Tempting a Proper Lady (11 page)

“Perhaps, but I do hate to be missish.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “The last word I would ever use to describe you, Mrs. Burke, is ‘missish.'”

She picked up her wineglass and slanted him a look from beneath her lashes. “Mrs. Burke? I was Cilla a few moments ago.” She sipped her wine, never looking away from him.

He turned his attention to pouring his own wine. “I hadn't noticed. I do apologize for using your Christian name without permission.”

She laughed, such a startling sound that he bobbled the wine bottle with a loud clink against his glass.

“After all of this, Captain—and given that we are essentially conspiring together—I believe it is appropriate for you to call me Cilla.”

He recovered control of the wine bottle and topped off his portion. “Then perhaps you should call me Samuel.” Setting down the bottle he raised his glass. “To John.”

Her expression sobered. “To John,” she echoed, and touched her glass to his. “I do hope he is all right. It was very brave of him to chase off that highwayman.”

Samuel took a swallow of wine—a surprisingly decent bottle of red, given the inn's humble ambience—and set down his glass. “I am in his debt again. The man seems to make a habit out of saving my life.”

“He saved you from the island.” She sipped more of her wine. “Given John's actions this afternoon, I feel inclined to believe your story. I mean, that he would come back for you—if that was indeed the situation.”

“He did come back for me. Rescued me from that blasted rock. And he saved my life again on Tuesday, no doubt why he reacted so quickly today.” Samuel swirled the wine in his glass, then took a healthy swallow. “I don't want him killed because of me.”

“What happened Tuesday?”

“Someone tried to shoot me. John went after the fellow and captured him, but then the shooter got away from us.”

“My heavens.” Cilla splayed a hand over her bosom, then finished off her glass of wine in one gulp. “More, please.”

Samuel raised his brows. “Perhaps you had best eat something. Too much wine with no food in your belly will knock you flat.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You should still eat something. You barely got any of that sandwich before our picnic was so rudely interrupted.” Samuel grabbed the platter of hot sliced lamb. “Allow me to serve you, milady.”

“Do you listen to nothing I say?” She watched him fork several slices of lamb onto her plate. “I told you I am not hungry.”

“Cilla, be reasonable. You don't want to get all muddled from the wine, do you? After all, Emerson will not stay forever and I will have to take you home. I doubt you want to return to the Baileys inebriated.”

The mutinous light left her eyes. “I suppose you are correct. Very well, I will eat. Perhaps some of those potatoes?”

“Certainly. And here, try the French beans.” He served her each dish, passing her the loaf of bread once her plate was full.

“I will not be able to eat all of this.”

“Just eat some of it and I will be content. And then you can have some more wine.”

She shot a narrowed-eyed glare at him. “I am not a child, Captain.”

“Samuel. And I am well aware you are no child.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“You were overset. I was only trying to help.”

“I was not overset! I was simply—at a loss.”

He toyed with his wineglass, amused by the myriad of expressions flickering across her face. Did she have any idea how easy she was to read? “You were at such a loss that you forgot the basics. What would you advise a young woman who had just been through such an ordeal? Been threatened at gunpoint by a highwayman? If she were overset, I mean.”

“If she were overset, then I would advise her to have some hot tea and take to her bed until her nerves had recovered.” She lifted her brows and held up her empty glass. “This is not tea, Captain; therefore, I am not overset.”

He chuckled and filled her glass halfway. “You
are
overset. We agreed you would call me Samuel, but now you are back to Captain. Therefore, you are overset.”

She pressed her lips together, no doubt to restrain some unladylike epithet. “Thank you for the wine.”

“No more for you until you have eaten some of that.” He pointed at her plate.

“I should inform you that I drink wine regularly, Cap—er…Samuel, and that I have yet to become inebriated. I do know my limitations.”

“That's good to know. A person should always know his limitations.”

She sliced off a sliver of lamb and popped it into her mouth. “And what are yours?” she asked when she had swallowed.

He sliced his own lamb. “My limitations? Given that I have been on my own since I was fifteen, I imagine my limitations are somewhat less than yours. I have had to test myself many times over the years.”

“Fifteen? Heavens! Where was your family?”

“The truth is I never knew who my father was. My parents were never married. And my mother died when I was fifteen, so I went to sea to make my living.” He focused unduly on cutting his meat into bite-sized pieces so he wouldn't have to see the shock on her face.

“How terrible for you, Samuel.” She touched his hand, and he looked up. Her soft brown eyes melted with sympathy rather than the rejection he had expected. It reminded him of the night she had run after him. “Fifteen is too young to lose your only family.”

He shrugged, pulling away from her touch on the pretext of reaching for another piece of bread. “I survived. It did me good to learn I can stand on my own. Besides, I had the Baileys. When things got unpleasant at home, I went there.”

“No wonder you were so upset the night we met.”

“Yes.” He ripped apart his bread with deliberate care. “The Baileys were closer to me than my own mother had been. That they would not believe my tale…” He fell silent, his throat working to dislodge the knot forming there.

“And you were fifteen when you went to sea?” She sliced another piece of lamb as if she hadn't noticed his momentary lapse, though he knew she had. “You were hardly more than a child.”

He cleared his throat, regained control. “I became a man quickly because I did the work of a man. Eventually I earned my way into the captain's position. I had my own ship, my own business. I would never be dependent on anyone else ever again. But then my ship was lost to fire, and I had to take on work as a captain on other men's vessels.”

“That's how I felt after Edward died, that I would finally be independent.” She clamped her mouth shut as if the words had escaped against her will, then popped a piece of potato into her mouth as if to prevent more such outbursts.

Her distress intrigued him. If she was going to help him save Annabelle, he needed to know everything about her…especially if she would betray him.

Since she was finally eating, he picked up the wine bottle and topped off her glass. “Tell me about Edward.”

“You do not want to hear such an old story, surely.” She dug into the food as if suddenly ravenous.

“Cilla.” He laid his hand over hers before she could
lift the fork to her mouth. “Tell me about Edward. I want to understand.”

She laid down her silverware with a clatter, slipped her hand from beneath his, and took up her refilled glass. “Edward is dead. He is in the past. Surely we can leave him there.”

“Now, Cilla.” He gave her a charming smile. “You know everything about me. About my parents, about Raventhorpe. Is it unreasonable I should ask questions about you? After all, you are going to be my partner in all this.”

“I
may
be your partner. I have not yet decided if I believe your wild stories.”

He sighed. “What must I do to convince you I tell the truth? Do you have so much love for Raventhorpe?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I cannot say that I do. The man truly does seem rather self-serving most of the time. And what you told me at the picnic was positively chilling.”

“All right then.” He leaned closer to her. “Knowing that, which one of us do you trust more? Me or Raventhorpe?”

“I—” She stopped.

“Has anything I have ever told you been proven a lie?”

She shook her head.

“Have you ever seen me harm anyone or heard about me harming anyone?”

“Just Thomas.”

“Who the devil is Thomas?”

“The footman you struck when you pushed your way into Nevarton Chase.”

A satisfied smile curved his lips. “Ah, yes. Thomas. I do apologize. I tend to be rather single-minded when I want something, and he was trying to block my way.”

“Single-minded? Yes, I have observed that about your character.”

“My honor is at stake, Cilla. My word is being doubted by the people who were closest to me. Please understand that I truly believe Annabelle will be in danger if she marries Raventhorpe, and I will do anything to stop this marriage.”

She set down her fork. “You are asking me to sacrifice everything to help you.”

“I know I am, and I am sorry. But isn't saving an innocent girl's life more important than anything else?”

“More important than your honor?”

“Yes.” He held her gaze, willing her to believe him. “I have only my word to support my argument. John might even tell you his story in hopes of convincing you. I am not trying to marry Annabelle myself or steal her fortune. I just want to make sure a woman I once cared for does not end up married to a man I know to be a killer. I will even dance at her wedding to another man, as long as that man is not Raventhorpe.”

“Oh, Samuel.” Her lovely face softened with sympathy. A sheen of dampness brightened her eyes. “I will consider it, but I need time to reflect on everything
you have told me.” She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Please forgive my manners, but I used my handkerchief for John's bandage.”

“I would lend you mine, but I used that one for John, too.” He gallantly offered his napkin. She took it and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

“Thank you.” She took a sip of wine, clearly struggling to regain her composure. Finally she looked at him again. “Clearly you loved Annabelle very much, to go to such lengths to protect her.”

“Not exactly.” He looked away, toyed with his fork.

“Not exactly? Are you telling me your affections for Annabelle have changed?”

He looked at her sweet face, her dark eyes misty with romantic tears, and he almost didn't tell her. But he was an honest man. “I was never in love with Annabelle, Cilla. I've come to the conclusion I'm not capable of it.”

C
illa stared, certain she had not heard aright. “Of course you are capable of love.”

“I don't think so. I was very fond of Annabelle, but the people I came from were not very loving. I don't consider myself a romantic man, and I've never ‘fallen in love' as they say. I don't think it's in me.”

She listened to him say this, his voice completely steady and his expression serious. He truly did not believe himself capable of love.

“For myself, I'm beginning to believe love does not exist,” she said, and drained her wineglass.

He frowned at her. “Come now, Cilla. Of course you believe it exists. You married for love, didn't you?”

“I did.” She reached for the bottle, but he grabbed it before she could. She almost protested—until he tipped some wine into her glass. “I married for love. Embarrassed my family, left my friends and the only life I ever knew behind, all because I fell in love.” She leaned forward and fixed him with a fierce stare. “I was stupid.”

“Don't say that, Cilla. All women know how to
love—at least what they think love is. There are many women who do the same thing you did, every day.”

“Then we're all stupid to believe a man's lies. All Edward wanted was the money he thought I had. But he didn't expect my father to disown me, did he? All I had when we ran off together were the jewels I had inherited from my grandmother. And he took them, every one, and sold them for cash that he lost at the gaming tables.” She leaned back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. “That was my love, Samuel.”

“Is that why you don't want to marry again? Certainly a romantic woman like you longs for a lover.”

“Ha! A lover? Who would fill the position, Samuel? You?”

“I believe you have had enough wine.” He took her glass away and placed it on his other side, beyond her reach, then moved a goblet of water in front of her. “Drink this. It will steady you.”

She took up the glass and drank, then set it down and looked at him with her mouth set in defiance.

“As for me being your lover—” he began.

“I was not suggesting that!”

“Weren't you?” He fixed her with a knowing stare that made her heart skip beats. “I admit, the thought has crossed my mind. You are a very attractive woman. I've been tempted since the first moment I saw you.”

The breath left her lungs. “What—”

“And I do know how to make love to a woman. To take her breath away with a kiss. Melt her knees
with a touch.” He raised her fingers to his lips. “To bring her pleasure that will make her scream my name.”

“Then why—”

“I think you want a lover, Cilla, but it can't be me. Not if we're going to work together.”

Stung, she snatched her tingling hand away. “Nonsense. I do
not
want a lover. Why would I? Women were created to endure men's lusts, not enjoy them.”

“Surely you don't believe that.”

“Surely I do.”

“That's a pity, Cilla. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I'm sorry your husband did not properly see to your needs.”

“My needs? I do not know what you are talking about.”

“My, my. Do realize the challenge you pose with those words? I'm almost tempted to show you myself.”

“I doubt you could show me anything new, Captain.”

He chuckled. “Well then, how about a wager?”

The gleam in his eye made him appear a little too pleased with himself. She regarded him with suspicion. “What type of woman do you take me for?”

“The type to engage in a harmless wager between friends.”

“And are we friends?”

“We're certainly not enemies.”

“True.” She nibbled her lower lip. “What type of wager?”

“I will wager that I can make you cry out my name in pleasure—without me removing a single piece of your clothing.”

Her common sense urged her to deny his claim, to slap his face in outrage, but she hesitated. Part of her was intrigued by his boast. Certainly it was impossible. How could a man do such a thing if she remained fully clothed? But his seductive words of moments before had sent her blood thundering to unmentionable places, and she found herself ensnared by the idea that he just might be able to do what he claimed. “Are you mad?”

“Not mad,” he said. “Confident.”

Oh, she wanted to wipe the smirk right off his face. “What would we wager?”

“A guinea,” he said.

“How can you have a guinea when the highwayman stole your purse?”

“I have John's purse. How else did you think I was paying for the inn?” He produced the purse and took out a guinea, laying it on the table. “If you win, you get the guinea.”

“And if you win? What do you get, Captain?”

“A kiss,” he decided. “And not one of those little pecks on the cheek. A real woman's kiss.”

The thought of kissing him left her breathless. “This is probably not a good idea.”

“What are you afraid of?”

She eyed him for a long moment. She did not truly believe he could do as he claimed, however exciting the fantasy, but she did have to admit to a certain curiosity. Her attraction to him had bubbled
steadily from the moment she had first seen him.

Dear God, how long had it been since anyone had touched her?

“I accept your wager,” she said. “And I will be pleased to accept your guinea when you lose.”

He gave her a slow smile that sent a streak of heat straight to her woman's parts. “I have no intention of losing.”

“So what happens now? Do you mesmerize me with your wicked stare? Recite poetry designed to incite me to such a state that I disrobe of my own volition? Tell me, Captain, how to you intend to accomplish this miracle?”

“Hardly a miracle, my dear. And I told you to call me Samuel.”

“Samuel,” she said, wrapping her tongue around his name as if it were hot taffy.

He sent her a sizzling look that made her toes curl. “Do you taunt me, Priscilla?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I dislike my proper name, Samuel. It always seemed so prim and uninteresting.”

“I don't know about that. It rolls off the tongue with a rhythm that pleases me. Priscilla.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Perhaps we should do something about the way you feel about your name.”

Anticipation shot straight to her loins. “What are you doing?”

“You certainly don't expect me to pleasure you from a distance, do you?” He rose and removed his coat, which he draped over the back of his chair. Then
he stepped behind her chair. Her skin rippled with goose bumps at his nearness. What was he doing?
Why
had she accepted the wager?

“Perhaps this was not such a good idea,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder. She could see the lean line of his waist and part of his hip from the corner of her eye. “I am a bit worse for the wine.”

“You're far from intoxicated, my dear. I would never approach a lady who was not in control of her faculties. And you've already accepted the wager. You cannot refuse now.” He pulled her chair away from the table and turned it so she faced him. When he crouched down in front of her, their faces were level with each other. “It's a matter of honor, Priscilla. Are you afraid your resolve will not withstand my persuasion?”

Yes
, she thought. “No,” she said.

“Don't fear me, sweet one. I only want to make you feel good.” He traced a finger down her cheek. “Soft as satin. You're a very beautiful woman, Priscilla.”

“I am plain. Brown eyes, brown hair, a tad plump—”

He placed his finger on her lips. “Hush. You are far from plain. And you are certainly not plump. You are shaped like a woman, an enticement to any male. Your brown eyes are so soft a man could drown in them. And your hair is beautiful. See the way it curls at the nape of your neck?” He touched one of the curls, tugged at it. Or was he wrapping it around his finger? She couldn't see. Didn't dare ask. Her heart pounded.

“It is a terrible bother,” she murmured. “It is
so curly that I have a hard time making it behave properly.”

“So you tame it into this sober knot every day? How terrible.” He touched her coiled hair.

Was he going to remove the pins? Her breath nearly stopped at the thought. One part of her wanted him to do it, to pull the pins from her hair and release her…it…from its fetters. Would he think her beautiful then?

He found one pin, started to tug it loose.

“No.” She covered his hand with hers to halt him. Dear heaven, his skin was warm. “I consider my hairpins part of my clothing.”

“Come now, Priscilla—”

She lifted her chin. “Will you lose the wager so easily, Samuel?”

He studied her face for a long moment, then gave her a slow smile that sent warmth flooding through her body. “I won't let you win so easily, Priscilla.”

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “I know.”

His gaze narrowed on her mouth, and he slid his hand from the back of her head to the back of her neck, urging her forward. Dear God, he was going to kiss her!

“Hold.” She halted him with a hand on his chest when he would have tugged her closer. “I thought the kiss was to be your reward, Captain.”

“Samuel.”

“Samuel. How can it be your reward if it is part of your seduction?”

He sat back on his heels. “You are intent on making this a challenge, aren't you? Are you so afraid of feel
ing again that you would deny yourself pleasure?”

His comment struck home, but she had come this far. “Are you so lacking in confidence that you would take the prize before you have won it?”

“I am not lacking, my dear—not in any way that would matter to a woman.”

Heat seared her cheeks. Wicked man! Was he referring to…“No hairpins. No kisses. Are we agreed?”

“No hairpins. And no kisses on the mouth.”

She gave a little laugh. “Of course. Where else would one kiss?”

A gleam lit his eyes that made butterflies explode in her stomach. “Ask me that again afterwards.”

He rose to his knees and curled his hand around the nape of her neck again.

“Samuel—”

“Hush.” He bent his head and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck above the collar of her dress.

A quick burst of heat shot through her, and her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. When his teeth scraped her sensitive flesh, she nearly jumped out of her chair.

“Easy,” he murmured against her throat. He nibbled his way up from the high collar of her dress to her ear, tiny nips that didn't hurt but sent tremors along her nerve endings. Without stopping what he was doing, he took her hand and began toying with her fingers.

What was he doing to her? She stopped the moan before it left her lips, but she didn't fight the need to
let her head fall to the side to give him better access. She kept her eyes closed, enjoying his touch way too much. Craving it.

He reached her ear and breathed gently across the sensitive lobe. She shivered and tried to move away, but his hand at the back of her head was relentless. He tangled the fingers of his other hand with hers. “Relax, Priscilla. Enjoy what's happening to you.”

“I do not know what is happening to me.” She clamped her lips shut. Goodness, had she actually said that?

“Don't be afraid of your feelings.” His tongue touched the rim of her ear, and she jerked away. He pulled back to look into her eyes. “If you don't want this, simply say so. We can forget the wager.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. “Or you can trust me to show you a true taste of a woman's pleasure.”

She nearly told him to stop. The part of her who had been raised as a London debutante wanted to default on the wager and run away, no matter how cowardly it seemed. But the part of her who had married the wrong man and been forced to rebuild her life hesitated. She really wanted to know—finally—what every other woman her age seemed to know.

“I have never felt anything like this,” she murmured.

“You were married. Did your husband never touch you like this?” He brushed the tip of his tongue against the palm of her hand.

She gasped and fought the impulse to close her
fingers around the now highly sensitized area. “No,” she managed. “Never like this.”

“He was a fool. You are so responsive. How could any man resist?” He slowly took her pinky into his mouth.

She whimpered. There was no other word for it. His mouth was hot and moist, and he tickled the pad of her finger with his tongue before releasing it. Then he took her hand and placed it against his cheek. “Touch me, Priscilla. I know you are as curious about me as I am about you.”

His skin was hot, the slight roughness of a late day beard brushing the heel of her palm. His hand remained at the base of her neck, his thumb gliding gently up and down the sensitive flesh.

She raised her other hand, cupping his face between her hands. Good Lord, she was curious. Edward hadn't liked being touched—except in one particular place. Never had he offered to let her explore him. He had usually groped her breasts and buttocks, thrust his tongue in her mouth in a semblance of a kiss, and then thrust his manhood into her body with little or no warning. Occasionally he had come home too intoxicated to even do that much and made her fondle him until his rod stiffened before he took her. She had learned to lie still and wait for him to finish. Never had she felt the urge to discover his body.

But she felt the urge to discover Samuel's.

“Let me help you.” He sat back on his heels again, out of her reach, and dropped his hands from her flesh to the fastenings of his waistcoat. She wanted to
cry out at the loss, but then her curiosity was caught as he opened the waistcoat and then the panel of buttons on the shirt beneath to reveal part of his bare chest, sun-kissed and lightly sprinkled with dark hair. He shrugged off the waistcoat and tugged the shirt out of his trousers, then leaned up again, taking her hand and pressing it against the expanse of male muscle exposed by the open buttons. “Indulge your curiosity,” he murmured.