Chapter Eight

The painted canvas from that twisty game came in handy after all; while Jade held it against the broken frame, Cam attached it with some nails and a hammer he found in one of the cabinets.

It wasn't perfect, but it did a respectable job of keeping the wind out, although the parlor became much darker almost immediately. The rain had pooled under the window, and as more soaked the canvas, they knew their makeshift measure wouldn't keep the room dry.

"I'll get pots," Jade volunteered, rolling up her damp sleeves as she headed toward the kitchen.

"And I'll start on the pane." Cam scooped up the waste basket, then lowered himself to his haunches to begin carefully retrieving as much of the broken glass as possible so it wouldn't cut either of them.

After a few frantic minutes of activity, the pair of them sat back on their heels and looked around. Jade blew out a breath at the same time he began to chuckle. When she raised a brow at him, he shrugged.

"The Cottage is small enough, and with this chill, I'm guessing our time using this room is at an end."

Humming, she glanced around the room and seemed to come to some conclusion. She pushed herself to her feet, and offered him her hand. "Then let us see what we can do about salvaging the furnishings before they become moister, eh?"

He winced.

"What?"

Teasingly, he brushed his hands on his trousers, then accepted her hand. He didn't need her help, but it was nice to allow her to pretend she was lifting him. After what they'd just shared—not what he'd said and seen and done in the bedroom, but what they'd shared here moments ago—he didn't mind letting her issue commands.

But Jade held his hand longer than was necessary. "You don't think we need to bother moving these things?" She was referring to his wince.

"Nay, lass, I agree, it would be best to save them. It was yer use of ‘moister' I was objecting to."

One black brow rose in challenge. "It's a word."

"Aye, but…" He grinned wryly. "Nae one likes the word ‘moist'. If ye were to take the umbrella and tromp into the village, and ask around the pub, not a single man there—nor the women who take rooms upstairs—would tell ye they like the word moist. None of them. And moister is even worse."

She pretended to gasp. "I think I'm offended on behalf of the word. Moist. Moist, moister, moistest." When Cam winced theatrically again, she smacked his shoulder. "Surely there are worse words? I've never cared for ‘curd'. Or ‘squid'."

"Ointment," he volunteered, still grinning. "Bulbous."

It was obvious she was fighting a smile. "Phlegm. Lugubrious?"

"Fester! Squirt."

One of Jade's fingers poked him in the chest. "There. Now those words are terrible. Likely because of the subject matter. ‘Moist' is perfectly fine."

"Ye're still saying it!"

"What other words convey the same meaning? Damp? Dank, clammy, muggy? I'd rather put a moist chocolate cake in my mouth, than a dank and clammy one!" She poked him again. "Moist is a—"

He caught her finger before she could poke him a third time. "Treasure," he asked in a mock-serious tone, "what do I need to do to get you to stop saying mo—that word?"

She grinned. "Help me move furniture."

Of course he was happy to let her take the lead, as she began barking orders and plans for the furnishings. And he was happy to lend his strength to the task, knowing the burn in his muscles was what he needed to distract himself from the intimacy of the day.

Not just how she'd looked, spread out on his bed, finger-fooking herself. But the way she'd held his hand as they'd sat in the parlor, talking about…everything.

It took them the rest of the day, but by the evening, most of the furniture and books from the parlor had been moved into one of the empty bedchambers. The contents of the cabinets were deemed by Jade to be safe from damp, so they remained.

The only exceptions were the large sofa he'd been sleeping on, which couldn't fit through the parlor door without three more burly men, and the chaise and leather chair—along with a small table—she'd instructed him to move into the dining room.

Once there, she had him shift the dining table to one side—storing all but two of the chairs along one wall—and set about arranging the new furniture in front of the hearth. By the time she was finished, the dining room now boasted a much smaller dining area, but a cozy little sitting area to take the place of their inoperable parlor.

They were too tired to attempt anything out of the recipe book, so with the rain still beating down upon the thatch, they enjoyed simple sandwiches and some sliced apples from earlier in the season.

There was a concern which had been tickling the back of Cam's mind since they realized the sofa would have to stay in the parlor. He was hoping to find an extra blanket to keep himself warm tonight, and wished he had his great coat to sleep in.

But Jade surprised him—of course she did—by taking his hand after they finished cleaning up from dinner. Her smile seemed…hesitant. It wasn't an expression he was used to seeing on this maybe-wife's face.

"Cam, you cannot sleep on the sofa."

He dismissed her with a wry grin. "Of course I can. A little cold and damp never killed anyone."

One elegant brow rose. "First of all, yes, plenty of people are killed by being chilled and moist."

Since he was certain she'd chosen that word just to rile him, he winced dramatically again.

"And second of all," she continued, "it is foolish to tempt fate when you do have access to a bed. A large bed, big enough for both of us."

Cam stifled his sigh, knowing he wouldn't be strong enough to resist her if she persisted. "Treasure," he murmured, lifting his palm to her cheek. "I cannae. Ye ken that."

"I promise to keep my hands to myself." Her gray eyes were pleading as she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. "Please, Cam? I will feel far too guilty to sleep if you're not warm and comfortable tonight, too."

Well, fook. There was no escaping her sweet please, was there?

Och, dinnae pretend to be a martyr. Ye'd cut off yer left nut to be able to sleep beside her!

Well, perhaps not his left nut.

But aye, it didn't take much convincing for him to give in, to follow her back to the bedroom, to each perform their ablutions in private, then slip into the large, warm bed.

And there was enough space for them to sleep without touching, but somehow, Jade's cheek found its way to his shoulder, and his arm found its way around her waist.

She drooled a bit.

It was adorable.

If Cam hadn't been falling in love with her already, that night, holding her in his arms, would've cinched it. He woke up curled around her, and knew it was the best night's sleep he'd achieved since he'd arrived.

The raging cockstand was almost worth it.

Luckily, he rolled out of bed before Jade could notice—or comment—on it, and padded barefoot, in just the shirt and trousers he'd slept in, to the kitchen to start boiling water for the day.

It was a…cozy sort of existence, this interlude at The Cottage. The pair of them, working together, teasing each other, reading or playing silly games in their new sitting area in the dining room. He still hadn't had the chance to dig through the reports from last quarter, but they could wait.

Everything could wait; his investments, his father, the outside world. As far as Cam was concerned, this rain could last for forty days and nights, until the rest of the world—including London—was swept away, leaving only him and Jade alone. Together.

But all good things must come to an end.

And truthfully, he didn't want London to be swept away in The Next Great Flood. He liked the pastry chefs there. And his tailor. And that one coffee shop where the hostess always flirted with him and gave him an extra sweet bun. Aye, he'd miss parts of the city.

Even if he wasn't ready to return.

On the morning of their eighth day at The Cottage, Cam woke on his side, cradling Jade in his arms. Her sweet little arse was pressed up against his cock, which nestled perfectly along the cleft he could feel beneath her nightgown. God Almighty, but it was the most perfect torture, was it not?

One of his arms was tucked under the pillow, the other was thrown across her side, resting on her stomach.

And her hand rested on top of it, her slim fingers wrapped around his.

Almost as if, in sleep, she did want him.

Dinnae get a big head, laddie. Nae one else has ever wanted ye. Why should she?

True. But Cam had never wanted anyone else, either. Not the way he wanted this woman in his arms.

That's yer cock talking.

Nay—well, aright, aye. His cock wanted her. But he wanted her in other ways, too. He wanted to hold her, cherish her, show her that he was more than everyone assumed.

Gently, slowly, he turned his hand over in her hold, so their fingers were still entwined, but their palms pressed against each other.

In the silence of dawn, Cam marveled at the feel of her hand in his, her body pressed so trustingly against his, and listened to the sound of her breathing.

It took a while to realize that was the only sound he heard.

The rain had stopped.

Frowning, he rolled away, taking her hand with him. She murmured happily and rolled as well, pressing herself against him. Lying on his back, he listened to the sound of the wind, and realized the storm had finally blown itself out, although the weather was likely still raw and damp outside.

No' moist. Never moist.

Unconsciously, his thumb was rubbing small circles on her palm. His second hand joined the first, and his lips twitched at the lazy comfort of it, just touching her. Just exploring her.

The pads of his fingers found a callus on her index finger, and he traced it carefully. From writing, no doubt. She was an industrious, admirable businesswoman.

But…something about the callus was familiar. Cam could never be called a good student, not in the same way Malcolm was, and he had this same callus. A long one, along the edge of his index finger. It didn't come from holding a pen, but from holding a…

Holding a sword.

Curious now, Cam pushed himself upright, peering down at her hand in the poor light. Sure enough, her finger bore the same callus his did, in miniature.

Why would she be holding a sword?

Jade stirred, and when he glanced at her, she was smiling sleepily up at him. "Good morning, Cam."

And he had to fight the urge to bend down and kiss her, knowing that something so simple could hurt him beyond doubt. When she walked away.

But still, he forced a smile, and curled his hands around hers once more. "Good morning, Treasure. The rain's stopped."

She cocked her head to one side, and nodded. "I believe you're— "A yawn interrupted her, and he had to chuckle.

"Come along. Let us break our fast and go out to investigate the damage."

The Cottage had survived the deluge well enough. Besides the wrecked parlor window, a good amount of the thatch had been damaged, although there were no leaks yet. Cam made a note to inquire with his usual thatchers in the village, and have them come investigate.

Otherwise, the main problem was the mud.

"This is ridiculous!" Jade called out, laughter in her voice, as she bent to untie her boot. "I'm going to lose these one way or the other, so it might as well be of my own volition!"

And that was how the pair of them spent the day barefoot—her skirt tucked up high enough to give him intriguing views of her calves, his kilt already mud-spattered—fixing up what they could under a threatening sky full of fast-moving gray clouds.

In the afternoon, Cam took her down to the beach, where he was reminded yet again of how remarkable she truly was. She identified any number of strange sea creatures which had been washed up by the storm, and even followed him gamely into one of the sea caves.

A squall blew through, sending them running back to shelter, breathless from laughter. Cam could tell from the smell of the air that it would be short. Assuming the sun came out tomorrow, and the roads dried a bit, he and Jade could make their way to the train station sooner than he wanted.

Aye, their interlude would be over tomorrow, one way or the other.

But there was something he was curious about, first.

So after they got cleaned up—she refused to let him boil enough water for a bath, claiming with a laugh that she didn't need it—he met her in the foyer. After wracking his brain, he still couldn't come up with a nonchalant way to bring up her callus, so he decided to be direct.

By handing her a furled umbrella.

"What's this?" she asked, frowning down at it.

Feeling ten times a fool, and glad no one was there to witness it except her, Cam lifted the remaining umbrella in an en guard position, one hand held behind him.

Her brows went up.

"Cam? Are you feeling well?"

"Aye. I just feel the need for some exercise."

Her knuckles had tightened around the umbrella's shaft. "We spent all day out of doors. Do you want to go on another walk in the rain?"

"Nay." He took a deep breath and raised his "foil". "I want ye to defend yerself."

She opened her mouth—likely to ask him what in the name of Christ and the little fishes he was doing—but he didn't give her the opportunity.

He lunged.

And as he expected, she parried.

"Cam! What are you doing?"

"Fencing!" He lunged again, and she parried again. "I expected ye to be better!"

He suspected Jade Thacker didn't do anything without becoming very good at it.

"Did you?" She knocked aside another attack, then a fourth. This time, she twisted under his guard, the tip of her umbrella slid perilously close to his ribs before he could knock it aside. "You are right, of course."

Laughter burst from his lips, as she went on the offensive. He was right; she was good, and her style was somehow familiar. Definitely similar to his, at least.

"Where did ye train?" His back foot bumped against the door, telling him it was time to stop giving ground and push her back. "Ye have remarkable balance."

She acknowledged the compliment with a flourish of her umbrella, and a small smile. "My father taught me, along with his sailing master. Later, he hired a training master, although I found it difficult to find bouts."

"Nonsense." Cam was delighted to discover he was short of breath. He'd missed this play, this banter, this give and take on the strip. Even the foyer of The Cottage was worth it. "There are circuits of women's fencing bouts, are there no'? The papers publish sketches of their outlandish wear—"

Jade's "Ha!" was accompanied by a point, proving he'd been too distracted. She stepped back, settling into guard with a smug smile. "Have you ever seen a women's match? Some of them are quite skilled, but there's no fervor, no desperation."

"Ah," he drawled thoughtfully, before lunging. "So ye want blood?"

"No," she panted, parrying with a grin. "I want to fight an opponent who wants blood."

His laughter distracted him again, and she darted in for another point. He blocked and twisted in time, and decided it was time to show her his skills.

The hall was silent but for their heavy breathing and the clash of their makeshift foils. Then, she surprised him.

With a quiet grunt, Jade swung the umbrella in from the side, catching him unprepared.

"Another point!" she whooped, dropping back into guard position with a triumphant smile.

He scowled, rubbing his bruised hip. "That didnae count. It was below my waist, and ye swung…instead of…lunging." His eyes narrowed as he remembered another opponent who'd surprised him similarly. "Have ye fenced with a backsword?"

"No, a saber," she chirped. "I was raised among sailors, remember! And I thought ye had training with the claidheamh?"

"Aye, I used to—" His teeth snapped together as he realized what she'd said, and he dropped his arm. "It was ye! That afternoon at the club!" Tossing the umbrella aside, he stalked toward her. "Ye were my opponent, the Chinaman?"

She was watching his face, and as he approached, shuffled back two steps. But she seemed to catch herself, realizing she was running. Her chin came up, her shoulders straightened, and she lowered her umbrella a moment before he reached her.

Her light hold on the makeshift foil allowed him to wrench it from her hand. His fingers closed around her wrist as he lifted her hand so he could examine the tell-tale callus.

"Ye are a fencer," he muttered, switching his gaze to her face.

She was chewing on her lower lip when she nodded, as if she didn't know what to expect from him. He blew out a breath and shook his head.

"Damnation, Treasure, ye really are remarkable." Under his fingers, her pulse jumped. "That really was ye? That day at my club?"

"I didn't know it was you," she whispered. "Not until you removed your mask."

His thumb pressed against her inner wrist as he huffed slightly. "I remember ye scurried off after that." He'd been distracted by Da's letter, but he had noted "the Chinaman's" disappearance.

"Well, you would have as well." Her chin jutted out mulishly. "If you'd realized you'd been beaten by the man you'd just given your virginity to."

His grin was crooked when he laid his other hand on her hip, drawing her closer and trapping her wrist between them. "I gave it back to ye, if ye'll recall," he murmured, staring down at her. "And it seems a shame now, to ken these curves were hidden beneath that costume."

"Curves?" She snorted, but didn't pull away. "I'm straight. And it's just a man's fencing suit. I barely had to wrap my breasts, since the canvas is so stiff."

With his hand holding hers against his chest, it was easy enough to brush the edge of two fingers along the tops of her breasts, smiling as she swallowed a shiver.

"As I said, a shame," he repeated. "But how did ye talk them into allowing ye to spar? And why did ye no' tell me?"

She sighed. "Money can buy rather a lot of privilege, Cam. And as for the second…" She shook her head, dropping her gaze to his chin. "I suppose I didn't see a need for it. You hadn't asked, and the manager of the club told me he'd immediately rescind my membership if there was ever a whisper of my name in association—"

"Ye're a club member?"

Her smile seemed a bit sad. "Bribery is a tool a successful businesswoman must use often. I am only allowed inside if I sneak in through the servants' entrance dressed as a maid, and change in a private room." She shrugged. "But it's the only place in London where I can find a proper bout."

He remembered. "An opponent who wants blood."

"An opponent who is serious about winning," she corrected.

A thought struck him, and he instinctively tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer. "Ye…dinnae mind I ken?" His eyes flicked between hers, reassuring himself. "Ye said ye told nae one, but—"

Her free hand snaked around his back and she tilted her head back to hold his gaze. "I trust you, Cam. I never meant to keep it a secret from you, not really. And your feelings matter more to me than my spot in the club, anyhow."

As if his mind—and his heart—wasn't reeling from such a casual confession, Jade shrugged. "I don't like secrets."

And just like that, his budding euphoria jerked backward, a guilty pit opening in his stomach. "I dinnae—dinnae like secrets either." Damnation, that stumble made him sound guilty.

So did the way she rolled her eyes.

"You don't like secrets? You're keeping a big one, aren't you?"

Ah.

Talking about secrets was fine when it was her secret. But he shifted uneasily, releasing her hand, but unwilling to release her entirely.

"Like what?" he hedged.

Her finger poked him in the chest. "Like you not keeping my money!" When he tried to protest, she cut him off with an angry-sounding, "Ai-ya! You let it slip our first day here in The Cottage! I paid you to show me pleasure, and you didn't keep my money." Another poke. "What happened to it, Cam? What did you do with it?"

He tried for a grin as he loosened his hold and stepped back from her, trying not to wince as her hand fell away from him. "I spent it."

"No, you didn't!"

And that's when he realized she wasn't angry-sounding. She was angry. He frowned, trying to understand her pique.

"It was my money, lass. Ye gave it to me."

"And you gave it away, didn't you?"

Why was this important? He shrugged again, suddenly feeling foolish to be having this conversation in the foyer, the umbrellas standing ready to tangle in his feet. "So what if I did? Why does it matter to ye—"

"Because that's the real you!"

He shook his head and planted his hands on his hips, pleased he hadn't bothered with a jacket after all. "I dinnae understand why this is important."

Jade blew out a heavy breath and pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes squeezed shut. "No, I don't suppose I'm explaining myself very well, am I?" She inhaled, then shook her head, eyes still closed. "Cam, you try so hard to be a rake. A simple man, a lazy man, interested in one thing."

"Nay, I—"

Her hand dropped to her hips in a matching pose and she suddenly pierced him with a fierce glare. "You are perfectly happy to allow Society to think you a—a—philanderer, a dim-witted socialite who is more handsome than most, and whose sole goal is pleasure—his and women's."

His lips curled wryly. "Ye think I'm handsomer than most?"

"Focus, Cam!" But her lips twitched in response, and she blew out a breath. "You're more than that. You care, you protect, and you're smart and funny and interesting. But you pretend not to be." She held his gaze. "Why?"

Well, fook.

She wasn't going to back down, was she?

Jade raised a brow. "I'm not going to back down."

Double fook.