The Bride Thief

Chapter Nine

From the London Times:

The annual masquerade ball held at Countess Ringshire's country estate in Devon was, as always, a fabulous affair. Several gentlemen costumed themselves as the infamous Bride Thief, which led many guests to laughingly speculate that the real Bride Thief might be among them. Would he possibly be that daring? Many guests further noted that the Bride Thief has not been heard from for several weeks. One cannot help but wonder when and where he might strike next. Yet with every able-bodied man in England eager to collect the seven-thousand-pound price on his head, the Bride Thief's next kidnapping will most certainly be his last.

Eric tossed the newspaper onto the cherry wood table in the drawing room and heaved a sigh. All this speculation and interest in his activities was a double-edged sword. While it brought the plight of women who were bartered away in marriage like household possessions to attention, it made his efforts at rescuing them ever more dangerous. A reward of seven thousand pounds? No one could resist that. If he made even the smallest mistake, his life was over.

How was the investigation proceeding? Had any additional clues to the Bride Thief's identity been discovered? Arthur hadn't reported anything, but perhaps it was time to go directly to the source. Yes, a casual chat with the magistrate might be a wise plan. He and Adam Straton were long-standing acquaintances. Perhaps he'd ride into the village today or tomorrow. And on his way home…

His gaze wandered to the honey-filled glass jar set on the table next to the carelessly folded newspaper. Miss Briggeham had forgotten the jar in her haste to leave last evening. He'd considered reminding her, but had discarded the idea. Returning the jar to her was the perfect excuse to see her again. And as much as he wished otherwise, it was inexplicably necessary to see her again.

Rising, he paced across the parquet floor, his brows pulled down in a frown. Damn it all, how could a mere kiss-one that had lasted only a few moments-affect him so profoundly? He recalled every second of it. Every nuance of her taste, the imprint of her body pressed to his. The way her soft curves fit his hands.

Bloody hell, over the years he'd spent countless hours enjoying the sensuous charms of other women. Always, once their passion was spent, once the act was completed, he'd simply… forgotten them. Yet the kiss he'd shared with Samantha, that heated, breathless mating of mouths was embedded in his memory, as if branded there.

He'd barely slept last night. Lying in his bed, his body painfully aroused, he'd relived their kiss over and over. Then he'd further tortured himself by imagining what might have happened had she not left. With a groan, he grasped the mantel with both hands, then lowered his head to stare blindly into the dancing flames.

The images he'd tried all night to banish bombarded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing them away. Instead he saw himself slowly removing her gown, exposing her soft skin inch by inch, her beautiful eyes at first wide with wonder, then drooping shut as he kissed her long and deep, their tongues intimately dancing. Carrying her to the sofa, he opened the jar of honey and dipped his fingertip inside. He then slowly blazed a golden circle around her distended nipple. With her husky moans echoing in his ears, he licked the delectable treat he'd just created. When he finally lifted his head and again dipped his finger into the jar, she looked up at him, a devilish gleam shining through the desire fogging her eyes.

What do you plan to taste next, my lord?

All of you. And then we 'll-

A knock sounded on the door, jolting him from his erotic daydream. He dragged his hands down his overheated face. Looking down, he shook his head at the bulge tenting his breeches. Damn. The seemingly never-subsiding, Miss Briggeham-induced erection.

With a grimace he adjusted his confining breeches, then all but limped back to the sofa. Lowering himself to the cushion, he grabbed the newspaper and strategically arranged it across his lap. "Come in."

A footman entered, extending a silver salver bearing a sealed letter. "This just arrived, your lordship. The messenger indicated it was urgent and that he would wait for a reply."

Eric took the letter, his insides freezing when he recognized his name written in Margaret's distinctive, elegant hand. He dismissed the footman with a nod. "I'll ring when my reply is ready."

The instant the door closed behind the footman, Eric broke the wax seal. His hands trembled with dread as he unfolded the thick vellum. Had that bastard Darvin dared to hurt her again? If so, he's a dead man.

His heart beating hard, he quickly read the letter.

My dearest Eric,

I am writing to inform you that Darvin is dead, killed Wednesday last during a duel. His younger brother Charles will move into Darvin Manor as soon as his affairs are settled. Charles has indicated I may continue to live here, but I wish to leave as soon as possible. I am hoping the offer you made me still stands and that I might be welcome to stay at Wesley-at least until I can make other living arrangements.

I anxiously await your reply.

Yours, Margaret

The tension slowly eased from Eric's shoulders, and he blew out a long breath. Crossing to the desk, he extracted a piece of stationery bearing the Wesley crest and carefully penned two words to his sister.

Come home.

Sammie sat on her favorite flat rock, her chin resting on her up-drawn knees, her bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem of her comfortable old dark green gown. She contemplated the calm lake water for several seconds, then skimmed a handful of pebbles across the glassy surface. Dozens of rings fanned out, marring the indigo stillness, crisscrossing each other in a watery echo of the myriad emotions rippling through her.

Vivid images of last evening flashed through her mind, filling her with a contradictory combination of elation, disappointment, and embarrassment-emotional ingredients that mixed to create a recipe for aching confusion.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to erase the memory of him… him touching her. Looking at her. Kissing her. Making her feel more alive than she ever had, while never-before-experienced sensations whirled through her, heating her body in that exhilarating way that rendered her breathless. Aching. Burning. Wanting more.

Then the cold slap of disillusionment.

With a groan, she turned her head, resting her cheek against the sun-warmed muslin of her gown. Perhaps "I" words would be better. I was thinking of luscious… and lovely.

He had flattered her, very much like the false admirers who had spent the last several weeks seeking out her company under one pretext or another to question her about the Bride Thief. Nearly all of them had slathered ridiculous compliments on her, calling her everything from adorable to gorgeous. She'd endured them all, somehow managing not to roll her eyes.

Lovely. Why, oh why, had he called her lovely? It was such a blatant lie. Did he think she didn't know she was as plain as a white wall? But somehow, hearing him utter that single word had had the effect of a bucket of icy water on her, bringing her abruptly, cruelly, to her senses.

Lovely. Yes, Lord Wesley had chosen the very word one of her new admirers, a Mr. Martin, had used to describe her at the very beginning of her newfound popularity. For one insane, surprised, pleased instant, she'd believed the young man… until she'd overheard him an hour later, laughing with another gentleman near the French windows, where she'd stepped outdoors for a breath of much-needed air.

"Homely as a burlap sack, that Miss Briggeham is," Mr. Martin had said.

"Oh, but I heard you call her 'lovely,'" his companion said with a chuckle.

"And never has a more glaring lie ever passed my lips," said Mr. Martin. "Nearly choked me to utter it."

And now the earl had called her lovely.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she impatiently rubbed it away. She simply hadn't expected such falsehoods from him… from the man who had set her foolish heart aflutter almost from the start. She'd thought he was different, but clearly insincere words dripped from his lips as easily as they did from all the others'.

For the first time in a long while, she indulged in the useless exercise of wishing she actually were lovely. The sort of woman to attract the attention of a man like him. She'd ruthlessly buried such futile feelings long ago. It was illogical to waste time wanting the impossible.

A frown pinched her brow as a thought suddenly occurred to her. While she questioned the sincerity of his compliment, there was no doubt that he had actually desired her. She was scientifically aware of the workings of the human body, and there could be no doubt as to the physical evidence of his arousal. Lovely or not, he had desired her. And heaven knows she'd desired him.

Sitting up straight, she pursed her lips and applied logic to the facts. Yes, he'd muttered untrue statements regarding her appearance, but should she fault him for being kind? Polite? Heavens, what was the man supposed to say? That she resembled a toad?

Until last evening, no man had ever indicated he desired her. Wanted to kiss her. Touch her. But this man had. And God help her, she wanted him to desire her again. She'd never dared hope that she might feel a man's passion. This might well be her only chance to ever experience an adventure her heart had always secretly yearned for-to know a man. In every way a woman could.

Could she truly contemplate becoming Lord Wesley's lover? Her heart skipped a beat and heat suffused her. Yes. This is my chance to experience something I've always dreamed of. Passion. With a man who sets my blood on fire.

Of course, marriage was out of the question. Lord Wesley would never consider marrying someone like her. He would marry a diamond of the first water. A fresh, young, malleable miss from the peerage, who possessed a beautiful face and a dowry to match. But his physical reaction last evening clearly indicated he was not adverse to making love to her.

Making love. The adventure of a lifetime. Her eyes drifted closed, and a long sigh escaped her. She'd always dreamed of adventure, but since her abduction by the Bride Thief, it seemed as if the floodgates had opened. Her previous vague yearnings had blossomed into deep aches of want. Yes, her work in the Chamber fulfilled her, but as she'd grown older, she'd recognized that although her mind was satisfied, something inside her wanted more. And she knew exactly what she wanted.

Lord Wesley.

She pressed her hands to her stomach to calm its wild fluttering. Lord Wesley's lover. Dear God, did she dare? Every long-suppressed desire inside her screamed yes!

But there was much to consider. Certainly much discretion would be needed to avoid a scandal for herself as well as her family. And what if she became with child? Even though their affair might remain secret, she couldn't very well hide a child. Of course, there were ways to prevent pregnancy. While she didn't know what they were, surely one of her sisters would. Best to only ask one of them, however. The fewer people she involved in her plan in any way, the better. Perhaps Lucille would be best. She always knew all the London gossip and seemed particularly fascinated by wicked liaisons. I'll claim I merely wish to know for scientific research. Certainly Lucille would never suspect I want the information because I intend to take a lover.

A thrill of exhilaration zinged through her at the prospect of such an adventure. She wanted to discover the ways of passion… and at no one else's hands but his. Heavens, his kiss had nearly dissolved her knees. What would it be like to share further intimacies with him? Caress each other… join their bodies? She didn't know, but she desperately wanted to find out.

Would she find herself in his arms again? If so, she would make the most of the opportunity. She'd allow her desires… and his… to lead her.

The snap of a breaking stick startled her. She turned around and heat flashed through her.

Lord Wesley stood directly behind her.

Eric looked down at her and stilled at her expression. He'd hoped she wouldn't gaze at him with that same disappointed blankness in her eyes as last evening. She didn't. But he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

Bloody hell, she looked… aroused. Crimson-stained cheeks, labored breathing, unmistakable desire shimmering behind her spectacles. What the hell had she just been thinking?

She reached for a pair of worn slippers and slid her bare feet into them. He caught a glimpse of shapely ankle that affected his pulse far more than it should have.

Extending his hand to help her up, he said, "Good afternoon, Miss Briggeham."

"Lord Wesley." She accepted his hand, and warmth spread up his arm when her smooth palm met his. He helped her rise, then immediately had to squelch the groan that rose in his throat. She stood no more than a foot away, her chestnut curls delightfully disheveled, her honey scent wrapping around him like a fragrant web. The desire to taste her, feel her, slammed into him with knee-buckling intensity. Even while his brain told him to release her hand, he shifted his fingers to bring their palms into more intimate contact.

"I thought I might find you here," he said softly.

"You wished to speak to me?"

No. I wish to strip that gown from your luscious body, then run my tongue all over you. And when I've finished tasting you, I want to-

He shook his head to clear it. "Speak to you? Er, yes."

"About last evening?"

"Er, yes." Good God, he sounded like a nodcock, but he hadn't expected such forthrightness. Yet, he should have from her.

She nodded once, briskly. "Excellent, for I wish to discuss it as well. I should not have departed your home in so abrupt a manner. You'd shown great generosity to both myself and Hubert and I apologize."

"There is no need for you to-"

"I've thought extensively on the matter, and I quite understand why you said what you did."

"You do?"

"Yes. After all, you couldn't very well tell me the truth. Yet while I appreciate your effort to-"

He brushed a single finger over her lips, cutting off her words. "What do you mean by the truth! Are you suggesting I lied to you?"

She puckered her brow and pursed her lips, clearly considering his question. "Lied, I believe, is too strong a word. Fibbed is perhaps better. I realize you were only trying to be polite, but in the future, I would prefer you not utter such drivel."

He knew immediately what she referred to. How was it possible that this incredible, unique woman had no inkling of her own appeal?

"I did not lie to you. Or fib." Bringing her hand to his lips, he feathered a kiss across her fingers. Then, sliding his other arm around her, he drew her closer, until her breasts brushed his shirt.

"You are lovely," he said softly, watching her steadily, willing her to read the sincerity in his gaze, in his voice. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes, as if she wanted to believe him but could not, and he ached with the need to show her, tell her, make her understand. "I do not say that to be polite, but because it's true."

He drew both her hands to his chest, pressing her palms over his rapidly beating heart. Then, trailing a single fingertip slowly down her cheek, he murmured, "Take your skin, for example. It's smooth. Flawless. Like the finest silk."

"I have freckles on my nose."

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I know. And they're utterly charming." He captured a wayward curl between his fingers. "And your hair is-"

"Unruly."

"Shiny. Soft." He brought the curl to his face and inhaled. "Fragrant." Reaching out, he slowly removed her spectacles, tucking them in his jacket pocket. "And then there are your eyes. They're extraordinary. Large and expressive. Warm and intelligent. Did you know they sparkle like aquamarines when you smile? Did you know your smile could light a darkened room?" She stared at him, blinked twice, then simply shook her head.

His gaze wandered down to her mouth, and his pulse jumped. Slowly tracing the rim of her lips with a single fingertip, he whispered, "Your mouth is… fascinating. Luscious. Kissable." Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over hers, once, twice, then kissed a slow trail across her jaw.

When he reached her ear, he gently captured the lobe between his teeth, enjoying the shiver that rippled through her. Inhaling deeply, her fragrance infused him, seeping through him like a drug.

"Your scent," he whispered against her soft neck, "is beyond lovely. Even if I live to be one hundred, I shall never smell honey again and not think of you. It's tantalizing. Tempting." He touched his tongue to her fragrant skin and a groan escaped him. "Tormenting. So many't' words to describe one woman."

A shaky moan rumbled in her throat, and he leaned back to gaze at her flushed face. "Lovely," he reiterated firmly. "In every way. Inside and out. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And don't you ever believe otherwise."

She stared at him, wide-eyed and silent. Her hands rested on his shirt, radiating heat across his chest, down his abdomen, and into his groin. With her soft body pressed against his from chest to knee, he knew she felt his arousal. But he wanted her to. Wanted her to feel the undeniable evidence of his desire, the physical proof of the sincerity of his words.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. "No one has ever said such things to me before."

"I find that impossible to believe. But I recall we agreed last evening that most people are fools."

She didn't react for several seconds, but then a smile spread slowly over her face, as if the sun were dawning, heating him until he basked in its golden glow.

"I think you're lovely as well," she whispered.

Her simple compliment washed over him, touching him in a way no other woman's words ever had. Need pulsed through him, throbbing hot in his veins, overriding his common sense, pushing aside his better judgment. One word echoed through his mind!-a mantra fueling his desire.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Unable to stop himself, he tunneled his fingers through her hair, scattering pins onto the ground until her chestnut tresses sifted freely over his skin. The scent of her engulfed him, flooding his senses, drowning his reason. Lowering his head, he kissed her slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding into her silky mouth then retreating in a sensual dance his body ached to share with her. She responded to his every move, gliding her tongue against his, combing her fingers through his hair, straining her body closer, tighter to his.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Without breaking their kiss, he moved backwards until his back bumped against a thick tree trunk. Bracing his weight against the sturdy tree, he pulled her closer, his hands slipping down to her rounded buttocks. Hauling her against his straining arousal, he slowly rubbed himself against her, shooting spears of white-hot heat through him. With a low, guttural groan burning in his throat, his hands slid up her rib cage, then forward to cup her breasts. Her soft muslin-covered flesh filled his hands, her hard nipples pressing against his palms.

Dragging his lips from hers, he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck. Long, feminine moans of pleasure rumbled in her throat, and she arched against him, igniting him. He slipped his fingers inside her bodice and brushed them over her distended nipples. His groan mingled with hers, and raising his head, he devoured her mouth in another searing kiss. She squirmed against him and his erection jerked in response. God help him, he wanted her. Needed her. Now. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Reaching down, he caught the hem of her gown, gathering it slowly upward. He slid his hand beneath the material, trailing his palm up her silky bare thigh. She gasped against his mouth, and he leaned back to look at her, his vision hazy with desire.

Bloody hell, she was incredible. Flushed, aroused, her lips swollen from his ardent kisses, her nipples hard beneath the thin muslin of her gown, her chest rising and falling with her rapid breaths. She was everything a man could want, and she was his for the taking. If he moved his hand, just a few inches, he could caress her feminine flesh… heated folds he knew were soft and wet. For him. And then he'd-

And then you'll what? His conscience yelled, breaking through the sensual fog enveloping him. Are you going to take her against the tree? A virgin? And if you do, then what do you plan to do with her? Marry her?

And on the heels of his outraged conscience, Arthur's words came back to him. She's innocent. Just the sort of woman who might read more meanin' into yer attentions than ye mean.

Reality hit him like a cold, wet blanket. Easing his hand from beneath her gown, he gripped her by the waist and firmly set her away from him.

Sammie dragged a much needed breath into her lungs. Heat spiraled through her, pooling between her legs. Her feminine flesh felt moist and heavy, and throbbed with an ache she'd never before experienced. A delightful ache she wanted more of.

But with the thrilling hardness of his body no longer pressing against her, she forced her eyes open. He leaned against the tree trunk, holding her at arm's length by the waist. She squinted at him, and although he was blurry, she could easily discern his labored breathing and intense expression.

Thank goodness he still held her or else she would have simply slithered to the ground in a boneless heap. Drawing several deep breaths, she tried to slow her racing pulse and gather her scattered wits.

Finally finding her voice, she asked, "Why did you stop?"

His grip on her waist tightened. "Because if I hadn't stopped then, I wouldn't have been able to." A humorless laugh passed his lips. "Believe me, the effort nearly killed me. Do you have any idea how close I came to making love to you?"

Elation swept through Sammie. Drawing upon all her courage, she whispered, "Do you have any idea how much I wanted you to?"

He went perfectly still. "We can't do this," he said in a raspy voice.

She raised her chin a notch and said the words she prayed would set her on the greatest adventure of her life.

"Why not?"