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“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.
