To Taste Temptation
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.
THIS 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.
“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?”
“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.