His Black Sheep Bride (8 page)

She tried to look bored, even as the press of his arousal sent a fresh wave of awareness shooting through her. “You're making me sleepy.”

Sawyer chuckled before his expression turned seductive and intent again.

“What's the matter, Goldilocks?” he muttered, his head bending toward hers. “Are you finding that this bed is just right?”

And then his mouth met hers again.

He tasted of wine from their meal, and the scent of some expensive and finely-milled English sandalwood soap clung to his skin. The combination was strangely intoxicating. And
she yielded to it, her hands running up his arms until she clung to him, her arms around his neck.

Damningly, she didn't think about whether this was
right.
It just felt
good.

She'd passed the point of reflection and gone on to someplace more elemental.

Sawyer pressed her against the bedpost, his muscled thigh wedging between her legs.

He toyed with her lips, and she moaned with each nip and suck and gentle graze.

“That's right,” he approved gutturally. “Let me know how you feel.”

His mouth wandered away from hers, tracing along her jaw, and her head fell to one side, exposing her neck for their mutual pleasure.

While he kissed the column of her neck, his hands roamed and molded, running down her sides, from the curve of her breasts to the jut of her hips. In response, her fingers curled into his shoulders with pleasure.

When Sawyer's mouth came back to hers, he slid his hand up under the hem of her dress. Her head fell back, and she moaned again as his hand brushed aside her panties.

They both held still as his hand caressed her, his fingers delving into her moist heat, stroking her. From beneath her lashes, Tamara noticed Sawyer's eyes glittering down at her, his face intent with arousal.

“Ah, Tamara,” he breathed. “Ah, Goldilocks…”

Sawyer's free hand went to his belt, but then he suddenly stopped, his head tilting.

A moment later, Tamara heard it, too—the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

Just as Tamara frantically jerked away, Sawyer stepped back, his expression turning smooth and businesslike even as he took care to straighten her dress.

Sawyer was a practiced master of seduction. The thought flashed through her mind a second before she peripherally noticed someone walk past their open doorway.

“I hope you've enjoyed our tour, Tamara,” Sawyer said in a voice loud enough to carry.

His eyes laughed down at her, his expression gently mocking.

“Who was that?” Tamara whispered urgently.

Sawyer bent his head toward hers.

“I believe a person sent by the weekly housecleaning service,” he said with a grin, matching her low and urgent tone.

Argh.
Gathering her dignity, or what remained of it, she stepped away from him so that she was no longer cornered by the bedpost.

“No need to be concerned,” Sawyer said. “I'm sure she wouldn't have been too surprised to discover an engaged couple locked in an embrace. Embarrassed, maybe, surprised, no.”

Sawyer had acted deftly to avoid embarrassment to an outside employee. Unfortunately, Tamara thought, her own mortification was unabated.

She should be thankful that Sawyer had again been thwarted by the unexpected arrival of a third party. Instead, she was concerned, very concerned, by her reaction and increasing susceptibility to his charms.

“We're not really an engaged couple,” she responded with false composure. “Or need I remind you of our agreement?”

Sawyer's eyes narrowed a fraction, but then his lips quirked.

He reached out and smoothed her hair. “What's the harm in a little pleasure along the way?”

What indeed.
She took another step back, and he dropped his hand back to his side.

“We don't suit,” Tamara said firmly, “and we never will.”

His expression turned mocking. “We suited just fine a minute ago—”

She made a sweeping movement with her arm, gesturing to the room around them.

“This is not my world,” she said, putting aside her earlier charmed reaction to his town house. “And I'm not going to trade away who I am in exchange for it.”

He arched a brow.

“We may need to put on a convincing show that our marriage won't be a complete sham,” she continued stubbornly, “but we don't need to be too convincing. And you don't need practice!”

Sawyer gazed at her thoughtfully for a second, and then laughed throatily.

She turned on her heel.

Unfortunately,
this
Goldilocks had made her bed, but she wasn't sure whether she wanted to lie in it.

T
amara stood at the base of the steps of Gantswood Hall and surveyed the picturesque hills in the distance. From her vantage point, she could see the white dots of grazing sheep on the hillsides under the July sun. The stately home that was Sawyer's ancestral family seat sat amid the Cotswolds, and like most of the neighboring architecture, was made of an inviting honey-colored limestone, worlds away from the bleak, drafty castle she used to imagine him in.

A car that Sawyer had sent to pick her up from the airport stood parked near the front entrance of the Tudor mansion, its driver unloading her luggage.

Tamara breathed in the crisp country air, fragrant with the smell of grass and leaves and fresh streams.

The truth was she hadn't ventured to a stately British country estate since reaching adulthood. Not even to her father's family seat, Dunnyhead. She had been expecting to be put off by the whole experience. She was surprised to find herself…enchanted.

Gantswood Hall lay farther south than Dunnyhead, and its landscape was less bracing, more pastoral. It was the Gloucestershire countryside at its best.

But it was more than the landscape that drew her. A part of her, she acknowledged now, would always remain attached to the British countryside, no matter how many miles and how much time she stayed away. And soon she'd have a new—if temporary—tie to bind her there.

She'd arrived today as Tamara Kincaid, but she would leave as Tamara, Countess of Melton, and she would be addressed as Lady Melton or simply, my lady.

In deference to the mantle she'd opted to assume, she'd dressed conservatively in fawn-colored pants and a sky-blue shirt. She could have, she thought, walked out of an ad for Ralph Lauren.

Absently, she ran her finger over the spot on her shirt that covered the small rose tattoo she'd acquired in an East Village salon a few years ago.

She might have donned the uniform of a British aristocrat, but, she reminded herself, inside she was still the free-spirited designer with a SoHo loft.

Of course, she'd retained possession of said loft only thanks to Sawyer's timely intervention. He'd cosigned her lease renewal and assumed payment of the monthly rent. He'd also deposited a generous sum in Pink Teddy's commercial bank account.

“The first installment,” he'd said, acting as if the amount were of little consequence.

The recollection should have made her happy. Instead, she wanted to cringe.

She felt bought.

She shook her head. Why shy away from the truth? She
had
been bought. She'd had a price and Sawyer had met it.

She surveyed the hills before her, where all matter of
wildlife still roamed. All of it was the domain of the earls of Melton, no doubt at least partially acquired through various dynastic marriages over the centuries.

And now she was about to become the latest Langsford bride. In two days, she'd wear an embroidered lace wedding dress and Kincaid jewels to wed Sawyer in the village chapel. Pia would help make sure everything went off without a hitch.

Though the wedding was to be small, all the immediate family would be in attendance, including her mother and stepfather, Mr. and Mrs. Ward George, her sisters and, of course, her father. On Sawyer's side, his mother, Mrs. Peter Beauregard, and her teenage daughter from her second marriage, Jessica, would be present. And then, of course, there would be Belinda and Pia, and the Marquess of Easterbridge and the Duke of Hawkshire. Adding some buffer to the mix, a number of extended family, a few other friends, some neighbors and Sawyer's closest business associates would also be in attendance.

Tamara tamped down the well of turbulent anticipation. Since she'd never eloped in a Las Vegas wedding chapel, at least they wouldn't have to worry about any former husbands making an appearance.

No, the only concern this time would be the possibility of a runaway bride, Tamara thought with a barely suppressed hysterical laugh.

She replayed her mother's reaction on the phone when she'd announced she was getting married.

Honey, no.

You'll find life as Sawyer's wife absolutely stifling. What has possessed you to even think…?

I hope your father hasn't pressured you.

And then, once it had become apparent Tamara was determined to go through with the marriage, remaining steadily
mum about her reasons for doing so other than that she'd fallen for Sawyer Langsford, Susan George had sighed heavily.

I never imagined you'd aspire to status, Tamara. But, darling, I can't fault you if you do. Certainly having married wealth and position has benefited me.

It was Sawyer's wealth she was counting on, Tamara thought now. It was his financial support that had made her agree to this farce of a marriage at all. So why did standing on the steps of his ancestral estate, expecting him to come and greet her at any moment, feel so strangely like coming home?

Tamara heard footsteps behind her, and turned.

Sawyer.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He trotted down the front steps of the house, looking virile in riding boots, form-fitting trousers and an open-collared shirt. A thin sheen of sweat glazed his throat and brow, giving him an air of healthy vibrancy.

Her pulse thrummed in her veins, and she swallowed.
Don't be silly,
she told herself. Sawyer was a cool-headed businessman. And they had made a heartless bargain.
Best remember that.

There would
not
be a repeat of their romantic interlude at his town house—at least if she could help it.

When Sawyer reached her, he gave her a quick kiss on the lips before she could react.

“Do you ride?” he asked.

“Horses?”

Sawyer's mouth quirked up. “No, taxis.” He gestured in the direction of the house. “The stables are beyond the gardens.”

“I haven't ridden in ages.”

He surveyed her, his topaz eyes missing nothing. “Then tomorrow morning we should see about ending the drought. I'll have riding attire bought for you.”

“No need,” she responded. “I brought along riding boots and appropriate clothing.”

It was a grudging admission. She'd hoped to hold him off with her comment that she didn't ride any longer. But just in case, before she'd left New York, she'd made sure she bought some riding boots and clothes. She'd felt duty-bound to do so by her bargain to play the role of the happy fiancée.

When Sawyer arched a brow, she added somewhat defensively, “I've come prepared to play my part, if nothing else.”

Their eyes held for a moment, unspoken meaning stretching the silence between them while her driver walked past with her bags.

“Your belongings will be put in our private set of rooms,” Sawyer said.

When Tamara opened her mouth to argue, he added, “We have to maintain the pretense that this marriage is real.”

“Yes, after the wedding!”

Sawyer looked amused. “Don't tell me you want to act the role of the blushing bride.”

With unfortunate timing, she felt herself flush.

Damn him.

And it didn't help that right now he looked as virile a male specimen as could possibly stride over Gloucestershire's green grass.

“Why not play the role to the hilt?” she flung back.

Especially since in this case it gave her an excuse to maintain some distance from Sawyer.

“You don't need to worry,” he said sardonically, though a teasing glint remained in his eyes. “The private rooms are two adjoining suites. The countesses of Melton have all traditionally had their own suites—including a separate bed.”

She raised her chin. “How clever of them.”

The corners of Sawyer's eyes crinkled. He stepped closer
and habitually tucked back a strand of her hair that had caught the breeze.

“I'm glad you've arrived,” he murmured.

She searched his expression, but all she saw was appreciation—and the promise of something more.

Sawyer bent and brushed his lips across hers again.

He tasted of leather and sweat and clean country air, and she involuntarily felt herself sway into him.

When he straightened, his expression was enigmatic. “We might as well start practicing now if we're going to convince our guests this marriage isn't just a brief arrangement.”

“Of course,” she managed.

His eyes glinted. “Follow me,” he said, turning. “I'll show you the house.”

They walked up the front steps together and into the cool, dark front hall, where Sawyer hailed an older woman who appeared to be Beatrice's counterpart in England—the housekeeper.

“Ah, Eleanor,” Sawyer said. “May I present Ms. Tamara Kincaid, my fiancée?”

As she shook hands with Eleanor, Tamara was careful to disguise her inner turmoil.

Sawyer's greeting had left her unsure of her footing.

Not good. Not good at all.

 

Early the next morning, Tamara knocked on the partially open door of Sawyer's study before walking inside.

Sawyer looked up at her knock.

He stood, hands braced on hips, behind a massive wood desk at the other end of the room. Sunlight shafted in from the windows, bathing him in a beam of radiance. He looked like a historical lord plotting his next conquest. She quelled the feeling that in this case that might be
her.

Breathing in deeply, she sauntered farther into the room.
They had missed his study on their tour of the house the day before, though they'd skipped very little else.

As she'd suspected, Gantswood Hall was heavy with the weight of history. The walls of the reception rooms were mounted with Gainsboroughs, van Dycks and other priceless works of art, including portraits of Sawyer's ancestors. Busts and other valuable sculptures dating back hundreds of years were showcased in the halls and entry. Beautiful molded-plaster ceilings added to the ambience of centuries of genteel wealth.

“Do you always stand behind your desk?” she asked now, half expecting to see Sawyer contemplating a battle map—no doubt like ancestors of yore.

“Not always, but sometimes,” Sawyer responded, lips curving. “It helps with the restless energy when I'm deliberating something.”

“And what would that be?” she asked.

“Some architectural improvements to a set of outlying buildings on the estate,” he responded.

While he pushed together papers on his desk, she scanned the room.

Sawyer's study was more or less what she expected it would be. It had beautiful built-in bookshelves and old and valuable artwork. All that was missing, she thought wryly, was a pipe and smoking jacket and the late Alistair Cooke announcing the beginning of
Masterpiece Theatre.

Interestingly, however, the room displayed what looked like a variety of travel memorabilia, including various framed photos.

She stopped before a bookshelf and examined a wood mask that appeared to be painted with gold and bronze.

“Nepal,” Sawyer said.

She glanced at him. “I didn't realize you'd ever been.”

“Five years ago. But I did not attempt to scale to the top of Mount Everest, in case you're wondering.”

“Of course,” she quipped. “You're too busy climbing to various corporate pinnacles.”

At his chuckle, she glided on along the line of bookshelves until her eyes landed on a mahogany frame. Bending toward it, she realized it was a photo of a helmeted Sawyer emerging from a tank.

“Embedded with an army unit at the front lines,” he elaborated, sauntering toward her.

She arched a brow as she turned to look at him. “Working as a war correspondent is part of your job as head of a news corporation?”

“Only occasionally. Don't tell.”

“Far be it for me to ruin your reputation as a stuffy aristocrat.”

“After my studies at Cambridge,” he said, “I did a brief military service.”

“Couldn't escape the family tradition?” She knew many upper-class families still looked upon a military career as a gentleman's calling.

“Didn't want to,” he responded, refusing to be drawn in.

She turned away, and seeking a more neutral topic, pointed to a framed photo of him and three people dressed in traditional African garb standing in front of a nondescript building.

“As I recall,” Sawyer said, answering her unspoken question, “we had just arrived at the medical station with vaccines after dodging a handful of armed rebels in a Jeep.”

“Oh.”

She hid her surprise and confusion. Sawyer wasn't supposed to be Indiana Jones disguised as a staid British earl. He might live the news business, but it was clear it went beyond empire-building and down to the trenches. He helped people, and he found and told their stories.

To her chagrin, Sawyer made her occasional volunteer work
serving food in a New York City homeless shelter seem rather insignificant.

“Are you ready to ride?” Sawyer asked.

Why, oh, why, did she have to see sexual suggestion in his words?

He was so close she only had to reach out a hand to feel the hard planes of his chest, or the outline of a muscular thigh beneath form-fitting riding pants.

Sawyer's topaz gaze traveled over her, from her hair caught in a ponytail to her white shirt, snug-fitting pants and polished black boots.

She wet her lips.

Sawyer's eyes came back to hers, too knowing. “You didn't answer my question.”

Had they been talking about something?

“Are you ready to ride?” he repeated, his eyes holding a telltale glint.

“Of course.”

He took a half step closer. “Good…then there's just one more thing.”

“What's that?” she asked with a touch of breathlessness.

He bent his head, and she watched his mouth curve…right before he settled his lips on hers.