Authors: Kelly Jameson
“But…” Meagan began.
“I can’t stay now. I have to go. I’ll send someone to check on you. Get some rest now. And don’t worry about Mother Stephens. I’ll take care of that too.”
Meagan nodded her head. Camille gently squeezed Meg’s hand. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
Quietly, Camille drew the curtain shut and made for the door. She didn’t want to be seen.
“Hey lassie, me cup runneth dry!” yelled a beastly, rotund man with a red, splotchy face and teeth that could have belonged to a horse. His portly, monstrous arm reached out and snaked around her small waist, pulling her down onto his lap.
“Don’t ye look pretty today, lass. Pretty enough to kiss!” Camille stopped squirming when she realized it was exciting the grotesque man and only served to spur on the loud guffaws coming from around the table.
“I don’t work here no more,” she said, adopting her tavern speech.
“Aye, the little vixen is an uppity wench now. Don’t work here no more! I’ve had me eye on you, girl. Ye may not be servin’ tables today, but ye’ll be servin’ me manly needs soon enough!” He shoved an empty tankard into her hand. "Now be a good little gal and get me another drink first, will ye?"
Camille was alarmed. “Let me go; I said I don’t work here no more.” She gave him a smile that would have melted gold, but still he did not release her.
“Yer the prettiest thing I seed in years, wench, and I don’t think I’ll let ya go without yer givin’ me a big kiss,” he snarled. "And what's with them fancy rags you got on?"
Camille’s mind raced in revulsion. She said a silent prayer to God asking him to let the chortling bear of a man release her! Amazingly, the slug’s arm slackened a bit and the smile disappeared from his big, meaty face. She followed his gaze across the room to the tall figure eclipsing the doorway and gasped. He looked furious. His dark eyes flashed daggers as they surveyed the room. She heard the whispers around her.
“Ain’t that a Branton?”
Very funny, God! If there was one thing she feared even more than a lusty patron, it was Nicholas Branton.
She had never seen him looking so angry. What was he doing here?
Sweet Lord, if she hadn’t gotten herself into a fine mess this time! Yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He towered over the other men in the room and commanded the center of attention.
His black hair glistened in the flickering candlelight. As he got closer, Camille could see the hard set of his jaw, the graze of dark whiskers on his chin, the menacing look in his dark eyes. His tight black breeches outlined the powerful build of his thighs, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled back, revealing sleekly muscled forearms.
No doubt he was rankled about the inconvenience their little arrangement was causing him. He cornered Mother Stephens, who despite her considerable girth, seemed to shrink away from him.
“I’m looking for my wife, Camille. You’re going to tell me where she is.”
“Yer
wife
?” she said, looking puzzled. “You must be mistaken....”
“Yes, my wife. We were married last night,” he said. “Now you’re going to stop wasting my time and tell me where she is. She’s leaving with me and she’s never setting foot in this establishment again.”
The fat, cowering woman pointed a grubby finger in Camille’s direction.
“You’ll find her o’er there Sir, but mind ye, I have no one to fill her shift....” Her voice trailed off at the incredulous look that sprung into his eyes.
Nicholas clenched his fists and slowly turned a heated gaze in Camille’s direction. There was nowhere left to hide. That corner of the room cleared out quickly, patrons overturning wobbly, uneven tables and spilling ale in their wake. Slowly, his thickly muscled legs covered the distance between them.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take your hands off my wife,” Nicholas growled.
“Is that so, ye bleedin’ sod? This pretty little thing, who was about to spread ‘er legs for me, is yer wife?”
Camille struggled in his arms, noting the gold storm in Nick’s eyes. A slow, malicious smile crept over his face.
The red-bearded man stood up and released her, ready for a fight. Camille backed away, until her small form pressed against the back wall, her heart beating wildly.
The sailor reached down and pulled a jagged knife from his boot, smiling lecherously. “What ye gonna do now, sod?”
“That depends mate,” Nicholas said. His eyes were intense, blazing with bronze sparks. Camille had seen him angry before, but never like this.
The man threw his head back and laughed, then suddenly charged Nicholas. Nicholas caught his beefy arm in a deathly grip and twisted it, knocking the knife to the floor. The sailor was built like a tree trunk and the two men struggled. Nicholas got the upper hand and his fist connected with the man’s chin, causing him to stagger back.
He charged Nicholas again, and this time, the pair tumbled over a table onto the floor. Both stood up quickly, circling each other.
“Nicholas!” Camille shouted.
Nicholas turned just as one of the sailor’s mates swung a chair at his head. He ducked, the rough edges of the chair leg grazing his cheek, and repositioned himself.
“You want some too?” Nicholas said. “Happy to oblige.” With a few quick movements, a few strong jabs, the man lay in a heap on the floor. Growing impatient, Nicholas pulled a pistol from the back of his trousers and brought it close to the red-bearded man’s face.
“You ain’t gonna use that, mate,” he said, hesitantly. “She ain’t worth
that
much trouble.” He raised his hands in defeat and took a step backward.
“You’re right,” Nicholas said, his other fist shooting out, breaking jawbone and knocking the big man unconscious. “I’m not going to use it.”
He tucked the pistol neatly into the back of his trousers, his eyes locking with Camille’s. He closed the distance between them quickly.
“I find you here, after I expressly forbade it?” His eyes traveled over her appearance and he frowned as they linger
ed
on the creamy mounds of flesh straining at the low-cut bodice of her green dress.
He reached out a finger to touch a lock of her honey-colored hair, then pulled on it, bringing her face mere inches from his, his other hand tangling in her soft hair. His voice was strained.
“No wife of a Branton goes waltzing off as she pleases to work in a filthy tavern for a pittance. Do you understand?”
His eyes challenged hers to respond, to say even one word. Dear God, he thought she was
working
? Suddenly she remembered the tankard thrust into her hand. The rough sailors' lies about what she was going to do for him. "I wasn't…."
“God knows what else you’ve been doing under this roof, but as long as you’re my wife, that stops too.”
Camille was incensed. Her green eyes flashed emerald fire.
“Release me at once, sir. I am neither your property nor your slave. If you wish to talk to me as a civilized human being, we’ll finish this discussion outside.” She set the tankard on a nearby table.
Nicholas released her in disbelief and watched as she held her head high and sashayed out of the establishment, every male eye in the place following her.
Nicholas shivered unexpectedly at the thought of what could have befallen her if he hadn’t showed up when he had, but the fear was suddenly replaced by anger. The thought that she had been giving other men what he, her lawfully wedded husband, had not demanded, suddenly made him furious. He was right behind her, the two of them all but tumbling into the black coach waiting outside.
13
As she settled herself on the velvet-covered seat, squeezing her small form into the corner, Camille wished she had a horse, one that would carry her far away from Nicholas. She was already tired of the ornate carriage with its heavy leather door that carried the bold Branton family crest, the tiny little cushions that matched the maroon trimmings of the carriage.
Camille would not meet Nicholas’ eyes. “I have never been talked to in such a degrading manner, sir, and I find your insolence highly detestable,” she said.
“You would play the lady now? I would not expect your patrons to be quoting Shakespeare or singing you love ballads. And call me Nicholas. You’re my wife, for God’s sake, even if it’s in name only.” He raked his hand through his hair. “I didn’t agree to this marriage so you could saunter about and besmirch my family’s name. We haven't been married but a day and you don't have the decency to honor our agreement?” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “If I’d known you were a whore, I would never have agreed to the marriage.”
Camille felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. First he had thought her a thief. Now he thought her a whore? Just what did he think she was doing at the tavern? A deeper flush crept up her neck and cheeks at the horrid thought, and she couldn’t find her tongue. A great lump was forming in her throat and she felt as if she were choking. He grabbed her hand. The jolted touch was like fire, alarming and mesmerizing at the same time.
“The ring on your finger means you belong to me. We had an agreement. You’re the wife of a Branton. You will come to understand what that means and not to question my authority.”
She nearly laughed in his face, only she didn’t feel in the least like laughing. It seemed, in the short time since they'd met, Nicholas always thought the worst of her.
“I should think, with the vast Branton fortunes at your disposal, you should not need to serve drunks in a wenching establishment.”
Camille turned away from his probing eyes to stare out at the fading city and the darkness. The moon cast a silver-yellow glow over the countryside. She was trying desperately to keep her upper lip from trembling, to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks.
Everything—the events of the past few days tumbling one upon the other, his accusations, the threat of being beaten by Meletios, what Meletios had done to Meagan, the unplanned wedding ceremony—it was all too much. But she would not correct his misimpressions. She didn’t care what he thought.
The pair was silent; each lost in their own thoughts. After a while, she turned to him.
“Is this what brought you out, to tell me you have a reputation to uphold and that I may have some of your charity if I need it?”
If there was one thing Camille had learned in the past few years, it was that the steps of charity were steep indeed. “I will only say this once. You do not know me at all. I think we have made a grave mistake,” she continued. “I don’t want your charity. I want nothing from you.”
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?” Nicholas asked, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“I can take care of myself,” Camille said. "I've worked in the tavern a long time."
“Can you? That’s not what I witnessed tonight. What if that man took his knife and plunged it into you after he was through spreading your legs? Look at me, Camille.”
When she wouldn’t, Nicholas reached over and pulled her onto his lap. His rough fingers cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. Her bottom was nestled in the hard cradle of his thighs, a much too intimate position.
“Perhaps I had you figured wrong. Do you like the rough sort, Camille? I bet you know how to drive a man to distraction.” His voice was low now, seeming to scrape at the constrained darkness of the carriage.
“I don’t...” Camille said but was silenced by the touch of his lips upon hers, hard, eager, angry. She tried to push him away but his lips were firm, demanding, his breath hot and sweet with the lingering taste of brandy.
His lips searched hers, tasting, teasing, taunting. Despite her best efforts to resist, a shock of warmth flooded her soul. His hard male form was pressed tightly against her, yet his lips were soft and caressing, almost possessive. She found herself wanting to taste him, her body traitorously hungry for some small measure of warmth. His long, lean fingers threaded through her silky, golden hair, scattering pins in their wake.
His lips continued down her throat, weaving a hot trail until they returned to plunder her mouth again, his tongue forcing her lips open to his rough exploration. Camille heard him groan and then, just as suddenly, he released her.
“As I expected,” he said, “you are no innocent.” Camille felt the moment evaporate like the morning mist, and was rendered speechless once more.
“We are alone now. How could you stop me from taking what is rightfully mine, what now belongs to no other man? I am certain you would prefer my lovemaking to that beast of a man who had you on his lap.”
Camille trembled. “You...you said you would not demand your husbandly rights.”
His eyes, a mixture of gold heat and ice, skirted her form. “Do not fear. I am not as callous and cruel as you may think. I do not possess the same sort of morals as one of your tavern patrons. Besides, you are not the type of woman I normally desire.”
It was then that she noticed the bruise and scrape on his left cheek. Instinctively she reached to touch it. "You’re hurt,” she said quietly.