A Heart for the Taking (45 page)

Unaware of Chance’s steady regard, Fancy was laughing
at something Ellen had said, her expression carefree and cheerful, and Chance felt something twist painfully in his chest. Damn her. She had no right to look so lovely, so appealing, as she stood there garbed in a homespun dark green skirt and a simple yellow spotted bodice and cotton blouse. Like many a plantation wife, she wore a linen apron tied round her slender waist and a beribboned mobcap. A shallow wicker basket in which lay a few apples was carried across her arm. Scowling at her, Chance stared, noting enviously the way the sun brushed a tawny glow across her cheeks and kissed the curls of her hair as they fell in careless splendor around her shoulders.

As Chance swung out of the saddle and threw his reins around the top rail of the wooden fence that enclosed the orchard, Fancy laughed again, this time at some comment from Annie. His mouth thinned. His wife sure as hell didn’t laugh very much in his presence, he thought grimly. Nor was her expression as open and sunny as it was right now. No, for him, he admitted irritably, her usual look was an infuriating mixture of wariness and militancy. And he was damned tired of that, too.

Though his approach was silent and the women were preoccupied with their own affairs, Fancy must have sensed his presence, because she suddenly glanced in his direction and her smile faded; that wary, militant expression crept over her face, and Chance swore under his breath. Not bothering to hide his displeasure, he walked up to the women. He barely acknowledged the greetings of the others as he stopped in front of Fancy. Hands on his hips, his blue eyes boring into hers, he said coolly, “I am sorry to take you away from the others, but I would like a word with you.”

“Now?” Fancy asked, all sign of her earlier cheerfulness gone. “Could it not wait? We are very busy right now.”

“Oh, we are not that busy,” Martha said with the familiarity of one comfortable and secure in her position. “ ’Tis too late in the day to start any new project anyway. We will go to the house and leave you and the master with some privacy.”

Chance and Fancy might not have been in a state of open warfare, but the fact that there was something seriously amiss in the marriage hadn’t escaped Martha’s eagle eye. Sending Chance a speaking glance, and before Fancy could protest, she quickly hustled Ellen and Annie toward the house. “Now,” she said placidly to Ellen, “I shall show you how to make a flummery. When paired with my chocolate cream ’tis young Hugh’s favorite dessert.”

Ellen needed to hear no more. An eager look upon her pretty little face, she quickly fell in with Martha’s suggestion, and with Annie following behind, the three women left the orchard.

Fancy watched them go with acute misgiving—and, to her intense shame, a wildly beating heart. She was not exactly positive why Chance had sought her out in such a blunt manner, but she had a fairly good idea. Her cool attitude toward him had finally gotten under even
his
thick skin, and he was determined to bring an end to it. Her lips twisted. And no doubt, to their chaste marriage bed.

When the other women reached the house and disappeared inside, Fancy brought her eyes reluctantly back to him. She wasn’t looking forward to this confrontation, and she had realized some days ago the wisdom of that age-old advice—never go to bed angry at one’s spouse. The anger and hurt she had felt had not lessened; it had only festered and oozed like an unclean wound. Her month-long bargain, especially after the night they had argued about his reasons for marrying her, had accomplished little. But having thrown down the gauntlet between them, she wasn’t certain how to retrieve the situation . . . especially without causing herself embarrassment.

Fancy sighed. She did not really mind if she was embarrassed, but it hurt her deeply to realize that Chance had married her, had totally disrupted and destroyed her life, simply to strike back at Jonathan. Revenge was a poor foundation upon which to build a life together. While she had admitted that she loved Chance, she didn’t think that her love alone
would be enough—for either of them . . . or for the child she suspected was growing in her belly.

It had not been only to avoid Chance that she had taken to arising at first light and had forsaken joining the others at mealtimes. The very smell of food these days was likely to send her into a fit of retching, and it was worst in the mornings. She had been keeping her increasingly queasy stomach easy with plenty of hot tea and dried bread—which helped but didn’t entirely alleviate all symptoms.

The first time she had gotten sick, she had put it down to something she had eaten. But when the sickness became a regular part of her morning ritual, the stunning possibility that she might be breeding had suddenly occurred to her. With a sinking feeling, she had realized that she had not had her “woman’s time” since before she had married Chance. There was every likelihood that she had conceived that day on the bluff.

Fancy did not know how she felt about the prospect of a child. Once, it had been her dearest wish, but believing she was barren, she had put away all thought of having a child. To discover that Chance was right, that it was the
stallion
and not necessarily the mare that had led to the lack of children in her first marriage, was galling. Trust him to be right about that, she thought waspishly. Yet despite all her uncertainties about her future with Chance, she was filled with awe and a sense of wonder that together they had made a child, that come spring she would give birth.

An odd, secretive smile curved her mouth, and seeing it, Chance growled, “Something amuses you, Madame Wife?”

Fancy sighed and, reaching up, took off her mob cap and shook her hair loose. Dropping the cap carelessly into the basket that she still carried on her arm, she said, “No, I find nothing amusing in this situation.”

Chance stared transfixed at her hair as the sun wooed a glint of fire here and there in the dark mass. His mouth went dry, and he was conscious of an urge to drag her into his arms and bury his face in the shining mass. His voice husky, he said, “Perhaps ’tis time we did something about it.”

Her eyes wide, Fancy stared up at his dark face. Something in the cast of his mouth, something in the expression of his blue eyes, held her nearly spellbound. But ignoring the sudden leap in her pulse, she asked, “What do you suggest?”

“A cessation of hostilities? A truce, mayhap?”

“Our present truce, if you can call it that, has not accomplished very much. Why do you think another one would change things?”

“Because we cannot go on this way,” Chance muttered. “I did not marry you to spend my nights as chastely as I have. Nor did I ever envision my marriage as one of polite tolerance.”

Fancy’s jaw hardened. “When you marry a woman who does not want you and for the spiteful reason of revenge, you should not be surprised if the marriage is not as you envisioned or to your liking.”

Chance suddenly grinned. “Now, I never said that the marriage was not to my liking. And you are only playing a game with yourself if you think that you don’t want me.”

Fancy took in an outraged breath, her eyes blazing with golden lights. “Of all the conceited, arrogant—!”

Chance laughed and dragged the basket from her arm, then tossed it aside as he pulled her struggling form into his embrace. Swinging her around, a teasing glint in his blue eyes, he said, “Ah, Duchess, you do not know how much I have missed that fire in your eye and the lash of that sweet tongue of yours.”

To her dismay, Fancy felt herself responding to his teasing, her heaviness of spirit vanishing magically, a bubble of irrepressible laughter surging up through her. How could she think of laughing when she was furious with him? But it was true. She did not want to be furious with him, she wanted to laugh, to fling her arms around his neck and let him sweep aside all her doubts and fears. She fought frantically against his powerful appeal, afraid of losing the very essence of herself if she gave in to the unfair promptings of her heart. Terrified that she would lose her head—as she always did
where he was concerned—with a great effort, she suddenly hurled herself out of his arms. Picking up her skirts, she began to run; but, having lost her sense of direction from his whirling her about, instead of running toward the house, she ran into the nearby woodland.

Fancy realized her mistake almost at once and swerved to change her course, but Chance caught her about the waist and they both fell to the ground. His body was half on hers, and at the sudden, carnal curve to his lips, as he stared down at her, she felt breathless, a breathlessness that had nothing to do with her exertions.

Determined not to give in to the shocking surge of desire that flowed through her, Fancy glared up at him, her eyes daring him to give in to the primitive urge that was clearly revealed upon his dark face. Chance smiled twistedly at her expression. “Sweetheart, if you did not want this to happen, you should not have run away.”

F
ancy’s lips parted to angrily refute his words, but his mouth caught hers in a fierce kiss, his hard body pressing hungrily against hers. Sweet fire exploded deep inside of her as the feel of him, the taste of him, the virile scent of him, overpowered her senses. She was vaguely aware of the soft grass against her back and the warmth of the dappled sunlight on her skin, but mostly it was Chance, the longed-for pleasure of his weight on her, the intoxicating magic of his mouth moving on hers, that flooded her mind. For an instant she gave herself up to the elemental emotions his embrace aroused, letting her lips soften and cling to his, letting her arms creep around his neck.

Chance kissed her like a starving man, his lips, tongue, and teeth all tasting and exploring her willing mouth. Desire, kept so long in check, suddenly ran rampant through him, and his manhood instantly became hard and aching, the urgent need to mate with her nearly driving any thought but that one act from his mind. Gripped by powerful passion, Chance fought to keep from falling upon her like a ravening beast, every fiber and sinew of his body urging him to rip aside her clothing and his own and make them one.

Breathing in harsh gasps, he was finally able to lift his mouth from hers, and his eyes black with naked need, he said thickly, “Fancy, sweetheart . . .” He groaned and kissed her again, deeply, passionately, before flinging himself to the ground beside her, his hand tightly clasping one of hers.

They lay there side by side on the sun-warmed ground, sheltered from sight by a slight rise in the grassy terrain between them and the houses, as well as the spreading branches of a huge oak tree, its green leaves showing the faintest trace of gold. Birdsong drifted through the hot, humid air; the whistling call of a quail could be heard in the distance, and the drone of the bees and insects was a drowsy concert all around them.

His breathing slowing, Chance turned and propped himself up on one elbow. Staring down into Fancy’s flushed face, he said quietly, “I want you. I always have, and these past weeks have been very difficult for me.” Softly he added, “I do not want to force you, but if you continue to deny me, I fear . . .”

“Threats?” Fancy asked, her eyes daring him to deny it.

He smiled bitterly and shook his head. “No. I would never threaten you, but I find myself in an untenable position. You are my wife. You married me. If not of your own free will, you certainly agreed to the marriage and all that it entailed.” His gaze hardened. “If you meant for us to live our lives as celibates, if my touch is so repugnant to you, why did you not simply damn me to hell and go back to England . . . instead of chaining us to a situation that, if not resolved, is going to make both of us live a life of misery?”

Fancy looked away and bit her lip. Damn him! He was being so reasonable and, worse, had put his finger on the crux of the matter. Despite the scandal it would have caused, she could have left the Colonies. She’d known that and had even considered it. But she hadn’t left. She had chosen to stay—and to become his wife.

“What do you propose? A divorce?” she asked tightly.

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you want?”

“Would you allow it?”

“I cannot stop you from leaving me,” he growled. “If you wish to return to England and seek a divorce, there is nothing I can do to prevent it.”

“You would let me go?” she demanded incredulously. “After you went to such deplorable lengths to marry me?”

He hesitated. Looking away, he spoke as if the words were torn from him. “If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for the way I coerced you into marriage and you intend to deny me my rights as your husband, I think that perhaps it would be the best solution for us.”

His words shocked him nearly as much as they did Fancy. In all his dwelling on the situation between them, until this very moment Chance had never considered either a divorce or the possibility that his wife would leave him. But he realized with sudden, painful insight that they could
not
continue as they were, that though he had kept his promise to her these many weeks, he did not trust his control if she were to remain close at hand. And if he were to give in to his baser instincts and force his body upon her ... He sighed. He would hate himself and grow to hate her, and whatever tender feelings she had for him would surely wither and die.