The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 14

  All there was now was Sam. Holding her, protecting her, kissing her as if she were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered to him.

  But then, slowly, he drew away, and she watched the impassivity wash over his features as he removed his body, his heart and soul, from all contact with hers.

  Within seconds, his withdrawal was complete.

  She wanted this safety, this desire, this deep, intense feeling she felt growing between them to be real … She wanted it with a ferocity that was staggering.

  But it wasn’t real. The struggle against their desire for each other—that was real. And the conflict wasn’t over; it wasn’t close to being over. For a moment, desire had been victorious, but it was a fleeting victory, a tiny battle in an enormous war.

  He was broken, and so was she. By their terrible pasts, their bleak futures. By their first meeting, which had cemented the hopelessness of anything real between them.

  Happiness and joy, as always, slipped away before she could grasp them.

  “It’s growing cold,” he said flatly, looking away from her stricken face. “We should return to the house.”

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning, they dressed in modest clothing—Sam wearing none of the rich fabrics he’d donned in London and Élise dressed in a dark cloak over a simple white sprig muslin—and hitched the horse to a cart. They sat side by side on the perch—looking like any country gentleman and his wife to passersby.

  Sam enjoyed the sheer simplicity of it. It was a glorious day, clear and crisp, with puffy white clouds offsetting the brilliant blue of the morning sky.

  They rode in comfortable silence, though perhaps it was more an illusion than reality. For Sam’s part, he was torn with the same torment that had beset him for the previous seven days. Yesterday, she’d pulled the reasons for his behavior toward her out into the open. She’d given him a good argument to cease his cool indifference.

  Yet it felt like his last line of defense. When he let that stiff veneer that covered him melt away, he would do something stupid. He knew he would.

  Maintain a professional distance. He was trying. He had thrown every bit of energy he had into that task.

  He knew it made him seem like an ass to her. Hot and out of control, then cooling quickly as he was able to rein himself in.

  Better an ass than …

  Than a what?

  Than a stupid fool who allowed himself to get carried away by blind lust.

  Than a man who allowed himself to care and then inevitably had everything torn away from him.

  He needed to close himself off. But he was doing a poor job of it with his hot-and-cold behavior, letting himself get so deeply drawn in by her allure before he was able to regain control.

  As for Élise, she appeared perfectly composed, perfectly relaxed as they drove into Kendal.

  But he’d known the woman for almost a fortnight now, and he recognized the sharpness in her gaze, the tightness at the corners of her lips. She was on edge. Perhaps it was simply because they would be together in a public place for the first time. Perhaps it was because his behavior was confusing her. Hurting her.

  Hell. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  It was probably already too late for that. He really was a bastard.

  “Stay close to me in the market,” he told her softly. “I will hold your elbow like a solicitous husband, for the most part. But there might be times when I am forced to let you go.”

  She didn’t say anything, but her chest rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath.

  “Don’t try to run,” he told her, using that same low, flat voice. And hating himself for it. “I will catch you.”

  She shuddered visibly.

  Did it mean she wished to be caught? Caught and then …

  No. He shook off those thoughts, knowing full well the direction in which they’d take him.

  They drove for a moment in silence. Then, he said, “Élise? Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” She turned to face him. “Do not worry, Monsieur Jailor. I am not foolish enough to try to run. Not today. Not here.”

  “Good.”

  He stopped among the many other horse-drawn conveyances at the edge of the market. He dismounted, secured the horses, then helped Élise down. When she was steady, he took her arm and steered her toward the stalls.

  The Kendal market was crowded and noisy—and as they passed down each aisle, weaving through the crowd, the scents of raw and cooking meats, spices, and herbs assailed them. Sam stopped at a stall selling an assortment of fresh foul and bought a large turkey.

  Élise approved of his choice. Grinning, she said, “That will be delicious for our supper tonight.”

  “And tomorrow, and the next, likely.”

  “I shall buy some herbs to season this bird. The cottage is stocked for those who wish their food to taste like paper.”

  He nodded, rather bemused, then stood to the side as she haggled over herbs and spices, many of which he’d never heard of prior to today. She was a tough negotiator, and finally the herb seller threw up his hands in disgust. “Very well, then! One shilling, sixpence, and no’ a penny less!”

  “Very good,” Élise said. She turned to Sam, arching an expectant brow. “I require a shilling and five pence, I believe, monsieur.”

  He fought a smile, remembering the penny he’d given her last night over their sparse dinner of dried beef, crusty bread, and cheese. He fished in his purse and handed her two full shillings—in case she wanted to spend the extra sixpence on something else.

  She flashed him a brilliant smile that went straight to his gut and then turned back to the hawker. They exchanged money for a—rather enormous—bag of fresh and dried herbs and spices.

  As they walked from the table, he said, “I had no idea you were such a connoisseur of food.”

  She gave him an arch look. “I am French, my Sam. Need I say more?”

  He did smile then—compelled by the “my Sam” along with her directness. “No,” he said. “There is no need to say more.”

  They wandered around the market for a while longer, Sam purchasing everything they might require for the next week. With Élise’s help, he chose a variety of vegetables they could cook that would go well with the turkey—celery and onions and turnips, not to mention two heads of cabbage, some carrots, a half pound of walnuts, extra porridge, a loaf of bread, coffee, tea, and sugar.

  With his arms loaded with parcels, he couldn’t keep his hand on Élise, but her arms were also full, and she remained close to him of her own volition, for which he was grateful.

  He wouldn’t hesitate to drop everything and run after her, if necessary. No doubt she knew this, for she gave no hint of even considering attempting to run.

  Laurent should be back before market day next week. In truth, Sam expected him any day. Perhaps tomorrow.

  “Sam? Is that you?”

  Sam froze, his body going stiff at the sound of his sister’s voice. His sister. Good God.

  His gaze slid toward Élise. She looked up at him with wide eyes and raised brows. But she didn’t make a peep as he turned slowly in the direction of Esme’s voice.

  She stood there, all young freshness and pink cheeks, strands of shining, dark hair curling out from beneath her bonnet brim. Her eyes were alight with pleasure at seeing him. A quick glance beyond her verified that she was with her maid, who stood just behind and to the side of her.

  He wondered if Esme and Élise knew each other. She’d mentioned being acquainted with Trent—but everyone knew the Duke of Trent. On the other hand, Esme was uncomfortable in social situations, and because of that, the Hawkins family had taken great pains to keep her sheltered. She’d had a London Season two summers ago, but it had been cut short, and she hadn’t been out in society much since then.

  He hoped they hadn’t met. And if they had, well, Élise looked far different from that night Sam had first seen her at the opera. Then she’d been a glimmering vision of r
ich, titled perfection, dressed in shimmering satin and wearing sparkling diamonds. Now she wore no jewels, and her dress was simple and outmoded.

  She was still perfect, though. Perhaps even more so, he thought, because like this, Élise was not only beautiful; she was human. She had an approachability that the icy vision of flawlessness at the opera could never hope to have.

  He shifted his parcels into the crook of one arm and held out his hand to his sister. “Esme,” he said, letting pleasure he didn’t feel infuse his voice. Not that he wasn’t happy to see his sister—he always enjoyed seeing her. But not like this. There was too much danger associated with this. For all three of them. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you, either.” Her gaze flicked from him to Élise.

  “Esme, this is a friend of mine, Madame Élisabeth de Longmont.” He used her maiden name, and Élise didn’t so much as flinch.

  Esme’s lips curved in a shy smile.

  “Madame, this is my sister.” He paused, then said simply, “Esme.”

  He avoided her title and her last name, because while it wasn’t surprising that Élise hadn’t connected “Samson Hawkins” to the House of Trent, Esme’s identity was known in ton circles. Élise’s clever mind would certainly connect “Lady Esme Hawkins” and Sam himself to the Duke of Trent.

  To her credit, Esme didn’t flinch, either, though her lashes did flicker in surprise. Sam was sure she’d never in her life been introduced in such a fashion.

  It didn’t seem as important as it once had to keep his family’s identity from Élise. He was beginning to believe that his secrets would be safe with her. But his cautious nature was too ingrained. He never allowed his occupation to cross over into his personal life. There were many reasons why, not the least of which was that he refused to put any member of his family in danger.

  Élise smiled at the younger woman. “Oh, Mademoiselle Esme. I would embrace you were I not carrying all these annoying parcels! It is so wonderful to meet the sister of my good friend. And you are so beautiful, too!” She gave Sam a chastising look. “You did not tell me, monsieur, that your sister was such a lovely creature.”

  Sam tilted his head in acknowledgment of this fact. “You are right, madame. I have been remiss.”

  Inside, a warmth grew within him. Élise was not going to disappoint him.

  Esme’s pink flush deepened. She gazed down at the muddy, trampled ground. “Well … er … thank you,” she murmured.

  “But what brings you here?” he asked her. “You’re supposed to be in Preston with our brothers.” Again, he did not name names deliberately.

  “Well, yes, we did go to Preston for a few days. But …” Esme looked up, and he saw the flash of uncertainty in her eyes as they flicked to Élise and then back to him. “Well, we found something there that led us here,” she said cryptically.

  “I see,” he said. And he did see. Mark and Theo must have discovered a clue in Preston that had brought them to Kendal.

  Excitement welled within him, like it did every time someone in his family found evidence regarding the whereabouts of their mother. But he tamped his excitement down and maintained his outward façade of calm.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked his sister.

  “At the Crown Inn.”

  “Good.”

  “You must join us for dinner,” Esme said. Then she seemed to realize she hadn’t included Élise in the invitation. “Oh! Both of you, of course.”

  “Thank you,” Élise said graciously. “You are so very kind.”

  “It is kind, but we cannot.” He leaned forward and murmured, “I am not at liberty to go. I’m sorry.” He was tempted anyhow, because not only would he have liked to see his younger brothers, but he was damned curious what they had found to bring them here.

  But it would be beyond foolish to be seen with the Hawkins siblings in public—and with the missing Lady Dunthorpe, no less.

  Speaking of—they’d been out in this public setting for too long already.

  “We need to go, Esme, but I’m glad you found us here.”

  Surprisingly, he was glad. He was only disappointed that he couldn’t spend more time with her and see his brothers.

  Trent would eventually let him know why they’d come to Kendal. But God knew how long he’d have to wait for his brother’s letter.

  Sam bent forward—awkwardly, thanks to all the packages he still carried—and kissed his sister’s cheek. “I’ll try to find you at the inn before you leave.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Élise said.

  Sam nearly choked. Of course the blasted woman had somehow discerned that Esme held a title. The blasted, clever woman. He slid his gaze in her direction to see a smile playing about her lips.

  He shook his head and flicked his fingers, gesturing in the vague direction of the cart and horse. “After you, madame.”

  * * *

  Élise insisted upon preparing the turkey herself. Since Sam had taken her from her home, she had passively allowed the men to cook for her, first Carter and then Sam himself. This passivity was due to habit more than the fact that the men had simply taken those tasks upon themselves without comment.

  The truth was, Élise hadn’t touched an unprepared morsel of food for many years, and entering a kitchen with the goal of creating a meal felt odd. Like she was stepping back in time, into those uncertain days between her parents’ and her brother’s deaths and the day, two years later, that her uncle had met her in Dover and had taken her under his wing.

  Even after she’d begun to live with her uncle, she’d remained close to Marie, often going to her house and helping her cook meals and run errands and whatever else needed to be done. But when she’d become the Viscountess Dunthorpe, Marie once again had become conscious of the separation between their classes and had insisted she put an end to doing even that much.

  She had returned to the kitchen tonight not to reunite herself with the joys of cooking, nor to create a delightful feast for the man she was growing to … admire far more than she should.

  She gazed at the herbs lined up before her, studying each of them, remembering.

  Many people, old and young, rich and poor, had suffered from nightmares and the inability to sleep during the Reign of Terror. Marie, using herbal knowledge passed down from generations of women in her family, had created a sleeping tonic that had given her a reputation that extended far beyond Paris.

  That had been inadvertent. Marie had never wanted to draw attention to herself and Élise. Nevertheless, they had survived for months by selling tiny bottles of Marie’s tonic to hundreds of their countrymen whose eyes glowed with fear and sadness and were weighted down by heavy bags.

  Élise had collected the ingredients from the herb seller at the market while Sam looked on with a patient expression on his face. He’d thought he’d been indulging her by buying her all these herbs. Surely he’d known that not all of them were intended for the turkey.

  It was the turkey itself that had given her the idea, though. She remembered how her mother would always smile and tell Élise that nothing gave her father a sound sleep like a meal of turkey. Élise had paid attention when she’d eaten turkey in later years and found that it did indeed seem to give her a sedated, sleepy feeling.

  So when Sam had purchased the turkey, an idea had taken root. And it had grown when she saw the variety of herbs on the seller’s table.

  She knew, at that moment, how she would escape. And she had the key ingredient tucked into the pocket of the apron she’d worn to the market. She pushed her hand into it and felt the small vial she’d swiped from the chemist’s table.

  Laudanum.

  They’d been leaving the market when they’d passed by the chemist. She’d pushed the worry of the sleeping draft from her mind, knowing that she had many of the ingredients promoting somnolence, if not the most powerful one. She’d been thinking about Sam’s lovely young sister, Lady Esme, and
how she’d looked at Sam with such adoration.

  And then she’d seen it. The chemist’s table, piled high with medicines and remedies. And on the edge, with large, neat black lettering, a sign that read LAUDANUM.

  She didn’t have time to think, to worry, to second-guess herself. She had made a very large scene by pretending to slip and scattering her parcels everywhere. On the way down, she’d grabbed Sam’s arm, and his parcels had gone flying, too.

  The vial had stood on the edge of the man’s table, along with a dozen others. Everyone had been bending over collecting her packages for her when she’d slipped this little vial into her pocket. This, along with the turkey and the herbs she would prepare it in, would put Sam in a deep slumber for a good long while.

  She pulled her hand out of her pocket and turned to the turkey to remove it from the brine.

  She’d prepare Samson Hawkins a fine turkey tonight. The best meal he’d had in weeks.

  She’d make him happy tonight, because tomorrow he was going to hate her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sam took the last swallow from his glass of wine and leaned back in his seat. He felt uncommonly peaceful tonight. Good food, good wine, good company.

  Through half-lidded eyes, he glanced over at that company. As always, she sat erect in her seat, a lovely little creature but larger than life, full of boundless energy, full of light.

  No one had ever made him feel so alive.

  “Did you like it?” she asked softly. God, he adored her voice. With that melodic lilt, that soft rhythm of her French accent. It was a gliding caress over his skin.

  “I loved it,” he said, hearing the simple satisfied pleasure in his own voice.

  She smiled. “Excellent. I myself am so full I am likely to burst at any moment.”

  With effort, he rose, knowing that while he’d much rather relax with her in the salon, he needed to take care of the cleaning up. Since she’d spent all afternoon cooking, it was the least he could do. He went to her side and bent down to kiss her cheek as he took her plate and silverware. “Thank you for dinner.”