A Heart for the Taking (41 page)

Shrugging out of his jacket and undoing the stock around his neck as he walked across the room toward her, he said, “I did not expect to find you here.”

“Since you have ordered that I am to sleep in your bed, where else should I be?”

There was a note in her voice that was also hard to define, and the first faint chill of unease stirred within him. Giving himself time to consider the situation, he sat on the bed and swiftly removed his boots. Something had obviously disturbed her, but try as he might, he could not fathom a reason for the change in her manner toward him.

Leaving the bed and standing in front of her, his hands on his hips, he said carefully, “I am flattered that you remembered my, er, orders, but you are not garbed for bed. Unless, of course, you intend to sleep in what you are wearing right now.”

Fancy looked up at him, and something in that searching topaz gaze made his feeling of unease sharpen. He leaned forward and, resting his hands on the arms of the chair, his face mere inches from hers, asked quietly, “What is it, Fancy? What has happened to make you look at me so?”

Fancy took a deep breath, her gaze locked with his. “Why did you marry me, Chance?” she asked abruptly. “Why did you create the situation that made our marriage imperative?”

Chance stiffened. Standing upright, he took a step away from her. Looking back at her over his shoulder, he said dryly, “I am sure that you have drawn your own conclusions about it.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I have, but I would like to hear your explanation. Why?”

“Why?” he asked lightly, feeling his ground as he went. “Why else, madame, but that I found you so fetching that I could not help myself?”

“Do not jest. I deserve an answer. Why did you marry me?”

Since he didn’t know that answer himself and since it was painfully apparent that much rested on his next words, he moved idly around the room, trying to figure out what was going on. Why did she want to know now? Why was she so insistent upon it? And what the hell had happened to the beguiling companion he had escorted around earlier in the day?

“Why is it so important to you? My reasons would change little. We are married and the marriage has been consummated. What difference does it make why I compromised you? The deed is done.”

“Yes, and we have to live with it for the rest of our lives. But that does not change my right to know why the deed was
committed in the first place.” Her voice shook a little. “You deliberately compromised me. Why?”

Chance shot her a dark glance. She wasn’t going to budge, and no matter how he tried to deflect her course, she came right back to the original question. Why
had
he sought out her bed that morning and allowed them to be found in such a scandalous manner? Damned if he knew! Except, he thought irritably, it had made tremendous sense to him at that time. He’d have his revenge against Jonathan and give himself something that he desperately wanted—Fancy for his own. But he could hardly tell her that. Knowing how badly he wanted her and to what enormous lengths he was willing to go to get her would give her a weapon against him. His mouth twisted. And she certainly wouldn’t like learning that an emotion as base and petty as revenge had partly initiated his actions. He realized suddenly with a sinking feeling in his stomach that vengeance against Jonathan had merely been an excuse, that if Jonathan’s bride had been any woman other than Fancy, he never would have hit upon the scheme that he had.

Moodily he looked away from her. Trying to explain his own ambiguity about his deepest feelings for her would only lead him to deep, dangerous water, where he was liable to lose his head and blurt out something foolish . . . such as, I am half in love with you and have been since I first laid eyes on you. I want you, that I have only to think of you, of your soft mouth and sweet body, and I am on fire for you. That when I am with you ’tis springtime even if snow o’erspreads the ground. Which, of course, was all utter nonsense. Hadn’t he sworn upon Jenny’s death never to let himself love again? Never to let a mere woman be the sum of his happiness?

Ignoring Fancy, Chance walked over to a long table and opened one of the many crystal decanters there. After pouring himself a snifter of brandy, he crossed to where she sat and took a chair across from her. Staring down at the swirling amber liquor, he asked suddenly, “Why is it so important to know my reasons?”

She smiled bitterly. “Must you always answer one question with another?”

He shrugged and took a sip of the brandy. “Let us just say that I am curious to know why the question has arisen now instead of some other time.”

“I came to the barn this afternoon,” Fancy said levelly. “I came looking for you. I wanted to see if you had time to show me around.” Her eyes dropped from his intent gaze. Becoming enormously interested in pleating the fabric of her skirt, she said softly, “You were talking to Hugh about Jonathan and Jenny and revenge.” Her eyes lifted and clashed with his. “I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I could not help hearing every word said between the two of you. It was a rather illuminating conversation.”

C
hance’s face did not change expression, but he was silently cursing the damnable fate that had allowed Fancy to overhear that particular conversation. He had no trouble recalling the words spoken to Hugh, and after examining them, he groaned inwardly.

Fancy’s name had never been mentioned, nor had his marriage to her been remotely connected to a quest for vengeance against Jonathan. But . . . His eyes narrowed. Already suspicious of his motives, already having suspected that it had been precisely to punish Jonathan that had occasioned their marriage, Fancy would have had no trouble applying his expressed sentiments to their own situation. How could she not? And he could hardly claim that revenge against Jonathan had not had
any
part in the circumstances surrounding their sudden wedding, not when his own words could be used to call him a liar. Worse, it was partially true, and there was no way he could reasonably explain to her his jumbled thoughts the night he had decided to compromise her. Not, he admitted savagely, without revealing how completely she had bewitched him.

To give himself time to think, Chance took a long swallow of the brandy. His thoughts no clearer than they had
been, he frowned across at Fancy, wondering how she would react if he told her the truth, that as he looked back on that night, he had realized that taking revenge against Jonathan had only been an excuse, a reason to allow him to gain what he really wanted—her. His mouth tightened. And freely hand her a weapon with which to tear his heart from his chest?

He got up abruptly and returned the snifter to the table. Swinging back to face her, still playing for time, he asked, “And what momentous conclusions have you come to regarding what you heard?”

Fancy rose to her feet. “Still avoiding the question, Chance? Still returning question for question?”

A spot of color burned high on his cheeks as he said,

“ ’Tis obvious that whatever you think you overheard does not bode well for me. I think I am entitled to know what it is I am on trial for tonight.”

“There is no trial,” Fancy said wearily. “I merely wanted the truth from you—for once. As you said earlier, we are married and it is unlikely that the situation will change. But since you have seen fit to so cavalierly rearrange my life, I think you owe it to me to tell me why.” Her eyes hard and bright, she asked for perhaps the fifth time, “Why? Why did you marry me?”

“Because I wanted you,” he said bluntly, his body braced as if for a blow.

A bitter laugh came from Fancy. “And that is to satisfy me? That is all you have to say? You wanted me?”

Chance nodded curtly.

“And Jonathan? Can you swear that taking vengeance against him had nothing to do with our marriage? That you did not believe that it was me he intended to marry and that you did not do as you did in order to take me away from him? To punish him? To get your revenge?”

In one swift stride he was upon her, and digging his fingers into her arms, he jerked her next to him. His face near hers, he said tautly, “It does not make any difference why I married you. You are my wife, and by heaven, nothing will
change that fact. Have done, Fancy. Forget what you overheard this afternoon. It was a private moment between Hugh and me, and it had nothing to do with you.”

Scornfully she stared up at him. “I see. I am just to forget about it and pretend it never happened? How convenient that would be for you.”

Chance’s jaw clenched. “Fancy, I do not want to fight with you. Let it alone—please.”

Hurt and angry, Fancy shrugged out of his grasp and turned her back on him. “I do not seem to have any choice in the matter,” she said stiffly, and walked toward the door that separated their rooms. It was only when she had her hand on the crystal knob that she glanced over her shoulder at him. A bitter smile curved her soft mouth. “You do realize that your very silence on the matter—your refusal to answer me—leaves me with no choice but to believe that you did think I was to be Jonathan’s bride and that it was
pre
cisely
to wound him that you compromised me.”

Better she think that, Chance admitted savagely, than to know how completely she had him enthralled. One hand clenched into a fist at his side, he fought the urge to snatch her into his embrace and give free rein to all the powerful emotions that preyed upon him. “I cannot control what you want to think,” he said finally, when he thought he had himself safely under control from any silly outbursts. “I can only swear to you that no matter what the circumstances of our marriage, I will be as good a husband to you as I can. I will try to make you happy.”

His words warmed her, melting some of the ice around her heart and making her wonder for one treacherous second if she had been all wrong in her conclusions about him. There was such sincerity in his voice. It would be so easy, so simple, to accept the olive branch he was holding out to her. So easy to ignore all her doubts and fears and let herself be swept along in his wake. She stiffened. But that was what happened every time. He charmed her. Beguiled her. Made her forget the real situation between them—just as he had on their wedding night. Suddenly furious, she snapped, “You
want to make me happy? Never let me look into your scoundrel’s face again! Now, that would make me happy!”

She flung open the door, but before she could escape, his voice stopped her. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asked grimly.

“What?” she demanded, spinning around to glare at him.

He cocked a brow. “Your bed, madame.” He nodded in the direction of the massive four-poster. “You are sleeping here tonight, remember?”

Fancy took in an outraged breath. “Surely you do not mean to keep me to that ridiculous bargain we made?”

His eyes gleamed. “Of course not. If you wish to forgo your part of the agreement, then I would have no difficulty whatsoever in allowing my part to lapse.”

Smothering an urge to strike his mocking face, Fancy snatched up her skirts and stalked swiftly to the high bed. After viciously kicking off her satin slippers, she bounded into bed. Petticoats and silken skirts frothing around her slim ankles, she sat bolt upright in the bed, her arms folded across her chest, and sent him a baleful look. “I am in your bed,” she snarled. “Does this satisfy you?”

Chance’s dark mood lifted at the sight she made, sitting there so militantly in his bed, her elegant clothing in charming disarray around her. Suppressing a dangerous urge to grin, he said, “Sweetheart, you know very well that I am not satisfied.” His voice thickened. “And you damn well know exactly what it would take to make me satisfied.”

Fancy’s clothing suddenly felt too tight, her breathing instantly became erratic, and to her eternal mortification, she could feel the heat that flooded her lower body at his words. Damn him! She was certain that she had never hated any man as much as she did Chance Walker—or felt so gloriously alive with anyone else.

Fancy discovered during the night that followed that there were several very good reasons why one did
not
normally sleep in day wear. She could hardly move, for one thing. Her petticoats and skirts got caught time and again under her body as she twisted and squirmed, trying to get comfortable.
Her bodice seemed fashioned for the express purpose of squeezing the breath out of her, and her laced stays poked unmercifully into her waist. Her head ached, too; the pins that kept her hair in its fashionable pompadour dug into her scalp and made her miserable.

Of course, Chance slept wonderfully, and Fancy spent most of the night thinking up several extremely horrid fates for him. She did finally sleep toward dawn but woke a short time later, heavy eyed and achy headed, to find that Chance had risen and left for the day. Thank God!

Sliding from his bed, she left a trail of discarded, crumpled clothing in her wake and staggered into the next room. Wakeful just long enough to rid herself of the punishing pins in her hair and the remainder of her clothing, clad only in her embroidered shift, Fancy emitted a grateful sigh and sank into the welcoming softness of her own bed.