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“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.
o;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.”
