him, a decade of failed hopes and tarnished dreams vanished like the stars at dawn.

A volley of sensations exploded in her mind, and when her hands circled his neck and discovered the drumbeat of his pulse, the rhythmic pounding found an echo in her woman's core. He tilted his head to the side, opened his mouth on hers, and sought entry. She let him in, and the gentle stabbing of his tongue matched perfectly the thrusting motion of his hips.

Desire rang in her ears and thrummed in her belly. Her hands curled into fists.

“Ouch!”

She'd pulled the hair on his chest. At the dreamy look in his eyes, she said, “Have I hurt you?”

His smile was shy, knowing, and he lifted his brows. “Yes, and I know just the treatment. Come with me.”

He got to his feet and held out his hand. She let him pull her up.

“Close your eyes.”

She did. Then he was kissing her again, only his lips touching her. He seemed so restrained, so in control, while she teetered on the edge of something fine. Eager to discover it, she slid her tongue against his and kissed a groan from him.

She heard the rustle of clothing, the slip-slide of his leather belt, and as his tongue twined with hers in a daring, sensual dance, she swayed. Seeking balance, she reached for him, and her hands met warm, naked skin. Rather than shock, the discovery inspired her, and she traced the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. Cool air touched her knees, her thighs, and he broke the kiss long enough to pull off her gown. Then he enveloped her, their bodies touching from lips to toes and a hundred more interesting places in between.

The hair on his chest tantalized her nipples, and the length of his desire rested hot and heavy on her belly. She felt damp and empty for him, but he knew that, for he sent his hands roaming her back and lower, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer. When he undulated against her, she went languid inside.

He scooped her up and with an ease that contrasted sharply with her own sense of urgency, he strolled to the bed.

“Turn back the covers.”

Lowering her, he waited until she'd moved the blanket, then he laid her down and followed, his loins finding hers. “Spread your legs.”

Images of the doctor and the cold marble table came to mind. She cringed and said the word she'd been forbidden to utter at Poplar Knoll. “No.”

“No? I thought you wanted me.”

The burr in his voice had a soothing effect, but the memories were too much a part of her. “I won't be forced.”

“Forced? It's me, Cameron.”

He kissed her again and murmured lovers' phrases in Scottish. Hearing the romantic endearments in the language of her youth banished all thoughts except those of him.

“Open for me.”

Had he asked, she would have stood on her head, so desperate was she to have him. Then he was pushing inside her, pressing her into the feather mattress, and she wanted to cry for the sheer joy of it. But he was moving too slowly, so she lifted her hips to hurry their joining.

A searing pain stopped her.

He pulled back. “Easy, love.”

Virginia held her breath, and the pain ebbed. “What's wrong?”

“ 'Tis your maidenhead.”

She'd been so caught up in the passion, so desperate for his loving, she'd forgotten about her innocence. That in itself should have been the first step toward healing old wounds. Hoping it was so, she whispered, “Please don't stop, Cam. I want to be rid of it.” Truer words had never passed her lips.

“Very well.” Clutching her hips to hold her still, he pushed forward, and before she could draw breath, he broke through that barrier. Even muffled against his shoulder, her groan of discomfort sounded very loud.

“ 'Twill pass, love, and never come again. I swear it on my soul.”

Filled with him, she held on tight and waited. In the interim, he kissed her deeply, rekindling her desire until she was again breathless with yearning. He moved again, and from that moment on, he took her on a blissful ride to a destination so glorious she went weak with the joy of it. An instant later, her passion burst in a series of tiny explosions.

In the aftermath, she learned the true meaning of euphoria, a satisfaction that permeated even the darkest corners of her soul. But when Cameron tensed above her, then joined them fully one last time, she felt his release, felt him touch her womb, heard him moan in pleasure. Or was it exhaustion? His chest heaved and his breath rasped against her ear.

“Are you all right?”

She'd never be the same, and for that gift, she turned and kissed his cheek. “Yes, I'm—divine.”

He chuckled, rolled to his back, and drew her to his chest. Still breathing raggedly, he hugged her tight. “Good, for I almost botched it.”

“Why would you say that?”

He didn't want to answer; she could feel his hesitation, but now was not the time for lies. “The truth, Cam. Tell me the truth.”

As if the words were dragged from him, he said, “You said you wouldn't be forced. I thought you had been raped. I was wrong.”

A reasonable deduction from a man who'd thought she'd been raped but then breached her maidenhead. “No.” Comparing what had been done to her to the passion they'd just shared was like matching pigs to patriots.

“Curse me,” he hissed. “I should have known better.”

Completely puzzled, she strained to look up at him. “Known better than what?”

With a self-mocking laugh, he pulled her back. “To discuss rape at a moment like this.”

“My hunch is you were glad I wasn't taken against my will.”

“That would be foolish, for you
were taken
against your will. Never would you have run away from Scotland or me.”

Like a cold wind, guilt swept through her. But she must think of him, of his pride. “I'm back now, and that's all that matters.”

“What of justice for those who wronged you?”

She knew of whom he spoke, but there was plenty of blame to pass around, beginning with a cocky ten-year-old girl.

“Virginia?”

Caught off guard by the yearning in his voice, she said, “Who is to say he is still alive?”

“He?”

She'd erred, but the circumstances didn't lend itself to cleverness. “Or they.”

“More than one person abducted you?”

Like standing too close to a fire, she felt the burn of shame. The coward in her urged her to pretend sleep, but a yawn was all of the deceit she could manage. The moment was slipping away, and she fought to hold on to the intimacy a little longer.

A light rapping sounded at the door. The latch clicked. Her mother stepped inside, an artist's tablet in her hands, a blank look of surprise on her face.

Virginia struggled between embarrassment and self-condemnation. Mama was dressed as she had always been when she came to tell Virginia good night. Wearing a belted night robe, her braided hair draping her shoulder, she held the door open and leaned into the room. “I'll just put Mary's sketches of the family here.” As she slid the tablet onto the desk, she sent Cameron a look rife with disappointment. Virginia, she did not look at.

Then she was gone, and with her, she took the remnants of joy. Next came a lengthy pause filled with only the sound of breaths exhaled in relief and hearts pounding in surprise.

Tormented, Virginia shrank away from Cameron.

“Nay.” He pulled her back. “You mustn't be ashamed of what has gone between us. We've done nothing wrong.”

But she had. With only a little imagination, she pictured what her mother had seen: a once-favored daughter lolling wantonly, naked, in the arms of a man she wasn't supposed to remember. What better behavior could be expected from someone who spoke vulgarities at table and lied at every turn? From a girl who'd cleaned the privy to earn a sliver of precious soap? Where would she go from here? The consequences deluged her, but she had to ask, “What if she tells Papa?”

“She will not, because she knows he'll forego Boston and blame me.”

“It wasn't your fault. I wanted you.”

“I'll tell him so when his business is done and he returns to Glasgow.”

She needed to think, to be alone. “You should go.”

He turned her to face him. His hair was mussed, and in his eyes a trace of shared passion lingered. “I should stay.”

Clutching the remnants of her pride, she managed a smile and foraged for a warm reply. “What if Papa comes in the morning to bid me farewell?”

He gaze turned hard, probing. “I'm not fooled, Virginia.”

He was too serious and she was too uncertain. “But you will go lest I ravish you again.”

With little humor in the sound, he chuckled. “You can bet your dowry that we'll revisit that issue often in the days to come. You're mine, true heart. You have always been.”

On the first day out of Norfolk, just as the sun made a dash for the horizon, and Cameron took his watch at the wheel, he began his quest for a truth from Virginia.

“Cameron's right,” Agnes said from her perch on the hammock. She lounged crosswise on her stomach, and with her foot, she kept the string bed in motion. “Since the day we fetched you from that plantation, we've told you stories about our lives. You know everything about us.”

Virginia, sitting on one of the six freshwater barrels that were lashed to the mast, paused in her needlework—embellishing the plain nightgown he'd stripped off her last night. She was embroidering thistles around the hem. “I hardly know everything.”

She hadn't forgotten that the thistle was the natural symbol of Scotland. Cameron had questioned her about that; she'd cited the embellishments on one of Agnes's dresses as the source. But she'd become an expert at talking her way out of verbal traps. Not tonight.

He'd trade his flagship for an hour's worth of honesty from her. He couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't forget the taste and feel of her, the perfection with which she fit against him, the grace with which she'd yielded her innocence. He couldn't put to rest the feel of her naked beneath him, wanting her again.

But she didn't want him, nor did she remember their passion. If her demeanor were a sign, she hadn't shared the greatest of intimacies with him last night.

Patience dwindling, passion running high, he pressed her. “Tell us about the friendships you made at Poplar Knoll.”

“You know Merriweather. We shared the newspaper and discussed events of the day. After his wife died, he left England and became a reader of the news. He . . .”

Cameron stopped listening. She wasn't sharing events of her life; she chronicled the adventures of a butler. Agnes didn't see through the ploy; she was too enthralled at having Virginia back.

“Tell me about your butler,” Virginia said to her sister.

Agnes took the bait.

Cameron ground his teeth and turned his attention to the ship and the sea. A strong southeasterly breeze carried them briskly across the Atlantic. If the winds prevailed, they'd reach Glasgow before the stores grew moldy.

On the deck, the yellow and white kitten batted a ball of twine. Steam from a caldron of fresh turtle soup perfumed the ocean air. The day crew had gone below deck; the night watch went quietly about their duties.

All was well on the
Maiden Virginia
except the maiden herself.

How could she act as if nothing had happened last night? Like a loose topsail, flapping at predictable intervals, the annoying question kept coming back to annoy Cameron.