Blankets were wrapped around them, and Anthony moved to pick up Camilla to carry her to the house. However, Benedict quickly stepped forward and laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"I will carry her."

Anthony gaped at him. "But you must be exhausted."

"I am not so tired that I cannot take care of my own wife."

The younger man lifted his eyebrows at that, but he backed up, shrugging, and let Benedict lift Camilla into his arms. Camilla was tired beyond thinking, and she merely rested her head upon his shoulder with a little sigh, giving herself up to the simple joy of being safe.

He carried her into the house and up the stairs to their room, already warmed by a roaring fire. He set her down on her feet beside the tub, which her maid had ready and waiting, filled with hot water. Benedict waved Millie out of the room and helped Camilla out of her wet, clinging clothes himself. She stepped into the tub, letting out a soft moan as she sank down into the blissfully warm water. Benedict quickly removed his own clothing and climbed into the tub behind her.

She did not question his presence. She merely leaned forward to make room for him, then lay back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his cheek upon her head. They sat like that for a long time, coc.o.o.ned together and wrapped in the warmth of the water.

"I thought I was going to lose you," Benedict murmured.

Camilla made a small sound of agreement.

"It scared the h.e.l.l out of me," he went on. He pressed his lips into her hair. "You know what I kept thinking? That I was going to die and I hadn't even made love to you. I realized what a d.a.m.n fool I had been."

His lips moved down the side of her head, and he kissed her ear. Gently he took the lobe between his lips and nibbled at it, sending little shivers running through Camilla. She felt tired and dreamy, yet suddenly alive and sizzling, as well.

"I don't intend to make that mistake again," he said huskily, kissing his way down her neck.

He slid his hands down her water-slick arms and back up. He caressed her shoulders and back, and spread his palms out across her chest, just below her collarbone. Her skin felt like satin beneath his fingertips. His hands slid down, curving over her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Benedict mumbled something, but his words were m.u.f.fled against Camilla's skin, and she could not understand what he said. It didn't matter, though. She was lost in a world of sensation, floating hazily in the pure pleasure that his hands and lips produced in her. His fingers circled her nipples, making them tight and engorged. A low throb started between her legs, aching and persistent She thought of the cataclysmic pleasure he had given her the night before, and her breath caught in her throat.

He cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, seeming to weigh them in his hands, and gently squeezed them. Then his hands moved down over the flat plane of her stomach and finally delved between her legs. He caressed her thighs and hips and abdomen, returning again and again to the pulsing core between her legs. Camilla's breath turned ragged, and she melted back against him, luxuriating in the touch of his knowledgeable fingers.

When she thought that she must explode as she had the other night, his hands, surprisingly, left her. He took her arm and turned her toward him. She instinctively realized what he wanted, and she turned fully facing him, reaching up to kiss him.

Their lips met and clung, for a moment gently, men with increasing heat. Their tongues clashed and twined, stoking the fires of their pa.s.sion. The air was cool on their damp bodies, exposed above the water, but they did not notice it for the heat raging through them. They kissed hungrily, over and over again, straining together. His arms were wrapped around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, and yet it did not feel close enough. Camilla wanted mote. The throbbing between her legs was engulfing her. She wanted to wrap her legs around him; she wanted to feel him inside her. A whimper of pure longing broke from her throat.

Benedict surged to his feet, as if galvanized by the sound, and pulled her up with him. He stepped from the tub and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around Camilla. Camilla's eyes slid down his body, taking in every long, muscled inch of him. He was so powerfully male that it was almost frightening. His manhood thrust from his body, huge and ready, throbbing with desire, and even as she thought that he was far too large, that he could never fit, desire blossomed between her legs, leaving her eager to feel him there.

He lifted her from the tub and set her down on the rug in front of the fire, busying himself with drying her off and, with each movement of his hands, arousing her desire further.

"Benedict..." she whispered, her hands going out to his chest.

"What?" He went still, his voice hoa.r.s.e.

She did not answer except with her fingers, sliding them down over his chest, still slick with water. He stood quiescent beneath her touch, only twitching now and then or sucking in a sharp breath when she touched some particularly responsive spot Even though his skin was still wet, he did not feel the cold. His body was like a furnace, roaring with the heat of its own pa.s.sion.

Camilla's fingers traced the ridges of his rib cage and circled the small masculine nipples, delighting in the way they hardened at her touch. She slid down onto the softer skin of his stomach and caressed the hard points of his hipbones, tentatively moving closer and closer to the pulsing evidence of his desire. At the last minute, however, she lost her nerve, and her hands slid away and back over his b.u.t.tocks. But that, too, was obviously pleasurable to him, for he let out a sharp little sound.

Camilla looked up at his face as her hands slid down over his b.u.t.tocks and onto the backs of his thighs. His eyes were closed, and his skin seemed stretched too tight across his bones. He looked like a man teetering on the knife edge of pain...except for the full, sensual curve of his lips, which gave away the exquisite pleasure that seared him.

Experimentally, Camilla dug her fingertips into his b.u.t.tocks, and was rewarded by an involuntary moan. His eyes opened, lit by dark flames. She squeezed and stroked, her hands moving restlessly over his backside.

"Touch me," he ordered hoa.r.s.ely.

Camilla knew what he meant It was what she wanted, too, but had been too hesitant to do. Her fingertips trailed around his narrow hips, skimming over the tops of his thighs. She paused for an instant, then gingerly encircled his maleness. His member leaped wildly at her touch, and she gasped, then let out a nervous laugh.

Hesitantly she smoothed her fingertips along the shaft, intrigued by the satin skin overlying the masculine hardness. With exquisite tenderness, she caressed him. He made an odd noise deep in his throat and pulled her hard against him. His mouth devoured hers, hungry and insistent, his tongue plundering her mouth. She could feel his shaft pulsing against her skin, the hard bones of his chest flattening her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His hands swept down her, digging into her derriere just as hers had with him, and she was faintly surprised by the jolt of pure l.u.s.t that stabbed her.

Camilla went up on her tiptoes, clinging to him. Moisture gushed between her legs. She felt wild and desperate. She wanted to climb up him, to swallow him, to possess him to the utmost. His need was

equally desperate. She could feel the tremors on his skin, his body tight as a bowstring.

Benedict pulled her down to the rug in front of the fire. The fire's glow played over their skin as Benedict stretched out beside Camilla and began to love her with his mouth. He kissed each nipple, then teased them with his tongue, lashing and circling. The little b.u.t.tons of flesh responded eagerly, hardening beneath his touch. Camilla arched her back, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s aching for him, and he responded by cupping his hand around one and pulling the nipple into his mouth. He suckled slowly and deeply, his hand gently squeezing and caressing her breast.

Camilla's breath shuddered out, and she dug her hands into the rug beneath her. With every pull of his mouth, she felt a deep, visceral tug straight down to her womb. She squeezed her legs together, trying to ease the throbbing ache, but Benedict slipped his hand between her legs, moving them apart, and began to stroke the slick, engorged folds of flesh. Camilla groaned, bombarded by pleasure from both places. His fingertips teased and caressed the supremely tender flesh, sending her pa.s.sion spiraling higher and higher.

His mouth moved to the other nipple, and, to her surprise, he slipped a finger inside her. She gasped, moving her hips against him in rhythm with his caresses, but just when she began to feel as if she were on the edge of the precipice over which she had fallen last time, he pulled back out and cupped his hand between her legs. Camilla writhed and moved against his hand, urging him to go on, but he did not, merely pressing her down and still, while his lips left her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and traveled down her stomach and onto her abdomen.

Her breath was coming almost in sobs now, and she pushed vainly against his hand, but he would not speed up, just continued to love her with his mouth until she thought that she would go mad with desire. Then he slipped his hands under her b.u.t.tocks, raising her a little, and he moved between her legs. His shaft prodded insistently at the gates of her femininity.

"Please," she murmured. "Please. I want you... inside me."

Her words almost broke his control. He went still for a moment, struggling to regain mastery over himself. Then he guided his manhood into her. Camilla's eyes widened as he stretched her. For an instant she did not think it was going to work; then there was a flash of pain, and he slid inside. Camilla sucked in her breath, her fingers digging into Benedict's arms. She had never before felt anything like this, a delicious sensation of being stretched and filled, completely filled. She wriggled a little, opening her legs wider, as he sank deep within her.

Then he began to move within her, and she realized that what she felt before had been as nothing to the pleasure she was experiencing now. He stroked in and out in a slow rhythm, building up her pa.s.sion until Camilla thought that she might scream from the mix of frustration and pleasure. He began to move more and more quickly, pumping powerfully, and the wild, sweet, dark thing that had swept through Camilla last night engulfed her again.

She let out a cry as the spasms raced through her. She held on tightly as Benedict bucked against her, his hoa.r.s.e cry m.u.f.fled against her neck.

Camilla wanted to laugh and cry, all at the same time and with great force. She wanted to ask Benedict a million things, but her thoughts would not stop zipping around enough for her to form a coherent sentence. Most of all, she wanted to say, "I love you." But she kept her lips clamped tight against the words. She was not so foolish as to think that he would welcome them.

Benedict gently eased out of Camilla's arms. They had fallen asleep tangled together in front of the fire, but the fire had died down and the air had grown chilly. He knelt and picked Camilla up, then carried her to the bed, where he gently laid her down and pulled the covers up over her. She sighed and smiled in her sleep, curling up on her side, but she did not awaken. He stood for a moment, looking down at her, and stroked back an errant curl from her forehead. He wondered why it had taken him so long to realize that he loved her.

He had let that witch Annabeth sour him on women, he knew. But anyone with half a brain should know, he thought, that Camilla was nothing like Annabeth. He had been stubborn and blind, and it had taken that storm and almost losing her to wake him up. Well, at least now it was much clearer to him what he had to do. He had to get her idiotic cousin out of whatever mess he had gotten himself into, and resolve the problem he had come here for. Then he would have to fix it so that no scandal could attach itself to Camilla because of this little charade they had been playing the past weeks. But first, he knew, before anything else, he must pay a visit to the Earl.

With a sigh, Benedict stepped back from his contemplation of Camilla and went over to his wardrobe. He dressed with quick efficiency, brushed a kiss across Camilla's forehead and strode out of the room.

Jenkins opened the door of the Earl's room at Benedict's knock and led him inside, announcing him to Chevington. The old man looked up and smiled. "Well, there are you. None the worse for the wear, I trust, after your experience."

"No, sir. I think that Camilla suffered nothing more than exhaustion. I left her in bed, sleeping."

Chevington nodded, giving a peremptory wave to his servant. Jenkins quietly bowed out of the room. The Earl motioned for Benedict to come closer.

"Now, tell, me what happened. They keep things from me, not wanting to send me into another fit. It's d.a.m.ned annoying, I'll tell you. All they would tell me was that the storm caught you, but you and Camilla were fine. What really happened? How did you manage to get caught out in a storm?"

"We were picnicking on Keep Island. We didn't notice that a storm was brewing until late. No doubt that is my fault. I am not used to coastal storms. Grew up in Lincolnshire, you see." He hesitated, wondering just how much he ought to tell the Earl. He didn't want to frighten the old man. Though he had found the man to be much more capable of handling problems than anyone else thought him to be, still, he was not sure that the whole story wouldn't be too much for him.

Chevington frowned. "There's something else. What is it? Just say it, man. Don't worry about sending me into an apoplexy. I'm feeling much better these days. Why, I get up and walk around the room whenever I can get rid of that fussbudget Jenkins. Now, what happened?"

"I think we would have made it back before the norm broke if the boat hadn't started taking on water. Certainly we wouldn't have capsized and almost drowned, as we did."

"Almost drowned!" The old man glared. "G.o.d dammit! I knew they were hiding something from me. 'Everything's fine,' indeed."

"Well, we made it to sh.o.r.e, and we are both uninjured. The thing is...the boat had been tampered with."

"Tampered with. How? What do you mean? Who would have done such a thing?"

"I don't know who, sir. That is what I hope to find out. As for how, I think probably a hole was cut in it. Boats don't naturally get perfectly round holes knocked in them."

"Of course not."

"I think he must have drilled a hole and filled it up again, put a round piece of wood in almost as big as the hole and stuck it with something sweet, probably syrup or honey or sugar, something that would dissolve in the water. I'm not sure exactly how he timed it. Perhaps he didn't. He may not have cared whether we were killed going to the island or coming back from it."

Chevington stared in stupefaction. "I can't believe this."

"It's true enough. I haven't told Camilla. I didn't want to scare her. I imagine she thinks the boat just sprang a leak."

The Earl had his doubts about that. After all, Camilla had been raised on the coast and knew enough about boats not to be fooled by an intentionally cut hole. However, he wasn't one to spoil the man's illusions about his bride. Benedict would find out about Camilla soon enough.

"But why?" Chevington asked, going to the question that concerned him the most. "Why would anyone want to harm you and Camilla? Is it connected to the smuggling, do you think?"

Benedict sighed. He was finding it harder than he had thought to go into his real reason for being here. He did not want to lose the old man's respect. "It may be, at least in part," he temporized.

"Have you found out about Anthony?" the old man went on anxiously. "Is he involved with the smugglers?"

"I'm not sure. I haven't found any real evidence of it, just a lot of hints from the servants and townspeople. However, he is definitely involved in something odd. He and Camilla sneaked over to Keep Island the other day. That is why I insisted on going there this morning."

"Keep Island?" the old man repeated in a flabbergasted voice. "What are you talking about? Why would they sneak over there?"

"I have no idea, sir. But they went there before the sun was up, and did so in a most secretive manner. When I asked Camilla where she had been, she lied to me. She told me she had been visiting an old woman named Nan, who was in ill health."

"Lied, huh?" Chevington seemed little surprised by that fact. "Well, I daresay she's got something going on, then. Damme, I hope Anthony hasn't pulled her into some sc.r.a.pe of his. However, I can't imagine what they could be doing over there. There is nothing but ruins there. And why sneak over? They can go over there quite freely any time they like."

"I presume they didn't want anyone to know they'd been there. It makes me think perhaps they are hiding something there." He paused, then went on. "If he were involved in the smuggling, sir-might they use the ruins to hide their loot?"

Chevington shrugged. "I suppose they could. However, you would have found it today, I would think. Everything's exposed there, nothing hidden. I would think the caves would be a much better place than the island." He stopped abruptly, considering, then went on. "Well, there are the cellars."

"Cellars, sir?" Benedict's pulse quickened.

"Yes. The old house had cellars beneath it for storage. Quite large. During the Middle Ages they used to store great barrels of food and ale, not to mention armaments. According to the tales, there were dungeons, too, but I always doubted that myself."

"How does one get into the cellars?"

"I'm not sure. I never went down there myself. I would have supposed the ceiling had caved in on them." The old man sighed. "But if anyone had discovered a way down there, it would have been those two. They were always into trouble. Kept their nurse and governess hopping, I'll tell you." He paused, looking distressed. "So he's brought Camilla into it, has he? d.a.m.n the boy!"

"Believe me, sir. I will do whatever it takes to make sure that she is not involved in all this."

Chevington snorted. "It is obvious you haven't been married to the girl long. She has always been one to do as she pleases, and she'll do anything for that young rapscallion."

Benedict scowled. "I am well aware of that, sir. But once I figure out what they're up to, I will make sure that she doesn't have any choice."

"I will talk to Anthony," the Earl said heavily. "I will make him admit it. Make him agree to stop. I have been too weak. Haven't wanted to believe it." He shook his head. "Maybe I've given the boy too much freedom. That's what that tedious Beryl has been telling me for years."

"I don't know if it is that, sir."

"You don't think so?" Chevington tilted his head, looking at him with interest. "Tell me what you think."

"I think it's boredom, sir. Anthony is a lively lad, and, well, he finds his life here a trifle dull. Let me see what I can do. If I can get him out of this mess without his tarnishing the Chevington reputation, would you be willing to loosen the reins on the boy?"

"Loosen the reins? What do you mean? I have never ridden that boy hard."

"No. But you've kept him close, no doubt out of love. He is a young man of high spirits. He needs an outlet. They tell me he wants to join the army. There could be worse things for a boy like him. He would learn discipline, and he'd have a chance to use all that energy of his for a good cause."

The old man paled a little. "I cannot risk it He's the heir."

"Other heirs to t.i.tles have been in the army. I was myself."

The old man's eyebrows lifted. "No one told me you held a t.i.tle."

"I purposely didn't tell anyone. That is the other thing I came to talk to you about. But, first, promise me that you will at least think about letting Anthony leave the estate. For longer than a brief visit, I mean. If you cannot accept the army, then consider sending him off to Oxford. Or-" Benedict took on a resigned look "-let him come to stay with us in London."

"London? I thought it was Bath where you lived."

"Not in the future. Let him stay there for the Season, say. Get some town polish. I would make sure he does not get drawn into deep play or fall in with sharpsters."

Chevington nodded. "All right. I will think about it. I never wanted to stifle the boy.''

"I know, sir. Everything you have done has been done with love."

Benedict fell silent. He cast a glance at the Earl, who was watching him with increasing interest.

"Well, man?" Chevington said with obvious curiosity. "You said you had something else to tell me. What is it? Out with it."

Benedict drew a deep breath. He hoped he was not about to harm the old man. But he had to right this situation. He could not continue spinning lies and getting both himself and Camilla more and more deeply entrapped within them.

"The thing is," he began, then stopped and cleared his throat. Chevington gave him an impatient nod. "I-I haven't been entirely open with you. Camilla and I- Well-" He finished in a rush. "I am not named La.s.siter, and I am not married to your granddaughter."

There was a long moment of silence. Chevington simply stared at Benedict, too stunned by his p.r.o.nouncement even to be angry. "I beg your pardon?"

Benedict repeated his words, and then, as quickly and concisely as he could, described the events of the night he had met Camilla, how she had told him and Sedgewick about the predicament in which she had found herself, and how he had volunteered to play the part of her husband.