To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)

To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1) Page 23

“I think you do,” he whispered. “I think you feel you can only accept my touch when it is forced upon you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then prove it,” he murmured as his head lowered to hers again. “Sheath your claws and kiss me.”

He brushed his lips softly over hers, a caress that was almost reverent. She gasped, parting her lips, and he kissed her openmouthed. Lushly. Sweetly. She could drown in a kiss like this; it was much more dangerous than their near-violent sparring of before. This kiss spoke of yearning, of need. She shook at the possibility that this man could want her so much. And that she wanted him in return. She knew she shouldn’t, but she pressed her mouth back at his. She kissed Samuel, all her hopeless yearning caught in the whisper of breath between them. If only she—

He suddenly raised his head, and she opened her eyes dazedly, missing his mouth.

He was looking over her shoulder. “The footmen Lady Hasselthorpe sent back are about to join us. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her hands were trembling, but she buried them in her skirts and turned, pasting a bored expression on her face. The footmen were indeed trudging up the little hill, carrying a basket of wine bottles between them. They didn’t look particularly interested, so perhaps the footmen had missed their explosive embrace.

“Will you take my arm?” He held it out.

She took it, trying to steady her shaking senses. When had she become so impulsive? The effect Samuel Hartley had on her was not one she relished. He seemed to tear the veil of civilization from her limbs. He left her naked and exposed. She was an unsophisticated creature all emotion and nerves, crouching without a mask at his feet, unable to control her basest compulsions. She ought to refuse his arm and run as fast as she could away from him. She needed to find her old self, to soothe her raw nerves with the rituals of polite society.

Instead, as she laid her fingers on his arm, she felt when he threw a triumphant look at her, as if she had conceded something.

LADY EMELINE’S TOUCH soothed him, even if it was given reluctantly, and the scent of lemon balm drifted close to his face. Sam closed his eyes for a second, trying to regain control of himself before the footmen were upon them. He’d been a soldier, had faced down screaming native warriors and not broken rank. Yet, place him with Lady Emeline and in seconds he was sweating. He whispered a curse as the footmen tramped closer. This had to stop. She was an aristocrat and not for him.

He let his face relax and hailed the footmen. “We were sent to look for you. May I help you carry that?” He indicated the full basket of wine.

“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” the elder man replied. His breath was short, and his companion’s face was red, but there was an undertone of shock to his voice. Obviously a gentleman was not supposed to offer to help a servant.

Sam sighed and turned with Lady Emeline to lead the way back to the picnic. “Your people revere divisions between men.”

She peered up at him, a little frown creasing her brows. “I beg your pardon?”

He gestured to the footmen panting behind them. “Every little detail of rank, every little opportunity to separate one fellow from another. You English worship the tiniest difference between men.”

“Are you saying there are no differing classes in the Colonies? Because if you are, I won’t believe you.”

“There are differences, but take my word that station is not nearly so idolized there as here. In America, a man can raise himself above the rank he was born with.”

“As has your friend, Mr. Thornton.” She tapped his arm for emphasis. “An Englishman.”

“Thornton wasn’t invited to this pretty house party, was he?” He watched her face flush a becoming dark pink and suppressed a smile. She hated to lose an argument. “He may’ve raised his standing and wealth, but obviously he is still not considered good enough for the gentlefolk in your society.”

“Come, Mr. Hartley,” she snapped. “You served in the army. Don’t try to tell me that you weren’t aware of rank there.”

“Aye, we had ranks,” he replied bitterly. “And some of the worse fools were placed above me, made generals even, solely on the basis of their birth. You needs must find a better argument than that, if you’re to convince me of the good in ranks.”

“Was my brother a bad soldier?” she asked stiffly.

He damned himself for a cad. God! How could he be so thoughtless? Naturally she would think of her brother first. “No. Captain St. Aubyn was one of the best officers I ever knew.”

Her head was down bent, her lips thinned. For such an argumentative woman, she could be very vulnerable sometimes. It hurt him, somewhere in his chest, to see her so. It was odd, her vitriolic tongue made him feel alive, made him want to seize her and kiss her until she moaned beneath his mouth. But when she revealed a rare weakness, she crushed him. Pray she only let show her vulnerability with him. He couldn’t stand the thought of another man seeing that part of her. He wanted to be the only one to protect that softness.

“And Jasper?” she asked now. “Was he a good officer as well? Somehow I cannot see him leading men. Playing cards and jesting with them, yes. Ordering them about, no.”

“Then perhaps you do not know your fiancé very well.”

Her head came up and she scowled at him. “I’ve known Jasper since I was in leading strings.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think you ever know a man until you see how he faces death.”

They’d come within sight of the picnic spot now. Lady Emeline looked over to where Jasper remained in the midst of a group of laughing gentlemen. He’d doffed his coat for some reason—most improperly—and stood gesturing in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, long arms flapping in the air like a great gander. As they watched, another wave of laughter went through the group.

“Lord Vale was the most courageous man in battle I ever knew,” Sam said thoughtfully.

Lady Emeline turned to stare at him, her eyebrows raised.

He nodded. “I’ve seen him fall from a horse shot out from underneath him. Seen him get up bloodied and keep fighting, even when all around him were dying. He faced battle—faced death—as if he had no fear. Sometimes he smiled as he fought.”

She pursed her lips, watching Jasper caper about. “Maybe he didn’t have any fear.”

Sam slowly shook his head. “Only fools have no fear at all in battle, and Lord Vale is no fool.”

“Then he is an accomplished actor.”

“Perhaps.”

“Our rescuers!” Lady Hasselthorpe flew at them, her pale hands fluttering helplessly. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hartley and Lady Emeline. You’ve saved my little alfresco party from disaster.”

Sam smiled and bowed.

“And you?” Lady Emeline asked quietly as their hostess flitted about, getting in the footmen’s way.

Sam glanced at her in question.

“How do you face death?” she clarified, her voice so low only he could hear.

He felt his face freeze. “As well as I might.”

She shook her head gently. “I think you must’ve been just as much a hero as Jasper in battle.”

He looked away. He could not meet her eyes. “There are no heroes on the battlefield, my lady; there are only survivors.”

“You’re modest—”

“No.” His voice was too intense, he knew. He was in danger of drawing attention. But he could not banter about this subject, of all things. “I am not a hero.”

“Emmie!” Lord Vale hailed them. “Come have some pigeon pie before it is all devoured. I have risked my very life to save you a slice or two. I fear the roast chicken is already disappeared.”

Sam nodded to Vale, but he leaned down and whispered in Lady Emeline’s ear before he led her there, because it was important she not have any illusions about him.

“Don’t ever think me a hero.”

Chapter Ten

So all of the things that the old wizard had promised came to pass. Iron Heart lived in a wonderful castle with Princess Solace as his bride. He had purple and crimson clothes to wear, and there were servants everywhere to wait upon him. Of course, he still could not speak, for that would break the promise he’d made the wizard, but Iron Heart found that silence was not such a very bad hardship. After all, a soldier is rarely asked his opinion....

—from Iron Heart

“That scowl on your face does not become you,” Melisande murmured the next morning.

Emeline tried to smooth her forehead, but she had a feeling her irritation still showed through. She was watching Samuel, after all. “I wish you had come down yesterday instead of today.”

Melisande raised an eyebrow fractionally. “Had I known that you would pine for my company, I would’ve, dear. Is that why your mood is so gray?”

Emeline sighed and interlocked her arm with her friend’s. “No. My mood has nothing at all to do with you except as you make me feel calmer.”

They stood on the long mown lawn at the back of Hasselthorpe House. Half of the house party had assembled here for target shooting, the other half having chosen to go into the nearby town to see what sights there were. Painted canvas targets were being erected at the far end of the lawn by footmen. Behind the targets were straw bundles to catch the balls that were fired. The gentlemen who intended to participate were standing about showing off their weapons to admiring ladies who were, of course, to be the audience.

“Mr. Hartley’s gun is awfully long,” Melisande commented. “No doubt that is why you are glaring at him so ferociously.”

“Why does he have to stand apart?” Emeline muttered. She picked fretfully at her rose and green striped skirts. “It’s as if the man goes out of his way to be different from the other gentlemen. I declare he does it just to aggravate me.”

“Yes, that’s probably the first thing he thinks about when he wakes in the morning. ‘How shall I go about aggravating Lady Emeline today?’”

Emeline looked at her friend, who was staring back with innocent wide brown eyes. “I’m being a ninny, aren’t I?”

“Now, dear, I didn’t say ninny—”

“No, but you didn’t have to.” Emeline sighed. “I brought something that I want to show you.”

Melisande looked at her, brows raised. “Oh?”

“It’s a book of fairy tales that my old nanny used to read to us. I found it recently, but I think it’s written in German. Can you translate it for me?”

“I can try,” her friend said. “But I won’t promise anything. My German is only fair, and there are many words I don’t know. A product of learning it from my mother and not a book.”

Emeline nodded. Melisande’s mother had been a Prussian who had never entirely learned English, despite marrying at the age of seventeen, and Melisande had grown up speaking both German and English. “Thank you.”

The targets in place, the last footman began to walk toward the shooting party. The gentlemen bent their heads together in a grave manner, evidently deciding in what order they should shoot.

“I don’t know why he causes all intelligent thought to flee my mind.” Emeline realized she was glowering at Samuel again.

Unlike the other gentlemen, he didn’t make a show of aiming his weapon and such. He held his rifle with the butt resting on the ground as he stood casually, one hip cocked. He caught her eye and nodded, unsmiling. Emeline looked quickly away, but she could still see in her mind’s eye his plain brown coat, the now-familiar dull leather leggings, and the wind ruffling the hair on his bare head. Nothing about his dress recommended him. Even with the other gentlemen attired for shooting in the country, Samuel could’ve been a servant, so much more plain were his clothes. And yet, she had to exert her will to refrain from looking at him again.