To Taste Temptation (23 page)

E
MELINE CAME FULLY
awake all at once early the next morning. She immediately knew that she had stayed the night in Samuel’s room. He still lay beside her. In fact—she tried an experimental wiggle—he still lay
in
her. Which made a discreet exit rather awkward.

She watched him. He lay prone, his face turned toward her. His hips covered hers, but most of his upper body was off her chest, except for an arm, thrown possessively over her breasts. The lines beside his mouth had smoothed, and he looked young, his brown hair tousled like a boy’s. Had he looked this way before the war?

He opened his eyes and focused on her, and his gaze darkened with awareness. He was silent, his gaze traveling over her face. It was early morning, she’d just woken up, and she must look terribly disheveled, but she couldn’t turn away. She let him inspect her, his gaze more intimate than when he had looked at her nude body the night before. What did he see when he looked at her? She couldn’t fathom, and at any other time she’d be cross with her own uncertainty, her own exposure. But right now, with the morning light softly revealing the room, she didn’t let her own vulnerability spoil the moment.

He raised his palm to cradle the back of her head and brought his face nearer slowly so he could examine her as he approached. He only closed his eyes at the last minute. And then he was kissing her. His mouth was softer in the morning, more relaxed and lazy. He opened it over hers but made no attempt to engage her tongue. Instead he kissed her lushly, his lips moving slowly, erotically, on hers. She could feel his morning stubble, scraping her face in contrast to the softness of his lips. He seemed in no hurry, even though she could feel him, large and incredibly hard, within her.

He levered himself over her on his elbows, never breaking the kiss, his palms cradling her face, and he surrounded her, male and hard, protective and possessive. She’d never felt so cherished. Never felt so wanted. He’d widened her legs and settled his hips more fully on hers. She could feel the tickle of his chest hairs on her nipples. It was all so intimate. She wasn’t sure she could bear this, this too-close lovemaking. It exposed her, left her open to reveal things she’d rather keep hidden. But she was caught in the moment, seduced by her own yearning and by the man above her.

His hand traveled from her face to her throat, caressing over her shoulder and side. He paused at her hip, seemingly distracted by their kiss; he’d licked his way into her mouth and she was sucking him. Then his hand continued, reaching one knee and grasping it. He pulled that knee up and over his hip and left it draped there as he pressed his pelvis down into hers.

She gasped into his mouth. She was open and vulnerable in this position, and when he pressed, she could feel all of him against her mons. She wasn’t sure she liked it, this leisurely,
thorough
lovemaking. He was laying bare her soul, whether that was his intention or not. She didn’t even think he was aware of what he did to her. But when she would’ve pushed him away, she was beguiled all over again by the sure thrust of his hips. He broke their kiss, raising his head to watch her as he ground slowly down on her exposed flesh. She gasped at the sensation and then frowned at him. How rude to stare at her in this moment! Didn’t he know that this simply wasn’t done? That what they did was only a fleeting pleasure of the flesh, nothing more.

Nothing more...

When he shifted and pressed again, his body hard and insistent within hers, it didn’t feel like only a physical act. It was more. Much more. She panicked, the weight of him, the emotions suddenly overwhelming. She tried to turn her head, raising her arms to push him off, but he caught her quickly, effortlessly, and trapped her wrists on the pillow on either side of her head.

She sobbed, helpless and angry, and more angry that she let her innermost feelings show. “Stop.”

He shook his head slowly, pressing into her again, his hard body causing hers to flower open, vulnerable to all the sensations he was making her feel. His eyelids dropped for a second as if he, too, were overwhelmed by what he did. Then he raised them and looked into her eyes. “No.”

He bent his head to lick the sweat at her hairline. She felt the gentle abrasion of his tongue and at the same time, the pressure of his cock inside her as he hitched his hips higher, grinding with devastating accuracy onto the one spot that could not withstand his ravishment. He withdrew a fraction of his length, but she felt the friction as his cock pulled against her oversensitive flesh. Then he was bearing down again, grinding, grinding, grinding against her exposed clitoris, and she couldn’t stand it anymore.

She came apart, all the secrets, doubts, worries, and hopes that she had kept tightly bound to herself flying outward, free and unharnessed, exposed to the chill morning air and to him.

To him.

And she looked up in time to see him grit his teeth and tremble, undone as much as she, as he released his seed within her.

H
ER TEACUP SHOOK
as Emeline raised it to her lips later that morning. She frowned at this outward manifestation of her inner turmoil and sternly made her fingers stop trembling. Around her, no one else in the breakfast room seemed to notice. Except for perhaps Melisande, sitting across from her at the little round table they shared and sending her a too-perceptive look. It really wasn’t something to be valued in a friendship, sensitivity to others. It only led to awkward questions and overly sympathetic glances.

Emeline pointedly looked away from her dearest friend in the world and tried to focus her mind on something other than the overwhelming lovemaking she’d experienced just that morning. And the night before. And the morning before that. She frowned at her teacup, now perfectly still. Perhaps an overabundance of sex was curdling her brain. That would certainly explain her inability to think of anything else. It couldn’t be healthy to be thinking, brooding,
obsessing
over a man and his long legs and wide chest and hard, hard, hard
penis.
Emeline coughed on her tea and looked guiltily at Melisande.

Who said, “I’ve translated the title of the first fairy tale in that book you gave me. It’s called
Iron Heart.
”

“Really?” For a moment, Emeline was diverted from her troubles. She remembered the fairy tale.
Iron Heart.
It had been about a man who was brave and strong and true. A man like Samuel, she suddenly realized. How strange.

Across from her, Melisande cleared her throat. “Lord Vale was asking about you last night.”

Emeline nearly spilled her tea. Hastily, she set down her teacup. Obviously she just wasn’t cut out for this type of subterfuge. Her nerves were overwrought. “What did you tell him?”

Melisande raised her mouse-brown eyebrows. “Nothing. He wouldn’t have noticed me, anyway.”

Emeline was distracted from her own worries by her friend’s cynical self-assessment. “Don’t be silly. Of course he’d notice you.”

“He doesn’t know my name.”

“What?”

Melisande nodded, no trace of self-pity in her steady brown eyes. “He hasn’t a clue who I am.”

Emeline looked over to where her fiancé sat among a bevy of young ladies. He was gesturing widely, evidently in the midst of some story, and his right hand nearly clipped the cap of the lady sitting nearest to him. She again wanted to snap at Melisande not to be silly, but the truth was, Jasper probably did indeed have no clue what Melisande’s name was. He’d always paid more attention to the most beautiful ladies in their circle. That was only to be expected, she supposed. Men were rather shallow that way, caring more for a lady’s looks than her feelings or mind. Most men, anyway. Samuel sat in the opposite corner, flanked by his sister and Mrs. Ives—a rather plain lady of advanced years. He had his head tilted to the lady as she said something, but his eyes caught hers just as she looked at him.

Emeline looked away, feeling heat invade her cheeks. Damn the man. It wasn’t enough that he’d used her body until it ached this morning in a terrible, pleasurable way; now he must invade her every waking thought.

“...do hope you used a preventative,” Melisande was saying across from her.

“What?” Emeline asked too sharply.

Her friend glanced at her as if she could tell that Emeline’s mind was elsewhere. “I said I hoped that you used a preventative last night.”

Emeline stared. “What are you talking about?”

“Something to prevent a baby—”

Emeline choked.

“Are you all right?” her bosom beau asked as if she hadn’t just shot a cannon into the conversation.

Emeline waved at her as she took a drink of tea. Briefly, she contemplated denying that she’d spent the night with Samuel, but the conversation seemed well past that point. Instead, she settled on the more pressing matter. “Quite. How...how—?”

Melisande stared at her sternly. “I can’t think how you can embark upon an affair without taking appropriate measures. There are sponges that fit in the female body—”

“How in the world do you know of such things?” Emeline asked in real wonder. Melisande was unmarried and presumably a maiden.

“There are books if one is interested.”

Emeline’s eyes widened. “Books about...?”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord.”

“Pay attention,” Melisande said sternly. “Have you taken the appropriate measures?”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Emeline muttered.

Her hand crept to her laced belly before she caught herself and snatched it away. How could she not think about such a fundamental thing, even in the heat of passion? The possibility of a baby was a real concern, and one she could not afford. Jasper was very sophisticated, but no man wanted his heir to be someone else’s get. If she was with child, she’d have to marry Samuel. The mere thought turned her stomach. There would be nowhere to hide, living with such a man. She’d be constantly exposed, her feelings, her worst traits, open to him. He saw her, really
saw
her as no man had ever done before, and she didn’t like it. He would demand things of her, emotions she didn’t want to feel, and she wouldn’t be able to hide behind a fraudulent facade.

Her horror must’ve shown on her face, for Melisande leaned forward and placed her hand on hers. “Don’t panic. It’s too soon to know; there may be no cause for worry. Unless”—she frowned—“this affair has been going on longer than I’ve thought?”

“No,” Emeline moaned. “Oh, no. It’s just been...” But she couldn’t finish the thought. What must Melisande think of her? She’d been cavorting with a man she’d known only a little while at the same party that her fiancé attended.

Her friend patted her hand. “Then there’s no point in worrying. Enjoy the rest of the party and don’t go back to him without prevention.”

“Of course not.” Emeline drew a steadying breath. “I won’t even look at him again. I’m certainly not going to...” She waved away the rest of the sentence and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll just avoid him. There won’t be another time.”

“Hmm.” Melisande’s murmur was noncommittal, but her look was skeptical.

And Emeline really couldn’t blame her friend. She’d tried, but her voice sounded uncertain even to herself. Against her will, her gaze wandered back to the corner where Samuel sat. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed. To anyone else, his expression was casual, she was sure. But to her it was not. In his eyes she saw lust, possession, and certainty of his own strength. This man wouldn’t give her up without a fight.

Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into?

Iron Heart woke on the next dawn—the day before he was to be released from his silence—to the scream of a woman. The wet nurse stood in the doorway to the plundered nursery, and she screamed and screamed. For every stick of furniture was broken, the walls were splashed with crimson blood, and worse, far, far worse, the baby was gone. Soon the nursery was crowded with the people of the palace—guards, servants, cooks, and maids. All stared at Iron Heart, covered in blood in the nursery where his son had once slept. But his heart did not ache until Princess Solace pushed to the front of the crowd and beheld her husband, and her eyes filled with sorrow....

—from
Iron Heart

She was avoiding him. This much was obvious to Sam as he and Emeline moved through an odd, furtive dance that morning. He would enter a room and she would turn aside, giving him her shoulder. He would make his way slowly, casually toward her; she would voice an excuse and exit the room before he ever got close to her. Over and over again they played this game, and each time he grew more frustrated. He no longer cared if his attempts to catch her were observed by the other members of the party. His only focus was on cornering her. And each time she eluded him, he became more determined.

They were in the library now, the house party confined to the indoors again today since the rain continued relentlessly outside. He was biding his time, making no move toward her, simply watching for an opening. She sat in the corner with her friend, Miss Fleming. The other woman was plain beside Emeline’s dark beauty, but her eyes were sharp, and she was aware of his every move. Either Emeline had confided their involvement to her friend or the woman had guessed. Not that it mattered. Miss Fleming might be a fierce watchdog, but he wouldn’t let her stand between him and his prey.

Sam grimaced at the thought and looked away. His emotions had never been this primitive, this ungentle, with a woman he wanted before. He knew he was losing control—had perhaps already run past the point of self-control—and yet he could not help himself. He wanted her. Her rejection was like ice held against his bare skin too long. Painful. Unacceptable. She’d let him make love to her; she could not withdraw herself from him now. And underneath all that, there was a layer of hurt that he didn’t want to acknowledge. She’d hurt him, both his pride and something else within him that was basic to his being. It was agonizing, this hurt, and he needed it to stop.

He needed her.

“Won’t you come play cards?” Rebecca asked beside him. He’d not even seen her approach.

“No,” he said absently.

“Well, then you must at least stop looking at Lady Emeline like a dog at a sausage.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” she said with exasperation. “I expect you to start drooling at any moment. It’s not nice.”

He turned his head and focused on her face. “Is it that bad?”

“Probably not to others, but I’m your sister. I see things.”

“Yes, you do.” He studied her a moment. The yellow of her gown seemed to make her shine. He suddenly realized that his sister was probably among the most lovely of the ladies assembled here. “Are you enjoying the party? I haven’t asked.”

“It’s...interesting.” She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I was afraid at first that no one would talk to me, but that hasn’t been the case. The other ladies have been nice. Mostly.”

He frowned. “Who hasn’t been nice to you?”

She flicked her hand impatiently. “No one. It doesn’t matter. Don’t fuss.”

“I’m your brother; I’m supposed to fuss,” he said, trying to make it a jest.

His words must not have come off well, because she didn’t smile. Instead she just gazed at him quizzically.

He inhaled and tried again. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been keeping company with Mr. Green.”

“Ye-es.” Rebecca drew the word out, her voice cautious. Her head was down-bent, but she darted a glance at that gentleman now. Mr. Green was among the card players in the corner.

Sam felt like an ass. Rebecca had asked him to play cards. She must want him to give her an excuse to approach Green. He smiled down at her and extended his arm. “Shall we go play cards?”

But she squinted up at him. “I thought you didn’t want to play?”

“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”

She sighed as if he’d said something incredibly simpleminded. “Samuel, you don’t want to play cards.”

“Yes, but I thought you wanted to play cards,” he said slowly. He felt as if he were searching for a hidden path. Or perhaps that he’d wandered off the path altogether.

“I did, but not for the reason you think. Have you heard Mr. Green’s laugh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” she said as if that decided the matter. She clasped her hands together as if bracing herself. “I heard Mr. Craddock was dead when you went to question him?”

He looked at her warily. “He was.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose his widow knew nothing?”

“No. We’ll have to wait until our return to London to continue the quest.” And then he’d corner Thornton. Over Rebecca’s shoulder, he saw Emeline turn and stroll from the room. Dammit! “Excuse me.”

“She’s fled again, I suppose,” Rebecca said without even looking over her shoulder.

He bent and brushed a kiss across her temple, just where her dark hair was pulled back. “You are much too perceptive for a sister.”

“I love you, too,” she muttered.

He paused and looked at her, startled. She was a grown woman, his sister, and he didn’t always understand her, but he did love her. He grinned down into her worried eyes.

And then he was out the door, on the hunt.

T
HIS WAS THE
problem with engaging in an
affaire de coeur
with a colonial: he obviously didn’t know when the thing was over.

Emeline darted a glance over her shoulder as she scurried into a dim servant’s passage. She couldn’t see the dratted man, but she could feel him somewhere behind her. Any other gentleman would know by now that he’d been given his conge. She’d been careful to not look at him, to not engage him in any conversation all this morning. She’d all but cut him dead, and still Samuel would not give up. And the terrible part was that something inside her thrilled at his determination. How he must want her to pursue her like this! She couldn’t help but be flattered.

In a very exasperated way, of course.

Emeline rounded a corner, completely lost now, and shrieked when a large hand shot out of the darkness to grab her. Samuel pulled her behind a dusty curtain. There was a little alcove here in the passage that was used as a storage space—she could make out the shapes of barrels stacked against the wall. Nevertheless, it was a very small space, and she was forced up against his chest, which made her squeak.

“Hush,” he murmured into her hair in the most provoking manner, “you are so loud.”

“You nearly gave me apoplexy,” she growled at him. Pushing at his chest was having no discernible effect at all, so she gave up and peered at him in the gloom. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to talk to you,” he muttered. There was an edge to his voice, and she could feel, even through the miles of fabric between them, that he was quite hard. He sounded frustrated, and a small, not very nice feminine part of her rejoiced. “It’s not been easy.”

“That’s because I haven’t
wanted
to talk to you.” She shoved at his chest, despite her vow not to, but he didn’t give an inch.

“You’re such a prickly little thing,” he said.

“I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Her frustration boiled over, and she slapped him on the chest. “Let me go!”

“No.”

“We can’t go on like this.” She set her jaw, making her voice hard. “It was pleasant while it lasted, but it’s over now.”

“I don’t think so.”

“This was nothing but a country affair. We will be going back to the city soon, and then all shall be as it was before. You must be on your way.”

“Does that often work?” He sounded amused, not at all put out by her hurtful words.

“What?” she asked irritably.

“Ordering men about.” His voice was low, but in the dim alcove it sounded loud to her ears. “I bet it does. They probably creep off, their tail between their legs to lick the wounds your sharp tongue cuts into them.”

“You’re impossible!”

“And you’re spoiled by getting your own way all the time.”

“I am not.” She reared back, trying to see his features. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

She felt him still against her, and there was a sudden silence in the alcove.

When next he spoke, his voice was grave and horribly intimate in the dark. “I know that you have a cutting tongue and a quick mind that doesn’t always think pleasant thoughts. And I know that you try to hide all that, as if you were like every other lady, a pretty thing made of meringue—sugary sweet and nothing but air.”

“A lady should be sweet,” she whispered. Awful that he knew such things about her. Worse than the intimacies revealed by sex. She maintained the facade with most, or at least she thought she did. A lady should be sweet, not sharp-tongued with mean thoughts flying through her mind all the time. She was too strong, too self-sufficient, too masculine. He must be repulsed.

“Are there rules for how a lady should be, then?” he asked her temple. “So many things you must do properly in this country, I don’t know how you stand it.”

“I—”

“I like a tart lady.” Was that his tongue on the lobe of her ear? “I like the taste of sour, a sharp surprise, like an apple picked too green.”

“Green apples give you a stomachache,” she muttered against his chest. She felt a welling in her throat, as if tears threatened. How dare he do this again? Push past her defenses. Destroy her walls like so much papier-mâché?

He chuckled, the vibration rumbling against her neck. “Green apples never give me a stomachache. And they make the best pie. Other apples are too sweet; they turn to bland mush when cooked. But a green apple”—his hand was on her skirts, lifting and bunching them—“is brought to life by the sugar and spice. Just right on my tongue.”

He brought his mouth down on hers, and she was lost all over again. The taste of him was intoxicating. She might be sour to him, but to her he was coffee, rich, darkly sweet, and pure male. She gasped, widening her mouth, wanting to drink him in. This would be the last time; she must stop this insanity soon. She pushed that thought away and simply felt, drifting in a sea of sensation, his arms about her, his tongue in her mouth, the sheer bulk of him over her.

The scrape of a shoe came from the hallway. Emeline broke the kiss and would’ve gasped, but Samuel covered her mouth with his hand.

“Has she lost her mind?” an ill-humored voice grumbled directly outside the curtain they hid behind. “To try tennis in the great hall. Jaysus!”

Emeline glanced down and saw a huge pair of buckle shoes just below the hem of the curtain. She looked up at Samuel in mute horror. His lips were trembling as he watched her, his hand still over her mouth. The dreadful man was amused! She narrowed her eyes at him. If she could’ve hit him without alerting the man standing not two feet away, she would’ve.

“Not much else they can do, is there?” A second man was speaking now, his voice higher and almost slurred, as if the servant had been drinking. “Toffs gotta have amusements, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but tennis?” The first man’s tone was rich with disgust. “And in the house? Why can’t they just do their cards or maybe dice or somethin’?”

“Dice? Don’t be daft, man. Toffs don’t dice.”

“Well, why not? Whatsa matter with dice, I asks you?”

Emeline could feel Samuel shaking against her as he tried to contain his laughter. How he could find this amusing was beyond her understanding. She was nearly petrified with the fear of discovery. She glared at him as she lifted her foot and brought the heel of her shoe down on his moccasin. For a moment, she thought he’d lose his self-possession altogether. Instead of sobering him as she’d meant to do, apparently the feel of her heel digging painfully into his foot only amused him further. His eyes sparkled with silent laughter. She stood mutely glaring at him, and then he took his hand from her mouth and replaced it with his own mouth. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, and altogether silently.

From without the curtain came a sigh. “Have you some of that good ’bacco?”

“Aye, right here.”

“Ta.”

Dear God, they were settling in to smoke a pipe! The thought sent horror spiking through Emeline, but at the same time, Samuel thrust his tongue into her mouth and the horror became mingled with pleasure, heightening both. He’d begun working on her skirts again, drawing them stealthily up. The fabric rustled as it moved over her thighs and she froze.

Outside the curtain, one of the men coughed. She could smell the fragrant scent of tobacco smoke now. They must have both lit pipes. Then that thought fled as Samuel brushed the bared curls at the top of her thighs.

“Why tennis, d’you ’spose?” the lower voice asked.

Samuel was threading through her maiden hair, his long fingers drawing nearer to that special spot. She clutched at his shoulders, distracted, confused, and incredibly aroused.