Samantha James (11 page)

He stroked the shallow groove of her spine, a soothing, monotonous motion. It wasn’t long before the rise and fall of her chest became deep and even. She slept.

But Damien’s mind was anything but idle. He felt protective of her. Possessive. Yet a voice within whispered that such emotion had no part in his plans here….

A curious tightness settled about his heart. His lip curled with self-disgust. She had no idea who he was…why he was here. She trusted him.
She
trusted
him as she had trusted no other man. He knew it instinctively. She no longer flinched from him, as she had when they’d first met. He’d touched her as no other had touched her….

This was dangerous, in a way he hadn’t anticipated, for reasons he hadn’t anticipated.
She
wasn’t what he anticipated. Her father was a murderer, and, somehow, he’d expected that same evil to be revealed in her.

She knew nothing of her father—of James Elliot. He was becoming more and more convinced of it.

She shifted, nestling the entire sweet length of her form against him. Damien froze. He could feel the plumpness of her breast ripe against his side, the hollow of her belly flush against the jutting plane of his hip.

Her body—what he’d seen of it—was enchanting. He gritted his teeth. The gleaming slope of her shoulder peeped above the counterpane, tempting him unbearably. Unable to stop himself, he lifted a corner of the counterpane to gaze at her.

Her hair was glorious, spilling about her like a waterfall of shining, black silk. She was delicately made, her limbs small and dainty, her skin as smooth as Devonshire cream. He knew that, if he were to try, his thumbs would meet as he encircled her waist with his hands. Her breasts were small, like the rest of her, yet lushly ripe and made to fit perfectly into the palm of his hands. Strawberry-sweet nipples thrust against the thin white lawn of her chemise, tantalizing fruit just waiting to be plucked.

A blaze ignited in his veins. His insides wound into a knot, coiled tight and hard. His body, already seized with a near-painful heat, needed little provocation. His senses blazed like white-hot fire. He steeled himself against the urge to roll over, to kiss her into drowsy wakefulness, thrust his shaft long and hard within her velvet channel and feel her tight, clinging sheath clamped around the part of him that echoed the throb of his heart.

He’d wanted her from the start. He wanted her now.

She shifted, drawing his attention to her right leg. His scrutiny sharpened—as did his curiosity. His eyes narrowed. He considered baring her knee, to see for himself what he knew she would hide most insistently if she knew his intention. Yet in the end, he decided against it. It would have been almost a…a violation.

Darkness stole through him, searing his lungs so that he could hardly breathe. Something bitterly dark and ominous cast its shadow over him.

This was madness. He was mad. He cursed himself for giving in—to her. To the desire that reigned unchecked. He didn’t want to feel this way. He wanted to feel nothing for her. Not sympathy for her limp. Not admiration for her spirit and determination. Certainly not this gut-churning desire that would not die.

He should never have touched her. But he had, and now they must both pay the price.

He should leave, he told himself blackly. Now. Before it was too late, for both of them.

Careful not to wake her, he slipped from the
bed. Noiseless footsteps carried him to the narrow window that looked down upon the forest. He stared bleakly into the stark blackness of the night.

No, he thought. He couldn’t leave. The die had been cast, the game begun. He must stay and see it through. Whatever it took. Whatever the cost. To him…

Or to her.

Morning bloomed with buttercup-yellow hues that streamed through the shutters, lighting every corner of the room with splashes of sunshine, drawing Heather from slumber.

She lay very still, her eyes closed, the smoothness of her brow puckered. Something vague touched the fringes of her mind. She stretched and sat up slowly, then started to push away the counterpane.

Her eyes widened. Why, she’d slept in her underclothes….

She’d slept in his arms…in
Damien’s
arms.

Memory rushed back in scalding vividness. The beat of her heart grew wild and stormy. Her fingers fell to the swell of one breast. She stared in mingled horror and fascination. He had seen her. He had
touched
her. Her stomach knotted. Once again, she could feel the heated strength of his fingers sliding over her skin, the hot, wet suction of his mouth on her nipple….

Her eyes squeezed shut. No lady would allow
him to do what he had done. Was she wanton? Wicked? She wondered anew about her parents. Papa had said her mother was kind and good. But what if she wasn’t? What if he was wrong? Was her blood tainted, that she could behave so shamelessly?

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead to stop the turmoil roiling in her breast. Her heart cried out. What was wrong with her? Why these sudden doubts? Was it the questions Damien had asked of her? The questions for which she had no answers?

Slowly she rose and dressed. She was suddenly anxious to have their business here concluded—but she was not looking forward to the long journey home.

Damien was already seated in the common room when she descended the stairs. He spotted her immediately and came across to escort her.

“Good morning.” His voice rang out clear and strong.

Heather gripped her cane and awaited him nervously. “Good morning,” she murmured. Meeting his regard was the hardest thing she’d ever done. His gaze was as calm and steady as the man himself. His features conveyed no hint of what had passed between them last night. Heather was grateful—and only too willing to take her cue from him.

The innkeeper, a heavyset man with a bulbous nose, brought their breakfast—great, heaping platters of ham, eggs and cold fowl. “No harm done last night, eh? Everyone has a tiff now and
then”—he gave a throaty chuckle—“me and m’wife more’n most.” He nudged Damien with an elbow. “Besides, she’s a lovely one, eh? Any man can see why you’d be protective of her.”

Damien’s eyes never left her face as he spoke. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Heather stared at where her hands lay clenched in her lap. She couldn’t look at them, either of them. Her cheeks were flaming by the time the innkeeper hurried to the next table.

Reaching deep inside for a courage that was proving vastly elusive, she dragged her eyes upward. “Why did you say that?” she asked levelly.

He had leaned back in his chair. “Because it happens to be true. Has no one ever told you so?”

She inhaled sharply and looked at him fully. “Do you mock me, sir?”

“Not at all.” When she said nothing, he persisted. “You haven’t answered me, Heather. Has no one ever told you how lovely you are?”

She averted her eyes. “Of course my parents have.” Her tone was very low. “But no…,” she faltered, “…no gentleman has ever done so.”

His tone was very quiet. “Then I consider it a privilege to be the first.”

He was unsmiling. It struck her that he seemed very…somber. Did he really think she was beautiful? Flustered but determined not to show it, Heather picked up her fork. But all throughout the meal she felt the probe of his eyes on her profile. It was unsettling and disturbing…and exciting as well.

Her emotions were scattered a hundred differ
ent ways. What was he thinking? Did he regret kissing her last night? Had he found her inexperience distasteful? All at once she yearned to be a woman of the world, knowledgeable in the ways of men, in the art of seduction and flirtation. Was that what men wanted? Was that what
he
wanted?

If only she knew. If only…

She was only too glad when the meal ended and they could be on their way again. It was but a short ride to the home of John Ferguson, a portly, bewhiskered gentleman with a rolling belly laugh. Heather liked him on sight. They chatted briefly; then he took them to the paddock, where they met his stable master, an aging Scotsman named Angus.

Ferguson clapped the Scotsman’s shoulder. “Any questions, m’lady, he’s the man to ask. Knows more about these fine animals than I could ever hope to.”

Damien had moved to the fence. In the pasture, a number of horses grazed lazily—a big black, a dainty roan mare, several geldings. But as Heather stepped up beside him, one in particular caught her eye—a towering gray stallion.

Her breath caught. “The gray…why, he’s gorgeous!”

The animal had snared Damien’s attention as well. “That he is,” he murmured. A faint smile curled his mouth. “Just look at him. He knows it, too.”

It was true. As if he sensed their scrutiny, the gray reared back and pawed the air with flashing hooves. He then pranced proudly across the
grassy field, tossing his head high, as if he were strutting and preening.

Heather gave a bubbly laugh. “You’re right. He does know it!” She turned to Angus. “The gray. Is he for sale?”

Angus stroked his drooping mustache. “Oh, you don’t want that one, mum. Too spirited for a lady.”

Two bright spots of color appeared on Heather’s cheeks. Her smile slipped a notch. “Oh, he’s not for me,” she said quickly. “I’m looking for my father, who happens to be a superb horseman.”

Angus nodded. “He’s a youngster, just over two years old. Mr. Ferguson bought him for the missus, but he’s proven too much for her to handle. Would ye like to see ’im?”

“Very much.”

Both she and Damien answered in unison. When he slanted her a lopsided smile, her heart skipped a beat. He was so very handsome….

It was several minutes before Angus was able to catch the stallion. He led the old man a merry chase, ducking and swerving. Watching Angus run bowlegged after the stallion, Heather couldn’t withhold a mirthful laugh.

Finally he led the gray through the gate to where they waited. “Ye see?” Angus shook his head. “He’s a bit wild at times. Needs a firm, strong hand to let ’im know who’s master, and that’s what the missus didn’t have.”

The gray tossed his head, his nostrils flared, his ears pricked high. His broad head, huge, expres
sive eyes, gracefully arched neck and powerful shoulders confirmed his noble bloodlines. His coat was like molten steel, shiny and sleek, gleaming with every move of his body. He stood with quivering skin, his sleek, powerful muscles bunched.

Damien slowly extended a hand. The gray snorted, straining restlessly against the halter.

Angus’s hand tightened on the strap. “He’s a bit stiff with strangers.” His tone was apologetic.

Damien stepped closer. “Not with me,” he murmured. He edged closer, running his knuckles along the gray’s neck. “That’s the way, boy.”

He continued to speak in low, soothing tones. Heather watched in fascination as that strong, brown hand stroked the quivering sides over and over, calming the animal…as Damien had calmed her. The animal quieted beneath his touch and became still. He thrust his muzzle familiarly into Damien’s shoulder.

Angus gave a blustering laugh. “Well, saints be…I can see ye don’t need me, so I’ll just leave the three of ye alone fer a bit. If ye need me, I’ll be in the stables. Just give a whistle.” With a wave he went his way.

Up until now, Heather had remained a fair distance from the stallion. Now Damien cast her a curious glance.

“Don’t you want a closer look?”

Heather took a deep breath and edged forward. Her heart was pounding like a drum. Still several feet away, she started to raise a hand, but the gray snorted and sidestepped skittishly.

Heather started abruptly.

One hand on the gray’s halter, Damien extended the other.

“Come,” he said softly.

Heather’s gaze skipped from his hand, to eyes the color of pure silver, and back again. Wetting her lips, she put out her arm.

His hand closed around hers, his grip warm and strong. Lightly he squeezed her fingers, gently tugging her forward. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Heather’s laugh was weak. “Does it show? I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with horses. One of the stableboys always hitches up my cart.”

Her hand still clasped within his, he guided her fingers to the gray’s muzzle. Tentatively, she stroked the long, velvet nose. “Easy,” he murmured. “That’s the way. Slow and easy. Let him feel your touch. Let him smell your scent. Let him know you won’t hurt him.”

His hand released hers. Heather rubbed the graceful line of the gray’s powerful neck. She trembled anew, though not from fear. She could feel the unyielding breadth of Damien’s chest against her back. His nearness was like a spell that wrapped itself around her, an invisible web from which there was no escape. She ached with the need to turn into his embrace, to surrender her mouth for the blazing rapture of his kiss.

But all at once she
was
afraid—terrified that if she did what she dared not do, he would not want her…not the way she wanted him.

The gray nickered, a sound of satisfaction.

“There. You see?” His breath slid past her ear, cool and fragrant. “He knows he can trust you.”

Trust
. Trust was a fragile, infinitely precious emotion, one that Heather had learned very early was never to be given lightly. Did she dare trust Damien with these newfound, tremulous feelings that blossomed in her breast? The thought progressed further…

Could she trust him with her heart?

He withdrew a step, and the turmoil inside her eased a bit. She glanced at him, warming as she saw his approval.

She scratched the gray’s coat with her nails. “He’s so big,” she murmured with a faint smile.

“Sixteen hands, I would say.” There was a small pause. “Why don’t you ride, Heather?”

Her smile withered. Her gaze shied away from his. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “I tried when I was younger, but it pains my knee.”

His gaze sharpened. She sensed he was about to say more, but just then Mr. Ferguson reappeared, rubbing his hands together.

“Angus tells me you’re interested in the gray here. A fine animal, as you can see. My wife had planned to keep him for herself, but, as Angus no doubt told you, he’s a tad too energetic for her.”

Heather turned, grateful for his timely intervention, for it saved her from further awkward questions.

“I’m most interested, Mr. Ferguson, provided we can agree on a price.”

A bit of haggling, and the deal was done. They made plans for Damien to ride the gray back to Lockhaven, while Heather traveled back in the
carriage. She was secretly glad, for the prospect of being alone with Damien was one she would rather not face. A little voice inside chided her for being so spineless, but she couldn’t help it. When Damien Lewis was near, it seemed she knew herself not at all….

But it was during the long journey home that a steadfast resolve crystallized in her breast.

What had happened last night…must never happen again.

She’d been kissed and touched, and she would hold those cherished, heart-stirring memories inside her forever—her every wish fulfilled. A bitter ache tightened her throat, but she pushed it aside. She had learned life’s lessons only too well, and at an early age. And thus, she had learned to be true to herself. She would not lie to herself about the future, for to do so would only lead to bitter, deflating disappointment.

And so she would never know what it was like to be truly loved by a man, in every way…in the way that really mattered.

The risk was too great, the price too steep.

A tight band seemed to creep around her chest and squeeze. No, she thought with a pang. She couldn’t let Damien close. She couldn’t allow him to touch her again, to kiss her. Because when he did, somehow it seemed she always lost her head….

The next time might well be her heart.

It was better this way, she reminded herself over and over. Better…

But much more painful.