The Seduction (25 page)

"Sleep well?"

His question sounded innocent enough, but when she raised her lashes, he was looking back at her with that knowing smile of his, and she realized that her pretense had been for naught. He'd known all along she had been watching him.

A hot blush of dismay and embarrassment crept up her cheeks. She looked away, shoved aside the blanket, and stood up.

He really was the most impossible man, she thought as she walked away. Around him, she couldn't seem to get away with anything.

For breakfast they ate apples and dried beef as they rode. Margaret chewed on a leathery piece of the meat and couldn't help thinking wistfully of strong, hot coffee, poached eggs, and scones dripping with butter. The tough and salty beef seemed very unsatisfying by comparison. Within an hour, she was hungry again. When they stopped for lunch, more jerky and apples did little to assuage her hunger.

Margaret tried to think of all this as a grand adventure, but she couldn't remember a single day of her life when there wasn't hot, luxuriously rich food to eat, and plenty of it. Adventures were one thing, but going hungry was something else.

Because the terrain was steep and rocky and they were riding double, their progress was slow. By late afternoon, it seemed to Margaret that they must have traveled twenty miles, but Trevor estimated that eight or nine was more accurate.

"How long will it take us to reach Naples?" she asked.

"With the route we're taking, ten or twelve days would be my guess."

Her stomach growled. "Trevor? I don't mean to criticize this tour, but are we to have apples and jerky for every meal?"

His laughter caught her by surprise. "Are you saying you don't like my cooking? Margaret, I'm devastated."

"Well, maybe it's a good thing," she said, trying to be optimistic. "My figure will slim down."

"God forbid!" His tone was so vehement, she was startled. "Don't you dare lose a single inch. I hate skinny women."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. Your figure is utterly splendid."

He'd probably never told the truth in his life, but when he said things like that, it was hard to hate him.

Trevor reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a fat peppermint stick. "Here," he said, handing it to her over one shoulder. "I'll not have you wasting away. That ought to hold you until I find a suitable place to stop for the night."

But it was another hour before he finally pulled the horse to a halt.

"Dinner?" she asked hopefully.

He pointed to the valley spread out below, where the rocky stream they'd been following widened into a leisurely flowing river. "How does baked trout strike you?"

She eyed the river with skepticism. "Unless you have a fishing pole tucked away in those saddlebags, I don't know how you'll manage to catch any trout."

"Really, Maggie, your lack of trust in my fishing ability hurts more than I can say." He nudged the horse forward, and they started down the rocky hillside.

It wasn't his fishing ability she didn't trust. It was his intentions.

"Once we're married.
" His words came back to haunt her once again, and Margaret reminded herself that Trevor St. James might have a smoother approach, but he was no different from every other suitor. But as she stared at his broad back, envisioning the hard, muscular strength that lay beneath the beige twill shirt, she suddenly wished he could have been different from all the others.

When they reached the river, he suggested she gather some wood.

"Just how are you going to catch these fish?" she asked, sliding off the stallion's back.

"I'll worry about that. You just get the wood."

Margaret watched him travel some distance downstream. When he rounded the bend in the river and disappeared behind the rocky hillside, she turned to find the wood for a fire.

Most of the wood she found was too green to burn, and by the time she returned, Trevor was making a fire pit out of the rocks and sand on the riverbank. Five plump trout were laid out on a handkerchief beside him, cleaned, skewered, and ready to cook.

Margaret dumped the pieces of
beechwood
she had gathered beside the fire pit. When she straightened, she spied the homemade fishing net that lay on the ground behind him.

"So that's how you did it. You brought a net with you. Very ingenious."

"I always try to be prepared. I wish I had brought a fishing pole, though. There's some nice spots for it around here." He reached for a few of the smaller pieces of wood to use as kindling and began laying them in the pit for a fire. "I'll need matches. Fetch me the saddlebags, would you?"

Margaret returned with the saddlebags, along with the roll of blankets. She spread one of the blankets on the ground beside Trevor, then sat down, watching as he searched for the box of matches, finally dumping out the contents of the saddlebags to find them.

"You like to fish?" she asked.

"I love it. I used to fish all the time when I was a boy, but I haven't done it for years. My family home in Kent has some fine trout streams, but there aren't any in Egypt."

He turned away to light the fire, and she glanced down at the various articles strewn across the blanket. Among the packets of dried food, handkerchiefs, and shaving gear, she saw a dark-brown bottle filled with liquid.

"What's this?" She held up the bottle curiously.

Trevor glanced at her, then looked away. "Quinine."

He poked at the flaming kindling with his stick, sending sparks in all directions. "I have malaria. An inevitable consequence of spending ten years in Africa."

"Malaria never goes away, does it?"

"No. But the quinine helps."

"Is it very bad?"

"Sometimes," he answered, but he did not elaborate. He turned away, reaching for one of the larger pieces of wood, and she smiled to herself. Strong men hated to admit to weakness of any kind, even illness. Her father was the same way.

Margaret put the bottle of quinine back in one of the saddlebags and spied two bars of soap. "How long before we eat?" she asked.

"We'll need a good bed of coals to cook the fish," he answered. "Half an hour would be my guess."

She picked up one of the bars of soap and the comb, then she stood up. "I'm going to have a bath."

He glanced at her. "Don't use that soap. Use the other. That one's mine."

"What difference does it make?" she asked.

"Lemon verbena smells wonderful on you, but I don't think it would suit me."

"You brought lemon verbena soap for me?" she asked.

"That is what you use, isn't it?"

"Yes." She dropped the bar of soap in her hand and picked up the other. Lifting it to her nose, she instantly caught the tangy scent of her favorite fragrance. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. If you're going to have a bath before dinner, you'd better get going."

She glanced around, but the denuded beech trees provided no cover and it was growing dark. She didn't want to be far from the safety of the fire. And Trevor.

As if reading her mind, he said, "There's a shallow pool right there that ought to suit," and pointed to the bend in the river directly in front of their camp site.

"I couldn't possibly!" she said, shocked. "I'd be in plain view."

"Who's going to see you?"

She tilted her head, raising her eyebrows and giving him a pointed stare.

Trevor held up one hand. "Not even a peek," he said solemnly, but there was a mischievous twist to one corner of his mouth she found highly suspicious. "I swear."

"I don't believe you."

He shook his head as if disappointed in her. "You really should learn to trust me."

That did not impress her. She leaned to one side, trying to see behind him. With a sigh, he brought his
other hand into view and uncrossed his fingers. "I promise I won't look," he said, moving so that his back faced the river. "I hope you realize how difficult this is going to be for a man of my wicked tendencies. If this gets out, it could ruin my reputation."

"What a sacrifice," she murmured and started toward the river.

"You have no idea," he said fervently, lowering his head to study her ankles appreciatively as she passed.

Trevor proved to be a man of his word. Over one shoulder, she kept her gaze fixed on him as she removed her outer clothing and waded into the river in her chemise and drawers. But even when she gasped at the icy coldness of the water, he did not glance in her direction. He kept his back to her the whole time she bathed and washed her hair. Margaret was relieved that he didn't look, but a tiny little part of her felt rather disappointed that he didn't even try.

Trevor knew he'd made a serious mistake. When this idea of getting Margaret off alone in the country had first occurred to him, his reasoning had seemed sound enough. He'd thought the intimacy of the situation would bring her closer to him, give her reason to trust him, and spark her passion. But he had completely underestimated the effect it would have on his own peace of mind.

He didn't have to turn around to know what he would see. He could imagine it well enough. Margaret was a proper woman, despite her adventurous spirit, and she'd probably left her undergarments on. When he thought of how she would appear, standing in the water with sheer white cotton clinging to every delectable curve of her body, his throat went dry, and
it took everything he had not to turn his head and take a good look.

He was trying to be as honorable as possible about this courtship, he truly was. He'd promised her father that he would not take advantage of her innocence. He'd made the same promise to Edward and Cornelia. Like most promises, it had been easy to make at the time, but now, when he was forced to live up to it, he found that it was not easy at all. What a cocky bastard he'd become, to think that once he had her alone he could remember such promises, to think that he could arouse her passion without losing control of his own. By the end of this trip, he was either going to break his word or he was going to be insane.

Fortunately for Trevor, the water was too cold for her to linger over her bath. Within five minutes, he heard her get out of the water, and a few moments later, she sat down opposite him. She was fully dressed, but her blouse and skirt were damp from the wet underclothes beneath, and revealed enough to his imagination that she might just as well have left them off.

He occupied himself with cooking the trout while she combed the tangles out of her long hair. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what she'd do if he took the comb out of her hand and did it for her. It would give him the perfect opportunity to kiss her neck and inhale the delicious lemon scent of her skin.

But with the way he felt right now, kissing her would be pushing his luck. Being honorable was a damned difficult thing.

They ate without talking. Margaret was clearly too famished for conversation, and Trevor was in no mood for it anyway.