“Oh, God.” She couldn’t bear hearing of his horrible pain.
“That’s not the worst,” he whispered so low she almost didn’t hear.
“What is the worst?”
He closed his eyes as if bracing himself, then said, “That I’ve failed my fellow soldiers. That I’m running through the woods of North America, but I’m not running to fetch help. I’m merely running away. That I’m the coward they call me.”
It was horribly inappropriate, ghastly, really, but she couldn’t help it. She laughed. Emeline stuffed her fist into her open mouth like a little child, trying to stifle the sound, but it broke forth, anyway, loud in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”
But one side of his mouth moved upward as if he almost smiled. He reached down and pulled her into his lap, her skirts dragging through the basin of bloody water. She didn’t care. All she worried about was this man and his hellish nightmares.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, dropping the bloody rag. She placed her palm against his face. If she could only absorb his pain into herself, she would. “Oh, Samuel, I’m sorry.”
He stroked her hair. “I know. Why did you laugh?”
She caught her breath at the tenderness in his voice. “It’s so ludicrous, the thought that you could ever be a coward.”
“But it isn’t,” he murmured as his face drew close to hers. “You don’t know me.”
“I do. I—” She had meant to say that she knew him better than any man alive, even Jasper, but his lips covered hers.
He kissed her tenderly, his mouth soft, and she swallowed sorrow from his kiss. Why this man? Why not some other man of her own rank, of her own country? She took his face in between her hands and pushed her mouth on his, and her mouth wasn’t soft or gentle. What she wanted from him wasn’t a gentle thing. She licked across his lips, tasting salt, then forced her tongue into his mouth. She turned her upper body and pressed herself against him without any artifice, a wanton woman. He broke then. His arms wrapped about her back, and he pulled her fully into his chest, holding her tightly as his tongue slid against hers. She felt the drying tears on her face, she felt the ridge of his organ, even through all the intervening clothes, and she felt an answering feminine thrill.
And then she felt him push her away.
She grasped his shoulders to keep from falling in the basin of water. “What—?”
“Go.”
His face was dark, working with some emotion. Had she misunderstood his interest? But, no, looking at his lap, it was all too evident that he’d been fully engaged in their kiss. Then why...?
“Go!”
He picked her up, placed her on her feet, and shoved her unceremoniously toward the door. “Go.”
And Emeline found herself outside Samuel’s room. She fled down the hall, her skirts dripping bloody water and her heart overflowing with pain.
Chapter Twelve
That night, when all was quiet in the castle, Iron Heart woke on the stroke of midnight. He felt a nameless fear, and leaving his marital bed and the princess asleep, he grasped his sword and went to find his baby son. When he reached the nursery, the guards were asleep outside the door. Quietly, he cracked the nursery door open, and what he saw inside froze the blood in his veins. For a giant wolf, its fangs glittering in the dark, stood over his son’s crib....
—from Iron Heart
Oddly, he’d slept well. That was Sam’s first thought the next morning. It was as if Lady Emeline had laid a balm not only on his feet, but also on his soul. Which was a strange thought. She’d laugh if she’d heard it; she was such a prickly little thing.
His second thought was that his feet throbbed with pain. He groaned and sat in the huge bed the Hasselthorpes had provided for him. The entire room—like the house itself—was magnificent. Red velvet curtains hung from the bed, the walls were paneled with dark carved wood, and a thick carpet lay on the expansive floor. The cabin he’d grown up in might almost fit in the bedroom. If this was what they’d given him, probably the least important of their guests, what had they given the others?
He grimaced. The thought left Sam disgruntled. He didn’t belong here in a house of velvet and antique wood. He was from the New World, where men were judged by what they achieved in their own lifetimes, not by what their ancestors had gained. And yet he couldn’t dismiss England altogether. This was Lady Emeline’s home, and she fit in as only one who was born into this country and class could. That fact alone should’ve been reason enough to stay away from her. Their worlds, their experiences, their lives, were too far apart.
But that hadn’t been why he’d pushed her off his lap the night before. No, that had been an instinctive move, one that had gone against his body’s own wishes. He’d been throbbingly hard, had been thinking of nothing save putting his body within hers, and then he’d known it wasn’t right. He’d not wanted her capitulation if it was because of pity. Pity wasn’t the emotion he wanted from Lady Emeline. Not at all. ’Course, maybe that made him a fool, because his cock certainly didn’t seem to care why she’d lain across his lap like butter melting on toast. It only knew that the lady had been willing, and like a hound set to a scent, it was already proudly awake and ready for the chase.
First things first. He smelled like a pigsty, the result of running the night before until the sweat streamed from his body. Sam limped to the door and called for hot water. Then he sat and examined his feet. Lady Emeline had done a good job. The bottom of both feet were covered with broken blisters, and he had a rather nasty cut on the right one, but the wounds were clean. They’d heal properly; he knew by experience.
His bath was in a tin tub that barely fit Sam’s body, but the warmth and steam felt good to his aching muscles. Then he dressed, grimacing as he laced his older pair of moccasins, and went down to break his fast. The hour might be late for him, but for an English aristocrat, it was still early and when he limped into the breakfast room, it was only half full.
The room was long, running across a portion of the back of the house. Diamond-paned windows lined the outer wall, letting in the morning light. Instead of one long table, smaller ones had been set here and there for the diners. Sam nodded to a gentleman whose name escaped him and tried to correct his limp as he made his way to the dishes laid out on a sideboard on the far end of the room. Rebecca was already there, peering at a plate of fried gammon.
“There you are!” his sister muttered at him.
Sam glanced sideways at her. “Good morning to you, too.”
She scowled at him, then cleared her brow when she saw Lady Hopedale staring at them. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” He placed a slice of gammon on his plate. He’d noticed the other day that it was particularly good here.
“Pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” his sister said in palpable exasperation.
Sam looked at her. In fact, he had no idea what she was talking about.
Rebecca blew out a breath of air, then said slowly as if talking to a very small child, “You were gone all day yesterday. No one knew where you and Lord Vale were. You were missing.”
Sam opened his mouth, but she leaned into him and continued in a whisper, “I was worried about you. That’s what happens when you suddenly disappear and no one can find you and people start wondering if you’ve fallen into a ditch and are lying dead somewhere. Your sister starts to worry about you.”
Sam blinked. He wasn’t used to accounting for his movements to anyone. He was a grown man and in the peak of health. Why would anyone worry about him? “There’s no reason to worry. I can take care of myself.”
“That’s not the point!” Rebecca hissed loud enough to make a matron with pendulous jowls look back at them. “You could be the strongest, most well-armed man in the world, and I would still worry if you disappeared for no reason.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Rebecca slapped a salted herring onto her plate.
“What doesn’t make any sense is you.” She turned and marched off with her fish.
Sam was still staring after her, trying to understand where he had gone wrong in the conversation, when Vale spoke beside him. “Your sister’s feathers seem to be ruffled.”
Sam glanced at the other man and winced. Vale’s face was ashy-gray, and he swayed almost imperceptibly as he peered at the plate of gammon. “You look like a pile of horseshit.”
“Most kind.” Vale swallowed. His gray face was taking on a greenish undertone. “I don’t believe I’ll have anything to eat just now.”
“Good idea.” Sam heaped buttered kidneys on his own plate. “Maybe some coffee?”
“No.” Vale closed his eyes for a second. “No. Just some barley water.”
“As you think best.” Sam called a footman over and asked for a glass of barley water.
Vale winced. “I think I’ll sit in the corner where it’s quiet.”
Sam smirked and piled two pieces of toast on his plate before following the other man to a small, round table. He ought to be sympathetic. The devils that plagued Vale were the same as his, although the symptoms they evoked were different.
“Have you seen Emmie this morning?” Vale asked as Sam sat across from him.
Sam looked down at his plate as he set it carefully on the table. “No.” God, he hated the familiarity of that nickname. He wanted to punch Vale each time he used it.
Vale smiled weakly. “’Fraid I was an ass to her last night.”
“Were you?” Sam stared at the other man, feeling hostility well in his chest. “She was with you?”
“Not for long.” Vale squinted. “At least I think not. I was a bit tight.”
Sam cut into the gammon in a vicious, controlled motion. Had Lady Emeline been in Vale’s rooms as well? Had she undressed him and readied him for bed? Cared for him with as much tenderness as she had Sam? He pushed too hard and his knife skidded across the plate with a screech, pushing the gammon onto the table.
“Whoops,” Vale said with an imbecilic smile.
Lady Emeline walked into the room.
Sam watched her with narrowed eyes. She was wearing a demure white and pink dress today, and the sight provoked him. Pink made her look like a silly society lady, a woman who would never be able to make a decision for herself, when he knew that the opposite was the truth. She was a strong woman, the strongest he’d ever met.
“There’s Emmie,” Vale exclaimed.
Had her fiancé ever looked at the grown woman? Evidently not, or he’d never call her such a girlish name as Emmie. Sam felt his hostility grow. She was like a sister to Vale, nothing more. And while love for a sister might be true and deep, it wasn’t passion. Emeline was a strong woman with intense emotions. She needed more than brotherly love.
She’d seen him. He knew that, although she pretended otherwise, her head turned away as she talked to their hostess. Emeline was always aware of where he was. He should’ve taken that as a sign. He should’ve known, just from that one fact: he couldn’t hide from her, even if he wanted to.
“Emmie!” Vale called to her and winced at the sound of his own voice. “Damn me, why doesn’t she see us?”
But she looked toward them then, though she was careful not to meet Sam’s eyes. She made a last comment to Lady Hasselthorpe and squared her shoulders before walking toward their table.
“Good morning, Jasper. Mr. Hartley.”
Vale reached for her hand, and Sam’s fingers fisted under the table. “Can you ever forgive me, Emmie? I’m ashamed I was such a drunken oaf last night.”
She smiled sweetly, making Sam immediately suspicious. “Of course I can forgive you, Jasper. You are always so appreciative.”
Sam was sure he’d not imagined her emphasis on the second you. He cleared his throat, trying to draw her attention, but she was resolute in her determination not to look at him. “Please. Sit with us.”
She couldn’t ignore him speaking directly to her without drawing attention. Emeline smiled tightly at him. “I don’t think—”
“Yes, yes! Have a seat,” Vale cried. “I’ll go get you a plate.”
A flicker of pure exasperation crossed Emeline’s face. “I—”
But she was too late. Vale was already up and bounding over to the sideboard. Sam smiled and pulled out the chair between his and Vale’s seat. “He’s left you no choice.”
“Humph.” She flounced into the chair, pointedly tilting her chin away from him.
Strangely, this made him come achingly erect. He leaned toward her, hoping to catch her scent. “I’m sorry I pushed you away last night.”
Her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, and she finally looked at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He watched her dark eyes. “I refer to you sitting on my lap, my lady, and sticking your tongue in my mouth.”
“Are you mad?” she asked low. “You cannot speak about that here.”
“Not that I didn’t appreciate sucking on your sweet tongue.”
“Samuel,” she protested, but her gaze fell to his mouth.
God, she made him feel alive! He wanted her. Damn their differences, damn Vale, damn the whole goddamn country. She’d been eager last night. “And I liked the feel of your rump on top of my cock.”
Her eyes flared wide. “Stop it! It’s too dangerous. You can’t—”
“Here we are,” Vale said happily. He plunked down a laden plate in front of Emeline and sat with a tall glass of what must be barley water for himself. “I wasn’t sure what would tempt you, so I got some of everything.”
“You’re too kind,” Emeline said weakly, picking up a fork.
“Quite the gallant,” Sam murmured. “I shall have to take lessons from him, don’t you think, Lady Emeline?”
She pursed her lips. “There’s no need—”
“But there is.” He’d lost all control. It was the sight of her being cared for by Vale, a man who didn’t even know her. He was aware that his face had tensed, that he was revealing too much, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “My manners are too rough, my speech too blunt. I need to learn to smooth my ways so that I can have proper congress with a lady.”
On the word congress, Emeline dropped her fork.
Vale choked on the sip of barley water he’d taken and started coughing.
Sam looked at him. “Don’t you think so, Lord Vale?”
“I’m sorry, I just remembered...” Emeline’s face was pale with anger as she searched for an excuse. “I don’t know. I have to go.” And she got up and walked quickly from the room.
“Congress, old man, is really not the word you were looking for,” Vale said. “Conversation, maybe, or—”
“No? I stand corrected,” Sam murmured. “Excuse me.”
He didn’t wait for Vale’s reply or look to see what the other man thought. He didn’t care anymore. She’d fled, and she must know by now the reaction that that would provoke in a predator.
EMELINE GATHERED HER skirts as she quickened her pace down the hallway. Awful, awful man! How dare he—after rejecting her the night before, actually pushing her away from himself—act as if he were the one wronged? She rounded a corner, nearly cannoning into the Duke of Lister and barely muttering an apology before continuing. The worst part was that her attraction to the horrible man was completely undimmed. How mortifying. To have offered herself to him, have him reject her in no uncertain terms, and then be unable to kill the animal lust her body felt for him.
She’d been so worried when she’d first seen him in the breakfast room. How were his feet? Had she properly cleaned them? How had he been able to walk this morning? And then he’d begun stalking her with his words, not caring who overheard or that he’d already rejected her. It was because of Jasper, she was sure. Samuel was reacting with a kind of male territorial instinct like a hound guarding its dinner. Well, she wasn’t some moldy bone to be fought over.
The stairs were in front of her, but h
er vision was blurred by rage and frustration. She didn’t care for him; she refused to care for him. He was a colonial without manners or sophistication. She hated him. On that thought, she nearly slipped on a tread and prayed she could make her room before she broke down altogether. That would be the final straw—to be found wandering the Hasselthorpe hallways out of her mind because of a man. She nearly ran the last distance to her room, wrenching open the door and falling inside before slamming it behind her.
Or at least she tried to slam the door. It met with resistance. She looked over her shoulder and found to her utter horror that Samuel stood there, one palm flat against the wooden door.
“No!” Emeline pushed against the door with all her might. “Get out! Get out, you whore-mongering, son of a bitch, arsehole!”
“Hush.” His eyebrows were drawn down sternly. He took her shoulder and effortlessly pulled her away from the door before shutting it.
Which only enraged her further. “No, you don’t!”
She was writhing, trying desperately to get out of his grasp, slapping at his hands, snaking her head to bite him.
“Yes, I do,” he retorted.
And he pulled her roughly against his chest. He slammed his mouth onto hers. Immediately, she bit him. Or tried to. He yanked his head back and, amazingly, grinned down at her, although the expression held no amusement. “I remember that trick.”
“Bastard!” She flung up a hand to hit him, but he caught that as well.
He shoved her bodily against the wall and pinned her there like some unfortunate moth. Then he bent his head and, avoiding her mouth, bit her neck, just under her ear. And her body—her idiot, traitorous body—responded, going all soft and warm. He nipped and tongued her neck, and her head arched back even as something close to a growl slipped from her lips. He chuckled.
“Don’t you laugh at me!” she screeched like a harpy.
“I’m not,” he murmured against her throat. “I’d never laugh at you.” He pulled at her bodice, ripping something. Then he was licking across the mounds of her breasts above her stays.