Chapter 12 #2
He nodded shortly, just to appease her, then drove through James’s gates and down the way to the village.
It would have been faster if he’d just been able to cut across James’s lands and up through his, but since that wasn’t possible except on horseback, he simply made his way west, then turned north and started up the very long track that led to his hall.
“I don’t know how you bear it here,” Penelope muttered. “There is nothing for miles but wilderness.”
Cameron didn’t bother to argue, because she had it aright. There were no exclusive shops, no expensive restaurants, no places to go to see and be seen.
But there was quiet and endless meadows of Highland wildflowers and still lochs that reflected mountain and sky back on a calm day. There was fishing and hunting and riding. He had thousands of acres that belonged to him alone, just as James MacLeod did. His land to roam over as he pleased.
He decided, not for the first time, that he was spending far too much time in London for his own good.
Penelope was halfway out of the car before he managed to get it parked in his garage at home. “I’m going to go make sure all the invitations were sent out,” she said shortly, then she slammed the door shut and stalked off to the house.
Cameron sat back against the seat and watched her go.
She was, he had to admit, absolutely stunning.
She had platinum blond hair, cut up to her chin.
It seemed to stay in place no matter how many times she tossed her head in irritation.
The rest of her was just as perfect as her hair.
It was truly a pity that all her redeeming qualities ended with her looks.
He could hardly believe he was engaged to her.
But since that was a situation he didn’t have the stomach to face at the moment, he supposed the best thing to do was go search out something very strong to drink.
He took the keys out of the ignition and got wearily out of the car.
He walked into his hall and paused to appreciate its medieval splendor.
It had been preserved quite well and he’d spent a great deal of his own sterling to see it restored over the past few years.
It was an impressive place, and he wasn’t displeased to find himself master of it.
Penelope was standing in the middle of his hall, talking on the phone. She looked at him narrowly, then turned her back on him and walked away.
Cameron sighed and walked to the sideboard to pour himself a very tall whisky.
He then made his way up the steps that led from the medieval part of the hall to the wing where bedrooms had been built in the sixteenth century, then redone in the eighteenth.
He walked into his, shut the door behind him, and came to a halt.
Was Sunshine Phillips conscious now?
He didn’t want to think about her, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. In desperation, he began to pace about his chamber, trying to find some way to distract himself.
He came to a stop in front of a door. It was a locked door that opened to reveal a closet of sorts for which only he had the key.
There were things inside there that he hadn’t looked at in years.
And why would he? He was Robert Cameron, the adopted heir of old Alistair Cameron.
His life had begun eight years ago when he had woken in hospital with a dozen tubes sticking out of him and Alistair Cameron leaning over him with a toothy, calculating smile.
Anything that might have come before was nothing more than a bad dream brought on by not nearly enough whisky.
He looked at the closet, then looked down at the glass in his hand.
He cursed, walked into his bathroom, and poured the liquor down the sink drain.
Obviously he was going to be as incapable of drinking himself into a proper stupor today as he was every other day.
He set the glass on the sink, then fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed.
The phone rang only once on the other end before a voice answered.
“John Bagley.”
“Any free time today?”
The man on the other end laughed. “For you, Cameron, always. ”
“I’ll be there within the hour,” Cameron said grimly. “I may need the rest of the afternoon.”
“Done.”
Cameron hung up and shrugged out of his suit coat.
He walked across his room, stripping off the rest of his business gear as he did so.
He hung things up in his closet out of habit, then found shorts and a T-shirt.
He put trainers on his feet, grabbed the rapier that was propped up in the corner and his keys, then walked swiftly out of his room.
He ran down the stairs and made it almost all the way across the hall before he was caught.
“And just where are you going?”
He took a deep breath and turned to face Penelope. “Out.”
She frowned at him. “What are you doing with that sword? And why is it you can’t engage in some sort of civilized exercise?”
“Civilized?” he asked, because he couldn’t help himself. “Any hints on what that might be?”
“Polo. The odd hour at the gym.”
He did spend the odd hour at the gym, both in the basement of his keep and in a very expensive studio in London. But polo? He couldn’t imagine anything more torturous.
Cameron decided there was no point in responding.
He merely made her a low bow, and left his house whilst he still could.
He made it to the village without being pulled over by any overzealous traffic patrolmen, drove into the car park of a very ugly building, and sat back for a moment after he’d turned the car off.
It was strange, actually, how many places there were within a thirty-league radius of his hall where a lad could pick up a sword and have a little exercise with it.
He wondered what sort of blade Ian MacLeod used in his stunt school—if that’s what it could be called. Cameron considered James’s reaction to his term for it.
Very odd, indeed.
He got out, locked his car behind him, then made his way inside before he could think about that anymore.
John was waiting for him, dressed in fencing garb and holding on to his mask.
Cameron tossed his keys in the corner with his sunglasses, then stretched his hands over his head. John looked at him.
“Gear?”
“I’m wearing it.”
“Someday I’m going to poke your eye out,” John said pleasantly. “Don’t blame me for it when it happens.”
“You will never manage that,” Cameron said seriously.
And he meant it. He had, as it happened, grown to manhood with a sword in his hands. A six-foot broadsword. He didn’t allow himself to think about it often, but it was the truth.
He wondered what sorts of rumors went round the pub about him when he wasn’t there.
Suddenly, unbidden, the vision came to him of a woman with dark curling hair, enchanting green eyes, and a face a man could look at for the whole of his life and count himself fortunate indeed.
He had to stand there for a minute and catch his breath.
Would he feel that shiver go through him every time he touched her, or had it been just an aberration?
Would he ever be able to pass a single day again without thinking of her?
“Cameron?”
“I’m fine,” Cameron said promptly.
“Never said you weren’t,” John said cheerfully. “Distracted, though. Is Penelope planning another dinner party soon? It seems as though you just had one up here a couple of weeks ago.”
Cameron looked at him narrowly. “You know too much about my private life.”
John only grinned. “You natter on when you fight, you know. It’s pitiful, really.”
Cameron lifted his rapier. “I hope you’re well rested.”
John put on his mask. “I had a nap whilst I waited for you.”
Cameron spared a final moment to wonder why in the world it was Sunshine Phillips who had thrown herself into his arms with a cry of . . . what had it been? Gladness?
Relief?
He shook his head sharply. It had been the blow to her head that had rendered her witless. He could certainly understand that. She wasn’t fully herself and she had mistaken him for someone else.
That man was a lucky one.
He forced himself to put aside thoughts of a woman he shouldn’t be thinking about and instead concentrated on his swordplay.
He didn’t hold out any hope that it would be nearly distraction enough.