“Six, one, two, three, four, five. La la la, la la la—”
“What are the words?” Mary broke in, stopping midstep.
Cameron blinked. “It doesn’t have words.” He tugged on Mary’s hands to get her dancing again.
“Oh.” She stayed stubbornly still and ruminated on that a moment. “I like songs with words.”
He shrugged. “I know no words to this one, Princess Mary.”
“Then I will sing something else.” And without further ado, she launched into a lovely rendition of “The Twenty-Ninth of May.”
“Let the bells in steeples ring
And music sweetly play
That loyal Tories mayn’t forget
The twenty-ninth of May.”
The charming dimples appeared when Cameron grinned. “You sing beautifully, princess.” And finally, while Mary’s sweet voice trilled the lilting tune, he dropped her hands and took Clarice’s.
Mary made her way to a chair.
“Twelve years was he banish’d
From what was his due
And forced to hide in fields and woods
From Presbyterian crew;
But God did preserve him,
As plainly you do see
The blood-hounds did surround the oak
While he was in the tree.”
Clarice’s feet seemed to glide effortlessly, her body guided by Cam’s warm hands holding hers. Her gaze was locked on his compelling hazel eyes. Her blood pumped much harder than the sedate dance should warrant. Lud, what was happening to her? If her daughter weren’t watching, she feared she’d throw herself into his arms.
His secret smile suggested he just might be reading her mind. When the alarming thought made her falter, his hands tightened on hers, but he made no comment on her clumsiness. “She sings of King Charles’s restoration, aye?”
“P-pardon?” The song was the farthest thing from her mind.
“I’m speaking of Mary.” The dimples winked, telling her he was pleased with her discomposure. “Her song tells of the Restoration, of Charles hiding in the Royal Oak.”
“Oh. Yes.” Somehow, probably owing to Cameron’s skill, her feet kept moving in time to the melody. He must have been fooling when he said he needed practice; he was a fine dancer. “It’s a Cavalier ballad she sings. Cainewood—the whole village—was a Royalist stronghold throughout the Civil War. In support of the marquess, you understand. His family was fiercely Royalist—his parents both died in the Battle of Worcester.”
“Do you remember that?”
“Most certainly.” Then she remembered something else, and her heart dropped to her knees. “You were too young, weren’t you? I’d wager you don’t remember our good king’s beheading. It was no trial to you, was it, that sad period in our history?”
For a moment, lost in his gaze and the dance, she’d forgotten their age difference. But it would be there, wouldn’t it? Always. Different life experiences.
“Nay. I don’t remember,” he admitted, confirming her suspicions. “I was but a bairn, not even one year old. And though London holds rule over Scotland, you must remember we are quite far removed from what happens here.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We haven’t much in common, do we? You’re Scottish, I’m English…”
A profound sense of loss swept through her as her words trailed off.
“So let the bells in steeples ring,
And music sweetly play,
That loyal Tories may…n’t…forget
The…twen…ty…ninth…”
The song trailed off as well. Curled up on the chair, Mary was sound asleep. Their dance ground to a halt. In unison, they both shot her a glance before their eyes met.
“We belong together, Clarice. That’s something we have in common.”
She looked down at her scuffed black slippers. No glass shoe, to be sure. “I hardly belong in a castle, as a lady…I wouldn’t even know how to behave.”
With a finger under her chin, he brought her gaze back to his. “Exactly as you do. You’re the finest woman I’ve ever met.”
Her smile was quick but sad. “And you’re the most charming young man I’ve ever met.”
“Nay, I’m serious.” His eyes searched hers. “You’ve the kindest heart, the sweetest soul. I wouldn’t want you to behave any other way than you do already. And no matter what you say, we have plenty in common.” Cameron spoke in a low, husky voice. “For instance…”
She felt his hand on the small of her back, his eyes burning into hers as slowly, deliberately, he drew her to him. And heaven help her, she went willingly. His lips found hers, and she clung to him for fear her knees would collapse, until all her fears and doubts fled. Or rather, all rational thought fled, driven away by grand, overwhelming feelings. She succumbed completely. But it didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like floating.
When he finally pulled back, she was breathless. Lightheaded.
Halfway in love.
“Now I’ll hear no more talk of what we don’t have in common,” he said, rather breathless himself. “What we do have in common is much more pleasant, don’t you agree?”
She nodded, then shook her head. “But there are other things—”
“Aye?” His hands gripped her shoulders, and he kissed her again, short but sweet. “I will hear of them, then. We will speak of those things tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Today you fed me, tomorrow I’ll feed you.” Another kiss. Clearly he meant it to be short, but she held fast when he would have pulled away, sinking back into him. With just a feeble noise of protest, he succumbed, and for a glorious space of time Clarice was positive there was nothing occupying his mind save for her. The power was heady. When she finally let him go, she smiled a secretive smile of her own.
He grinned in answer, moving away to reclaim his surcoat. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, shrugging into it. “A picnic. I will call for you at noon. And Mary, of course. She may bring her friend Anne if it pleases her.”
Her gaze shot to her daughter. Lud, they’d been kissing, and Mary right in the room! Sensible Clarice had lost her senses.
“Don’t worry,” he said, reading her mind. “She saw nothing.”
On his way to the door, he paused to draw her close and plant one more
