He was prepared to be very generous. For one thing, he had always indulged her expensive tastes. And for another, as mistresses went, Louise Pelletier was without par. He had no quarrel with her. To his knowledge she had never played him false. She was not given to fits of jealousy or sulks or outbursts of temper. In bed, she knew how to both give and take pleasure. She possessed a certain style that he could not help but admire. He knew himself to be the envy of many of his peers. And he could not wait to be shot of her.
He must be mad, thought Cam, as he unlocked the door to the little house in Falmouth that he had leased for Louise on Church Street. A rosy-faced maid accepted his hat and gloves with a shy smile and left him to find his own way to her mistress’s bedchamber.
“Darling.” She was at her dressing table, performing her toilette. A copper tub, fragrant with water, sat in the middle of the floor. It was evident Louise had come from her bath moments before.
Never once had he ever caught Louise looking anything less than stunning. Whether she was dressed to the nines or in the most blatant dishabille, she-preserved the mode of a woman who cared about herself. Her fragrance filled the room. Cam thought of Gabrielle and felt vaguely irritated.
He went to her at once and pressed a warm kiss to her welcoming mouth. She melted against him and he was enveloped in a swath of pink gauze and net. After a moment he disengaged himself from the passionate embrace and held her at arm’s length. She wore nothing beneath the wrapper. Her bare skin glowed like satin.
“You must be bored to tears, waiting on my convenience,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to her fingers before moving away.
He strolled around the room, touching first one object, then another, as if he had never been there before. The room was a statement in femininity, thought Cam. Again he thought of Gabrielle, but this time with something close to exasperation.
She watched him for a moment, then went back to brushing her hair. “I don’t expect you to be at my beck and call,” she murmured.
A crooked smile played about Cam’s lips. “Ah, no,” he responded. “A married man must never call his time his own.”
She arched one eyebrow, and continued with her task. Cam draped himself inelegantly in a fragile gilt chair of French design and regarded her steadily.
“Do we go out this evening, or are we getting ready to retire?” he asked.
She laid the brush aside and turned to face him. “Which would you prefer? You have only to state your preference.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he answered easily. “There are a million things at Dunraeden that beg my attention.”
Her lips curved, but her eyes remained cold. “Do you know, Cam, I’ve been thinking that you were right about Falmouth.”
“Was I?” he drawled.
She inhaled slowly. “To be perfectly frank, I’m bored.” It was the closest she would come to complaining of his neglect, and they both knew it.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Cam, coming to his feet. “I’m a boring sort of fellow. I’m surprised you’ve stayed with me so long.”
She knew, of course, where his conversation was leading. His visits in the last weeks had dwindled to next to nothing, and long before that, his ardor had cooled. It only remained for the relationship to be severed. And ever the gentleman, he was hinting her into taking the lead.
“Many of my friends are removing to Brighton,” she finally remarked. “I was thinking I might join them.”
Suddenly grave, he said, “That sounds like a capital idea. There’ll be no end of amusements with the Prince of Wales in residence.”
He reached in his coat pocket and removed a small packet, which he tossed into her lap. Her brows lifted.
“To tide you over,” he answered to that questioning look. “I’ll be fixed in Cornwall for some time to come. There’s no saying when we’ll meet again.”
She smiled faintly and deposited the packet in a rosewood coffer that sat on the flat of her dressing table. There was no question in her mind that the gift would be more than generous.
Glancing sideways at him, she said, “Am I permitted to know who my rival is?”
He came up to her and with one finger edged her wrapper aside. Pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, he murmured in an amused tone. “Rival? My dear, you’re peerless, an incomparable. I know of no lady who can claim the distinction of being named your rival.” He straightened, and when she made to answer him, brushed his thumb over her lips. Almost regretfully he said, “No, don’t say anything. You knew at the outset that sooner or later this day would come.”
She gazed at him steadfastly for a long moment, then something flashed at the back of her eyes. Shrugging him off, she closed her negligee and belted it tightly. “Marriage agrees with you, if I’m not mistaken,” she ventured.
He looked at her with a curious expression. “Marriage? What has that to say to anything?”
Her eyes never left his. “A foolish notion,” she agreed, then continued more deliberately. “Would you believe, Cam, I thought for a moment that you were enamored of the chit?” She gave a convincing laugh. “I should have known that your tastes don’t run to the outlandish.” Her voice dropped, became more dulcet. “Tell me, have you found a governess for the child yet?”
Though Cam’s expression remained pleasant, something ugly seemed to have crept into the room, and Louise was sorry she had given in to the impulse to bait him. She flinched when he captured her wrist.
He raised her hand to his lips. “Shall we agree to consider those last remarks unsaid?” he suggested politely. His eyes were ice cold as he waited for her reply.
“I never meant…,” she began unsteadily.
“Of course not.” He patted her on the cheek. “The lease on the house in town has a year to run. You know my man of business. If you need anything, I’d prefer if you would deal through him.”
She watched in silence as he strolled from the room. When she heard the front door close behind him, she opened the coffer and examined the contents of the packet he had given her. As she had expected, the settlement was generous, but it in no wise mitigated the insult she felt had been inflected. To lose Cam to some dazzling high flyer lately come on the scene would have occasioned her some annoyance, certainly, but the thought that she was to be displaced by a farouche hoyden who was as graceless as she was ignorant was beyond anything. She would be a laughingstock, and that was not to be borne.
She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. After a moment’s reflection she went to the bell pull and rang for her maid. She was soon dressed to receive callers. A glance in the looking glass reassured her. She was a woman in her prime. The Duke of Dyson had sadly underrated her if he thought he could treat her so shabbily.
Having dashed off a quick note, she sent a footman to deliver it, reflecting that, in her experience, no severance settlement was ever sufficient to long maintain the style to which she had become accustomed. An hour passed before her visitor arrived. She received him in the ground floor parlor.
“Gervais,” she said, offering him both hands. The look in the young man’s eyes, which spoke so eloquently of his admiration, was like balm to a festering sore. “How good of you to come at once.”
Gervais Dessins made an elegant bow and moved to take the chair nearest the one she had selected for herself.
Gervais Dessins was to some extent in Louise Pelletier’s confidence. He had descended on Falmouth some weeks ago and had taken up residence with mutual friends, refugees like themselves. And since Louise had been left very much to her own devices, and as Dessins had proved to be an amusing and attentive companion, their friendship had blossomed. In truth, Louise had been at some pains to cultivate the acquaintance. Dessins was on terms of familiarity with the Prince of Wales. A lady in her circumstances would be foolish beyond permission to neglect any avenue of advancement that presented itself.
“Do you go to Brighton still?” she asked, coming directly to the point.
“On the morrow, as I think I mentioned.” He flashed her a keen, comprehensive look.
“I wonder if I might impose upon you for escort?”
His handsome features were etched in surprise. “With pleasure, my dear. But what has brought about this change of heart?”
She gave a light laugh, and shook her head. “Ennui, Gervais. It will be the death of me if I’m not careful. Besides, you’ve painted such a portrait of Brighton that I was suddenly overcome with the notion to pay it a visit.” She pouted prettily. “Or perhaps you were hoaxing me when you promised to introduce me to your circle of friends?”
Dessins smiled gravely. “You do me an injustice. But what of Dyson? Does His Grace join later?”
There was not the least necessity for the lady to pretend to a virtue she neither merited nor desired. It was common knowledge that she was the Duke of Dyson’s mistress.
She sighed mournfully. “Unhappily, ’tis not possible for Cam to leave Dunraeden at the present moment. I may have mentioned that the child he wed requires constant supervision?”
Louise had told Dessins very little of Cam’s bride, though she sensed an avid curiosity behind the occasional question he had put to her. Now, having been given her congé with so little regard for her sensibilities, she saw no reason to maintain her former reticence. She feigned a smile at some private reflection, and a moment later smothered a laugh behind her hand. Soon, with a little encouragement she embarked on a flow of anecdotes about Gabrielle, which kept her companion convulsed in laughter for some minutes to come.
But behind the charmed expression that Dessins affected a calculating mind was at work. It was becoming evident to him that Louise Pelletier was a discarded mistress, though she was at some pains to paint a picture that was significantly more flattering to herself. That she was becoming disenchanted with her present protector was a fiction Dessins did not entertain for a moment, though he was careful not to betray his scepticism.
As he took his leave of her and walked the short distance to his own lodgings, he was considering how best he might make capital of what he had learned. Any intelligence respecting the Duke of Dyson could only further ingratiate him with Mr. Fox and the Prince of Wales. And a woman scorned, if pointed in the right direction, could prove a very useful tool.
As for the duke’s bride, he digested what little he had learned of her from the woman she had displaced. His master, Fouché, he decided, would be interested in this latest turn in events. He would expect him, no doubt, to cultivate the girl’s acquaintance. But how was it to be done? By degrees, a plan took shape in his mind. To broach the subject with Mr. Fox would require a most delicate touch. His own interest in the Duchess of Dyson must never be suspected.
Escape. It was all she could think of. To be sure, the thought of striking out on her own terrified her. But the thought of remaining at Dunraeden as his captive terrified her even more. If only, she thought with something close to hysteria, she had quashed that insane curiosity that had led to her present predicament. She was sorry, now, that she had ever toyed with the idea of becoming a real woman, and was even more sorry that she had not been born a boy. Then the Englishman would not have kissed her. And that hungry look that she surprised more and more frequently in his half-hooded expression would be directed toward a different lady. She was sure she could not comprehend what perversity in her nature recoiled at the thought of the Englishman kissing another lady. Sainte Vierge, what was the matter with her?
Gabrielle adjusted the length of rope at her shoulder and pulled on a pair of stout leather gauntlets before climbing over the windowsill in her chamber. The blunt carving knife she regretfully left behind. It had almost slipped from the waistband of her breeches on her last practice, and she could not take the chance, now that she was escaping in earnest, of a repeat performance. Besides, as a weapon or a tool, the knife was a useless article. It had not even sawed half through the length of rope when she had attempted to shorten it. The rope was bulky and made her progress along the west wall more perilous than necessary.
Step by slow step, Gabrielle edged her way along the stone pediment, her back pressed to the wall. It was now or never. The Englishman was gone for the night. Lord Lansing had bid her a fond farewell some days since. The vigilance of the servants was more relaxed than it had ever been. She would never be handed a better opportunity than the present to escape her captors. And she was in the peak of physical condition. Then what the devil ailed her? How was she to account for this incomprehensible reluctance to leave behind the grim fortress that had been her prison?
The tides, she thought. That must be it. Naturally, she was reluctant to step outside the safety of Dunraeden’s invincible stone walls where the treacherous tides threatened to sweep all before them. She’d been making a study, and knew to the minute how rapidly the incoming tide raced landward to dash at the very walls of the castle, turning Dunraeden into a veritable island amid the churning brine. The bore at Caudebec was not more alarming, in her opinion.
The pediment ended a good number of feet above the lower tier of the west tower. Like the athlete she was, Gabrielle dropped down lightly on the balls of her feet, finding her balance unerringly. She quickly knotted the length of hemp around one of the abutments and was soon lowering herself, hand over fist, to the rocks below. Not a twinge of pain or discomfort slowed her progress. She might have taken an animal pleasure in the sleek response of muscle and tendon honed for speed and endurance. But her thoughts were flying ahead to the perilous course she had set for herself.
The caves. She had caught sight of them only once, from a distance, the day she had arrived at Dunraeden. Since then, her captors had unobtrusively ensured that she was never in a position to spy out the lay of the land. Lansing occasionally invited her to walk on the south battlements. The only view from that vantage point was out to sea, or below, to the castle bailey. She had never been permitted to walk the other walls. How far to the caves? she wondered, and felt the blood pump fast and hot to every pulse point in her body. Every sense came alive to the jeopardy of her position. If she had miscalculated the distance, she would find a watery grave before the night was over. A cloud covered the moon and she shivered.
The rocks beneath her feet were covered in seaweed or slime. She crouched down, keeping her balance with her hands. There wasn’t a minute to lose. Once her feet touched the wet sands she would be running the race of her life. And then she heard it—the roar of the breakers, like the roar of a predator that catches the scent of its prey. And she was off and running.
Though the darkness about her was velvet, when she turned landward she could make out the silhouette of the dark cliffs. They towered into the lighter vault of the heavens. How far? How far? How far? Her steps kept pace with the litany that drummed in her brain. Her boots sank into a quagmire and she stumbled. Sobbing, she pulled herself to her feet. Water swirled around her and filled her boots. Oh God, already the tide was catching up to her. She kicked off her boots and stumbled forward, the fear that clawed at her throat far more palpable than the stitch that clawed at her side. Moments later water swirled around her bare ankles. The tide was outstripping her, and the cliffs seemed no nearer. Oh Cam, she sobbed. Oh Cam.
At that very moment, Cam was slowly approaching Dunraeden from the landward side. Mounted on his prize bay, Caesar, he gave little thought to the treacherous track that dipped low between the towering escarpments. Both mount and master had made the journey in every sort of weather, at every hour of the day or night. They could have found their way blindfolded to the great scarred doors which barred entry to Cam’s domain.
Big droplets of rain began to fall. Cam turned up the collar of his mantle and brought the reins up, at the same time gently tightening his knees to urge Caesar to a faster walk. He was scarcely aware of these involuntary actions, so lost in thought was he.
It had been the strangest week, he was thinking. The closer he had tried to come to Gabrielle, the more she had shied away. Simon had become the buffer she had employed to keep him at arm’s length. He had been wishing Simon at Jericho when Simon himself had suggested that he remove to town. He had accepted his friend’s departure with a show of reluctance that fooled nobody.
God, he didn’t know what he wanted from Gabrielle. And if he did, he refused to countenance it. In his weaker moments he had given in to a very understandable temptation to flirt with the chit. He was playing with fire and he knew it. Given their circumstances, there could never be anything between them but hostility and mistrust.
The girl was wiser than he. In the week since he had found her in Simon’s arms she had reverted to her former ill-bred manners—striding about as if she were wearing her boy’s breeches, letting dishes and cutlery slip from her fingers, falling against furniture, dropping food on her lap. And those English curse words! Where had she learned them if not at Dunraeden, as she had so scrupulously pointed out when he’d attempted to reprimand her. But worst of all was the stench that clung to her skin. Pilchards! He was so revolted he’d given up eating them. All of it was a deliberate attempt of course, to keep him from her. And he did not know why he was laughing.
He felt lighthearted, as if a great weight had been lifted form his shoulders. He’d parted company with Louise, and if he had a modicum of honesty in his character, he would admit that he never would have done so if it had not been for Gabrielle. The chit had made him damn near impotent! He chuckled. That was not precisely true. Around Gabrielle his virility was never in question.
A wind was getting up. Cam pulled his cloak more securely around him. A cloud obscured the moon. With a touch on the reins, he checked his mount as they came onto the causeway that led to Dunraeden’s rocky promontory. He could hear the whoosh of the tide as it surged landward. The moon came out. And then he saw her.
With head down, hair flying behind her, she raced like an arrow across the sands, the white breakers hard at her heels. In that instant he knew that she would never make it, that she had miscalculated the distance to shore. He let out a bellow and at the same moment dug in his spurs. Caesar reared up and obediently vaulted a rise of razor-sharp rocks. He hit the sands with a thud and faltered. Cam kept his mount’s head up. The bay regained his footing, his hooves barely touching the wet sands as he shot forward.
Gabrielle fell full length and the breakers submerged her. Panting, she rose to her knees, then to her feet. And still those cliffs seemed no nearer. She had been running for miles. Fear lent urgency to her limbs, which were leaden with exhaustion. She struck out blindly, dragging air painfully into her lungs with each faltering step. Suddenly the water came up to her waist, and she cried out. She felt the pull of the undertow as it lifted her clear off her feet. As she was dragged under, she held her breath. She came up sputtering and gulping. The tide played with her, tossing her first one way, then another, as if she were a piece of flotsam. She went under again and thought that her lungs would burst. Invisible fingers seemed to clutch at her hair, dragging her under. She was too exhausted to fight.
Cam wound one hand round that rope of hair and held on for dear life. With his free arm, he encircled her waist. When she came up choking and coughing, relief exploded through him in shock waves. He called her name, but the wind whipped the cry from his lips. There wasn’t a minute to lose, no time to check her condition. She was alive, and that was all that mattered. Later there would be leisure to consider the paralyzing sense of despair that had held him in its grip when he’d lost sight of her as he’d ridden into the churning foam. Later he would remember that night in the Abbaye courtyard, and the same annihilating sense of loss he’d experienced then. For the present, his mind was filled with Gabrielle as he hauled her across the back of his mount and into the cradle of his arms. A touch with his heels on the bay’s flanks, and the nervous animal wheeled, whinnying softly before stretching out its long legs to eat up the distance to the causeway, each smooth stride carrying them farther away from the predatory waters.
Gabrielle felt the familiar motions of the horse beneath her and sobbed her relief. By degrees, she became aware of the strong arms holding her. Cam’s arms, she thought, and burrowed closer as if she could crawl inside him. He tightened his arms around her protectively, and she began to weep silently into his chest.
It was a long time before she raised her head. The motions of the bay had slowed and finally halted altogether. Cam’s eyes glittered down at her.
“I…I had to escape,” she said weakly.
“Why?” There was no give, no gentleness in him.
She shook her head. “I had to try.”
“Why?”
She had no answer. “I…I don’t know.”
“Is this why, Gabrielle?” he asked viciously. “Is this why you wanted to get away from me?” and he covered her mouth with his own.
She was aware of the rain beating down upon them. She felt the motions of the horse as it shifted restlessly. She heard the roar of the breakers. She tasted the salt of the spray. And then she was aware of nothing but Cam and the heat of his body as the darkness pressed in upon them.
He’d lost his restraint the moment he’d thought he had lost her. He knew he would find it again. But not yet. He didn’t want to find it just yet. He didn’t care if he frightened her half to death. She deserved to be frightened. She’d put him through hell. Didn’t she know what she was doing to him?
Rage and desire ripped through him, making him tremble. He savaged her lips, crushed her small, shivering body with arms of steel. He felt her hands at his nape, stroking, gentling him of his pent-up emotions. She was afraid for him. Good. He’d give her something else to fear. He angled her head back and slanted his mouth across hers, unleashing the full force of his passion against her. A man’s passion, his kiss told her, full-fledged and insatiable. And by God, he intended her to meet it.
He wasn’t gentle. But not for a moment was she misled by his rough wooing. He was at breaking point. She understood that. She tasted the desperation on his tongue, as well as the longing. And though she was innocent of a man’s passions, the raw desire on his lips did not threaten her but rather stirred some hidden spring within her that had been waiting for this moment. He was dragging her into those dark sensual depths she’d read in the promise of his eyes from the moment of their first encounter. He was drowning her in sensation. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. If only for a few minutes she wanted to answer the demand in his kiss, offer herself as consolation for the turbulent emotions she had provoked by her rash escapade.
Surrender. She was giving into him. He wanted to take her there, on the sands. He didn’t care about the rain or the fury of the wind as it whipped itself into a mad dervish. He didn’t want to give her time to think. He wasn’t about to let her change her mind.
He released her lips and covered her face with urgent kisses. It was only then that he became aware that she was shivering uncontrollably. His conscience scourged him. “My God, what am I doing? You’re in shock,” he breathed raggedly, and gathered her closer to the shelter of his body. Without another word, he urged his mount forward.
She didn’t correct his misapprehension. It was enough to be held comfortingly in his arms. Her heart was pounding, her pulse racing. She was beginning to recognize the symptoms. Not danger, but Cam. Or were they one and the same thing? she wondered. And when had she begun to think of the Englishman as Cam? He was the enemy. Her mind told her so. But her heart flatly rejected that piece of logic.
When they entered the bailey, Betsy was roused from her bed and Gabrielle was given into her care. And then the servants and guards saw a side of their master they had never before witnessed. The duke went on a rampage, blistering their ears with threats and reproaches for their blatant disregard for Her Grace’s safety. Serving maids and lackeys who had wonderingly answered the late summons to the great hall miraculously disappeared into cracks in the walls as they came under a hail of vituperation from a master whose forbearance was practically legendary.
Round-eyed, Betsy supported Gabrielle to her chamber. A bath was soon drawn and Gabrielle readied for bed. She scarcely exchanged a word with her maid. She felt wretched, believing herself to have forfeited the goodwill of everyone at Dunraeden. If Cam’s people had been watchful before, after this night’s work she could be certain that they would never let her out of their sight.
She was curled up in the huge wing armchair flanking the empty grate, obediently sipping brandy from the tumbler Betsy had placed in her hands, when Cam entered. He was soaked to the skin, and in his hand he held a length of hemp.
“Leave us,” he curtly instructed.
There was a glitter in his eyes that forbade argument. Betsy clutched the wet towels to her bosom, bobbed a curtsy and made for the door.
“A moment!” Cam said, and pointed to the sodden heap of boy’s clothes that lay discarded on the floor. “Dispose of these, Betsy. Her Grace has no further need of them.”
When Betsy left, Cam turned the key in the lock. He propped himself casually against the door. “And just where do you think you were off to?” he asked carelessly, holding the length of rope in front of him.
Shakily, Gabrielle rose to her feet. The moment when she had wanted to surrender everything to him was long gone. Then, she had been laboring under a sense of gratitude, she told herself. There’d been time for reflection since. True, he had saved her life, but if he had not abducted her in the first place, she would not have been forced to take such extraordinary risks to escape.
“I’m waiting for an answer,” he said, exaggerated politeness in his voice.
This was the Cam she knew. The Englishman. Her gaoler. Her enemy, she reminded herself forcefully.
“France,” she answered, tilting her head back.
“France,” he mimicked. “Forgive me. I had not known that you were such an accomplished swimmer. Or perhaps you were aiming to grow wings and fly the twenty or so miles of water that separate our two countries? Of course,” he said, throwing the rope from him, “angels have wings. Now why didn’t I think of that?” He drew in a long shuddering breath. His eyes locked on hers. All amusement wiped from his voice, he said, “It’s only fair to warn you. I intend to clip your wings, Angel.”
The promise was back in his eyes; the sensual slant to his mouth was unmistakable. Gabrielle didn’t think of the wisdom of what she was doing. Her action was purely reflex. She made a dive for the bed, her fingers frantically groping under the mattress. When she whirled to face him, she was holding the kitchen knife she had hidden away for just such an occasion. She raised it threateningly.
Cam had not moved from his position at the door. His response was not what she expected. He covered his eyes with one hand, shook his head, and gave out a theatrical sigh.
“Gabrielle, it’s not working,” he said softly. When he raised his head to look at her, his expression was grave.
She swore at him, and lifted the knife fractionally.
He forced a laugh. “What a terrifying spectacle, to be sure,” he cajoled, his eyes sweeping over her. His voice gentled. “Gabrielle, I tell you, it’s not working—the boy’s clothes, the manly gait, the urchin’s manners, the bad language, even the stench of fish on your skin…” His voice dropped, became husky, almost caressing. “Love, it’s not working. It never did. It never could. What made you think it would?”
Though he hadn’t taken a step, she retreated, her eyes as big as saucers. She shook her head.
Patiently, softly, as if he were gentling a skittish mare, he promised, “I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Words!” she said, finding her voice. “Empty words! You hurt me and you didn’t care.”
He closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them they were cloudy with regret. “No, love. You’re wrong. I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I do care. And I’ll prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”
His shoulders came away from the door. Though he made the move as careful and as unthreatening as he could make it, he saw the flare of fear in her eyes. “I won’t hurt you. Trust me,” he soothed.
He didn’t know where the soothing words were coming from. He’d never seduced a woman in his life. He knew that he was going against his own principles. He’d always considered seduction a ploy of the unscrupulous. His women came to him willingly. But he had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Gabrielle. He didn’t think he could survive another night without her. Perhaps if he hadn’t tasted the surrender on her lips an hour before he might have been able to let her go. He did not know. But he wouldn’t let her turn him away now, not unless she could convince him that her refusal was final.
God, he was sure he did not know what was driving him. Not lust. Not pleasure. Not the need for the ease of a woman’s body. Gabrielle. Only Gabrielle. He wanted to care for her, protect her, have some small say in the ordering of her life. Not as a captor, but with her full and willing consent. Oh God, when had he taken to gammoning himself? He wanted to possess her, claim her irrevocably in the most primitive way known to man. She was his mate. If she did not know that, she soon would. And he was done deferring to her virginal scruples.
Slowly, carefully, he took another step toward her.
“You’re my enemy,” she cried out. “It’s my duty to fight you.”
“No, love, I’m your husband. It’s your duty to love me.”
“A marriage of convenience! You promised the marriage would be annulled.”
He was only a step away from her now. “I’m not going to force you,” he said. “But if you don’t want me, you’re going to have to use that knife.”
“I’m not afraid to use it,” she warned, and aimed it straight at his heart. But they could both see that her hand was shaking.
His eyes searched hers, questioning, and at the same time offering reassurance. “Your choice, love,” he said with a crooked smile. “Kiss me or use the knife.”
“Cam…please…no,” she whispered.
It was the first time, the very first time she had given him his Christian name. Until that moment, he had perfect control of his breathing. A shudder passed over him. He murmured her name and reached for her. She stiffened. For one paralyzing moment of doubt he thought she meant to use the knife on him. But it slipped from her fingers to fall with a soft thud on the carpeted floor. Gabrielle gave a little whimper of protest, but when he captured her in his arms he felt her resistance begin to melt.
“Don’t fight me,” he breathed into her mouth. “Please. Don’t fight me. Not on this. It’s too late, don’t you see? Fight me on anything else you choose, but not on this.” And he glued his lips to hers.