A Heart for the Taking (21 page)

The two men were in Sam’s office, which was located in
a modest building a few hundred yards away from the main house. Sam was seated behind a huge walnut desk, his feet propped on a low wooden stool as he stared broodingly at Chance, who sat across from him in a brown leather chair.

Garbed casually in fine leather boots, buckskin breeches, and a white linen shirt, Chance was the very picture of a son of a wealthy Virginia planter. Looking at him, Sam felt a pang of sadness. With that hint of unconscious arrogance in his bearing and a reckless gleam in those Walker blue eyes, Chance looked very much as his son might have, Sam thought regretfully, if the boy had lived.

Chance shrugged. “Can you remember a time in which just the mere sight of me has
not
affronted your esteemed half-brother? For reasons known best to him, Jonathan seems to find the very fact of my birth insulting.”

Sam grimaced wryly. “How well I know. It would help if that damned Morely would just acknowledge you and get it over with. Why he continues to deny you your rightful heritage is a mystery to me. It always has been.”

“But ’tis not just my bastardy that eats at Jonathan,” Chance said quietly. “You, Cousin Letty, the majority of the Walkers do not seem to pay it any heed anymore. Why should Jonathan?”

Sam shook his head. “I do not know. It pains me to admit it, but I suspect that even if you had been born legitimate, Jonathan would only have found another reason to dislike you.” He shot Chance a dark look. “And you, young man, have not helped matters. For God’s sake, Chance, what the devil were you thinking of?”

Not meeting Sam’s eyes, his own gaze resting on his boots, Chance murmured, “She is very beautiful, Sam. I am afraid that I lost my head.”

Sam gave an angry sigh. “Dash it all, Chance. Under different circumstances, I would be kicking my heels together for joy to hear that you had finally put Jenny’s death behind you and had found someone else. But dear Lord. Did it have to be Lady Merrivale?” He didn’t really expect an answer and went on wearily, “I suppose you know that this is a very
delicate situation. I can only thank God that no formal announcement has been made. But smoothing this over is not going to be simple. Even before the Baroness arrived there was gossip and speculation aplenty about the purpose of her visit. Constance, while dropping broad hints—
extremely
broad hints, I might add—has been very coy about actually admitting that Jonathan intended to marry Lady Merrivale—for which, under the circumstances, I am grateful. Jonathan has not been very forthcoming, either, although, he has made it clear that marriage was in the wind. In fact, until last night, I was not even certain which of the Merrivale women he intended to marry. One moment he seemed to dangle after the baroness, the next after her sister. It had me baffled, I can tell you.”

“Well, at least you can have no doubts about which Merrivale I intend to marry,” Chance said dryly.

“Indeed I haven’t. I just wish you had chosen a more orthodox way to make your intentions apparent,” Sam retorted grimly. “The kidnapping of the ladies by those despicable Thackers was bad enough, but now we have the problem of keeping Jonathan from your throat and of making this sudden marriage between you and Lady Merrivale appear as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. No mean feat, I can tell you.”

Chance looked thoughtful. “Could we not use the abduction by the Thackers and subsequent rescue by Hugh and me as an explanation for the sudden wedding?” He grinned. “The beautiful rescued damsel falls in love with the handsome, dashing hero who saved her from a fate worse than death?”

Sam stared narrowly at him. “Is that what happened?” he asked grimly.

Chance’s grin slipped a little. “Perhaps.”

Committed to keeping the gossip and scandal to a minimum, Sam began to discuss various plans to lend respectability to the coming nuptials. It would be a small, hasty affair, with only the nearest members of the Walker clan attending the actual ceremony. Morely and his family
would naturally be there, as well as some of Chance’s adopted father’s brothers and sisters and their families. Many lived within a forty-mile radius of Walker Ridge and would flock eagerly to the plantation to see Chance Walker marry a real English lady—especially one rumored to have been Jonathan’s choice of a bride. It was going to be a nine days’ wonder, and gossip would race like wildfire through the colony, but if they kept their heads about them, they just might brush through without any serious damage. From those attending the wedding the news would trickle outward, and as Sam said, the least said by the principals, the better.

Jonathan and Constance were a great stumbling block to any plan to present a unified family front, and their absence from the wedding would create rampant speculation and fuel just the sort of gossip they were trying to avoid. They would simply have to be there when Chance took Lady Merrivale as his bride, and it would be up to Sam to make certain that bloody mayhem did not result.

Overall, Chance was feeling rather satisfied when he finally left Sam’s office some time later. It was firmly established that he would indeed marry Lady Merrivale just as soon as it could be decently arranged and that Sam and Letty would help cloak the affair with decorum. Chance had reason to be pleased; he had accomplished what he had set out to do, claimed as his own the woman Jonathan had wanted. The fact that Sam and Letty had not blamed Fancy for what had happened, or thrown him out on his ear, intensified his satisfaction.

Sam had already gently requested that both Jonathan and his mother remove themselves temporarily to Foxfield, the upper plantation, some fifteen miles up the river, and for them to stay there, at the small but comfortable house that had been built by some long-deceased Walker relative, until plans were more settled. Chance had been surprised to learn that they had agreed to do so, and he had to admit that for the time being, their absence would make life simpler for everyone involved. Without them at the house, there would
be far less tension and discord, and it was obvious that Sam did not want to run the risk of any confrontation between Chance and Jonathan—or Constance, for that matter. Jonathan and his mother would return well before any of the Walker cousins arrived for the wedding and would, hopefully, by that time have become resigned to Chance’s marriage to the baroness. Chance doubted it, and he would have liked to know what sort of persuasion Sam had used to get Jonathan to agree to the move.

Deciding that it would be wise if he made himself scarce for a while, at least until Jonathan and Constance had left for Foxfield, Chance did not return immediately to the big house. Whistling softly to himself, he wandered past the rows of slave cabins and various outbuildings behind Sam’s office and entered the small patch of woodland that lay beyond. He had no definite destination, he was merely wasting time until Jonathan and Constance had left Walker Ridge. But eventually he found himself walking along the river’s edge where it looped backward and wound itself sinuously along one side of the wooded area. It was a private spot, a favorite of his where he’d come often as a boy.

Chance was standing on a small bluff overlooking the water; the green, dappled coolness of the woods lay behind him, and below him gently meandered the James River. From this point, beyond glimpses of the tobacco fields and the small winding path that led back toward the house and outbuildings, there was no sign of human habitation. There was an agreeable sense of isolation from Walker Ridge, almost as if he were all alone and miles away. No intrusive human sounds traveled his way; there was only the somnolent drone of the insects, the soft lap of the river against the bank, and the occasional lilting song of a bird. It was very peaceful.

A yawn escaped him, and after settling himself on a patch of wild grass, he leaned his head back against the trunk of a large willow tree. The day was warm, the yellow sunlight filtering gently through the narrow leaves of the willow, and as Chance lounged there, the tenseness that had been with
him since he had first conceived his wild plan gradually waned. In less than two minutes his eyes closed and he slept.

He had no way of knowing how long he slept, but a whisper of sound snapped him into sudden wakefulness. He lay very still, all his senses straining to fix the point of the noise that had awakened him. A brief glance at the sky showed him the sun was no longer high, and from the lengthening shadows he knew it was late afternoon. The sound came again—from along the path—and he relaxed slightly. Probably one of the servants had been sent by Sam or Letty to look for him here.

It wasn’t a servant, and a slow, appreciative smile crossed Chance’s dark face as Fancy came into view. She looked very lovely wearing a simple green-striped skirt and laceedged bodice of delicate jaconet over a pale yellow petticoat. A wide, saucy-brimmed straw hat that was tied with broad yellow ribbon sat upon her head, her dark brown hair falling in soft curls down her back, and in one hand she carried a large wicker basket. She did not look pleased to see him.

“Letty said that she thought you would be here,” she muttered as she approached him. Motioning to the basket she held, she added coldly, “She said that you would be hungry by now, and that since I am your”—her voice hardened and an angry flush burned in her cheeks—“
fiancée
and we have already anticipated our wedding vows, there would be nothing amiss in my bringing it to you.”

From beneath his thick dark lashes, Chance regarded her. “This is kind of you.”

Fancy’s eyes glittered. “I did not want to do it. But I had no choice with Letty and Ellen simpering and looking all calf-eyed. If it had been up to me, you could have stayed out here and starved.”

Chance grinned, his white teeth flashing in his bronzed face. “Now, Duchess, is that any way to talk to your husband-to-be?”

Fancy gave a strangled sound, halfway between a shriek and a growl, and very nearly threw the basket at his mock
ing face. She absolutely hated him. And he had no right to look so damnably attractive as he lolled there on the ground before her, like a pasha surveying his favorite harem girl. His black hair fell rakishly across his forehead and around his shoulders, and his white linen shirt was half-undone, revealing an indecent expanse of smooth, tawny skin. The buckskin breeches faithfully outlined his long, strong legs, and, remembering those same
naked
legs brushing against her that morning in bed, Fancy fought a wave of giddiness. She would
not
be attracted to him. She would not. He was loathsome. Staring at him with open dislike, she thrust the basket at him. “Here. Take it. I have delivered you something to eat and I’m not doing one thing more.”

Chance straightened from his indolent pose against the tree trunk, and leaning forward, he took the basket and set it on the ground nearby. Cocking an eyebrow at her, he murmured, “Are you sure that I cannot convince you to join me? If I know Letty, she has sent enough food for both of us.”

“No, thank you,” Fancy said stiffly. “I am not hungry. And the less I have to share with you the better.”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “our life together is not going to be very pleasant if you persist in this unfriendly attitude.”

Fancy took in a great angry breath. “If you were worried about our life together, you should have thought of it before you stole into my bed.”

She swung on her heels, intent upon putting as much distance as possible between herself and this wretched creature, when Chance suddenly caught a handful of her skirts and gave a hard yank. Off balance, Fancy gave a startled cry and fell backward . . . into his arms.

Her saucy bonnet askew and her skirt and petticoat frothing immodestly about her knees, Fancy glared up at him. “How
dare
you,” she said in a withering, furious voice.

Chance smiled. He was rather pleased with his effort. That sweet mouth of hers was only inches from his; he had her firmly in his arms, and she was sprawled tantalizingly
across his thighs, every wiggle, every squirm of her bottom, pressing against his rapidly hardening body.

Fancy became aware of the danger almost immediately. They were all alone—any sound she made would be swallowed up by the dense forest. And it was obvious, blatantly so, that Chance was thoroughly aroused. She swallowed nervously, knowing that it was highly unlikely they would be interrupted for quite some time—unlike this morning in her bedroom.

To her shame, she was conscious of the rapid increase in her heartbeat—an increase that had very little to do with anger or fear. The power and warmth of his body beneath her thighs sent a wave of languid heat through her, and her breasts were instantly full and heavy, her nipples straining against the fabric of her clothing. His scent, warm and male and slightly musky, drifted to her.

Fancy stilled her struggles almost immediately, and eyes wide and uncertain, lips half-parted, she stared at him. Her gaze wandered over his lean face, the heavy-lidded eyes, the bold nose, the splendidly sculpted cheeks, and the wide, mobile mouth. Bitterly she admitted that Chance Walker had fascinated her almost from the first moment she had laid eyes on him. While he infuriated her and mocked her, there was something between them, something that drew her to him—even when she was at her angriest. As she stared at him, his smile faded and he suddenly looked very fierce with his black hair flowing wildly about his face and shoulders. But it was the hot glitter in those cobalt blue eyes that made Fancy’s pulse leap in her veins.

Chance muttered something—a curse, a plea—and his mouth came down hard on hers, his arms crushing her against him. Like a starving man, he fed upon her ripe mouth, his tongue plunging hungrily into the moist warmth behind her lips, his hands gripping her upper arms, holding her prisoner to his ravenous kiss.

All of Fancy’s senses were violently assaulted by the sensations that erupted through her body at the impact of his hard lips on hers, his seeking tongue delving deep in
her mouth. No man, not even her husband, had ever made her feel the frankly carnal sensations that were surging in her blood; no man had ever made her body ache for his touch, yearn to have his hands upon her, eager to feel his flesh sinking slowly into hers.